Engineering Earth: The Impacts of Megaengineering Projects

Engineering Earth

Stanley D. Brunn Editor

Engineering Earth The Impacts of Megaengineering Projects

123

Editor Prof. Stanley D. Brunn Department of Geography University of Kentucky 40506-0027 Lexington KY, USA [email protected]

Printed in 3 volumes ISBN 978-90-481-9919-8 e-ISBN 978-90-481-9920-4 DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4 Springer Dordrecht Heidelberg London New York © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011 No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, microfilming, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the Publisher, with the exception of any material supplied specifically for the purpose of being entered and executed on a computer system, for exclusive use by the purchaser of the work. Cover Design: Adam White Printed on acid-free paper Springer is part of Springer Science+Business Media (www.springer.com)

Gilbert F. White pioneering scientist transdisciplinarian humanitarian peace activist international scholarly diplomat

Preface

This volume is an outgrowth of an international and interdisciplinary conference that I initiated and co-organized at the University of Kentucky in July 2008. The purpose of this conference, the title the same as this volume, was to bring together a group of scholars from different disciplines and perspectives who are interested in megaengineering projects who usually do not communicate with each other, even if they study the same topic. These included dams, highways, and mining. The conference was successful because the fifty presentations by social, engineering, and environmental scientists from nine countries addressed the impacts of various megaprojects and because it demonstrated the need for increased dialogue and collaboration. The conference was dedicated to Dr. Gilbert White, who, for more than seven decades was an enthusiastic advocate of those conducting research on important global resource and public policy initiatives and the perception of natural and technological hazards at local and international scales. He was also keenly interested in disseminating research findings to those in the classroom and a wider public. Throughout his professional life, including at TVA, Haverford College, the University of Chicago, and the University of Colorado, he influenced generations of students and professionals of all ages and ranks and those with varying professional interests. Many scholars today, including many who contributed to this volume and who work at the geography/technology/policy/environment interfaces trace some of their intellectual roots to Gil. He received many national and international awards for his achievements, including the National Medal of Science presented to him by President Clinton in 2000. As a long time friend, a fellow Quaker, a solid humanitarian, a peace activist, and international scholarly diplomat, it is fitting to dedicate this volume to him. As I was organizing the conference and also editing this volume, I was asked often how I became interested in the engineering earth topic and megaprojects specifically. The simple answer is that they are an outgrowth of where I have lived and the many conversations and interactions with friends over the years. For many geographers of my generation, we received training in the natural, social, and policy sciences, so studying the impacts of large engineering projects from economic, cultural, and environmental perspectives at local and global scales was understandable. During my lifetime I have witnessed in the many places I have lived, taught and traveled the construction of various megaprojects and vii

viii

Preface

their impacts on people’s daily lives. These include memories of nuclear testing years of the 1950s and 1960s, the construction of the Interstate Highway System, mass-produced “cookie cutter” suburbs and the “malling and Wal-Martization” of America,” the computer worlds before the Internet, GIS, and Google Earth, and social justice issues that result from the social engineering of political America. My research career includes projects examining various geography/technology issues, including the impacts of Three Mile Island in 1979 with Jim Johnson and Don Zeigler, co-editing volumes on the geographies of information and communication and E-commerce with my colleague Tom Leinbach, co-editing with Susan Cutter and J. W. Harrington a centennial volume for the Association of American Geographers on geography and technology, and editing an interdisciplinary book on Wal-Mart. Also I have benefitted from numerous conversations with my own colleagues, especially Matt Zook and Karl Raitz, but also my many friends at the University of Kentucky in biology, astronomy, landscape architecture, economics, engineering, public health, education, social theory, and the Appalachian Center. Living in Kentucky since 1980 and teaching undergraduate classes and seminars on various topics have kept me sensitive to engineering earth questions in my backyard. There are a number of megaprojects that Kentuckians can easily identify. These include the destruction to communities and ecosystems brought on by mountain top removal, the burial of low level nerve gas in rotting canisters stored at the Bluegrass Army Depot near Richmond, the social and environmental engineering of the Bluegrass as an amenity region, the drawing down of water in the Cumberland River dam which negatively impacted the local recreation economies, and the construction of various architectural, landscaping and engineering projects in Lexington for its hosting the World Equestrian Games in fall 2010. A series of other events have also affected my thinking about nature/society issues in recent years. These include the on-going wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, which are/were certainly megaengineering projects with impacts on economies, culture, and environments, the devastation resulting from Hurricane Katrina in the fall of 2005, the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico in Spring 2010, the construction and enforcement of security landscapes since 9/11, and the constant searching for energy alternatives. A key ingredient in my thinking was the field trip at the annual meetings of the Southeast Division, Association of American Geographers in Morgantown, West Virginia in November 2006 that was organized by my good friend, Ken Martis. He showed us firsthand the environmental destruction caused by mountaintop removal, not only the heavy machinery used, but the dynamiting. Understanding fully the impacts of any of the above projects does not come from research within a single discipline, but rather thinking outside our intellectual comfort zones. In many ways the July 2008 conference was, and this book is, about “bridges,” that is, bridges that span “spaces” where the dialogue and scholarly research have often been narrowly conceived and carried out. I am describing those worlds where scholars operate in parallel universes. The conference and this volume are efforts that transcend the all too familiar and intellectually comfortable worlds

Preface

ix

of those interested primarily in economic, environmental, cultural, or engineering solutions as solutions to megaengineering impact questions. I would extend the need for intellectually bridge-building efforts and communities to include those interested in sustainability, empowering (and re-engineering) local institutions, humane landscape designing, megainstitutions (universities, churches, entertainment complexes), alternative energy projects, tourism and event planning, virtual communities, and large scale ICT projects. Organizing this conference and editing this book with contributors from the social, environmental, and engineering scientists have been enjoyable learning experiences. But neither could have been accomplished without the help of a wide network of local and global friends or the Internet. I have “met” many new scholars, especially from the engineering sciences, via email. The first emails were sent in late November 2006. Since then I have sent or received nearly 12,000 emails from local and international friends, conference participants, authors, reviewers, financial supporters, and the publisher. Most of these exchanges were in 2008 and 2009. There are a number of specific individuals who deserve mention for the important roles they have played both with the conference and this publication. First is my colleague, Andy Wood, who prepared proposals for funding, identifying conference topics and themes, and helped organize the conference. Andy also assumed leadership responsibilities when I was a Fulbright professor in Kazakhstan in fall semester 2007. He is a good and valuable colleague. Second is Lori Tyndall, the department’s business officer; she helped organize many tasks both before and after the conference, including meals, accommodations, travel arrangements, and reimbursements. She was a tireless, cheerful and invaluable member of the conference team. Third, I want to acknowledge the financial support provided by various University of Kentucky offices and departments; these include very generous contributions from the Office of the Provost and Dr. Kumble Subbaswamy; the Office of the Vice President for Research, Dr. Jim Tracy; and the following colleges and deans (in alphabetical order): Arts and Sciences (former Dean Steve Hoch and Associate Dean Leonidas Bachas), Business and Economics (Dean Devanathan Sudharshan), Engineering (Tom Lester), the Graduate School (Jeanine Blackwell), and Public Health (Steve Wyatt). We also received very generous support from the Center for Applied Energy Research and Director Rodney Andrews. Dr. Evelyn Knight, Director of the Appalachian Center, also provided financial assistance. And I want to thank Dr. Douglas Richardson, Executive Director of the Association of American Geographers and Ms. Mary Lynne Bird, Executive Director of the American Geographical Society for publicizing the conference to their members and constituents. From the start the Department of Geography was supportive of the conference. I am grateful to Karl Raitz, previous chair, and Sue Roberts, current chair, for their enthusiasm and financial support. Richard Gilbreath, Director of the Cartography Laboratory, provided assistance in many ways: preparing the program, designing the creative coffee mug we gave all participants, and preparing last minute maps for some authors. The quality of Dick’s work is always outstanding and our department is richer because of his many contributions to faculty research. Finally, I want to

x

Preface

thank Boyd Shearer for designing the conference poster and Jeff Levy and Raegan Wilson for also assisting with some last minute tasks. My task immediately following the conference was to prepare a volume for publication. I approached Springer because it is widely recognized as the leading international publisher in science and technology fields and because it published the AAG centennial volume on geography and technology mentioned above. My contacts at Springer, Evelien Bakker and Bernadette Deelen-Mans, expressed a keen interest in this topic the first time I suggested it and they remained constant sources of support as I patiently waited for last minute authors to come through. I very much appreciate the freedom Evelien gave me to identify authors and topics following the July conference, realizing that an international and interdisciplinary volume of this topic really required some additional efforts. A testimony to the international and multidisciplinary dimension of this project is documented by the several hundred professional and scientific journals cited in chapter bibliographies. The person who helped prepare all manuscripts for Springer was Donna Gilbreath, who has assisted me in previous editorial tasks. She is a very competent, trusted, and reliable professional who enjoys the many major and minor tasks that go with preparing book length manuscripts for a publisher; these include formatting manuscripts, inserting graphics and tables correctly, checking bibliographic entries, and working with authors. I also owe megathanks to Lydia Shinoj who, from half a world away from Lexington, patiently and cheerfully worked with authors on last minute citations, graphics, and phrasing. She is a professional proof-reader and copy-editor in the truest sense and another quality member of the Springer publication team. This volume includes many who presented papers at the University of Kentucky conference, but also others who were unable to attend because of scheduling conflicts. And there are other chapters written by friends and friends of friends. Some chapters are written by individuals who have made a career of studying one or more megaproject; others are written by junior or senior scholars who welcomed the opportunity to conduct research on a new topic. What is very gratifying is that almost all of those who agreed to contribute chapters provided one. I want to thank all the nearly 200 individual authors who contributed original chapters to the volume; the list includes graduate students and senior scholars, 51 women, and scholars from 28 different countries. Projects are discussed in more than forty countries. Many authors have been friends for life; others became good “virtual” friends as a result of many email exchanges. I also want to acknowledge those who suggested contributors. Four who deserve extra thanks are Richard Cathcart, Virginie Mamadouh, Jan Monk, and Herman van der Wusten. Others are (in alphabetical order): Stuart Aitken, Harri Andersson, Holly Barcus, Andy Bond, Kathy Braden, Anne Buttimer, Jean Comaroff, Eric Clark, Paul Claval, Harm de Blij, Alex Diener, Ron Eller, Patricia Ehrkamp, Bent Flyvberg, Brian Godfrey, Susan Hanson, Stuart Harris, Andre Horn, Graeme Hugo, John Jakle, P. P. Karan, Aharon Kellerman, Vladimir Kolossov, Evelyn Knight, David Lanegran, Alan Lew, Markku Löytönen, Ashley Lucas, Elizabeth Lunstrum, Lily Kong, Ken Martis, Julian Minghi, Ed Malecki, Peter Muller, Alex Murphy,

Preface

xi

Tad Mutersbaugh, David Newman, Susan Parnell, Sangkom Pumipuntu, Karl Raitz, Marty Reuss, Curt Roseman, Gerry Rushton, Sue Roberts, Michael Samers, Rich Schein, Seven Scott, Anna Secor, Jeff Steller, Hal Simon, Devanathan Sudharshan, Markku Tykkyläinen, Ian Warrington, Jerry Webster, Mary White, Tom Wilbanks, Jack Williams, Julie Winkler, Antoinette WinklerPrins, Pentti Yli-Jokipii, Don Zeigler, and Matt Zook. I also want to thank artist Adam White for permission to use a much reduced version of his “Children’s Games” for the cover. When I saw it at the Royal Dublin Society’s winter show in November 2009. I knew immediately that I would like to use it. He is a most gracious artist who weaves together technology and environment, a central theme of this volume. I am pleased with those who contributed to this volume as it is truly an international and interdisciplinary effort. There authors include physicists and planetary scientists, anthropologists and economists, architects and historians, Internet and Google Earth specialists, environmental scientists and civil engineers, and those who study social justice, environmental risk, and community restructuring. Most authors are geographers and here are many who have different backgrounds and interests; some have strong regional and nature/society interests, others have major research interests in critical social theory and physical geography, and still others have a strong applied focus to their research. As I read and reread these chapters I was very pleased with the common ground that exists among the many contributors and contributions, whether they are writing about large scale dams, transportation projects, tourism developments or social engineering. Even those contributions dealing with GIS and the Internet, climate modeling, reforestation, megaenergy alternatives, and planetary engineering illustrate the contributions to understanding megaprojects that come from those with different scientific, technical, philosophical, and regional expertise. I hope that the reader will find much in this volume that is of interest for future research. There is clearly much more work that might be, could be (and probably should be) conducted on the impacts of megaengineering projects at all scales and in all major world regions. If this collection stimulates such inquiry, it will have served its purpose. Finally, I want to thank my wife, Natasha, for her interest and support throughout this project. She was a member of Ken Martis’s field trip to the West Virginia coal fields where she witnessed Appalachian megaengineering impacts firsthand, she faithfully attended the conference in 2008, and survived the fall 2007 Fulbright experience in Semipalatinsk, Kazakhstan. I am very grateful for her affection and constant companionship. Lexington, Kentucky

Stanley D. Brunn

Contents

Volume 1 Part I

Introduction

1 Introduction to Megaengineering: The Concept and a Research Frontier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stanley D. Brunn and Andrew Wood

3

2 Building the Next Seven Wonders: The Landscape Rhetoric of Large Engineering Projects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ben Marsh and Janet Jones

13

Part II

GIS, ICTs and K-Economies

3 Information Technology as Megaengineering: The Impact of GIS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michael F. Goodchild

37

4 Google and the Internet: A Mega-Project Nesting Within Another Mega-Project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maria Paradiso

49

5 Cloud Collaboration: Peer-Production and the Engineering of the internet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mark Graham

67

6 Engineering Community and Place: Facebook as Megaengineering . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michael Longan and Darren Purcell

85

7 Real-Time National Stability Engineering: Mapping the 2009 Afghan Election . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tom Buckley, Sean Gorman, Laurie Schintler, and Rajendra Kulkarni 8 Engineering Time and Space with the Global Fiber Optics Industry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Barney Warf

103

115

xiii

xiv

Contents

9 The Internet in Three Finnish Cities: Accessing Global Networks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tommi Inkinen 10

ICTs and Activities on the Move? People’s Use of Time While Traveling by Public Transportation . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bertil Vilhelmson, Eva Thulin, and Daniel Fahlén

11

Assembling Video Game Worlds . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ian Graham Ronald Shaw

12

GPS Collars in Studies of Cattle Movement: Cases of Northeast Namibia and North Finland . . . . . . . . . . . . . Katja Polojärvi, Alfred Colpaert, Kenneth Matengu, and Jouko Kumpula

13

Engineering Cattle for Dairy Development in Rural India . . . . Pratyusha Basu

14

Social Responses to Crop Biotechnology: Bt Cotton Cultivation in Gujarat, India . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Esha Shah

Part III 15

16

131

145 155

173

189

217

Agriculture, Fishing and Mining Projects

Turning the Soviet Union into Iowa: The Virgin Lands Program in the Soviet Union . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . William C. Rowe

237

The Megaengineering of Ocean Fisheries: A Century of Expansion and Rapidly Closing Frontiers . . . . . . . . . . . Maarten Bavinck

257

17

Impacts of Up-Coming Deep-Sea Mining . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tetsuo Yamazaki

18

When Megaengineering Disturbs Ram: The Sethusamudram Ship Canal Project . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michiel van Dijk and Virginie Mamadouh

275

297

19

Deep Drilling: Tunnel Spaces as Gender Spaces . . . . . . . . . . Elisabeth Joris

311

20

The Megaproject of Mining: A Feminist Critique . . . . . . . . . Kuntala Lahiri-Dutt

329

21

The Richest Hole on Earth? Nature, Labor and the Politics of Metabolism at the Bingham Canyon Copper Mine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jody Emel and Matthew T. Huber

353

Contents

22

23

24

When Boom Goes Bust: Ruins, Crisis and Security in Megaengineering Diamond Mining in Angola . . . . . . . . . Filipe Calvão Ecclesial Opposition to Nonferrous Metals Mining in Guatemala and the Philippines: Neoliberalism Encounters the Church of the Poor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . William N. Holden and R. Daniel Jacobson Character and Scale of Environmental Disturbances Resulting from Mining in the Kursk Magnetic Anomaly . . . . . Alina Nekrich

Part IV 25

26

xv

429

Energy-Hungry Europe: Development Projects in South-Central Europe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anton Gosar

447

28

The Repercussions of Being Addicted to Oil: Geospatial Modeling of Supply Shocks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Laurie Schintler, Rajendra Kulkarni, Tom Buckley, Emily Sciarillo, and Sean Gorman

31

Part V 32

413

Engineering and Re-engineering Earth: Industrialized Harvesting of Ireland’s Peatlands and its Aftermath . . . . . . . Proinnsias Breathnach

The Next Generation of Energy Landscapes . . . . . . . . . . . . Martin J. Pasqualetti

30

383

Energy and Industrial Projects

27

29

367

Global Motor Vehicle Assembly: Nationalism, Economics, and Rationale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Craig S. Campbell Potentials and Employment Impacts of Advanced Energy Production from Forest Residues in Sparsely Populated Areas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Olli Lehtonen and Markku Tykkyläinen Megaproject: A 4-Decade Perspective of the Gulf Development Model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michael C. Ewers and Edward J. Malecki

461

483

497

513

533

Transportation Projects “America’s New Design for Living:” The Interstate Highway System and the Spatial Transformation of the U.S. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Joe Weber

553

xvi

Contents

33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future . . . . . . . . Robert Walker, Stephen Perz, Eugenio Arima, and Cynthia Simmons

34

Megaprojects in India: Environmental and Land Acquisition Issues in the Road Sector . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . G. Raghuram, Samantha Bastian, and Satyam Shivam Sundaram

35

Shifting Sands: The Trans-Saharan Railway . . . . . . . . . . . Mike Heffernan

36

Will New Mobilities Beget New (Im)Mobilities? Prospects for Change Resulting from Mongolia’s Trans-State Highway . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alexander C. Diener

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

“America’s Glory Road” . . . On Ice: Permafrost and the Development of the Alcan Highway, 1942–1943 . . . . . Frederick E. Nelson “We Shall Dress You in a Robe of Cement and Concrete:” How Discourse Concerning Megaengineering Projects Has Been Changing in Israel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Izhak Schnell and Anda Rosenberg Built in a Field of Dreams? Spatial Engineering and Political Symbolism of South Africa’s Rapid Rail Link Development, Gautrain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ronnie Donaldson and Janis van der Westhuizen Manufacturing Consent for Engineering Earth: Social Dynamics in Boston’s Big Dig . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . James P. McCarthy and Kate Driscoll Derickson Impacts of The “Marmaray” Project (Bosphorus Tube Crossing, Tunnels and Stations) on Transportation and Urban Environment in Istanbul . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Recep Efe and Isa Cürebal Scandinavian Links: Mega Bridges Linking the Scandinavian Peninsula to the European Continent . . . . . Christian Wichmann Matthiessen and Richard D. Knowles The Qinghai–Tibetan Railroad: Innovative Construction on Warm Permafrost in a Low-Latitude, High-Elevation Region . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stuart A. Harris

569

601 617

627

643

663

683

697

715

735

747

Contents

xvii

Volume 2 Part VI

Construction Companies and Corporation Strategies

44

A Network Perspective on Mega-Engineering Projects . . . . . . Ajay Mehra, Daniel J. Brass, Stephen P. Borgatti, and Giuseppe (Joe) Labianca

769

45

Bechtel: The Global Corporation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jason Henderson

783

46

Chinese Construction Industry: Governance, Procurement and Culture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jian Zuo, George Zillante, and Zhen-Yu Zhao

47

An Overview of the Gulf Countries’ Construction Industry . . . Alpana Sivam, Sadasivam Karuppannan, and Kamalesh Singh

48

Exploring the Role of Governance in Sustainable Franchised Distribution Channels . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Robert Dahlstrom, Arne Nygaard, and Emily Plant

Part VII

803 819

839

Megafacilities, Designs and Architecture

49

Intermodal Terminals, Mega Ports and Mega Logistics . . . . . Jean-Paul Rodrigue

50

Mega-Airports: The Political, Economic, and Environmental Implications of the World’s Expanding Air Transportation Gateways . . . . . . . . . . . . . John T. Bowen and Julie L. Cidell

851

867

51

University as Megaengineering Project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Judith A. Martin

52

Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth: Megachurches and the Reengineering of America’s Spiritual Soil . . . . . . . . Scott Thumma and Elizabeth J. Leppman

903

Mega-Engineering Projects in Russia: Examples from Moscow and St. Petersburg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mikhail S. Blinnikov and Megan L. Dixon

933

53

889

54

Engineering New Geographies with the Burj Dubai . . . . . . . Benjamin Smith

955

55

Floating Cities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alexander A. Bolonkin

967

56

Planning and Implementing Capital Cities – Lessons from the Past and Prospects for Intelligent Development in the Future: The Case of Korea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kenneth E. Corey

985

xviii

Contents

57

Astana, Kazakhstan: Megadream, Megacity, Megadestiny? . . . 1001 Leon Yacher

58

Myanmar’s New Capital City of Naypyidaw . . . . . . . . . . . 1021 Dulyapak Preecharushh

59

Event Engineering: Urban Planning for Olympics and World’s Fairs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1045 Mark I. Wilson

60

Sustainable City Regions: Mega-Projects in Balance with the Earth’s Carrying Capacity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1057 Richard S. Levine, Michael T. Hughes, and Casey Ryan Mather

61

Edge Cities in the Era of Megaprojects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1071 Selima Sultana

62

Engineering and the Architecture of Economic Recovery: TARP, the New Deal, and the Evolving Landscapes of Crisis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1089 Andrew Boulton

Part VIII Tourism, Recreation and Amenity Landscapes 63

Engineering Singapore as a City–State and Tourism Destination . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1109 Joan C. Henderson

64

Val d’Europe: A Mega Urban Project Partnered by Walt Disney Company and the French State . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1127 Anne-Marie d’Hauteserre

65

Dredging Paradise: The Making of San Diego’s Mission Bay Aquatic Park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1147 Larry R. Ford

66

Earth as a Medium: The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1159 John Strawn, Jim Barger, and J. Drew Rogers

67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos: The Toronto Case Study . . . . . . . . . . 1191 Paul Harpley

68

An Uncomfortable Fit? Transfrontier Parks as MegaProjects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1223 Elizabeth Lunstrum

69

Dams, Casinos and Concessions: Chinese Megaprojects in Laos and Cambodia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1243 Chris Lyttleton and Pál Nyíri

Contents

xix

70

Engineering Paradise: Marketing the Dominican Republic’s Last Frontier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1267 Joseph L. Scarpaci, Korine N. Kolivras, and William Galloway

71

Perfecting and Recreating Nature on the Upper Mississippi River . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1283 John O. Anfinson

72

The Bluegrass of Kentucky: An Engineered Image of a Gracious Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1297 Thomas J. Nieman and Zina R. Merkin

73

Constructing Thoroughbred Breeding Landscapes: Manufactured Idylls in the Upper Hunter Region of Australia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1323 Phil McManus, Glenn Albrecht, and Raewyn Graham

Part IX

Reconstructing and Restoring Nature

74

The Earth Restoration Project: An Overview . . . . . . . . . . . 1343 Jeffrey Gritzner, Georgia Milan, and Leonard Berry

75

Huge Yields of Green Belts? Mega and Micro Plantation Forestry Cases from Indonesia, Ghana and Zimbabwe . . . . . . 1353 Tapani Tyynelä

76

Historic Land Use and Social Policy Affecting Large-Scale Changes in Forest Cover in the Midwest United States . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1369 Mikaela Schmitt-Harsh, Sean P. Sweeney, and Tom P. Evans

77

The Historical Decrease of Soil Erosion in the Eastern United States – The Role of Geography and Engineering . . . . . 1383 Stanley W. Trimble

78

Re-Making America: Soil Mechanics, Earth Moving, Highways, and Dams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1395 Peter J. Hugill

79

Engineering the Emirates: The Evolution of a New Environment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1409 Pernilla Ouis

80

Land Marks in the Cure of Madness: The Shaping of 19th Century Asylum Sites in Melbourne, Australia . . . . . . 1425 Anne Bourke

81

Sea Art: The Mediterranean Sea Terrace Proposal . . . . . . . . 1441 Nicola M. Pugno, Richard B. Cathcart, and Alexander Bolonkin

xx

Contents

Part X

River Diversion and Coastal Reclamation Projects

82

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and the Mississippi River Cutoff Plan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1451 Damon Manders

83

The Impacts of Megahydraulic Engineering Projects from a Dutch Perspective . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1465 Guus J. Borger, Sjoerd J. Kluiving, and Adriaan M.J. De Kraker

84

Dutch Coastal Engineering Projects: Past Success and Future Challenges . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1481 Robert Hoeksema

85

Moving the River? China’s South–North Water Transfer Project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1499 Darrin Magee

86

The Siberian Water Transfer Scheme . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1515 Philip Micklin

87

Freshwater Supplies Necklace Super-Project: Floating Bags and Rolling Freshwater Tires Facilitating Future India–China–Bangladesh Life Necessities Trade . . . . . . . . . 1531 Richard B. Cathcart

88

Aral Sea Partial Refilling Macroproject . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1541 Richard B. Cathcart and Viorel Badescu

89

Geo-Engineering South Australia: The Case of Lake Eyre . . . . 1549 Viorel Badescu, Richard B. Cathcart, Marius Paulescu, Paul Gravila, and Alexander A. Bolonkin

Part XI 90

Dams

Mega-Hydroelectric Power Generation on the Yangtze River: The Three Gorges Dam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1569 Stuart A. Harris

Volume 3 91

Demographic Impacts of the Three Gorges Dam . . . . . . . . . 1583 Yan Tan and Graeme Hugo

92

Water Worth Gold: The Itaipú Hydroelectric Project . . . . . . 1599 Melissa H. Birch and Nicolas Quintana Ashwell

93

Megadams for Irrigation in Nigeria: Nature, Dimensions, and Geographies of Impacts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1617 Adamu I. Tanko

Contents

xxi

94

Ebbs and Flows: Megaproject Politics on the Mekong . . . . . . 1633 Philip Hirsch and Katherine Wilson

95

Beyond Mega on a Mega Continent: Grand Inga on Central Africa’s Congo River . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1651 Kate B. Showers

Part XII

Military, Security, and Risk Landscapes

96

America’s Military Footprint: Landscapes and Built Environments within the Continental U.S. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1683 William W. Doe III and Eugene J. Palka

97

Constructing the Border Wall – The Social and Environmental Impacts of Border: Mexico-U.S. Border Policy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1701 Lauren Martin

98

The Engineering of Detentional Landscapes: Australia’s Asylum Seeker Island Prisons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1723 Nancy Hudson-Rodd

99

“Alcatraz in the Sky”: Engineering Exile in a Virginia (USA) Prison . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1749 Matthew L. Mitchelson

100

An Environmental History of the French Nuclear Complex at La Hague . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1765 Laurent Bocéno

101

Fifty Years of Soviet Nuclear Testing in Semipalatinsk, Kazakstan: Juxtaposed Worlds of Blasts and Silences, Security and Risks, Denials and Memory . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1789 Stanley D. Brunn

Part XIII Socially Engineered Landscapes 102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities: Marketing Age, Religion, Ethnicity and Lifestyle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1821 Ira M. Sheskin

103

Re-engineering the Urban Landscape: Land Use Reconfiguration and the Morphological Transformation of Shrinking Industrial Cities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1855 Alan Mallach

104

Wiring the Countryside: Rural Electrification in Ireland . . . . 1885 Patrick J. Duffy

105

When a New Deal is Actually an Old Deal: The Role of TVA in Engineering a Jim Crow Racialized Landscape . . . . . 1901 Derek H. Alderman and Robert N. Brown

xxii

Contents

106

A Double-Edged Sword: Social Control in Appalachian Company Towns . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1917 Thomas E. Wagner and Phillip J. Obermiller

107

Social Engineering: Creating and Now Undoing Apartheid’s Structures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1937 Vernon A. Domingo

108

Engineering Socialism: A History of Village Relocations in Chukotka, Russia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1957 Tobias Holzlehner

109

The State of Deseret: The Creation of the Mormon Landscape in the Western U.S. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1975 Samuel M. Otterstrom and Richard H. Jackson

110

Subversive Engineering: Building Names in Singapore . . . . . . 1997 Peter K.W. Tan

111

Empire, Names and Renaming: The Case of Nagorno Karabakh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2013 Benjamin D. Foster

112

Reconstructing Post-Conflict Human Landscapes: The Land Administration Domain Model . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2031 Douglas E. Batson

Part XIV Political Organization of Space 113

Zoning as a Form of Social Engineering . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2053 Bobby M. Wilson and Seth Appiah-Opoku

114

Engineering Borders and Border Landscapes: The Schengen Regime and the EU’s New Internal and External Boundaries in Central-Eastern Europe . . . . . . . 2067 Milan Bufon

115

Engineered Healing and the Northern Ireland Question: Collaboration Across an Increasingly Invisible Border . . . . . . 2089 Caroline Creamer, John Driscoll, Neale Blair, and Brendan Bartley

116

Liquid Urbanity: Re-engineering the City in a Post-Terrestrial World . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2113 Philip E. Steinberg

117

Living on the Grid: The U.S. Rectangular Public Land Survey System and the Engineering of the American Landscape . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2123 Gerald R. Webster and Jonathan Leib

Contents

xxiii

118

Traces of Power: Europe’s Impact on the Political Organization of the Globe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2139 Corey Johnson and George W. White

119

Air and Space Demarcation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2159 Alexandra Harris and Ray Harris

Part XV

Earth and Planetary Engineering

120

A Perspective on Weather Modification: Planned and Inadvertent . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2173 Nancy Westcott

121

Climate Change, Climate Models and Geoengineering the Earth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2185 Jay S. Hobgood

122

Olivine Hills: Mineral Water Against Climate Change . . . . . . 2201 Roelof D. Schuiling and Elke Praagman

123

Demise of the Geomagnetic Field: An Opportunity for Mega-Engineers to Save Humanity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2207 J. Marvin Herndon

124

Terraforming Mars: A Review of Concepts . . . . . . . . . . . . 2217 Martyn J. Fogg

125

Planetary Ecosynthesis on Mars and Geo-Engineering on Earth: Can We? Should We? Will We? . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2227 Christopher P. McKay

126

Global Warming and the Specter of Geoengineering: Ecological Apocalypse, Modernist Hubris, and Scientific-Technological Salvation in Kim Stanley Robinson’s Global Warming Trilogy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2233 Ernest J. Yanarella and Christopher Rice

Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2253

Contributors

Glenn Albrecht School of Sustainability; Institute of Sustainability and Technology Policy, Murdoch University, 6150 Perth, WA, Australia, [email protected] Derek H. Alderman Department of Geography, East Carolina University, Greenville, NC 27858, USA, [email protected] John O. Anfinson Mississippi National River and Recreation Area, National Park Service, St. Paul, MN 55101, USA, [email protected] Seth Appiah-Opoku Department of Geography, University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa, AL 35487, USA, [email protected] Eugenio Arima Environmental Studies, Hobart and William Smith Colleges, Geneva, NY 14456, USA, [email protected] Viorel Badescu Candida Oancea Institute, Polytechnic University of Bucharest, Bucharest, Romania, [email protected] Jim Barger Landscapes Unlimited, Lincoln, NE 68512, USA, [email protected] Brendan Bartley International Centre for Local and Regional Development, c/o National University of Ireland, Maynooth, Co. Kildare, Ireland, [email protected] Samantha Bastian Public Systems Group, Indian Institute of Management-Ahmedabad, Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India, [email protected] Pratyusha Basu Department of Geography, University of South Florida, Tampa, FL 33620, USA, [email protected] Douglas E. Batson Political Geography Division, National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, Washington, DC, USA, [email protected] Maarten Bavinck Department of Human Geography, Planning and International Development; Centre for Maritime Research, University of Amsterdam, Amsterdam, The Netherlands, [email protected] xxv

xxvi

Contributors

Leonard Berry Florida Center for Environmental Studies, Florida Atlantic University, Jupiter, FL 33458, USA, [email protected] Melissa H. Birch Center for International Business Education and Research (CIBER), University of Kansas, Lawrence, KS 66045, USA, [email protected] Neale Blair School of the Built Environment, University of Ulster, Newtonabbey, Co. Antrim BT37 0QB, Northern Ireland, [email protected] Mikhail S. Blinnikov Department of Geography, St. Cloud State University, St. Cloud, MN 56301, USA, [email protected] Laurent Bocéno Department of Sociology, Center for the Study and Research on Risks and Vulnerabilities, University of Caen-Lower Normandy, Caen, France, [email protected] Alexander A. Bolonkin C & R, Brooklyn, NY 11229, USA, [email protected] Stephen P. Borgatti LINKS, International Center for Research on Social Networks in Business, Gatton College of Business and Economics, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA, [email protected] Guus J. Borger Faculty of Earth and Life Sciences, Institute for Geo and Bioarchaeology, VU University of Amsterdam, Amsterdam, The Netherlands, [email protected] Andrew Boulton Department of Geography, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA, [email protected] Anne Bourke Faculty of Architecture, Building and Planning, University of Melbourne, Melbourne, VIC, Australia, [email protected] John T. Bowen Department of Geography, Central Washington University, Ellensburg, WA 98626, USA, [email protected] Daniel J. Brass LINKS, International Center for Research on Social Networks in Business, Gatton College of Business and Economics, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA, [email protected] Proinnsias Breathnach Department of Geography & National Institute for Regional and Spatial Analysis, National University of Ireland, Maynooth, Co. Kildare, Ireland, [email protected] Robert N. Brown Department of Geography & Planning, Appalachian State University, Boone, NC 28608, USA, [email protected] Stanley D. Brunn Department of Geography, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA, [email protected] Tom Buckley FortiusOne, Inc., Arlington, VA 22201, USA, [email protected] Milan Bufon Department of Geography, Faculty of Humanities, University of Primorska, Koper, Slovenia, [email protected]

Contributors

xxvii

Filipe Calvão Department of Anthropology, University of Chicago, Chicago, IL 60637, USA, [email protected] Craig S. Campbell Department of Geography, Youngstown State University, Youngstown, OH 44555, USA, [email protected] Richard B. Cathcart Geographos, Burbank, CA 91506, USA, [email protected] Julie L. Cidell Department of Geography, University of Illinois, Urbana, IL, 61801, USA, [email protected] Alfred Colpaert Department of Geographical and Historical Studies, University of Eastern Finland, Joensuu, Finland, [email protected] Kenneth E. Corey Department of Geography, Michigan State University, East Lansing, MI 48824, USA, [email protected] Caroline Creamer National Institute for Research and Spatial Analysis (NIRSA), National University of Ireland, Maynooth, Co. Kildare, Ireland; International Centre for Local and Regional Development (ICLRD), Armagh, Northern Ireland, [email protected] Isa Cürebal Department of Geography, Balikesir University, Balikesir 10145, Turkey, [email protected] Anne-Marie d’Hauteserre Department of Geography, University of Waikato, Hamilton, New Zealand, [email protected] Robert Dahlstrom Gatton College of Business and Economics, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA, [email protected] Adriaan M.J. De Kraker Institute for Geo and Bioarchaeology, VU University of Amsterdam, Amsterdam, The Netherlands, [email protected] Kate Driscoll Derickson Department of Geography, Penn State University, University Park, PA 16802, USA, [email protected] Alexander C. Diener Senior Scholar in Eurasian Studies, IERES Elliott School of International Affairs, George Washington University, USA, [email protected] Megan L. Dixon Departments of English and Geology, College of Idaho, Caldwell, ID 83605, USA, [email protected] William W. Doe III Warner College of Natural Resources, Colorado State University, Ft. Collins, CO 80523, USA, [email protected] Vernon A. Domingo Department of Geography, Bridgewater State University, Bridgewater, MA 02325, USA, [email protected]

xxviii

Contributors

Ronnie Donaldson Department of Geography and Environmental Studies, University of Stellenbosch, Stellenbosch, Western Cape Matieland 7602, South Africa, [email protected] John Driscoll International Centre for Local and Regional Development (ICLRD), 2235 Massachusetts Avenue, Second Floor, Cambridge, MA 02140, [email protected] Patrick J. Duffy Department of Geography, National University of Ireland, Maynooth, Co. Kildare, Ireland, [email protected] Recep Efe Department of Geography, Balikesir University, Balikesir 10145, Turkey, [email protected], [email protected] Jody Emel Department of Geography, Clark University, Worcester, MA 01610, USA, [email protected] Tom P. Evans Department of Geography, Center for the Study of Institutions, Population, and Environmental Change, Indiana University, Bloomington, IN 47405, USA, [email protected] Michael C. Ewers Department of Geography, Texas A&M University, College Station, TX 77843-3147, USA, [email protected] Daniel Fahlén Department of Human and Economic Geography, School of Business, Economics and Law, University of Gothenburg, SE 405 30, Gothenburg, Sweden, [email protected] Martyn J. Fogg Probability Research Group, London SE19 1UY, UK, [email protected] Larry R. Ford Department of Geography, San Diego State University, San Diego, CA 92182, USA, (contact [email protected]) Benjamin D. Foster U.S. Board on Geographic Names, Foreign Names Committee, Washington, DC, USA, [email protected] William Galloway School of Architecture and Urban Studies, Virginia Tech University, Blacksburg, VA 24061, USA, [email protected] Michael F. Goodchild Department of Geography, University of California, Santa Barbara, CA 93106, USA, [email protected] Sean Gorman FortiusOne, Inc., Arlington, VA 22201, USA, [email protected] Anton Gosar Department of Geography, University of Primorska, Koper/Capodistria, Slovenia, [email protected] Mark Graham Oxford Internet Institute, University of Oxford, Oxford, UK, [email protected] Raewyn Graham School of Geosciences, University of Sydney, Sydney, Australia, [email protected]

Contributors

xxix

Paul Gravila Department of Physics, West University of Timisoara, Timisoara, Romania, [email protected] Jeffrey Gritzner Department of Geography, University of Montana, Missoula, MT 59812, USA, [email protected] Paul Harpley PhD candidate, Department of Geography, York University, Toronto, ON, Canada; Director of the Zephyr Society of Lake Simcoe, Sutton West, ON, Canada; Retired, Manager of Interpretation, Culture and Design Branch, Toronto Zoo, Toronto, ON, Canada, [email protected] Alexandra Harris Department of Geography, University College London, London WC1H 0AP, UK, [email protected] Ray Harris Department of Geography, University College London, London, WC1H 0AP, UK, [email protected] Stuart A. Harris Department of Geography, University of Calgary, Calgary, AB T2N 1N4, Canada, [email protected] Mike Heffernan School of Geography, University of Nottingham, Nottingham NG7 2NR, UK, [email protected] Jason Henderson Department of Geography, San Francisco State University, San Francisco, CA 94132, USA, [email protected] Joan C. Henderson Nanyang Business School, Nanyang Technological University, Nanyang Avenue, Singapore, [email protected] J. Marvin Herndon Transdyne Corporation, San Diego, CA 92131, USA, [email protected] Philip Hirsch School of Geosciences; Australian Mekong Resource Centre, University of Sydney, Sydney, NSW 2006, Australia, [email protected] Jay S. Hobgood Department of Geography, Ohio State University, Columbus, OH 43210, USA, [email protected] Robert Hoeksema Engineering Department, Calvin College, Grand Rapids, MI 49546, USA, [email protected] William N. Holden Department of Geography, University of Calgary, Calgary, AB T2N 1N4, Canada, [email protected] Tobias Holzlehner Department of Anthropology, University of Alaska, Fairbanks, AK 99775, USA, [email protected] Matthew T. Huber Department of Geography, The Maxwell School of Syracuse University, Syracuse, NY, 13244-1020, USA, [email protected] Nancy Hudson-Rodd Honorary Research Fellow, School of Psychology and Social Science, Edith Cowan University, Perth, WA, Australia, [email protected]

xxx

Contributors

Michael T. Hughes College of Design, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA, [email protected] Peter J. Hugill Department of Geography and Bush School International Affairs Program, Texas A&M University, College Station, TX 77843, USA, [email protected] Graeme Hugo Department of Geography, University of Adelaide, Adelaide, SA, Australia, [email protected] Tommi Inkinen Department of Geosciences and Geography, University of Helsinki, Helsinki, Finland, [email protected] Richard H. Jackson Department of Geography, Brigham Young University, Provo, UT 84602, USA, [email protected] R. Daniel Jacobson Department of Geography, University of Calgary, Calgary, AB T2N 1N4, Canada, [email protected] Corey Johnson Department of Geography, University of North Carolina, Greensboro, NC 27402, USA, [email protected] Janet Jones Department of Classics, Bucknell University, Lewisburg, PA 17837, USA, [email protected] Elisabeth Joris Historian, Gemeindestrasse 62, CH-8032, Zurich, Switzerland, [email protected] Sadasivam Karuppannan Institute for Sustainable Systems and Technologies (ISST), University of South Australia, Adelaide, SA, Australia, [email protected] Sjoerd J. Kluiving Faculty of Earth and Life Sciences, Institute for Geo and Bioarchaeology, VU University of Amsterdam, Amsterdam, The Netherlands, [email protected] Korine N. Kolivras Department of Geography, Virginia Tech, Blacksburg, VA 24061, USA, [email protected] Richard D. Knowles Research Institute for the Built and Human Environment, University of Salford, Manchester, UK, [email protected] Rajendra Kulkarni School of Public Policy, George Mason University, Fairfax, VA 22030, USA, [email protected] Jouko Kumpula Reindeer Research Unit, Finnish Game and Fisheries Research Institute, Kaamanen, Finland, [email protected] Giuseppe (Joe) Labianca LINKS, International Center for Research on Social Networks in Business, Gatton College of Business and Economics, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA, [email protected]

Contributors

xxxi

Kuntala Lahiri-Dutt Research School of Pacific and Asian Affairs, Australian National University, Canberra, ACT, Australia, [email protected] Olli Lehtonen Department of Geography, University of Eastern Finland, Joensuu, Finland, [email protected] Jonathan Leib Department of Political Science and Geography, Old Dominion University, Norfolk, VA 23529, USA, [email protected] Elizabeth J. Leppman Walden University, Lexington, KY 40503, USA, [email protected] Richard S. Levine College of Design, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA, [email protected] Michael Longan Department of Geography and Meteorology, Valparaiso University, Valparaiso, IN 46383, USA, [email protected] Elizabeth Lunstrum Department of Geography, York University, Toronto, ON M3J 1P3, Canada, [email protected] Chris Lyttleton Department of Anthropology, Macquarie University, Sydney, NSW, Australia, [email protected] Darrin Magee Environmental Studies, Hobart and William Smith Colleges, Geneva, NY 14456, USA, [email protected] Edward J. Malecki Department of Geography, Ohio State University, Columbus, OH 43210, USA, [email protected] Alan Mallach Metropolitan Policy Program, The Brookings Institution, Washington, DC 20036, USA, [email protected] Virginie Mamadouh Department of Human Geography, Planning and International Development, University of Amsterdam, Nieuwe Prinsengracht 130, 1018VZ, Amsterdam, The Netherlands, [email protected] Damon Manders U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, St. Louis, MO 63103, USA, [email protected] Ben Marsh Department of Geography and Program in Environmental Studies, Bucknell University, Lewisburg, PA 17837, USA, [email protected] Judith A. Martin Department of Geography, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis, MN 55455, USA, [email protected] Lauren Martin Department of Geography, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA, [email protected] Kenneth Matengu Social Sciences Division, Multidisciplinary Research Center, University of Namibia, Windhoek, Namibia, [email protected]

xxxii

Contributors

Casey Ryan Mather College of Design, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA, [email protected] Christian Wichmann Matthiessen Institute of Geography and Geology, University of Copenhagen, 1350 Copenhagen K, Denmark, [email protected] James P. McCarthy Department of Geography, Penn State University, University Park, PA 16802, USA, [email protected] Christopher P. McKay Space Science Division, NASA Ames Research Center, Moffett Field, CA 94035, USA, [email protected] Phil McManus School of Geosciences, University of Sydney, Sydney, NSW, Australia, [email protected] Ajay Mehra LINKS, International Center for Research on Social Networks in Business, Gatton College of Business and Economics, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA, [email protected] Zina R. Merkin Department of Landscape Architecture, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA, [email protected] Philip Micklin Department of Geography, Western Michigan University, Kalamazoo, MI 49008, USA, [email protected] Georgia Milan Women’s Care Center, St. Patrick Hospital, Missoula, MT 59802, USA, [email protected] Matthew L. Mitchelson Department of Geography, University of Georgia, Athens, GA 30602, USA, [email protected] Alina Nekrich Institute of Geography, Russian Academy of Sciences, 119017 Moscow, Russia, [email protected] Frederick E. Nelson Department of Geography, University of Delaware, Newark, DE 19716, USA, [email protected] Thomas J. Nieman Landscape Architecture, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA, [email protected] Arne Nygaard Norwegian School of Management, Centre for Advanced Research in Retailing, Oslo, Norway, [email protected] Pál Nyíri Global History from an Anthropological Perspective, Free University of Amsterdam (VU), Amsterdam, The Netherlands, [email protected] Phillip J. Obermiller School of Planning, University of Cincinnati, Cincinnati, OH 45221, USA, [email protected] Samuel M. Otterstrom Department of Geography, Brigham Young University, Provo, UT 84602, USA, [email protected]

Contributors

xxxiii

Pernilla Ouis Faculty of Health and Society, Malmö University, Malmö, Sweden, [email protected] Eugene J. Palka Department of Geography and Environmental Engineering, U. S. Military Academy, West Point, NY 10996, USA, [email protected] Maria Paradiso Department of Social Sciences, University of Sannio, Benevento, Italy, [email protected] Martin J. Pasqualetti School of Geographical Sciences and Urban Planning, Arizona State University, Tempe, AZ 85287, USA, [email protected] Marius Paulescu Department of Physics, West University of Timisoara, Timisoara, Romania, [email protected] Stephen Perz Department of Sociology, University of Florida, Gainesville, FL 32611, USA, [email protected] Emily Plant University of Montana, Missoula, MT 59812, [email protected] Katja Polojärvi School of Renewable Natural Resources, Oulu University of Applied Sciences, Oulu, Finland, [email protected] Elke Praagman Institute of Geosciences, University of Utrecht, Utrecht, The Netherlands, [email protected] Dulyapak Preecharushh Southeast Asian Studies Program, Thammasat University, Bangkok, Thailand, [email protected] Nicola M. Pugno Department of Structural Engineering and Geotechnics, 10129 Torino, Italy, [email protected] Darren Purcell Department of Geography, University of Oklahoma, Norman, OK 73019, USA, [email protected], [email protected] Nicolas Quintana Ashwell Department of Economics, University of Illinois, Urbana, IL 61801, USA, [email protected] G. Raghuram Public Systems Group, Indian Institute of Management-Ahmedabad, Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India, [email protected] Christopher Rice Department of Political Science, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA, [email protected] Jean-Paul Rodrigue Department of Global Studies & Geography, Hofstra University, Hempstead, NY 11550, USA, [email protected] J. Drew Rogers Golf Course Architect, JDR Design Group, Toledo, OH 43617, USA, [email protected] Anda Rosenberg Department of Geography and Human Environment, Tel Aviv University, Tel Aviv, Israel, [email protected]

xxxiv

Contributors

William C. Rowe Department of Geography and Anthropology, Louisiana State University, Baton Rouge, LA 70803, USA, [email protected] Joseph L. Scarpaci Independent Scholar, Blacksburg, VA 24060, USA, [email protected] Laurie Schintler School of Public Policy, George Mason University, Fairfax, VA 22030, USA, [email protected] Mikaela Schmitt-Harsh School of Public and Environmental Affairs, Center for the Study of Institutions, Population, and Environmental Change, Indiana University, Bloomington, IN 47405, USA, [email protected] Izhak Schnell Department of Geography and Human Environment, Tel Aviv University, Tel Aviv, Israel, [email protected] Roelof D. Schuiling Institute of Geosciences, University of Utrecht, Utrecht, The Netherlands, [email protected] Emily Sciarillo FortiusOne, Inc., Arlington, VA 22201, USA, [email protected] Esha Shah Department of Technology and Society Studies, Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, University of Maastricht, 6211 SZ, Maastricht, The Netherlands, [email protected] Ian Graham Ronald Shaw Department of Geography and Development, University of Arizona, Tucson, AZ 85721, USA, [email protected] Ira M. Sheskin Department of Geography and Regional Studies, University of Miami, Coral Gables, FL 33124, USA, [email protected] Kate B. Showers Department of Geography, School of Global Studies, Centre for World Environmental History, University of Sussex, Brighton, BN1 9SJ, UK, [email protected] Cynthia Simmons Department of Geography, Michigan State University, East Lansing, MI 48824, USA, [email protected] Kamalesh Singh Structure Department, National Engineering Office (Architects and Consulting Engineers), Ruwi, Sultanate of Oman, [email protected], [email protected] Alpana Sivam Institute for Sustainable Systems and Technologies (ISST), School of Natural and Built Environments, University of South Australia, Adelaide, SA, Australia, [email protected] Benjamin Smith Department of Global and Sociocultural Studies, Florida International University, Miami, FL 33109, USA, [email protected] Philip E. Steinberg Department of Geography, Florida State University, Tallahassee, FL 32306, USA, [email protected]

Contributors

xxxv

John Strawn Hill and Forrest, International Golf Course Architects, Portland, OR 97212, USA, [email protected] Selima Sultana Department of Geography, University of North Carolina, Greensboro, NC 27402, USA, [email protected] Satyam Shivam Sundaram Public Systems Group, Indian Institute of Management-Ahmedabad, Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India, [email protected] Sean P. Sweeney Center for the Study of Institutions, Population, and Environmental Change, Indiana University, Bloomington, IN 47405, USA, [email protected] Peter K.W. Tan Department of English Language and Literature, National University of Singapore, 7 Arts Link, Singapore 117570, [email protected] Yan Tan National Institute of Labour Studies, Flinders University, Adelaide, SA, Australia, [email protected] Adamu I. Tanko Department of Geography, Bayero University, Kano, Nigeria, [email protected] Eva Thulin Department of Human and Economic Geography, School of Business, Economics and Law, University of Gothenburg, SE 405 30, Gothenburg, Sweden, [email protected] Scott Thumma Sociology of Religion, Hartford Seminary, Hartford, CT 06105, USA, [email protected] Stanley W. Trimble Department of Geography, University of California, Los Angeles, CA 90024, USA, [email protected] Markku Tykkyläinen Department of Geography, University of Eastern Finland, Joensuu, Finland, [email protected] Tapani Tyynelä Finnish Forest Research Institute, Kannus, Finland, [email protected] Janis van der Westhuizen Department of Political Science, University of Stellenbosch, Stellenbosch, Western Cape Matieland 7602, South Africa, [email protected] Michiel van Dijk Department of Human Geography, Planning and International Development, University of Amsterdam, Nieuwe Prinsengracht 130, 1018 VZ, Amsterdam, The Netherlands, [email protected] Bertil Vilhelmson Department of Human and Economic Geography, School of Business, Economics and Law, University of Gothenburg, SE 405 30, Gothenburg, Sweden, [email protected] Thomas E. Wagner School of Planning, University of Cincinnati, Cincinnati, OH 45221, USA, [email protected]

xxxvi

Contributors

Robert Walker Department of Geography, Michigan State University, East Lansing, MI 48824, USA, [email protected] Barney Warf Department of Geography, University of Kansas, Lawrence, KS 66045, USA, [email protected] Joe Weber Department of Geography, University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa, AL 35487, USA, [email protected] Gerald R. Webster Department of Geography, University of Wyoming, Laramie, WY 82071, USA, [email protected] Nancy Westcott Illinois State Water Survey, Institute of Natural Resource Stability, University of Illinois, Urbana, IL 61801, USA, [email protected] George W. White Department of Geography, South Dakota State University, Brookings, SD 57007, USA, [email protected] Bobby M. Wilson Department of Geography, University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa, AL 35487, USA, [email protected] Katherine Wilson Geography and International Relations, University of Sydney, Sydney, NSW, Australia, [email protected] Mark I. Wilson School of Planning, Design and Construction, Michigan State University, East Lansing, MI 48824, USA, [email protected] Andrew Wood Department of Geography, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA, [email protected] Leon Yacher Department of Geography, Southern Connecticut State University, New Haven, CT 06515-1355, USA, [email protected] Tetsuo Yamazaki Osaka Prefecture University, Osaka, Japan, [email protected] Ernest J. Yanarella Department of Political Science, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA, [email protected] Zhen-Yu Zhao Department of Construction Management, North China Electric Power University, Beijing, China, [email protected] George Zillante School of Natural and Built Environments, University of South Australia, Adelaide, Australia, [email protected] Jian Zuo School of Natural and Built Environments, University of South Australia, Adelaide, SA, Australia, [email protected]

List of Figures

1.1 1.2 2.1

2.2

2.3

2.4

2.5

5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5 5.6 6.1

Mapping the impacts of megaengineering projects . . . . . . . Chapters discussing the impacts of megaengineering projects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Traditional 20th century popular presentation of the sole surviving Wonder, The Pyramid of Khufu at Giza, from a vintage postcard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Location of the Hellenistic Seven Wonders and of the 2007 “New 7 Wonders.” The older list (circles) was cosmopolitan within the Hellenistic world of the eastern Mediterranean; the newer list (triangles) delimits popular international travel destinations for European and North American tourists . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Los Angeles Freeway Interchange, symbol of efficient modern travel – and also of sprawl and profligate energy consumption . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Civic pride of New York incorporated into a U.S. postage stamp, featuring the Manhattan skyline and the gateway symbols of the Statue of Liberty and the Hudson River waterfront . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Skyline of Shanghai, which has thoroughly eclipsed New York in density of skyscrapers. Quintessentially urban landscapes have become more prevalent in Asia than in the Eurocentric world over the last decade . . . . . . . . . . . . My/our/your time person of the year award . . . . . . . . . . . Time and space convergence in various types of large engineering projects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Avatars in second life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The multiple representations of trafalgar square in google maps A singular representation of trafalgar square in wikipedia . . . . Uncle GNU . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Change in Internet Development Index (IDI), a measure of the relative infrastructure quality, 2002–2007 . . . . . . . . .

.

5

.

8

.

18

.

19

.

26

.

27

. .

31 68

. . . . .

70 72 74 74 78

.

86

xxxvii

xxxviii

6.2 6.3 6.4 7.1 7.2 7.3 7.4 7.5 7.6 7.7 8.1 8.2 8.3 8.4 8.5 10.1

10.2

11.1 12.1 12.2 12.3 12.4 12.5 12.6

12.7

12.8 13.1

List of Figures

Percentage of the Population in Selected Countries that Use Facebook . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Map of the Facebook profile page . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Map of the Facebook home page where the news feed is located . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Camp Roberts architecture diagram . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Afghan elections architecture diagram . . . . . . . . . . . . . Afghanistan attacks by district, September 2–8, 2009 . . . . . . Change in violence by district, August 11–September 9, 2009 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Total fraud complaints by province for the 2009 Afghanistan presidential election . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Citizen reported election day incidents . . . . . . . . . . . . . Benford fraud analysis of Afghanistan election results . . . . . Qwest national fiber network . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The World’s major fiber optic cables . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The FLAG network . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Africa ONE fiber system . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Declining prices of fiber optics services, 2002–2006 . . . . . . Public transportation network in the survey area—Gothenburg region, Sweden. Transportation lines included in the survey are Uddevalla– Göteborg, Trollhättan–Göteborg, Borås–Göteborg, and Kinna–Göteborg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Average time spent on various activities or using various kinds of equipment by travelers who perceive their trips as “very worthwhile” (n = 60). Average trip time = 55 min. Source: Authors’ survey, Gothenburg region, Sweden—preliminary findings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Map of countries participating in the World Cyber Games 2009 Location of study area, cattle enclosures and tracking data . . . Typical livestock enclosure, often called a “kraal.” . . . . . . . Cattle grazing on the Zambezi/Chobe floodplain . . . . . . . . Bull fitted with GPS collar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tracking data from collar no. 9 during July–November 2006 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . During 2002–2005 altogether 40 female reindeer were tracked by GPS collars in the Oraniemi reindeer herding district, Middle-Lapland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . All locations of GPS-tracked female reindeer (n = 29) from 1999 to 2002 (10,981 locations) in the Ivalo reindeer herding district and classified into three seasonal periods . . . . Ten months GPS-track of a reindeer in the Ivalo district . . . . Schematic representation of the Anand model of dairy development . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. .

91 91

. . . .

92 106 108 109

.

109

. . . . . . . .

110 111 112 119 123 125 126 127

.

148

. . . . . .

152 159 175 175 176 177

.

179

.

182

. .

183 185

.

195

List of Figures

13.2 13.3 13.4 13.5 13.6 13.7 13.8 13.9 13.10 15.1 15.2 15.3 15.4 15.5 15.6 15.7 15.8 16.1 16.2 16.3 16.4 16.5 16.6 16.7 17.1 17.2 17.3 17.4 17.5 17.6 17.7 17.8

Total milk production in India, 1950–2010 (in million tons). (∗ Figures for 2009–2010 are estimated) . . . . . . . . . . Comparison of numbers of cattle and buffaloes, 1982–2003 . . . Total milk production from cattle and buffaloes, 2003–2004 (in thousand tons) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Proportion of total milk production from crossbred cows, 2003–2004 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Crossbred cow in village in Gujarat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Poster promoting Jersey and Holstein-Friesian crossbred cows as “true friends of farmers” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Portion of poster promoting artificial insemination of cattle . . . Artificial insemination station in village in Madhya Pradesh . . Milking crossbred cow in village in Gujarat . . . . . . . . . . . Khrushchev visiting the farm of Iowa farmers Roswell and Elizabeth Garst, September 1959 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Central Asian agricultural land use map illustrating the major area of the Virgin Lands Project . . . . . . . . . . . . Volunteers in the virgin lands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Constructing outdoor stoves in the virgin lands . . . . . . . . . The first furrows in the virgin lands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Plowing in the virgin lands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Wheat fields in the virgin lands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dust storm in Astana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . World production capture fisheries 1950–2008. (FAO, 2009) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Trends in U.S. real price indexes for fish and seafood products 1947–2006. (World Bank, 2008) . . . . . . . . . . . . State of world marine fishery resources . . . . . . . . . . . . . Exclusive economic zones of the world . . . . . . . . . . . . . Small-scale fishermen in South India . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fleets of small industrialized vessels in South India . . . . . . . The Atlantic Dawn – the world’s largest factory ship . . . . . . Issued mining claims for manganese nodules from ISA in CCFZ Schematic image of manganese nodule mining system and the environmental impact sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Schematic arrangement of JET . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Disturber track . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Outline of scraper tow (left) and the unit configuration (right) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Observed image of scraper tow tracks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Population change of meiobenthos before and after experiment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Distribution of known active SMS sites in the western Pacific . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

xxxix

. .

197 199

.

200

. .

201 202

. . . .

203 204 205 208

.

238

. . . . . . .

245 247 248 248 249 250 252

.

259

. . . . . . .

260 261 262 265 266 269 276

. . .

277 280 281

. .

282 283

.

284

.

286

xl

17.9 17.10 18.1 18.2 19.1 19.2 19.3 19.4 21.1 21.2 22.1 22.2 22.3 22.4

23.1 23.2 23.3 23.4 23.5 24.1 24.2 24.3 25.1 25.2 25.3 25.4 25.5 25.6

List of Figures

Structural outline of sulfur oxidizing in bacterial mat field (left) and bivalve field (right) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Comparison of food web structures around hydrothermal vent (left) and in normal benthos (right) . . . . . . . . . . Project location . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Map of sea routes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Houses of the tunnel workers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Miners and engineers and woman tavern keeper . . . . . Allegorical figure of a woman across a map of Europe . . Mariga Perlongo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bingham Canyon Mine – “The richest hole on earth.” . . . Tailings piles – burying the landscape . . . . . . . . . . . Location map of Angola with map of major cities and mining centers in northeastern Lunda region . . . . . Alluvial mining pit in a deviated river course . . . . . . . Maludi’s diamond “comptoir,” established during the 1950s diamond rush . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Calonda Diamang’s model of colonial architecture, common in the region’s urban centers for the purpose of housing mining personnel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Map of Guatemala, showing the location of Marlin Mine (gold and sliver) and Fenix project (nickel and cobalt) . . Map showing the location of major mines in the Philippines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Extreme poverty in Guatemala . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Poverty in the Philippines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Vulnerability of the Philippines to El Nino Induced Drought . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Lebedinskoye iron ore deposit . . . . . . . . . . . . The algorithm used to assess the complex geoecological assessment of areas at the level of administrative units . . The ecological situation in the Starooskol’skiy and Gubkinskiy rayons (districts) . . . . . . . . . . . . . Peatland regions and Bord na Móna bog works . . . . . . Activities associated with the development of Bord na Móna peatlands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1940s hostel for temporary bog workers . . . . . . . . . . Peat milling machine. Spiked drums strip 1.5 cm (0.6 inches) of peat from bog surface . . . . . . . . . . . . Peat harvesting. Milled peat is collected in progressively larger piles prior to loading onto trains . . . . . . . . . . . Peat train. Peat trains, running on temporary tracks, transport peat from bogs to power stations or briquette factories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . .

287

. . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

287 299 300 314 317 321 323 354 359

. . . . . . . .

371 374

. . . .

374

. . . .

375

. . . .

384

. . . . . . . . . . . .

388 396 397

. . . . . . . .

398 415

. . . .

417

. . . . . . . .

422 431

. . . . . . . .

433 434

. . . .

436

. . . .

436

. . . .

437

. . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

List of Figures

25.7 25.8 25.9 26.1 26.2 26.3 27.1

27.2 27.3 27.4

27.5

27.6 27.7

27.8 27.9 27.10

28.1 28.2 28.3 28.4

Bord na Móna housing development under construction, early 1950s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rhode peat-fired power station c.1960 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Derrinlough peat briquette factor c.1960 . . . . . . . . . . . . . Major recipients of Russian gas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Supply of energy resources from Russia and the Caspian Sea area . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . EU Slovenia’s pipelines – existing and proposed . . . . . . . . The oil sands of Alberta, Canada. The three areas – Athabasca, Cold Lake, and Peace River – comprise the largest oil-sand deposits in the world. The amounts of recoverable oil in the deposits place Canada second only to Saudi Arabia in reserves. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Colorado oil shale prospective area bureau of land management areas of critical environmental concern . . . . . . Syncrude upgrader operations north of Fort McMurray, Alberta Blocks of sulfur produced during processing, stored at a Syncrude upgrader site north of Fort McMurray, Alberta. No use has yet been found for this a by-product of the upgrading process . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Parachute, CO, situated along Interstate 70, looking north across the major oil shale fields of North America. Rifle is representative of the small towns in the area that will be susceptible to rapid growth. It had a population in July 2007 of 8,807, an increase since 2000 of 23.6%, largely as the result of the increased development of coal-bed methane and the resurgent interest in the prospect of oil shale development . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Forest clearing and residential developments are part of the housing boom at Fort McMurray, Alberta . . . . . . . . . The need for housing is already evident in the area near Parachute, CO as a result of ongoing development of coal-bed methane and the resurgent interest in oil shale . . . . . The Callanish standing stones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A protest poster declaring “If we plant these today, what will we plan tomorrow?” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . SEGS (Solar Energy Generating Plant) at Kramer junction, west of Barstow, California. These installations are concentrating solar power facilities, using parabolic trough with single-axis tracking. They occupy a low-priority patch of land . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Major oil pipelines and terrorist attacks . . . . . . . . . . . . . Oil import vulnerability . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Percent reduction in import diversity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dependency on oil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

xli

. . . .

438 439 441 450

. .

456 458

.

463

. .

464 467

.

467

.

470

.

470

. .

471 473

.

474

. . . . .

478 487 492 492 493

xlii

29.1 29.2

29.3 29.4

30.1 32.1 32.2 32.3 32.4 33.1 33.2 33.3 33.4 33.5 33.6 33.7 33.8 33.9 33.10 33.11 33.12 33.13 33.14 34.1 34.2 34.3 34.4 34.5 36.1

List of Figures

GM’s answer to the Japanese – GoogleEarth image of the Spring Hill, Tennessee Saturn plant . . . . . . . . . . . . The Kama River, Kamaz Truck and FIAT plant – the largest motor vehicle plant in the world seen in GoogleEarth. Originally, the total plant size was most of the rectangular area seen in this image – about 12 square miles (7,680 acres or just over 3,100 ha), with automotive operations extending to other parts of the city. This is more space than all the motor vehicle plants in France and almost as much as all those in Japan, though there is some boulevard and green space mixed in here . . . . . . . . . . . . GoogleEarth image of the Hiroshima Ujina complex (Mazda Manufacturing, 2009) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . GoogleEarth image of the FAW Chanchun, Jilin works. Over 6,000 vehicles are parked to the southeast – a testament to an undeveloped just-in-time system? The FAW Toyota works are just over a kilometer to the southeast . . North Karelia and its forest sector. The postcode areas are classified according to their socio-economic properties . . . . . The interstate highway system in 1947 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The interstate highway system in 2008. Metropolitan areas are shaded . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Traffic levels on the interstate highway system, 2006 . . . . . . The interstate highway system in Birmingham, Alabama . . . . The extent of BR-230 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Transamazon highway road sign . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The federal highway network in Amazonas . . . . . . . . . . . Port of Altamira on Xingu river . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Travessão or settlement road . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The cadastral geometry of Transamazonia colonization . . . . . Town of Uruara . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Phase of construction for the Transamazonia highway (top) 1975, (middle) 1981, (bottom) 1999 . . . . . . . . . . . . Logging truck on unpaved Transamazonia highway . . . . . . Counties crossed by BR-230 in Pará and Amazonas . . . . . . Transamazonia colonist family . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pastures where forests once stood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cadastral geometry and fishbone settlement . . . . . . . . . . . Protected areas in the Brazilian Amazonas . . . . . . . . . . . Proportion of projects on schedule (of total projects) . . . . . . Percentage of cost overrun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Environmental approval process . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Land acquisition process under the land acquisition act of 1894 Golden Quadrilateral . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Population distribution in Mongolia 2000 . . . . . . . . . . . .

.

503

.

504

.

507

.

509

. .

520 555

. . . . . . . . . .

556 557 561 570 573 574 575 578 579 580

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

583 584 586 586 588 590 592 602 602 605 607 610 630

List of Figures

36.2 36.3 36.4 36.5 37.1

37.2

37.3

37.4

37.5

37.6

Transportation infrastructure of Mongolia . . . . . . . . . Projected population redistribution . . . . . . . . . . . . . Existing trade corridors of Northeast Asia (2001) . . . . . Oil in and around Mongolia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . (a-left) The ALSIB (Alaska-Siberia) route, showing airfields of the Northwest Staging Route (map courtesy of U.S. Air Force). (b-right) Map of overland routes to Alaska proposed at the outset of America’s entry into World War II. The Alcan route, depicted as a solid black line and labeled with a circled “C,” was chosen primarily because of its distance from potential enemy naval attacks and for its proximity to the Northwest Staging Route. Alternative proposed routes (A, B, D) are indicated, as is route of Canol Pipeline and Canol Highway from Norman Wells to Whitehorse. From Stefansson (1944b). These maps exemplify the cartographic approach of Richard Edes Harrison in depicting geographic relationships between World War II adversaries . . . . . . . . . . . . . B-25 bombers and P-39 fighters at Ladd Field in Fairbanks, AK, awaiting transfer to Russia. The template for Soviet red star insignias used on the aircraft was obtained from a local Texaco gasoline station (Hays, 1996) Map of Alcan Highway route in 1942, showing approximate locations of regimental sectors. Base map from Richardson (1942a: 82) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The sense of displacement and conjugal longing of young soldiers and engineers far from home is well expressed in this cartoon (of unknown origin) from the Herbert Warner collection, American Geographical Society Library, Golda Meier Library, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. Warner was an employee of a private contractor retained by PRA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Life along the construction route of Alcan pioneer road. (a-top left) Primitive camp with sawmill in early 1942. (b-top right) Bridge across a tributary of the Peace River. (c-bottom left) Opening ceremony of the Alcan Highway at Soldiers’ Summit near Kluane Lake, Yukon Territory, approximately 100 mi (160 km) east of the Alaska border. (d-bottom right) Small bulldozer enmired in mud after thaw of ice-rich permafrost . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pioneer road construction techniques. (a) Because the roots of many trees do not penetrate permafrost, clearance of rights of way by bulldozers was a relatively easy task over much of the Alcan route. After clearance of felled timber and brush, the ground was scraped, promoting

xliii

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

632 635 637 638

. . . .

646

. . . .

647

. . . .

649

. . . .

650

. . . .

651

xliv

37.7

37.8 37.9

38.1 38.2 38.3 39.1 39.2 39.3 39.4 40.1 40.2 40.3 40.4 40.5 40.6

List of Figures

absorption of solar radiation and thaw of underlying ice-rich permafrost. Three of the seven U.S. Army regiments (93rd, 95th, 97th) involved in construction of the pioneer road were composed of African-American troops. (b) After a period of only several days, ablation of ground ice turned many rights of way into impassible quagmires. (c) Corduroy road construction used to mitigate damage caused by thaw of ice-rich permafrost. Timbers were obtained from slash created by road construction, and covered with brush and gravel to inhibit thaw. (d) Steep section of pioneer road with prominent road cuts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . (a) Permafrost profile typical of terrain along the Alcan route. In areas of “warm” permafrost, in which mean annual temperatures are at or just below 0◦ C (32◦ F), the substrate is vulnerable to thaw induced by changes in the insulating layers of vegetation and organic matter at the ground surface. Taliks (unfrozen layers at the top of or within permafrost) may or may not be present, depending on site’s climatic history and local conditions (b) Permafrost profile along a road through swampy terrain, showing the relation between surficial cover and depth to permafrost. Both diagrams appeared in Muller (1944) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . (Top) “wrong” and (bottom) “right” methods for constructing roads in permafrost terrain (Muller 2008: 119) Checkpoint at south end of Alaska Highway, fall 1943. Drastic improvements to the road in summer 1943 are apparent from the fact that Carlson traversed the entire highway using the two-wheel-drive staff car shown passing the checkpoint . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A map of the Hachula valley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The KKL plan for draining the Hachula swamp . . . . . . . Route of the cross Israel road . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gautrain route . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sign depicting Gautrain construction . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gautrain construction at Tambo international airport . . . . Logo promoting Gautrain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The central artery/tunnel project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The elevated central artery, 2001 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The same area after project completion, 2008 . . . . . . . . Boston harbor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Site of future pier and marina on Spectacle Island . . . . . . Erosion control walls on Spectacle Island made with sections of central artery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . .

652

. . .

654

. . .

656

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

658 667 669 675 687 688 688 691 698 699 700 702 703

. . .

704

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

List of Figures

40.7 41.1 41.2 41.3 41.4 41.5

41.6 41.7 41.8 41.9 41.10 42.1

42.2 42.3 42.4 42.5 42.6 42.7 42.8

42.9

43.1 43.2

Portion of the Rose F. Kennedy Greenway through downtown Boston . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Bosphorus and immersed tunnel alignment (Belkaya, Ozmen, & Karamut, 2008) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Location of the study area . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Population change in Istanbul, 1927–2010. (TUIK, Turkish Statistical Institute) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Population change in Asian and European sides of Istanbul: 1935–2010. (TUIK, Turkish Statistical Institute) Traffic congestion in Istanbul is getting worse with increasing car ownership and lack of efficient public transportation network (Ministry of Transportation) . . . The plans of Bosphorus tunnel planned during the reign of Sultan Abdülmecid in 1860 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alignment of the Marmaray project . . . . . . . . . . . . The Bored tunnel under construction in Marmaray project Cross-section of the tunnels and stations between Yedikule and Sö˘gütlüçe¸sme (Kadıköy) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . One of the ships that were excavated in Yenikapı . . . . . The Scandinavian links, indicating average traffic per day. (The fixed links are owned by Sund & Bælt Holding A/S, which is owned by the Danish State. A/S Storebælt (Great Belt fixed links) and Femern Bælt A/S (coming Femern Belt fixed link) are owned 100% and Øresundsbro Konsortiet (Oresund fixed link) 50%—the other 50% is owned by the Swedish State.) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Great Belt East Bridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Great Belt’s East Bridge under construction . . . . . . The Great Belt’s East Bridge under construction . . . . . . The Oresund Bridge, which opened for traffic in 2000 . . The giant crane, Svanen (the Swan) is placing a bridge girder at the Oresund Bridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Construction of caissons for the Oresund Bridge at Malmo North Harbor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . One of several propositions for a bridge solution over the Femern Belt. The fixed link has been finally agreed upon by the governments and parliaments of Denmark and Germany and is stipulated to open for traffic in 2018 . . . Diagram showing the traffic measured by vehicles per year 1990–2008 crossing the straits around the Danish island of Zealand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Location of the Qinghai–Tibet railroad . . . . . . . . . . . Permafrost distribution and mean annual ground temperatures along the higher parts of the Qinghai–Tibet Engineering Corridor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

xlv

. . . .

710

. . . . . . . .

716 717

. . . .

718

. . . .

719

. . . .

720

. . . . . . . . . . . .

721 722 723

. . . . . . . .

725 729

. . . . .

. . . . .

736 738 739 740 741

. . . .

742

. . . .

743

. . . .

744

. . . . . . . .

745 748

. . . .

749

. . . . .

. . . . .

xlvi

43.3 43.4 43.5 43.6 43.7

43.8 43.9 44.1

44.2

44.3

44.4 44.5 44.6 45.1 45.2 45.3 45.4 45.5 45.6 46.1 46.2 46.3 46.4 46.5 46.6 47.1

List of Figures

The four main embankment configurations of blocks used for cooling the rail-bed over permafrost on the Plateau . . . . Crushed rock revetments in various configurations showing experimentation with different sizes of blocks . . . . Protective toe berms with thermosiphons stabilizing the slopes of the embankment in areas subject to flooding . . . . . Transverse ventilation ducts with automatic shutters (at right) placed halfway up the side of the embankment . . . . . A section of railroad constructed on top of a permafrost (dry) bridge. The bridge shields the ground from direct insolation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A passenger train traveling along the Qinghai–Tibet railroad . Northern entrance to the Feghoushan tunnel at 4,906 m (16,092 ft) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A hand-drawn social network: Positive and negative sociometric choices in a football team. Note: The nodes are team members; lines represent positive and negative feelings towards specific others. (Moreno, 1934: 213) . . . . Number of social network articles published over time (values on the y-axis represent number of articles published in a given year; values on the x-axis represent years) Number of citations to social network articles over time (values on the y-axis represent number of citations received by social network articles in a given year; values on the x-axis represent years) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Two representations of the “kite” network . . . . . . . . . . . Three commonly used indexes of whole network structure . . A whole network (left) and two ego networks (top and bottom right) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Map of significant Bechtel projects in 2008 . . . . . . . . . . Parody of Bechtel and BART on the cover of the San Francisco Bay Guardian in 1972 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BART extension to Dublin-Pleasanton in San Francisco’s East Bay suburbs, 2003 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bechtel rail projects in the US . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . St Pancreas Station, London – Barlow Shed . . . . . . . . . . Portland MAX light rail extension to airport, 2008 . . . . . . Floor space of building construction 2000–2005 . . . . . . . . The sectors of the Chinese construction industry . . . . . . . The legal framework of the Chinese construction industry . . The process of DaiJianZhi projects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Organization chart illustrating the use of the PMC/GCZCB approach in China . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Construction sectors promoted for foreign investment . . . . Gulf corporation council countries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. .

754

. .

754

. .

755

. .

756

. . . .

756 757

. .

758

. .

770

. .

771

. . . . . .

772 773 775

. . . .

776 784

. .

792

. . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . .

795 796 796 797 804 804 809 811

. . . . . .

811 814 821

List of Figures

47.2 47.3 47.4 47.5 47.6 47.7 47.8 47.9 47.10 47.11 47.12 49.1 49.2 49.3 49.4 49.5 49.6 49.7 49.8 49.9 50.1

50.2

50.3

50.4

50.5

Expatriate workforce population as a percentage of total workforce 2006 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Construction site Oman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Construction site in Oman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ajman international airport (left); and Dubai metro (right) . . The Pearl Qatar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The dynamic tower Dubai . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Al Madina Azarqa (blue city) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ajman international airport . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Labor camp at Muscat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Labor accommodations and Dubai migrant workers in a room Khalifa city, Abu Dhabi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . World container traffic and throughput, 1980–2008 . . . . . . Traffic handled by the world’s 20 largest container ports, 2007 Europa container terminal, port of Antwerp . . . . . . . . . . Port container terminal facility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Panamax containership, port of Le Havre . . . . . . . . . . . Depth and surface distribution of a sample of container port terminals (N = 296) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Intermodal rail facility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Economies and diseconomies of scale in container shipping . The largest available containership, 1970–2008 (in TEUs) . . Airport expansion in the Persian Gulf. At the end of the first decade of the 21st century, the Persian Gulf – especially the 320 mi (500 km) crescent from Doha to Dubai, was home to several of the largest airport infrastructure building projects in the world . . . . . . . . . . New airports of the Pearl River Delta. In the decade and a half after 1990, the Pearl River Delta witnessed perhaps the greatest regional expansion of airport infrastructure in the history of commercial aviation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The new terminal 3 at Beijing capital international airport. As part of BCIA’s “Move Under One Roof” program, members of the Star Alliance including Air China as shown in this photo have been located together in this a concourse of Terminal 3. The picture was taken beneath the wing of a departing 777 operated by Singapore Airlines, another of the 15 Star Alliance members that operate from terminal 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Denver international airport. Since its completion in 1995, Denver international airport has become a symbol of the city and a significant engine of economic growth . . . . . . . Kansai internatioal airport. The artificial island upon which Osaka’s new airport was constructed is connected to the mainland by a 3.7 km bridge. Despite weak traffic

xlvii

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

821 822 823 823 824 825 825 826 827 828 835 853 854 856 857 858

. . . .

. . . .

859 860 862 863

. .

869

. .

870

. .

872

. .

874

xlviii

51.1 51.2 51.3 51.4 52.1 52.2 52.3 52.4 52.5 52.6 52.7 52.8 52.9 52.10 52.11 52.12 52.13 52.14

52.15 52.16 53.1 53.2

53.3

53.4 53.5 53.6

List of Figures

growth at the airport, a second runway was built on newly reclaimed land visible to the right of the original island in this image . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Minneapolis campus growth from 1911 (left) to 1996 (right) . . University of Minnesota twin cities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . St. Paul campus growth from 1923 (left) to 1996 (right) . . . . . UMORE image from Sasaki plan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Worship service at Lakewood Church, Houston, TX . . . . . . . Megachurch locations within the United States . . . . . . . . . The shifting location of Megachurches . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Metropolitan Atlanta megachurches . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Attender concentration in one Atlanta megachurch . . . . . . . Interior design of Southeast Christian Church, Louisville, KY . James River Assembly, Springfield, MO . . . . . . . . . . . . . The crystal Cathedral, Garden Grove, CA . . . . . . . . . . . . The full sanctuary of Southeast Christian Church, Louisville, KY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . An aerial view of Southeast Christian Church, Louisville, KY . The literal and figurative churchscape of Southeast Christian Church, Louisville, KY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Re-creation of a small town setting in Liberty Church, Worcester, MA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Youth and educational wing mural at Faith Church, New Milford, CT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Expressive and media-driven worship at Ray of Hope Christian Church, Decatur, GA and Saddleback Community Church, Lake Forest, CA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . One church in 13 locations – the expansive campus of LifeChurch, Oklahoma City, OK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The internet campus of LifeChurch, Oklahoma City, OK . . . . Plan of Moskva Siti lots . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Skyline of Moskva Siti as seen from Vorobiovy Hills in the summer of 2007. The highest structure is the Tower on the Quay (268 m; 879 ft). Notice how much larger the project is relative to everything else, including one of J. Stalin skyscrapers. Newer towers are even larger . . . . . . . The Ring road in St. Petersburg (KAD) at its full planned extent with the planned Western Speedway (ZSD) running north-south. The Baltic Pearl is southwest of the main port area The major projects planned for the central city area in St. Petersburg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The winning design for the Gazprom tower from RMJM as displayed publicly in November 2006 . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Baltic Pearl business center with a residential complex going up in the background . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

880 893 893 894 899 906 909 909 910 910 912 914 914

. .

916 917

.

917

.

919

.

922

.

925

. . .

927 927 935

.

940

.

943

.

944

.

946

.

949

List of Figures

54.1 54.2 54.3 54.4 55.1 55.2 55.3 55.4 55.5 55.6

55.7

55.8

57.1 57.2

57.3 57.4 57.5 57.6

57.7 57.8

57.9

Burj Dubai dwarfing surrounding buildings, May 2007 . . The Dubai world trade centre, Dubai’s first skyscraper . . Burj Al Arab photographed from Wild Wadi Water Park . Billboard advertising Downtown Dubai, featuring young Europeans and East Asians . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . One of floating city project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Project having an underwater part . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mobile floating city . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stationary position of floating city . . . . . . . . . . . . . Freedom ship (different views) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cutting of floating platform from ice field. Notations: 1 – ice field in arctic (Antarctic) ocean; 2 – small tractor with band-saw or slicing wire saw; 3 – mechanical band saw or slicing wire saw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ice platform prepared for floating city. (a) Common view, (b) Cross-section of platform. Notations: 1 – ice; 2 – top heat protection; 3 – low (bottom) heat protection and floating support (inflatable air balloon); 4 – cooling tubes Floating city on ice platform: (a) Open floating city, (b) Floating city closed by film. Notations: 5 – city; 6 – protection from ocean waves in storm; 7 – turning connection (joint) of separated ice platform; 8 – fully-rotation azimuth thruster propellers; 9 – film dome . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kazakhstan: Centered in Astana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Astana and Kazakhstan relative to Eurasia. Its location is near the geographic center of Eurasia, a point that the country’s national airline, Air Astana, makes in its ads (Yacher, 2009c: 18). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . High-level schematic of agents and inputs to the Astana project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Pyramid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Baiterek, the symbol of Astana. In the background is the Akorda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . KazMunaiGaz. To the right is the ministry of communications. In the background one can notice the construction equipment being used to build Khan Shatyr . Modern sculpture denoting Kazakh art . . . . . . . . . . The monument honors the epic hero Kenesary Khan (1841–1847), recently elevated to the status of a freedom fighter for his defiance of the Russian empire . . . . . . . Children are being engaged in the process of extolling the virtues of Astana. Posters and various advertisements show not only the futuristic Astana but its global presence. More often than not the Kazakh language is used in these

xlix

. . . . . . . . . . . .

956 958 960

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

964 968 969 970 971 973

. . . .

975

. . . .

975

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

. . . . 977 . . . . 1006

. . . . 1007 . . . . 1009 . . . . 1011 . . . . 1012

. . . . 1012 . . . . 1013

. . . . 1013

l

List of Figures

57.10

57.11

57.12

58.1 58.2 58.3 58.4 58.5 58.6 58.7 58.8 58.9 58.10 58.11 58.12 58.13 58.14 58.15

58.16 60.1 60.2

60.3

61.1 61.2 61.3

outdoor messages. In the lower right is the commonly used advertizing symbol celebrating the tenth anniversary of Astana’s existence as the Capital: Baiterek . . . . . . . . The rate of construction can be considered intense. Even as the economic crisis has affected Kazakhstan, building of governmental agencies has not abated . . . . . . . . . . New housing has been constructed at a fast pace. Though large in size, these buildings totally ignore the Soviet era block building designs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . In old Astana, a number of residential buildings have not changed since independence. The inside quality of the buildings remain in disrepair . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Location of the new capital, Pyinmana (Naypyidaw) . . . . Jungles and mountainous terrain of Pyinmana . . . . . . . . Constructing civilian apartments in Naypyidaw . . . . . . . Myowma market in Naypyidaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Myowma market in Naypyidaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Residential blocks in Naypyidaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Future Naypyidaw bus station complexes . . . . . . . . . . City hall in Naypyidaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Urban communities and transport networks around the new capital . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Urban landscape of central Pyinmana . . . . . . . . . . . . Urban landscape of Naypyidaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Plan for fountain construction in Naypyidaw . . . . . . . . Military parade ground in Naypyidaw command center . . . Yezin dam and agricultural areas in Northeastern Pyinmana Senior general Than Shwe and three monarchical monuments: Anawratha (left), Bayinnaung (middle), and Alaungpaya (right) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . One of secret tunnels in Myanmar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . An aerial view of the sustainable public administration town-as-a-hill (S-PATH) for South Korea . . . . . . . . . . Land use plans of the three major levels in the S-PATH: Level 4-Platform Level, Level 7, and Level 10-Grand Concourse (shown in Roof/Site Plan) . (Top) The Eastern sloped elevator links the lakefront park and the stepped gardens to the Grand Concourse on Level 10. (Bottom) The Western “Tube” is the main hub for the Bus Rapid Transit System and the main pedestrian artery on the West . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Location of selected edge cities in North East US . . . . . . Edge cities with median household income in Charlotte MSA, North Carolina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Southpark, Charlotte, North Carolina area looking to west .

. . . 1014

. . . 1015

. . . 1016

. . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

1016 1022 1027 1030 1031 1031 1032 1033 1033

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

1035 1035 1036 1036 1037 1039

. . . 1039 . . . 1042 . . . 1058

. . . 1062

. . . 1063 . . . 1076 . . . 1079 . . . 1080

List of Figures

61.4 61.5 61.6 62.1

62.2 62.3 62.4 63.1 63.2 63.3 63.4 63.5 63.6 63.7 63.8 64.1 64.2

64.3 64.4 64.5 64.6

65.1 65.2 65.3 65.4 66.1 66.2

66.3 66.4 66.5 66.6 66.7

Eastern section of college place, Charlotte, North Carolina Typical building in Ballantyne village office park in Charlotte, North Carolina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Street view of Santa Fe, Mexico . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mammoth Cave National Park, Kentucky. “Enrollees brushing and rolling top surface of road leading to residence and utility areas, April 11, 1938.” . . . . . . . The American recovery and reinvestment act in Lexington, Kentucky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “Enrollees prepare to transplant shrubs and sod, March 1, 1937.” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Actual and predicted unemployment rates under ARRA. After Romer and Bernstein (2009) . . . . . . . . . . . . . Housing Development Board estates . . . . . . . . . . . . City skyline . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chinatown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kampong Glam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Esplanade-Theatres on the Bay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Marina Bay Sands: Back view . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Marina Bay Sands: View from bay Aerial . . . . . . . . . Orchard Road . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The location of the new town of Marne-La-Vallée and of Val d’Europe (sector IV) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The extent of Val d’Europe and the area developed by the Walt Disney Company (as Eurodisney SCA) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Modernist architecture of public buildings, Serris town hall Hiding the back stage of Disney’s theme parks . . . . . . An old village street and its traditional architecture . . . . The “valley shopping centre” (selling luxury goods at “factory outlet” prices), copying “traditional” French village architecture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mission Bay aerial photo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kayaking at the park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sail Bay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Map of Mission Bay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The royal and ancient club house, St. Andrews, Scotland . Old Tom Morris’s son, Young Tom Morris, like his father an Open Champion, wearing The Open Championship’s original prize, the Champions Belt. . . . . . . . . . . . . Old Tom Morris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Building a golf course by hand in the “Golden Age.” . . . The “Double-Loaded” fairway . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Plan view of core development . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The integrated golf course, South Florida . . . . . . . . .

li

. . . . 1081 . . . . 1082 . . . . 1083

. . . . 1090 . . . . 1091 . . . . 1099 . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

1104 1111 1111 1113 1114 1116 1117 1118 1119

. . . . 1128

. . . . . . .

. . . .

. . . .

1129 1133 1137 1140

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

1140 1152 1153 1154 1156 1161

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

1162 1163 1163 1167 1168 1170

lii

66.8 66.9 66.10 66.11 66.12 66.13 66.14 66.15 66.16 66.17 66.18 66.19 66.20 66.21 66.22 66.23 67.1 67.2 67.3 67.4 67.5 67.6 67.7 67.8 67.9 67.10

68.1 68.2 68.3

List of Figures

Tools of the modern course builder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Florida fairway . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sand hills, Western Nebraska: A contemporary example of a “natural site.” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A rendered master plan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Whistling straits—Hole #7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Whistling straits—after and before. Creativity and megaengineering applied to a stark canvas. . . . . . . . . Bay Harbor, Michigan: Golf and Marina: A created golf course . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Grading a mountainside . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mass grading plan for a par 5 golf hole. Typically provided in 100 scale. Centerline indicated by SW/NE line . . 30-scale detail green drawing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Illustrative cut and fill map . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Subsurface modeling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The impacts of severe weather. Storm damage to a newly turfed golf hole . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dubai sports city . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Large contemporary construction site during megaengineering The results . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Riverdale zoo monkey cages, 25 September 1913 . . . . . . . Metropolitan zoo map, 1992, showing three project locations . Gorilla rainforest very early concept plan . . . . . . . . . . . African Savanna very early illustrative concept 1987 . . . . . African Savanna project, baobob tree . . . . . . . . . . . . . Consultation about Tundra Trek project with Inuit elders at Baker Lake in Nunavut, Canada . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hudson bay coast entrance, bowhead whale skeleton entrance, Tundra Trek design . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hudson bay coast Tundra Trek project (a) Freighter Canoe for field research; (b) Field sketch of the region . . . . . . . . African Savanna field trip by Toronto zoo staff . . . . . . . . Models and sketches used in Toronto zoo projects: (a) African Savanna Lion Kopje Model; (b) Gorilla Rainforest Concept Sketch, Dja Reserve Research Station; (c) Hudson Bay Tundra Trek Project Sketch; (d) Inuit Node Design Sketch, Tundra Trek Project. . . . . . . . . . . . The Great Limpopo Transfrontier Park, part of the larger Great Limpopo Transfrontier Conservation Area . . . . . . . Southern entrance gate to Mozambique’s Limpopo National Park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Transfrontier parks (TFPs) and transfrontier conservation areas (TFCAs) in the Southern African Development Community (SADC) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . 1171 . . 1172 . . 1173 . . 1174 . . 1175 . . 1176 . . 1177 . . 1179 . . . .

. . . .

1180 1181 1183 1183

. . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

1184 1185 1188 1188 1200 1206 1207 1209 1211

. . 1212 . . 1213 . . 1214 . . 1215

. . 1217 . . 1224 . . 1225

. . 1227

List of Figures

68.4 68.5

68.6 68.7 69.1 69.2 69.3 69.4 69.5 70.1 70.2 70.3

70.4 70.5 72.1 72.2 72.3 72.4

“Wilderness” image for tourist consumption in South Africa’s Kruger National Park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Relocation of rhinoceros from South Africa to restock the Limpopo National Park with wildlife. The international border fence between Mozambique and South Africa is shown. The truck carrying the rhinoceros is waiting for the Mozambican authorities to clear the appropriate paperwork so that the truck can pass from South Africa into Mozambique . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Preparing release of the rhinoceros in Mozambique a few kilometers beyond the border fence . . . . . . . . . . . . Released rhinoceros in Mozambique . . . . . . . . . . . . The Mekong region with Chinese development projects discussed in the chapter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Map of dams built with the involvement of Chinese companies and banks, 2008 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A page from Golden Boten City’s brochure for investors . Shops at Golden Boten City . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Namtha Grand Hotel, Luang Namtha, under construction, in 2009 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Location map of Cap Cana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Portion of Trump-Cap Cana billboard located along road that climbs up to resort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Photographic collage of Cap Cana and Trump Farallón. Upper left, clockwise: The allure to the Dominican Republic, but especially Cap Cana, is the powdery beaches; earth-moving equipment has created, allegedly, the largest inland marina in the world, as well as a reconfigured shoreline and lagoons to accommodate the new golf courses; prospective buyers climb elevated decks on each lot to get a sense of the view and surrounding areas; access to the Trump bluffs was made possible (besides the helipad) by a four-lane highway with a manicured median strip. Road construction also exposed the cavernous bedrock, ideal for promoting a wine cellar that can be part of each of the 65 Trump Farallón sites . . Marketing mix of Cap Cana, Punta Cana Hotel & Resorts, and all-inclusive resorts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Welcome center atop Trump Farallón, with view of Cap Cana and ocean . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Streets with equine themed names . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ecological regions of Kentucky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Regions defined by various organizations . . . . . . . . . Bird’s eye view of the principal breeding farms of the bluegrass region of Kentucky, 1900 . . . . . . . . .

liii

. . . . 1233

. . . . 1234 . . . . 1235 . . . . 1236 . . . . 1244 . . . . 1245 . . . . 1251 . . . . 1252 . . . . 1254 . . . . 1272 . . . . 1276

. . . . 1278 . . . . 1279 . . . .

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

1280 1298 1299 1301

. . . . 1304

liv

72.5 72.6 72.7 72.8 72.9 72.10 72.11 72.12 72.13 72.14 73.1 73.2 73.3 73.4 73.5 73.6 73.7 75.1

75.2 75.3 75.4

75.5 75.6

76.1 76.2

List of Figures

Manchester farm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stone fence along Pisgah Pike, Woodford County . . . . . Plank fencing on Rice Road, Fayette County . . . . . . . Effect of urban service boundary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bluegrass country driving tour map clipping and LCVB web page header . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Festival market building, downtown Lexington . . . . . . Architectural details at Hamburg Pavilion . . . . . . . . . Thoroughbred park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bluegrass airport . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lexington-Fayette county detention center . . . . . . . . . Location of horsefarms in Upper Hunter region . . . . . . Thoroughbreds in a paddock of irrigated, green grass in summer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ornate main entrance to Patinack farm . . . . . . . . . . Bunting in the center of Scone promoting the town as the horse capital of Australia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Male and female toilets near the tourist information center in Scone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Billboard linking horse riding and water quality issues in the Upper Hunter region . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Billboard showing coal mining to be a dusty activity that destroys vegetation and the rural landscape . . . . . . Indonesia. The rotation period for industrial tree plantations in Indonesia is only seven years. Fast growing trees, mainly Acacia mangium and Eucalyptus species, are planted for pulp and paper production . . . . . . . . . The Indonesian case study area is located in the Sanggau and Sintang districts, West Kalimantan, Indonesia . . . . Zimbabwe. Small-scale eucalyptus woodlots owned by the local farmers are common in Southern Africa . . . . . . . Zimbabwe. When the woodlots are used as grazing areas trees can often suffer from damages made by grazing animals and especially goats. In this case the coppice stems may be in safe place high above the ground . . . . Local communities’ perceptions of tree plantation project benefits in Ghana (modified from Blay et al., 2007) . . . . Degraded forests (left) have smaller amount of trees and tree species than forest gardens (right) which include some planted trees . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Percent forest-cover loss in the Eastern United States, pre-1800s to 1909 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cumulative enrollment in the conservation reserve program in Indiana, 1986–2007 . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

1306 1306 1307 1309

. . . . . . .

. . . . . . .

. . . . . . .

. . . . . . .

1315 1316 1317 1318 1319 1320 1324

. . . . 1329 . . . . 1330 . . . . 1334 . . . . 1334 . . . . 1335 . . . . 1335

. . . . 1355 . . . . 1356 . . . . 1358

. . . . 1360 . . . . 1362

. . . . 1363 . . . . 1373 . . . . 1379

List of Figures

76.3 77.1

77.2

77.3

77.4

77.5

77.6

77.7

79.1 79.2 79.3

80.1 80.2 80.3

80.4 80.5 80.6

Enrollment in the conservation reserve program in 1997 and net change in enrollment over the next decade . . . . . A severely eroded field typical of large areas on the Southern Piedmont and other areas of the eastern US in the 19th and early 20th centuries . . . . . . . . . . . . . A field in Wilshire, UK, 1995. Despite the long and steep slopes, the fact that the furrows run up and down the slope, and the lack of any erosion control methods, there is no apparent erosion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Average annual precipitation compared to precipitation intensity, UK and eastern US. Note that while averages are similar, intensities are much greater in the US . . . . . . Infiltration capacities of soil vs. average rainfall rates, UK and eastern US. Note that excesses in the US are several times those in the UK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Before and after soil conservation engineering, Coon Creek, Wisconsin. Top: Early 1934. Note rectangular fields and gully systems extending into upland fields. Bottom: 1967. Note contour strip cropping . . . . . . . . . . Former cropland, now reverted to forest, Southern Piedmont. The forested land is either too eroded for cultivation or is simply economically marginal to better cropland elsewhere in the US. Such reverted land is common and even dominant in many areas of the eastern US Productivity and efficiency of agricultural land use, 1947–1994. Note that land area declined about 10% but productivity increased almost 150% . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan (1918–2004) was the leading figure in the greening ambitions . . . . . . . . . . . The covers of two environmental magazines demonstrate the Emirati flag as a central feature in the greening efforts . An illustration of ecological modernization in the Gulf. The picture is from a cover of an environmental show and illustrates a sick earth in a hospital bed surrounded by four male doctors curing the earth with modern technology . . . Yarra Bend Asylum from Studley Park . . . . . . . . . . . . Yarra Bend and Kew Asylums (right), 1900–1910 . . . . . . Map of Melbourne showing geographical location and size of Yarra Bend and Kew Asylum sites (shaded areas at upper right) in relation to general hospital sites (circles) . Map of Yarra Bend Asylum, 1855 showing the location of original buildings in relation to river and public roads . . Yarra Bend Lunatic Asylum, 1864 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Metropolitan hospital for the Insane, 1869 . . . . . . . . . .

lv

. . . 1379

. . . 1384

. . . 1384

. . . 1385

. . . 1386

. . . 1388

. . . 1390

. . . 1391 . . . 1414 . . . 1415

. . . 1418 . . . 1425 . . . 1428

. . . 1429 . . . 1430 . . . 1433 . . . 1433

lvi

80.7 80.8 80.9 80.10 80.11 81.1 82.1 82.2 82.3 83.1

83.2

83.3 83.4

83.5 83.6

83.7

83.8

83.9

84.1 84.2 84.3 84.4 84.5

List of Figures

Kew Asylum, 1889 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Yarra Bend cottages, 1861 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Track to Asylum, Kew, 1920 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Looking toward Zig Zag Bridge and Kew Asylum from site of stables, 1927 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Collingwood from the town hall tower . . . . . . . . . . . . Scheme of the textile barrage (side view) . . . . . . . . . . The Williams channel rectification plan . . . . . . . . . . . Sketch of the Leland Neck cutoff . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cutoff Locations from Arkansas to Louisiana . . . . . . . . Overview of northwestern Europe showing the location of the Netherlands at the southern fringe of the North Sea Basin. Adjacent regions are rich in relief and have older geological formations exposed with respect to the Netherlands (arrow) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Schematic diagram shows change in reaction of historic humans against rising sea level and coastal hazards. Box 1. Zuiderzee works, Box 2. Delta works . . . . . . . . General map of the Netherlands and locations of mega-scale engineering works . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Map shows location, nature and size of the different projects of the Zuiderzee Works in the central north of the Netherlands that were carried out between 1927 and 1975. (Cf. Table 83.1) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The final stage of completing the Closure Dike (Afsluitdijk) in 1932 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The 32 km (20 mi) long Closure Dike has not really changed shape since the completion in 1932, in spite of modern busy traffic as this photograph from 2006 shows . . Impact of the 1953-flooding disaster in Zeeland causing about 400 km (250 mi) of dike to breach and flooding at least 1,920 km2 (475,000 acres) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The location, nature and size of the different projects of the Delta works in the Southwestern Netherlands and shows the years when they were completed . . . . . . . . . Delta Works: The Storm Surge Barrier is built with a number of large slides held in between piers which can be moved. Normally, the slides are lifted in order to reduce the tides’ impacts, except for extra high tides or during severe storm surges when the slides can be entirely lowered The Netherlands coast – 800 A.D. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Netherlands coast – 1250 A.D. . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Netherlands coast – 1600 A.D. . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Netherlands coast – Present . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Map of the Zuiderzee reclamation . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . 1434 . . . 1435 . . . 1436 . . . . . .

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

1436 1437 1444 1455 1458 1461

. . . 1466

. . . 1468 . . . 1468

. . . 1471 . . . 1472

. . . 1473

. . . 1474

. . . 1475

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

1477 1482 1483 1483 1484 1487

List of Figures

84.6 84.7 84.8 84.9 85.1 85.2 85.3

85.4 85.5 86.1

86.2

88.1 89.1

89.2 89.3 89.4 89.5 90.1 90.2 90.3 90.4

Map of the Delta project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Haringvliet sluice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Oosterschelde barrier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maeslant barrier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Schematic of SNWT routes (west, central, east). DJK=Danjiangkou, site of intake for central route . . . . Elevation profile of Eastern route . . . . . . . . . . . . . Artist’s rendering of parallel tunnels crossing underneath the Yellow river. Similar tunnels will also be part of the central route . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Workers constructing part of the tunnel to cross under the Yellow river . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Workers increasing the height of the Danjiangkou Dam in 2008 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mean flow of USSR rivers (km3 /year). Chart A indicates percentage of the USSR’s territory with river discharge into specified sea and ocean basins. Chart B indicates percentage of USSR’s average annual river discharge accounted for by rivers flowing into specified sea and ocean basins. Numbers above the bars indicate drainage basins: 1-Arctic Ocean; 2-Pacific Ocean; 3-Black and Azov seas; 4-Baltic Sea; 5-Caspian and Aral seas . . . . . Final diversion plans for European and Siberian parts of USSR (1984). European Diversions: numbers 1–3-first stage, first phase (19.1 km3 ); number 4-first stage, second phase (10.2 km3 ); number 5-second phase (37.7 km3 ). Siberian Diversions: 6-First phase (27.2 km3 ); 6–7 second phase (32.8 km3 ) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Routes for the pipelines connecting Caspian Sea to Aral Sea, with altimetry shown (m) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Port Augusta to Lake Eyre Pipeline Corridor. A slightly different course might prove better if only the South Basin is to be filled at the Lake Eyre terminal south of the proposed Goyder Channel Tension Textile Dam . . . . . . Volume/elevation curve of the Lake Eyre . . . . . . . . . Tube-wall thickness via wall safety tensile stress for different tube diameters and water pressures . . . . . Specific pumping power dependence on water speed and pipe diameter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Eyre North and South monthly evaporation rates . . . . . Circular map with China highlighted . . . . . . . . . . . Oblique map of the Yangtze River . . . . . . . . . . . . . Satellite photos of the Yangtze River dam site: (a) 1987, (b) 2006 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Map of Three Gorges Dam site features . . . . . . . . . .

lvii

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

1490 1492 1494 1495

. . . . 1501 . . . . 1502

. . . . 1503 . . . . 1504 . . . . 1505

. . . . 1517

. . . . 1519 . . . . 1544

. . . . 1550 . . . . 1552 . . . . 1553 . . . .

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

1555 1558 1570 1572

. . . . 1573 . . . . 1579

lviii

91.1 91.2 91.3 92.1 92.2 92.3 92.4

93.1 93.2 94.1 94.2 94.3 94.4

94.5 95.1 95.2 95.3 95.4 95.5 96.1 96.2 96.3 96.4 96.5 96.6 96.7 96.8 96.9 96.10

List of Figures

The Three Gorges reservoir area. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Counties of the 11 provinces where TGP migrants were resettled in 2000–2004 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Annual number of migrants displaced to 11 provinces (2000–2004). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Location of Itaipú dam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Aerial view of the spillway and the powerhouse. . . . . . . . View of the Penstocks. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Schematic of the Itaipú dam showing the dam across the Parana River, the extensive earthworks on the Eastern (Brazilian) side, and the often-spectacular spillway on the Western (Paraguayan) side that allows for diversion of water when the water level in the reservoir is high. . . . . . . Eleven river basins in Nigeria. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Tiga dam – Nigeria’s largest dam for irrigation . . . . . . Course of the Mekong river . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Mekong cascade 1987. The main difference from the 1970 plan was the reduced height of the giant Pa Mong Dam. . Dams on the Mekong River and its tributaries, as of July 2008 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . National Geographic’s December 1968 cover story, “River of Terror and Hope” (left), graphic representations of the terror and hope. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dam protest in Bangkok . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . How big is Africa. (Trustees of Boston University, n.d. and The White Horse Press, Isle of Harris, 2006) . . . . . . . 1890s map of Livingstone falls showing Inga falls curve. . . . Inga I and II Dams in Nkokolo valley. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Proposed Pan-African electricity grid . . . . . . . . . . . . . Proposed Grand Inga electricity corridors (“highways”). . . . U.S. military academy, West Point, New York. . . . . . . . . Army troop deployments in the U.S., 1860 . . . . . . . . . . Army troop deployments in the U.S., 1867 . . . . . . . . . . Current photograph of the remnants of Fort Union, NM, an historic western Army fort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Current photography of the remnants of Fort Laramie, WY, an historic western Army fort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Map of the Armor Warfare Center Maneuvers in the USA, 1940s (Bischoff, 2008) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Geographical distribution of major military lands in the U.S., 2009 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ecoregional distribution of Army lands in the U.S. . . . . . . Cantonment and training areas on Fort Bliss (left) and Fort Hood (right), Texas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fort Lewis cantonment area . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . 1584 . . 1589 . . . .

. . . .

1591 1600 1600 1604

. . . .

. . . .

1611 1618 1622 1634

. . 1636 . . 1639

. . 1640 . . 1646 . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . .

1653 1654 1667 1668 1670 1685 1685 1686

. . 1686 . . 1687 . . 1688 . . 1690 . . 1693 . . 1694 . . 1695

List of Figures

97.1 97.2 97.3 97.4 97.5 97.6 97.7 97.8 97.9

98.1 98.2 98.3 98.4 98.5 98.6 98.7 98.8 98.9 99.1 99.2 99.3

99.4 99.5 100.1 100.2 100.3 100.4 100.5 100.6 100.7 101.1 101.2 101.3

Phases of U.S. acquisition of Mexican land. . . . . . . . . . . . Existing and proposed fencing projects along the Mexico-U.S. border. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Border Fence, Lighting, and Patrol Roads. . . . . . . . . . . . . Border areas affected by REAL ID act waivers. . . . . . . . . . Example of pedestrian fencing, Arizona. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Border wall construction along levees in Rio Grande River Valley, Texas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Construction filling in Smugglers’ Gulch, California. . . . . . . Mesh fencing with Debris-Filled Grates, Hidalgo County, Texas. The high water mark reached seven feet. . . . . . . . . . Mesh fencing, after debris was cleared. Taken at the same location as Fig. 97.8. Comparison shows that debris was piled at least 2 ft (0.6 m) high at the grates. . . . . . . . . . . . Island locations for Australia Asylum seeker detention. . . . . . ÜNHCR map of “Australia’s Excision Zone” . . . . . . . . . . Location of detention centers in Australia and offshore Islands. . Alcatraz down under: Christmas island detention center. . . . . The Babies Compound: Details of Child Care, Education Units . Caged area for “detainee relaxation” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Caged lights . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Entrance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Christmas Island CCTV security room . . . . . . . . . . . . . View from a scenic overlook in Wise County. Wallens Ridge stands at the center . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Map of the Wallens Ridge state prison study area . . . . . . . . The costly road to Red Onion State Prison winds up and around the mountain for several miles, at a 10% grade in some places . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . High-pressure sodium lamps that light Wallens Ridge are visible for miles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Boundary of the Red Onion State prison property. . . . . . . . . Location of Le Havre nuclear reprocessing plant. . . . . . . . . Coastline of La Cotentin Peninsula . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Satellite image of the Le Havre plant. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Le Havre reprocessing plant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rural landscape surrounding Le Hague plant . . . . . . . . . . Dairy farming on La Cotentin Peninsula . . . . . . . . . . . . Rugged and bleak coastal landscape near the reprocessing plant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Location of Semipalatinsk, Kazakhstan, the nuclear test site, detonation sites, and communities adjacent. . . . . . . . . Physical landscape adjacent to and in the Polygon . . . . . . . Magnitude of blasts and directions of radioactive clouds blasts. .

lix

. 1705 . . . .

1709 1710 1712 1713

. 1713 . 1715 . 1715

. . . . . . . . . .

1716 1732 1735 1738 1739 1741 1741 1742 1742 1743

. 1750 . 1751

. 1753 . . . . . . . .

1757 1759 1766 1766 1767 1770 1771 1773

. 1776 . 1791 . 1792 . 1794

lx

101.4 101.5 101.6 101.7 101.8 101.9 101.10 101.11 101.12 101.13 102.1 102.2 102.3 102.4 102.5

102.6 102.7 102.8 102.9 102.10 102.11 102.12 102.13 102.14 102.15 102.16 102.17 102.18 102.19 103.1

List of Figures

Diorama of the testing area, 29 August 1949 in the Science Museum, Kurchatov . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Levels of radiation of sites adjacent to and downwind from the SNTS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Medical college in Semipalatinsk . . . . . . . . . . . . . Book cover E. L. Yakubovskya et al. Semipalatinsk Test Polygon (2003) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Drawing of one child from Semipalatinsk “How I see my city” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Monument to victims of nuclear testing, Semipalatinsk . . Display in the Ethnographic Museum, Semipalatinsk . . . Semey Artist: Alexander Shevchenko and one depiction of the Polygon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Abandoned buildings in Kurchatov . . . . . . . . . . . . Open border crossing to the Polygon (formerly restricted entry) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Location of retirement communities in Florida and South Florida . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Aerial photo of Century Village, Pembroke Pines . . . . . Main entrance to Century Village, Pembroke Pines . . . . Housing in Century Village, Pembroke Pines . . . . . . . Century Village, West Palm Beach. Note contrast in housing and landscaping with Century Village, Pembroke Pines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Century Village, Pembroke Pines, Shuffleboard Court . . Century Village, Pembroke Pines, Clubhouse . . . . . . . Century Village, Trolley Transportation Service Provided Sun City Center development plan . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sun City Center, single family dwelling . . . . . . . . . . Sun City Center, lawn bowling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gated entrance to Jewish retirement community in Delray Beach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jewish community, Kiryas Joel, of Satmar Chasidic Sect . Finnish Lutheran Church in Lantana . . . . . . . . . . . Finnish community center in Lake Worth . . . . . . . . . The Palms of Mankota is a Gay-Oriented Retirement Community . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Emergency medical services are a common site in retirement communities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Century Village, Pembroke Pines, apartments with elevators that replaced outside staircases . . . . . . . . . Offices of medical specialists are seldom far from retirement communities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Abandoned house in Detroit, haphazardly and inadequately secured . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . 1795 . . . . 1796 . . . . 1797 . . . . 1799 . . . . 1808 . . . . 1808 . . . . 1809 . . . . 1811 . . . . 1813 . . . . 1814 . . . .

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

1824 1826 1826 1827

. . . . . . .

. . . . . . .

. . . . . . .

. . . . . . .

1828 1828 1829 1829 1830 1831 1831

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

1834 1839 1840 1841

. . . . 1843 . . . . 1846 . . . . 1848 . . . . 1850 . . . . 1859

List of Figures

103.2 103.3 103.4 103.5 103.6 103.7 103.8 103.9 103.10 103.11 103.12 103.13 104.1 104.2 104.3

104.4 104.5 104.6 104.7

104.8 104.9 104.10

104.11 105.1 105.2 105.3 105.4 106.1 106.2 106.3 106.4

Detroit population density by census tract, 1950. . . . . . Detroit population density by census tract, 2000. . . . . . Abandoned, fire-damaged house in Detroit . . . . . . . . Non-market and weak-market areas in Youngstown, Ohio. Abandoned factory building in Detroit . . . . . . . . . . Abandoned storefronts in Cleveland . . . . . . . . . . . . Vacant Packard Motor Car Company plant in Detroit. . . . Street scene on Cleveland’s East Side. . . . . . . . . . . . Abandoned church in Detroit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Old Cleveland Board of Education building, now largely overgrown by vegetation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The DeQuindre Cut in Detroit: a rail line turned into an inner-city walking and bicycling path. . . . . . . . . . . . Map of culverted streams and watersheds in Cleveland. . . Local schoolchildren watch as a rural house is connected. . Advertisement seeking peat for a peat-fired generating station (Kerryman, March 23, 1957) . . . . . . . . . . . . Linesmen and cable drum. Most of the work of the rural electrification program in the late 1940s used locally recruited manual labor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Construction crew. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Crew erecting pole (horse in background). . . . . . . . . . Stringing the new wires. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . One of the most important benefits of electricity on the farm: the electric pump replacing the old water pump in the center picture. The mobile sales van is visible in the background. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ESB map showing areas completed by 1952. . . . . . . . An REO wall map showing the early geographical progress of electrification in 1948. . . . . . . . . . . . . . The formal switch-on ceremony headed up by local clergymen. The new meter box is visible in the background as is the smoke patch from the now-obsolete paraffin lamp. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Exhibition of appliances for farm use. There is particular emphasis on “cheap” electricity. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Map of Tennessee Valley Region and TVA dams. . . . . . Norris Dam, Tennessee Valley, 2008. . . . . . . . . . . . A sea of white faces in this photograph of workers at Norris Dam, 1933. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Layout of Norris planned community. . . . . . . . . . . . Early coal mining areas of Harlan County. . . . . . . . . . Harlan County with communities of Benham and Lynch. . Benham, Kentucky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lynch, Kentucky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

lxi

. . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

1861 1862 1862 1863 1864 1865 1866 1869 1870

. . . . 1871 . . . . 1872 . . . . 1872 . . . . 1888 . . . . 1889

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

1891 1891 1892 1892

. . . . 1893 . . . . 1894 . . . . 1896

. . . . 1897 . . . . 1898 . . . . 1901 . . . . 1910 . . . . . .

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

1911 1912 1918 1920 1922 1923

lxii

106.5 106.6 106.7 106.8 106.9 106.10 106.11 106.12 107.1 107.2 107.3 107.4 107.5 108.1

108.2 108.3 108.4 108.5 109.1

109.2 109.3 109.4 109.5 109.6 109.7 110.1 110.2 111.1 111.2 111.3 111.4 111.5 111.6 112.1

List of Figures

Lynch amusement building . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Benham YMCA and hotel (background left) . . . . . . . . International Harvester company police in Benham . . . . . Lynch homes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Benham homes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lynch Superintendent’s home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Original Benham store replaced in 1920 . . . . . . . . . . . First united mine workers union meeting in Lynch . . . . . South African provinces and capitals in relationship to former Bantustans. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Port Elizabeth legacy residential areas. . . . . . . . . . . . . South end in its heyday. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . South end: a heterophobic townscape . . . . . . . . . . . . District Six, Cape Town in 2009. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Locations of select historic settlements on the Chukchi Peninsula, 1900–1970 (villages mentioned in the text are labeled) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Location of contemporary settlements on the Chukchi Peninsula, 2008 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Soviet-style houses in Lorino. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Remains of the relocated village (1977) of Nuniamo in 2008. Contemporary hunting camp next to the abandoned village of Nuniamo. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1885 Map of Salt Lake City including Mormon wards – the arrow (circled) between the 13th and 18th wards is pointing to Temple Square. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mormon settlements and stakes in 1869. . . . . . . . . . . . Former Zions co-operative mercantile institution (ZCMI) in Franklin, Idaho . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Manti temple in Manti, Utah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Logan Utah Tabernacle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . LDS Chapel in Mink Creek, Idaho erected in 1928 (“Colonel’s twins” design) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Church headquarters in downtown Salt Lake City, with Temple Square in the middle block. . . . . . . . . . . . The sign at the entrance to Raffles Girls’ Primary School . . Street sign marking Raffles Girls’ Primary School . . . . . Reference map. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Road sign . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Population trends in Nagorno Karabakh. . . . . . . . . . . . Number of toponyms by linguistic association. . . . . . . . Spatial distribution of toponyms by linguistic association. . Stepanakert in its many forms. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . U.S. military assists displaced persons in the wake of a Central American natural disaster. . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . .

1924 1924 1925 1927 1927 1928 1929 1931

. . . . .

. . . . .

. . . . .

1943 1945 1946 1947 1948

. . . 1961 . . . 1962 . . . 1965 . . . 1966 . . . 1969

. . . 1981 . . . 1983 . . . 1985 . . . 1987 . . . 1988 . . . 1990 . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

1992 1999 2000 2014 2016 2021 2024 2026 2027

. . . 2033

List of Figures

112.2 112.3 112.4 112.5 112.6 115.1 115.2

115.3 115.4 115.5 115.6

115.7 115.8 115.9 115.10 115.11 115.12 115.13 117.1 117.2 117.3 117.4 117.5 117.6 117.7 118.1 118.2 118.3

Afghan villagers view satellite image. . . . . . . . . . . . Satellite image of Kabul District 7. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Old cadastre map of Kabul. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Complexities and conflicts resulting from different types of tenure. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hand drawn parcels sketch in San Luis Potosi, Mexico. . . The Irish border region . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Application of development typologies to the Irish border region. (a) Application of the OECD typology – areas about 12 m either side of the border; (b) NUI Maynooth’s rural typology as applied to the area about 12 m either side of the border . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Symbols of a political-religious divide include commemorating fallen comrades . . . . . . . . . . . . . Religious affiliation along the Irish border. (a) Percent Protestant; (b) Percent Catholic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The old customs hut on the Pettigo-Tullyhummon (Donegal/Fermanagh) border . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Map showing road closures spanning the North Monaghan/South Tyrone Border. The three images are of cratered roads that once spanned the North Monaghan/South Tyrone border. © Fr. Sean Nolan, Truagh Development Association . . . . . . . . . . . . . The dearth of rail crossings in the Irish border region . . . The military check-point beside the GAA pitch in Crossmaglen, Co. Armagh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Postal service delivery challenges . . . . . . . . . . . . . Service delivery challenges: Currency exchange . . . . . The role of art in peace. The Lough McNean sculpture trail Cross-border collaboration through partnership . . . . . . Importance of various funding streams to local regeneration in the Irish border region . . . . . . . . . . . Baselines and Meridians for U.S. rectangular public land survey system . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Township and range in the RPLSS . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sections and fractional sections in the RPLSS . . . . . . New states proposed by Thomas Jefferson in the Northwest territory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . U.S. state and county boundaries . . . . . . . . . . . . . Center Pivot irrigation and the RPLSS in Kansas. . . . . . Huron County, Michigan Road Network . . . . . . . . . European influence in the world. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cartoon of Cecil Rhodes spanning Africa. . . . . . . . . . Time sequence map of Colonial Australia. . . . . . . . . .

lxiii

. . . . 2039 . . . . 2040 . . . . 2041 . . . . 2044 . . . . 2045 . . . . 2092

. . . . 2092 . . . . 2093 . . . . 2094 . . . . 2096

. . . . 2096 . . . . 2098 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

2099 2100 2100 2104 2104

. . . . 2107 . . . . 2127 . . . . 2127 . . . . 2128 . . . . . . .

. . . . . . .

. . . . . . .

. . . . . . .

2130 2131 2132 2134 2140 2147 2149

lxiv

118.4 118.5 121.1 121.2 121.3

121.4 121.5 122.1 122.2 123.1

123.2

List of Figures

Aboriginal claimant applications as of 2009 in Australia, with rectilinear pattern of the Torrens system evident. . . . . Triangulation lines in India and arcs of Great Trigon, Survey of India. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Global temperature anomalies based on four multiproxy and tree ring reconstructions for the period A.D. 900–2005. Concentrations of carbon dioxide, methane and nitrous oxide for the past 10,000 years. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Climate model simulations of global temperature anomalies with (a) and without (b) anthropogenic increases in greenhouse gases. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Temperature increases associated with three IPCC 2007 AR4 scenarios. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Projected changes to major components of the hydrologic cycle associated with anthropogenic climate change. . . . . Concentration in meq [Ca2+ + Mg2+ ] in spring waters. Total carbon as mg CO2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Artist’s impression of an olivine hill at the campus grounds of the Utrecht University . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The mean radius of earth is about 3,960 mi (6,373 km). By contrast the radius of the georeactor is only about 6 mi (10 km), although there is much uncertainty in that estimate. The georeactor, thought to reside within the inner core at the center of earth, is comparably simple in structure. The georeactor sub-core consists of the actinide fuel, the uranium and heaver fissionable elements, such as plutonium, formed by the fission process. The surrounding sub-shell, which is thought to be liquid or a slurry, consists of radioactive decay products and fission products. Heat produced by nuclear fission in the sub-core, causes convection in the sub-shell which will interact with the Coriolis forces produced by planetary rotation and act like a dynamo, a magnetic amplifier, generating the geomagnetic field (Herndon, 2007, 2009). . . . . . . . . . . Oak Ridge National Laboratory georeactor numerical simulation calculated 3 He/4 He ratios, normalized to the same ratio in air, as a function of time. For comparison, ranges of values are shown for helium ratios measured in samples from mid-oceanic ridges. Note the ascent of georeactor helium ratios approaching the present age of earth, indicated by the arrow. Georeactor helium ratios increase as the uranium fuel becomes depleted. Comparably high values are observed in certain deep-source lavas, such as those from Hawaii and Iceland,

. . . 2150 . . . 2151 . . . 2186 . . . 2187

. . . 2190 . . . 2191 . . . 2192 . . . 2202 . . . 2204

. . . 2210

List of Figures

124.1

125.1

125.2

126.1 126.2 126.3 126.4

are evidence that the end of the georeactor’s life is approaching, although the time-scale is not precisely known. Schematic of the runaway greenhouse scenario. (1) Various planetary engineering techniques are used to warm volatile-rich regions on Mars; (2) carbon dioxide in the polar caps and the regolith starts to vaporize; (3) the thicker atmosphere warms the surface and hence causes a further release of gases. If positive feedback is strong enough, self-sustaining outgassing may occur as a result of a comparatively trivial forcing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Habitable compositions for plants and for humans. Bar shows the minimum or maximum allowed for each gas as indicated by arrows. Envelope show total pressure required. (Based on data from McKay et al., 1991) . . . . . Greenhouse warming as an amount of greenhouse gases added to present Martian atmosphere for fluorine gases as labeled. Dotted line is for an optimal combination of the four gases. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Thermohaline circulation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Broecker’s carbon pie chart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pacala and Socolow’s (2004) stabilization wedges . . . . . Geoengineering as substitute and as supplement. . . . . . .

lxv

. . . 2212

. . . 2220

. . . 2230

. . . . .

. . . . .

. . . . .

2231 2239 2245 2246 2251

List of Tables

2.1 2.2

2.3 4.1 4.2 4.3 5.1 5.2 6.1 6.2 8.1 8.2 9.1 10.1 11.1 12.1 13.1 13.2 15.1 15.2 17.1 17.2

The Seven Wonders of the ancient world . . . . . . . . . “The New Seven Wonders,” a 2007 list derived from worldwide popular vote. (New7Wonders Foundation, 2007) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Examples of modern “wonders” in the U.S. organized by themes derived from the ancient Wonders . . . . . . . The internet as a mega-project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mega-project Google: Portrait . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nesting model for google as a mega-project . . . . . . . . Examples of projects that make use of cloud collaboration Ownership of selected cloud-collaboration projects . . . . Facebook’s 25 largest user countries . . . . . . . . . . . . User feedback to facebook . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Key terms related to fiber optics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Major trans-Atlantic and trans-Pacific fiber optics cables . A summary of urban WLAN provision in three Finnish cities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Activities while traveling measured in terms frequency and time intensity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Video game assemblages . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Number of successfully obtained fixes, fix rates (%) and operation periods of the GPS collars . . . . . . . . . Change in rural-urban distribution of cattle and buffaloes, 1992–2003 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Proportion of total milk produced (in million tons) by cattle and buffaloes, 1995–2004. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Grain production in the Soviet Union – 1922–1926 (in millions of pounds) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gross state investment in agriculture 1953–1963 (in millions of rubles) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conditions and results of earlier economic feasibility studies of manganese nodule mining . . . . . . . . . . . World metal production and abundance in earth’s crust . .

. . . .

18

. . . .

20

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .

22 50 55 58 71 79 90 96 116 121

. . . .

137

. . . . . . . .

150 165

. . . .

178

. . . .

199

. . . .

200

. . . .

240

. . . .

246

. . . . . . . .

290 291

lxvii

lxviii

23.1 23.2 24.1 24.2 26.1 27.1

28.1 29.1

29.2

30.1 30.2

30.3 30.4

30.5 31.1 31.2 33.1 33.2 33.3 34.1 37.1 37.2 42.1 44.1

46.1

List of Tables

Mine location information for the Philippines . . . . . . . Ecclesial actions against mining in the Philippines . . . . Criteria and parameters used in the complex assessment of human-caused impacts on the areas of iron ore extraction Assessment of the ecological situation in the areas of iron ore mining . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Oil and gas consumption of EU members . . . . . . . . . The total of installed and announced wind development projects in coastal Oaxaca by 2012. The total capacity is comparable to that installed in California by Jan 31, 2009, over a period of 35 years . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Energy security outliers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Manufacturing plants >700 acres (283 ha). Plants are automobile production unless noted otherwise. Like numbers are in order of size . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Selected countries and total land in vehicle fabrication specifically comparing to Great Britain (excluding Northern Ireland) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Forest residues by cutting alternatives in North Karelia . . Forestry, the forest industries and socio-economic variables, by types of postcode area (see Fig. 30.1). Most of the information applies to 2005 . . . . . . . . . . . . . Annual energy potential of forest residues and their refined products under two harvesting plans . . . . . . . . Potential effects on employment in forestry and transportation of exploiting forest residues in North Karelia, in person-years . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Estimated potential employment effects of sample plants in North Karelia with a composite residue log supply chain The Saudi economic cities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Key special economic zones in operation or under construction in Dubai . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Build-up of the official highway system in Amazonia . . . Cattle herd and population in the Transamazon Corridor, 2007 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Unofficial road construction. Transamazon highway . . . Investment indicators in India . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Specifications for Alcan highway . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rates of Alcan highway construction during 1942 (after Sturdevant 1943: 180) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The world’s biggest bridges as measured by free span . . Centrality scores for nodes in the Kite network (generated by the network program UCINET [Borgatti, Everett, & Freeman, 2002]) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Examples of mega infrastructure projects in China . . . .

. . . . . . . .

385 389

. . . .

418

. . . . . . . .

424 449

. . . . . . . .

475 494

. . . .

500

. . . . . . . .

506 517

. . . .

520

. . . .

524

. . . .

526

. . . . . . .

528 540

. . . . . . . .

543 572

. . . .

. . . .

585 589 602 653

. . . . . . . .

653 736

. . . . . . . .

781 806

. . . .

. . . .

List of Tables

47.1 47.2 49.1 50.1 50.2 50.3 50.4 50.5 51.1 53.1 54.1 55.1 59.1 61.1 62.1 62.2 70.1 72.1 72.2 72.3 75.1

75.2

75.3

82.1 83.1 86.1 89.1

GCC member countries and their capital, population and area . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Major projects by various property developers in GCC countries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Technical changes in container port terminals . . . . . . . World’s leading passenger airports, 2007 . . . . . . . . . The world’s most expensive airports . . . . . . . . . . . . The world’s most expensive airport expansion projects, 2000–2010 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A comparison of the new airport terminals in Beijing and London . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Scheduled airline capacity by region, 1998–2008 . . . . . Largest 15 public university campuses as of fall 2008 . . Data on Moskva Siti objects. (Compiled from various sources by authors) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tallest completed skyscrapers (October 2008) . . . . . . Estimation of different variants of floating platforms . . . Land use legacies of Olympic and world’s fair sites . . . . Selected megadevelopers by region in US . . . . . . . . . Allocation of federal recovery funds by sector in Kentucky WPA expenditures for projects completed to December 31, 1936 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Investment types and spatial impact of Cap Cana . . . . . Growth rates of bluegrass counties . . . . . . . . . . . . Gross domestic product by metropolitan area, 2005 and 2006 (millions of current dollars) . . . . . . . . . . . Selected equine related businesses in the Bluegrass . . . . Benefits of Eucalyptus camaldulensis woodlots under different ownership categories in Mukarakate, North-Eastern Zimbabwe (Tyynelä, 2001a) . . . . . . . . Number of trees and tree species are compared in different forest types in Begoro (moist semi deciduous area) and Dormaa (dry semi deciduous area) in Ghana . . . . . Three different forest plantation types and their main social impacts. Cases from modified taungya system in Ghana, small-scale eucalyptus woodlots in Mukarakate, Zimbabwe, and large scale industrial forest plantations in West Kalimantan, Indonesia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mississippi river cutoffs in 1946 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Areal and temporal dimensions of dikes and polders of the Zuiderzee works . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Selected economic and environmental characteristics of the first stage Siberian water diversion project . . . . . Parameters for Port Augusta to Lake Eyre Pipeline . . . .

lxix

. . . .

822

. . . .

. . . .

833 864 868 871

. . . .

871

. . . . . . . . . . . .

873 875 890

. . . . . .

. . . .

. . . . . .

. . . .

. . . . . .

. 937 . 956 . 979 . 1053 . 1075 . 1091

. . . . 1093 . . . . 1274 . . . . 1309 . . . . 1310 . . . . 1311

. . . . 1359

. . . . 1363

. . . . 1365 . . . . 1462 . . . . 1471 . . . . 1521 . . . . 1555

lxx

89.2 89.3 91.1 91.2 91.3 91.4 92.1 92.2 92.3 92.4 92.5 93.1 93.2 95.1 95.2 95.3 95.4 95.5 95.6 95.7 95.8 96.1 97.1 97.2 97.3 98.1 98.2 98.3 98.4

List of Tables

Monthly mean of daily global solar irradiation [KWh/(m–2 day–1 )] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cost estimations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Numbers of people actually displaced in the TGP by the end of 2005 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Distribution of migrants displaced via GODR schemes (2000–2006) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Numbers of migrants displaced to 11 provinces via GODR (2000–2004) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Per capita farmland and area of newly built housing of migrants resettled in 11 provinces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Credit Secured by Itaipú Binacional (EOY, 1983) . . . . . . Debt of Itaipú Binacional (EOY, 1983) . . . . . . . . . . . Debt of Itaipú Binacional (EOY 2006) . . . . . . . . . . . Price of electric power . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gross Income from Itaipú: 1985–2005 . . . . . . . . . . . Dams and dam operations in Nigeria . . . . . . . . . . . . Features of selected mega dams in Nigeria . . . . . . . . . Chronology of hydroelectric dams with hydroelectric generation capacity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ICOLD Classification by dam wall height . . . . . . . . . . African large hydroelectric dams ≥ 100 m in height . . . . Chronology of African mega hydroelectric dam reservoir capacity (85 dams) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dam classification by reservoir surface area . . . . . . . . . Chronology of African large and major dams by surface area Summary: Number of African mega dams by classification system . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chronology of African dams’ installed capacity before 1960 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Analogs of Army installations and world-wide operational areas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Costs of border fence from 1997–2008 in millions of dollars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Regulations and laws waived by homeland security secretary Chertoff 2006–2008 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Reported number and causes of death along Mexico-US Border, FY 1998–2005 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Number of unauthorized boat arrivals . . . . . . . . . . . . Refugee humanitarian program, visas by category 1993/1994 to 2007/2008 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Expenditure on offshore asylum seeker management on Nauru and Manus Island to end May 2002 . . . . . . . . . Estimated expenditure for offshore asylum seeker management 2001/2002 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . 1556 . . . 1560 . . . 1585 . . . 1590 . . . 1591 . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . .

1594 1605 1605 1606 1607 1607 1621 1623

. . . 1658 . . . 1659 . . . 1660 . . . 1661 . . . 1662 . . . 1662 . . . 1663 . . . 1665 . . . 1693 . . . 1709 . . . 1711 . . . 1717 . . . 1725 . . . 1730 . . . 1736 . . . 1736

List of Tables

98.5 98.6 102.1 103.1 107.1 107.2 108.1 110.1 110.2 114.1 114.2 114.3 115.1 115.2 122.1

126.1 126.2 126.3

Detainees on Nauru and Manus island 2001–2007 . . . Outcome of processing of offshore entry persons 16 September 2002 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Florida retirement communities . . . . . . . . . . . . . Population of principal United States shrinking cities 1950–2007 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1960 Port Elizabeth residential areas; populations forced to move . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Selected South African place name changes . . . . . . . Selection of relocation events on the Chukchi Peninsula Distribution of building names: raw figures . . . . . . . Distribution of building names: Percentages . . . . . . Breakdown of 2004–2006 Schengen facility funding (in million C) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Slovenia: structure of border crossings per sectors, 1992–2002 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Selected characteristics of borders of the Republic of Slovenia, 2002 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Locations at which citizens currently access services . . Location of the closest service by distance (irrespective of border) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Composition (mg/l) of Loutraki mineral water, experimental water made by reacting a sparkling table water with olivine powder, and average magnesium bicarbonate waters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Geoengineering? Engineering earth, seas, and sky . . . Stabilization wedges—Pick 7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pleasures of paleolithic life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

lxxi

. . . . . 1737 . . . . . 1737 . . . . . 1825 . . . . . 1858 . . . . .

. . . . .

. . . . .

. . . . .

. . . . .

1945 1950 1964 2005 2006

. . . . . 2073 . . . . . 2082 . . . . . 2083 . . . . . 2101 . . . . . 2101

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

2202 2242 2246 2247

Part I

Introduction

Chapter 1

Introduction to Megaengineering: The Concept and a Research Frontier Stanley D. Brunn and Andrew Wood

1.1 Introduction Let’s think for a moment about these familiar historical engineering projects: the Egyptian pyramids, Roman roads and aqueducts, Incan roads, Chichen Itza, Angkor Wat, the Great Wall of China, the Panama and Suez Canals, and the Taj Mahal. And in a more recent context, consider the U.S. Interstate Highway System, the diversion of waters in the Lower Mississippi, nuclear testing sites in Nevada and Kazakhstan, the Transamazon Highway, new capital cities in Australia, Brazil, Pakistan, Nigeria, Kazakhstan, and Myanmur, the Three Gorges Dam and new skyscrapers being erected in the United Arab Emirates. This list includes many that Nozovsky (2006) and Davidson and Brooke (2006) identified as major engineering accomplishments. What do these places have in common? All were or are the sites of megaengineering projects. They are “mega” because of their size, investments in human labor, and financial cost. They were built with the help of many individuals, including architects, engineers, workers, administrators, and we need to add politicians and “dreamers.” There are also examples of major achievements where humans were working both with and against nature. The study of these projects within an historical, contemporary or nature/society context is of interest to scholars in the social sciences and the humanities, but also those in architecture, civil and environmental engineering. We think it is important that social, policy, environmental, and engineering scientists begin to focus on megaprojects and their impacts on regions, cultures, economies, and environments, not only because of their megastructure or visibility (some visible on Google Earth images), but also because they reveal much about how societies, governments, and even scholarly communities look at engineering of the physical and social earth. These are also important research themes today because the modernist hubris that science and technology deliver economic and social progress is under scrutiny, both in the developed worlds and the Global South.

S.D. Brunn (B) Department of Geography, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_1,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

3

4

S.D. Brunn and A. Wood

The engineering earth concept, as we conceive it, considers the philosophical and ideological underpinnings about a science, technology, and the environment. It also extends beyond the traditional thinking about familiar industrial, architectural, and infrastructure projects to include projects of a social engineering nature. Examples of the latter include social justice issues related to understanding and resolving ethnic conflicts, residential segregation, the zoning of desirable and undesirable land uses, and landscaping for human security. In preparing for the July 2008 Engineering Earth conference described in the Preface, we drew inspiration from two significant watershed volumes on human/environment interfaces published during the past half century. The first is Man’s Role in Changing the Face of the Earth (1957) edited by W. L. Thomas (1957); the second is The Earth as Transformed by Human Action (1991) edited by B. L. Turner et al. (Turner, Clark, Kates, Matthews, & Meyer, 1991). The former was an outgrowth of an interdisciplinary symposium sponsored by the Wenner-Gren Foundation, the latter, another interdisciplinary effort, was supported by a variety of foundations and agencies, including the National Science Foundation. Both publications include a diverse group of social and earth scientists, including geographers, biologists, anthropologists, and historians who address the state of the earth and its transformation. The value of both collections is not only in presenting state-of-theart thinking about various earth/human issues in 1957 and 1991, but in setting an agenda for subsequent research by many scholars in the social and environmental sciences. These books are probably among the most frequently cited volumes on nature/society relations. Our volume builds on these previous publications to include recent research on megaprojects and their impacts on environments, economies, cultures, and regions. Among the examples discussed are dams, highways, airports, and major agricultural, transportation, and energy schemes, but also massive tourist projects, skyscrapers, event planning (various sporting venues), new capital cities, and the social engineering. These topics, by their very nature, are important for those trained and practicing in different fields, disciplines, and perspectives (see Cernea & McDowell, 2000; Flyvbjerg, Bruzelius, & Rothengatter, 2003; Badescu, Cathcart, & Schuiling, 2006; Davidson & Brooke, 2006; Bolonkin & Cathcart, 2009). The July 2008 conference was the first major international and interdisciplinary conference that focused solely on megaengineering projects and their role in transforming the earth. The purpose was to bring together a small group of environmental, social, and engineering scientist who would discuss the impacts of megaengineering projects at local and global scales. This publication is an outgrowth of this conference.

1.2 Three Major Foci We conceive of the study of megaengineering and its impacts as fitting within three major and overlapping spheres. They are economic, environmental, and social/political (Fig. 1.1). The economic sphere would include large-scale industrial,

1

Introduction to Megaengineering

Economic ICTs corporations & networks financial institutions work forces k-economics new towns

5

energy farming fishing mining tourism and recreation zoos and parks transportation projects airports and ports bridges and tunnels irrigation and dams bioengineering green projects

Environmental river diversion coastal reclamation mining reclamation reforestation weather modification terracing

edge cities construction

GIS and GPS reconstructing nature pioneering projects landscape modification alternative energy projects WWW conservation the internet eco footprints sustainability Facebook environmental risk climate modeling virtual communities amenity landscapes research and development wired cities military ecology gated communities post-conflict reconstruction security landscapes company towns nuclear testing event planning designing cities planetary engineering new capital cities

shelter belts

social districts land survey systems reorganization of space gendered places zoning social engineering and re-engineering megachurches skyscrapers place name conflicts megauniversities

Social and Political Fig. 1.1 Mapping the impacts of megaengineering projects

transportation, agriculture and energy projects, but also new capital cities, planned developments, new towns and edge cities, and the repairing and upgrading of the physical infrastructure. We also consider virtual computer games, on-line gambling, and information/technology products (Wikipedia, Google Earth, GIS and GPS) in this domain, as they are definitely megaengineering projects. The environmental sphere includes a host of projects that transform the physical earth. These include river diversion, coastal reclamation, terracing schemes, reforestation, surface and subsurface mining, but also weather modification and efforts to mitigate global warming. The social and political sphere includes a variety of projects that relate to human settlement and resettlement, social and political discrimination, land use planning and zoning and property demarcation (land survey systems), but also

6

S.D. Brunn and A. Wood

the reorganization of social spaces (schools, churches, health services in declining cities), and the construction of mega architectural projects (universities, skyscrapers, churches and entertainment venues). In each sphere there are projects that do not fit nicely into one category, but rather overlap with one or two others. We consider that various extensive national or transnational transportation projects overlap the economic and environmental spheres, as do huge dam and irrigation projects, the construction of tunnels, ports, airports, and harbors, and the development of extensive landscapes for zoos and parks. Examples of megaprojects that overlap the economic and social/political spheres include wired cities, virtual communities, company towns, gated communities and new capital cities. One could also easily argue that the Internet, World Wide Web, Google Earth, eBay, and Facebook also are in reality megaprojects that cut across economic, social, and political spheres. Examples of projects that merge the social/political with the environmental spheres would include the construction of security landscapes (border fences, prisons, etc.), military ecology and the military’s footprint on the land, and the construction and branding of amenity landscapes for tourism. Finally, it is important to consider where all three spheres overlap. In this space we would include megaprojects that relate to the reconstruction of nature, sustainability, the uses of GIS in planning and forecasting, alternative energy sources, and post conflict reconstruction. One could think of additional examples to insert in this diagram. Studying these might call for including knowledge about economies, the physical earth, and social/political engineering.

1.3 Organization of the Volume All chapters in the volume are original. Parts of some were presented at the July 2008 conference, but many other chapters were written by those who were unable to attend. Invitations to contribute were extended to individuals who have studied a specific megaproject or were willing to contribute a chapter on a new topic. Considerable efforts were made to contact and include scientists from engineering and environmental fields, as we believe they have as much to say about megaprojects as do the social and policy scientists, who form the bulk of the contributors. Additional efforts were made to include youth and senior members of scholarly communities, women, and scientists from around the world. In these efforts, we were successful. There are 126 chapters in this volume. Some deal with an overview of megaengineering projects, but most discuss a specific project. Some have strong theoretical bases; others are more descriptive case studies. Altogether, they represent what we consider to be the state of the art about the field of engineering earth today. The contributions are divided into fifteen sections with each section except the introduction having five or more chapters. Following the introduction we focus on various information/communication technology projects including GIS, ICT, and Keconomies. The next set examines specific agriculture, fishing and mining projects;

1

Introduction to Megaengineering

7

there are twelve chapters in this section. The next section, Section IV, includes seven chapters on energy and industrial projects; this is followed by nine chapters on various national, international, and transnational transportation projects (railroads and highways). Five chapters on the construction industry, corporate structures, and networks form the content of Section VI. This section is followed by fourteen chapters on a variety of Megafacilities (airports, ports, universities, hotels, and churches). Tourism and the creation of amenity landscapes are specifically addressed in Section VIII; parks, zoos, and casinos are included in this mix. Reconstructing and restoring nature are the focus of the next eight chapters followed by seven chapters on river diversion and coastal reclamation projects in different countries. Related to these chapters are the six chapters on Megadams in Section XI. Military and security landscapes, especially prisons, border fences and environmental places at risk because of nuclear materials, are discussed in Section XII. A variety of social engineered landscapes (gated retirement communities, post-apartheid, religious settlement and landscapes, post-conflict property claims and controversies over name changes) form the content of Section XIII. The political organization or engineering of spaces, viz., land survey systems, zoning, and property claims, are among the topics covered in Section XIV. The final section examines a number of earth and planetary engineering themes, including weather modification, climate change, and possible massive environmental changes on Earth and beyond. A useful guide to these chapters in this volume is presented in Fig. 1.2, which shows what chapters fit into each of the three spheres and overlapping areas discussed above.

1.4 Specific Topics Awaiting Research While this collection provides a good introduction to studying megaengineering projects, in many ways it represents only the tip of the iceberg of what might yet be studied. We list below some examples of various large projects that we believe merit scrutiny, either by single scholars or those willing to collaborate with specialists in other fields. The examples listed below include historical and contemporary projects and a few that are still on the drawing board. These could be studied using library archives or Web sources, field observation or ethnographic surveys, mathematical modeling or Delphi panels, discourse analysis or descriptive case studies. (1) Dams (existing or under construction): High Aswan (Egypt), Syncrude Tailings (Canada), Srisailam (India), Ataturk (Turkey), Mangala (Pakistan), Versazca (Switzerland), Rogun (Tajikistan), Inga (Dem. Rep. Congo) (2) Transportation (railroads): Trans Siberian Railroad, the Canadian and Union Pacific, Trans-Australian, Sinkansen (Japan), smart highways (3) Transportation (highways): Trans Canada highway, U. S. Highway 30, BaikalAmur Line (Russia), proposed: Silk Road, Cairo-Cape Town (4) Airports: de Gaulle (Paris), Heathrow (London), Frankfurt (Germany), Hartsfield (Atlanta), Hong Kong (China), Singapore

8

S.D. Brunn and A. Wood

Economic

Environmental

3, 4, 8, 9, 29, 31, 36, 42, 44, 45, 46, 48, 49, 50

16, 17, 24, 27, 30, 37, 43, 64, 65, 74, 76

21, 55, 77, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126

1, 2, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 19, 20, 23, 25, 28, 32, 33, 34, 35, 40, 41, 60, 62, 66, 67, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 75, 95, 103, 104, 105, 5, 11, 22, 26, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110 38, 68, 78, 79, 39, 47, 59, 61, 80, 89, 92, 94, 63, 93, 111, 112 96, 97, 98, 99

6, 7, 10, 51, 52, 53, 54, 56, 57, 58, 90, 91, 100, 101, 102, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119

Social and Political

Fig. 1.2 Chapters discussing the impacts of megaengineering projects

(5) Canals: Suez, Panama, All-American (U.S. and Mexico), Alentajo (Portugal), Bhakra (India), Grand (China) (6) Bridges (road and railway): Vasco de Gama (Portugal), Bang Na (Thailand), Lake Pontchartrain Causeway (U.S.), Hangzhou (China), King Fahd (Saudi Arabia and Bahrain), 6th October (Egypt), Bering Strait (Alaska and Siberia) (7) Capital Cities (old and new): Canberra, Brasilia, Abuja (Nigeria), Islamabad (Pakistan) (8) Frontier Agricultural Programs: U. S. homesteading, Canadian Prairie Provinces, western Australian, interior Brazil (9) Hydroelectricity: Snowy Mountain scheme, Columbia River project

1

Introduction to Megaengineering

9

(10) Solar Energy (proposed): Mojave Desert, California; Negev Desert, Israel; Upington, South Africa; Seville, Spain; Mildura, Australia (11) Wind Energy: Ireland, Switzerland, Germany, United Kingdom, France, New Zealand, Australia, U. S. (Great Plains, Appalachia, offshore New England) (12) Pipelines: Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan (oil: Caspian to Mediterranean Sea); Druzhba (oil: southeast Russia to eastern Europe); China’s West to East (gas); TransAlaska (oil); Gasoducto del Sur (proposed gas: Venezuela to Argentina); Desertec: (proposed solar: North Africa to Europe) (13) Mining: Mirny, Russia (diamonds), Johannesburg, South Africa (diamonds), Chuquicamata, Chile (copper), Saskatchewan, Canada (uranium), Stepnogorsk, Kazakhstan (uranium), Kalgoorlie, Australia (gold), Papua, Australia (gold) (14) Tunnels (water supply, rail, roads, metros): Chunnel (UK and France), Gotthard (Switzerland), Seikan (Japan), Moscow Metro, London Underground (15) Irrigation: HNSS (India), Xinjiang (China), Sardar Sarova Narmada Nigam (India), Gharb (Morocco), Guilan (Iran), Imperial Valley, High Plains (16) Dams/Flood Controls: Danube River, Ohio River, Missouri River, Volga RiverYangtze, Ganges (17) Shelterbelts and Windbreaks: U.S. (Great Plains), USSR (southern steppes), Green Wall of China (18) Reforestation: Finland, Canada, China (19) Tourism and Theme Parks: Dreamworld (Australia’s Gold Coast), Everland (South Korea), Ocean Park (Hong Kong), Lotte World (South Korea), Tokyo Disney, Universal Studios Singapore, Disneyland (California) and Disneyworld (Florida) (20) Leisure Spaces: Parks, playgrounds, golf courses (in different climates) (21) Casino Gambling: Atlantic City, NJ; Las Vegas, NV; Monaco; Macao (22) Industrial Cities: Ciudad Guyana, monotowns in Russia, East Europe, and China (23) Skyscrapers: Burj Dubai; Tapiei 101; Shanghai World Financial Center, International Commence Center (Hong Kong), Petronas Towers (24) Decolonization Projects (monumental spaces, renaming, etc.): former British, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch and Italian colonies (25) Contested Property Claims: Israel/Palestine, post apartheid South Africa, post USSR (in Russia and East Europe; former European colonies (26) ICT Networks: telephone and telegraph projects (historical), fiber optics, Internet, Facebook, Flickr, Web services (27) Social Engineering: retirement communities, elite residences, restricted tourism/recreation spaces, marginalized immigrant populations, indigenous groups (Canada, Mexico, Brazil, Australia, U.S.) (28) Security Landscapes: political borders, airports, transcontinental highways, private developments (megamalls, headquarters), cities

10

S.D. Brunn and A. Wood

(29) Megadevelopments: Shanghai (Pudong), Hong Kong Waterfront, London Dockyards, UAE islands, Cancun and Miami Beach resort strips, Australia’s Gold Coast (30) Corporations/Firms (networking, greening, etc.): Halliburton (defense contracts), Rio Tinto (mining), Shaw International (construction), Microsoft (information), eBay (retail), CNN (news), Google (images) (31) Project Management: Consulting, Architecture: transportation, pipelines, dams, office buildings, factories, military projects, ICT, skyscrapers, theme parks (32) Financial Organizations: World Bank, EU, regional banks (33) Local/Grassroots Organizations: supporting or opposing projects: mines, highways, dams, new capital cities, theme parks, alternative energy, expansion of airports, universities, and military training areas (34) Re-engineering Cities: reorganizing schools, public health, transportation, also urban homesteading, market gardening, and neighborhood empowerment (35) Upgrading Projects: bridges, highways, railroads, government and office buildings

1.5 Themes for Collaborative Research We also believe the study of engineering earth will be advanced from those willing to collaborate with scholars outside traditional and familiar fields of research. To support this level of intellectual inquiry, we have identified five salient themes. The themes are placed in a larger theoretical framework, rather than mentioning a specific project. The five areas are: (1) Discourses of Megaengineering. The focus would be on the changing narratives of the state vis-à-vis megaengineering initiatives. These could involve how the state envisions a project fitting into discussions about nation-building and statehood. Discussions might include the sites selected for projects, the financial support, concessions to corporations and landowners, the resettlement of disenfranchised populations, and the re-engineering of social spaces. These inquires might be studied within an individual city or at the state level. (2) Networking of Grassroots Organizations. The focus is on how organizations and groups of citizen activists, shareholders, and disenfranchised populations by megaprojects coalesce to form opposition against the construction of megaengineering projects. These could be historical or contemporary studies. Specific resistance groups might include organized labor and immigrant workers, those displaced by megaprojects that changed regional ecosystems, churches supporting liberation theologies, and other NGOs (environmental, gender, indigenous). The research could be studied with respect to property rights, zoning, empowerment, and manipulation of rights (populations at risk, school assignments for children and political gerrymandering.

1

Introduction to Megaengineering

11

(3) Human Security and Social Justice. In post-911 worlds megaengineering by the state and corporate sector has assumed new roles in regards to questions about privacy and protection, including ICTs in public spaces, the work place and home. Borderland security, internet access, censorship, and virtual “living” are issues facing states, the private sector, cities, and homes. While these may not have the pizzazz and visible impacts of megachurches, socially engineered suburbs and workplaces, or alternative energy projects, they are nonetheless megaengineered landscapes. (4) Organizing Alternative Engineering Worlds. While megaprojects are readily visible almost everywhere, there are embryonic shifts occurring in the engineering worlds of some corporations, communities, workplaces, and homes. This technological shift is evident in “meso” and “micro” scale initiatives that are built around “greening,” sustainability, a softer ecological imprint, corporate and household “greening,” and a new ethos built around 4 R’s: repair, recycle, reuse, and re-educate. While most of these projects will not receive the financial support and visibility of megaprojects, we need to weigh their effectiveness, competitiveness, and popularity and study them alongside worlds of megaprojects. (5) Global engineering initiatives. Scientists, we believe, would also be wise to address a series of “macro” questions about the impacts of megaprojects on major regional and global scales. These include the global consumer car culture, the reliance on hydrocarbons for future energy use, the personal, inexpensive, and adaptable ICT advances, cultures of materialism vs. conservation, a culture of “bigness vs. smallness,” patriarchy (certainly a part of megaengineering thinking) vs. gender equity, civil engineering vs. environmental engineering, and social engineering vs. social equity. Most conflicts surrounding food, security, energy, housing access, literacy levels, access to health care, gender equity, and human rights have their root causes in one or more megaengineering project. As noted above, we do not consider one discipline or one field of study to have a lock on providing the best perspective or methodology to investigate a given megaengineering project or topic. Rather we see merits and easily accommodate in our thinking places for regional economists, land use specialists, GIS analysts, landscape architects, and macro-modelers of Plant Earth. We also find much reason to support those engineers proposing solutions to far-reaching problems facing humankind and the planet, those grassroots, community, and virtual organizers who instill community activism and empower indigenous cultures seeking protection from destructive mining and transportation projects, and those atmospheric scientists who seek ways to mitigate adverse climate changes. What will be required for engineering earth to become a legitimate field of interdisciplinary and transdisciplinary research is an awareness that studying the full impacts of megaprojects within a disciplinary context will yield only partial answers. Bridges will need to be built that span “rivers” of common ground, bridges that are started on both sides of a river.

12

S.D. Brunn and A. Wood

References Badescu, V., Cathcart, R. B., & Schuiling, R. D. (eds.). (2006). Macro-engineering: A challenge for the future. Dordrecht, The Nethelands: Springer. Bolonkin, A. A., & Cathcart, R. B. (2009). Macro-projects: Environment and technology. Hauppauge, NY: NOVA Science Publisher. Cernea, M., & McDowell, C. (2000). Risks and reconstruction. Experiences of resettlers and refugees. Washington, DC: World Bank. Davidson, F. P., & Brooke, K. W. (2006). Building the world: An encyclopedia of the great engineering projects in history. Oxford, UK: Greenwood. Flyvbjerg, B., Bruzelius, B., & Rothengatter, W. (2003). Megaprojects and risk: An anatomy of ambition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nozovsky, A. Y. (2006). 100 great wonders of engineering thought. Moscow: Veche (in Russian). Thomas, W. L. (Ed.). (1957). Man’s role in changing the face of the earth. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Turner, B. L., Clark, W. C., Kates, R. W., Matthews, J. T., & Meyer, W. B. (Eds.). (1991). The earth as transformed by human action: Global and regional changes in the biosphere over the past 300 years. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Chapter 2

Building the Next Seven Wonders: The Landscape Rhetoric of Large Engineering Projects Ben Marsh and Janet Jones

2.1 Introduction Engineering projects may seem like the least symbolic parts of our culture – isn’t engineering pure rationality? But they are potent and important symbols. Being engineered, the projects often submerge their symbolism within a rational and instrumental scheme, but the symbols are present and highly legible. As high cost productions of large corporate or state actors, megaengineering projects carry symbolic content that is almost always about elaborating and sustaining the authority and power of those actors. The archetypal suite of historic symbols of power and authority is the Hellenistic “Seven Wonders of the World” list, which presents a range of cultural landscape tropes that are easily recognizable today in the political and social messages contained within large scale engineering projects.

2.2 Reading the Cultural Landscape of Megaengineering Megaengineering projects reconstruct the physical landscape toward human goals; they are important elements of our cultural landscape. The idea of cultural landscape can be approached in a range of ways that help explicate the societal functions of megaengineering projects. Cultural landscapes are parts of the natural world transformed by the actions of humans, “manifestations of culture’s traffic with nature,” as Mitchell (2000: 20) puts it. This perspective is rooted in the ideas of Carl Sauer from the 1920s, of course: A cultural landscape is fashioned from a natural landscape by a culture group. Culture is the agent; the natural area is the medium. The cultural landscape is the result. (Sauer, 1996: 309)

B. Marsh (B) Department of Geography and Program in Environmental Studies, Bucknell University, Lewisburg, PA 17837, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_2,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

13

14

B. Marsh and J. Jones

This human-environment aspect of the cultural landscape is central to Man’s Role in Changing the Face of the Earth (Thomas, 1956), and is at the explicit intellectual center of this volume, in its homage to Gilbert White. Megaengineering is certainly an important cause of environmental change and also a manifestation of that change. But approaching megaengineering primarily as an interaction with the physical world strips it of its human complexity by downplaying the subjective aspects of landscape and diluting the landscape’s cultural-symbolic weight. Another approach to the cultural landscape is to see in it the practical machinery of the world of our experiences, viz., our built environment. This is an instrumental conception of cultural landscape, comfortable within landscape architecture and urban studies. It is epitomized by J. B. Jackson: “far from being spectators of the world we are participants in it” (quoted by Meinig, 1979: 221). Questions raised for the observer who sees the cultural landscape this way might include: How does a human moving through the world interact with a project? How does the project affect human lives? But this approach is less well suited to comprehending the cultural role of large-scale constructions. The communicative goal of any project derives from human participation, but the “mega” aspect of these engineering projects draws the viewer away from direct experience, toward experience mediated by the media or by institutional message systems. A third perspective emphasizes the culture in cultural landscapes. Such an approach is able to harvest meaning from large-scale constructions by explicitly regarding the landscape as a set of cultural messages written in human structures, by approaching the landscape as a text. The landscape . . . is one of the central elements in a cultural system for, as an ordered assemblage of objects, a text, it acts as a signifying system through which a social system is communicated, reproduced, experienced, and explored. (Duncan, 1990: 16)

The landscape is “a way of seeing,” more a method for situating oneself within the world than an object or an image (Cosgrove, 1998: 1). This approach to cultural landscape study has strong connections to cultural studies, as well as to the study of culture. It addresses the world through a search for meaning: seeking the symbolism of an urban layout, of a house type, of a shrine (Duncan, 1976). When approached as texts and symbols, cultural landscapes offer up diverse elements of meaning. Cultural landscapes must always be within cultural systems, that is, they are symbol systems appropriate to the rhetorical forms current in a society. House-types, funeral monuments, and clothing all convey messages to acculturated viewers about the things that are important to the producer, messages about status, conformity, family, or reverence. Each message system has a vocabulary that is shared between the producer and the reader. The builder must use a symbolic language accessible to the observers of the building. The analogy between cultural landscapes and texts goes beyond just vocabulary. “Landscape rhetoric” implies that there are predictable types of messages within any cultural situation, viz., appeals to power, beauty, nationalism, etc. A common range of landscape meanings and types of meaning recur within any given realm of discourse: images of nature, the heroic

2

Building the Next Seven Wonders

15

image, sanctity, travelers’ images, etc. But meaning also evolves. New forms of thought require new symbol sets. “Green,” in the environmental sense, is a modern landscape message, and requires new landscape symbols. And old forms develop new meanings. A period style of architecture may later acquire a revised meaning constructed backwards onto the era, as, for example, 1970s suburban houses may have come to represent anomie or conformity in our retrospect. Symbols are culturally and historically specific, but symbols also derive meaning from the universals of human activity. A symbol is a repository of meanings . . . Insofar as symbols depend on unique events they must differ from individual to individual and from culture to culture. Insofar as they originate in experiences shared by the bulk of mankind they have a worldwide character. (Tuan, 1974: 145)

2.3 Landscape Messages of Engineering Projects Large-scale engineering projects represent some of the biggest investments of financial and political capital that most nations and other large institutional entities ever undertake. Like any actions by large institutions, megaengineering projects should be expected, in addition, to performing whatever instrumental functions they have, to transmit strongly conservative messages underwriting the legitimacy of the institutions. Symbolic communication is central to what states do in all their actions: “modern states could neither exist nor operate effectively without an adequate body of symbol and myth, whatever other excuses they may have for their creation” (Zelinsky, 1988: 13). Throughout human history rising cultures have tied themselves into the mythic systems and cultural landscapes of established cultures, to lend themselves legitimacy; this in itself is a performance of power and ideology. The 19th century symbolic landscape of Washington, DC, is an architectural adoption of Greek political antecedents, much as Rome’s authority was sustained by a creation myth of its Greek roots 2000 years earlier. States and similar actors are sustained through reinforcement of their political ideology, so their products endlessly justify or elaborate their power. [T]he exercise of power is expressed forcefully in language and in a wide range of written texts whose function it is to defend and propagate the particular system of ideas and values. . . . [I]deologies exert their authority and find expression not only in language but also in landscape. Non-verbal ‘documents’ in the landscape can be powerful visual symbols, conveying messages forcefully. . . . Ideologies create, unintentionally as well as deliberately, a landscape as a symbol of signification, expressive of authority (Baker, 1992: 5)

Since megaengineering projects are among the largest statements by these entities, the expression of power is very strong through them. One can understand how important symbolism is to megaengineering by examining the economics of the projects. Many megaengineering projects require an investment that far exceeds the economic utility of the projects. Any analysis of

16

B. Marsh and J. Jones

megaengineering projects will confront what Flyvbjerg calls the “megaprojects paradox:” At the same time as many more and much larger infrastructure projects are being proposed and built around the world, it is becoming clear that many such projects have poor performance records in terms of economy, environment, and public support. Cost overruns and lower-than-predicted revenues frequently place project viability at risk and redefine projects that were initially promoted as effective vehicles to economic growth as possible obstacles to such growth. (Flyvbjerg et al., 2002: 3)

This is only an apparent paradox. Economic performance is not the full measure of success. These projects are planned and executed for a symbolic value that may well exceed their nominal fiscal value. The symbolism born in megaengineering projects is a variant of the familiar cultural messages that can be seen throughout the cultural landscape. Because of the great size of megaengineering projects, their legibility is different from that of more conventional projects. They exercise outsized instrumental functions (airport, rail system, dam) compared to engineering projects on an urban or intraurban scale (train station, boulevard, fountain). Their messages match the statements of civic pride, heroism, and majesty available from equestrian statues, ceremonial spaces, stylish façades, monuments, and historical markers. But they are far bigger, big enough to make them entirely another sort of symbols, different in kind and not just in degree. The “mega” aspect introduces scale as a design factor. Part of the meaning is their size vis-à-vis human bodily experiences. A very big project is different from simply a big project. The observer’s perspective is taken into account within the design of many of these forms; the symbology is meant to be read from a controlled range of perspectives. The modern observer often needs to be omniscient: island terra-sculpting like that of Dubai could be fully legible only to a society with airplanes or Google Earth. In contrast, the perspective of premodern engineering projects is usually appropriate to direct observation, or the stories or drawings of those who observed them directly. When this is not so, in the case as the Nazca geoglyphs of Peru that cannot be wholly seen from the ground, for example, the apparent contradiction between the form and the observer becomes central to our interrogation of the projects. Megaengineered landscapes also provide us with huge altered spaces that do not have clear semiotic content: megacities, suburbs, farming regions, expansive mining, and deforestation. Such landscapes may be thick with meaning at a local scale, but they are not a single project, a single “cultural production.” Landscapes like these are not meant to be seen as a whole. Who sees a city, a highway system, a forest? These landscapes carry some meaning, but they are not intentionally freighted with symbolism. Compare a coin and a washer. They are the same size, and they are both cultural products. The coin is far more “legible” in a cultural sense, however, and its symbolic density is far higher. Similarly, landscapes of industrious economic activity often seem strictly utilitarian – the steel mill, the strip mine. Utilitarianism bears a message, too. Even tools are symbolic; they bear the “meaning” of the other tools in the technology that fits against them. A claw hammer says

2

Building the Next Seven Wonders

17

nail, a nail says wood, nail and wood says frame construction, etc., and thereby “hammer” comes to represent an entire technological universe based on access to forests and a certain way of organizing labor. “Landscapes of material are also landscapes of meaning: praxis is itself symbolic, all landscapes are symbolic in practice” (Baker, 1992: 8). Even the most utilitarian megaengineering projects will construct a cultural superstructure atop their instrumental base, to paraphrase Berger (Cosgrove & Daniels, 1989: 7). Utilitarianism itself is a specific statement of values. A plain Amish buggy is, in its very plainness, highly evocative about humility and related social values. Power is the foremost statement of large landscape projects, but the actual messages are diverse. Explication of power is the symbolic “project” of the engineering, but it is not the message itself. Exercise of power requires control and cooperation, which can be attained in different ways. Control comes from fear, and control also comes through benevolence, so the state-level messages of landscape projects might communicate about control in either way. Power can be supported by elevated or base emotions, equally by the love within patriotism, for example, as by shared loathing of the “other.” Messages about power draw upon affective dichotomies like these: safety/insecurity, bounty/want, us/them, pride/fear. The best project has the strongest impact and a strong design seeks to evoke potent emotional responses. A way to understand this is by comparing our modern responses to cultural landscapes with a set of venerable landscape tropes familiar to us from antiquity.

2.4 Landscapes of “The Seven Wonders” The set of landscape symbols found within the classical Seven Wonders of the World is a good map of the symbols of modern megaengineering. Many modern projects seek, in one sense or another, to be the next “wonders of the world.” The messages provided by many megaengineering projects today are shared with the meanings of large projects in antiquity. Looking at past engineering activities is an effective way to understand modern engineering. The psychological distance we have from symbolic projects of the past helps us to see those symbols more objectively. We are not as good at separating ourselves from the symbols that are used today. And the experience of encountering a familiar symbol system in a 2,200-year-old landscape reminds us of how much is immutable in our basic landscape rhetoric. The Seven Wonders of the World represent the archetypal framework of comparative political landscape symbols. They compose a catalog of ancient statesupported and state-supporting large-scale symbolic landscape projects. They were certainly the megaengineering projects of their day. The Seven Wonders are still very much alive in popular landscape appreciation (Fig. 2.1). The list is a Hellenistic structuring of the ancient cultural landscape, completed ca. 240 BCE (Table 2.1). The Seven Wonders represent only a small slice of the great landmarks of antiquity, of course. These particular features were chosen because they share certain characteristics (Romer & Romer, 2001). They were thematically linked through references

18

B. Marsh and J. Jones

Fig. 2.1 Traditional 20th century popular presentation of the sole surviving Wonder, The Pyramid of Khufu at Giza, from a vintage postcard. (Postcard by Detroit Publishing Company, ca. 1910) Table 2.1 The Seven Wonders of the ancient world Wonder

Site characteristics

Landscape message

Pyramid of Khufu at Giza

Tomb of a pharaoh; resurrection symbol Rich urban garden in a desert Large sacred monument Large sacred building Large, ornate funeral monument for Persian satrap Heroic statue of a Greek god in a commercial port Lighthouse in a Hellenistic city

Sanctity, memorial, abundance

Hanging Gardens of Babylon Statue of Zeus at Olympia Temple of Artemis at Ephesus Tomb of Maussollos at Halicarnassus Colossus of Rhodes Lighthouse of Alexandria

Abundance, control of nature Sanctity Sanctity Sanctity, memorial Exchange, military success Exchange

to Alexander, who had died in 323 BCE. As a unifier of the lands of west Asia, Alexander first brought an awareness of the cultural complexity of the larger world to the Mediterranean heartland, and created the first audience for this globalized sense of wonder. The Wonders display a high level of similarity. Geographically, they follow the travels of Alexander as he moved through the Near East (Fig. 2.2). They were each legible in the landscape to the contemporary viewer in a similar way: they tended to be elevated and they are mostly maritime. They shared a landscape function in that they are nearly all landmarks that would be important to the traveler. These unities among them invite the observer, modern or ancient, to see the Wonders as a set. The

2

Building the Next Seven Wonders

19

Fig. 2.2 Location of the Hellenistic Seven Wonders and of the 2007 “New 7 Wonders.” The older list (circles) was cosmopolitan within the Hellenistic world of the eastern Mediterranean; the newer list (triangles) delimits popular international travel destinations for European and North American tourists

original political function of each of the Wonders was parochial aggrandizement of a local ruler. The list was a product of an historical moment when the unity of Greek culture was challenged by the new awareness of the complex, cosmopolitan world in which it existed. The presentation of the landmarks as an ensemble linked the fractured Hellenistic society that elevated them back to the idealized coherent world of Alexander. His greatness was reflected in the authority and power of the lesser kings whose realms fell under the shadow of the hero. The Seven Wonders are landscapes of authority. Among them they demonstrate the range of landscape elements that were recognized in Hellenistic society as projecting and reinforcing a sense of political power. Most of them are unsurprising today as ways to show power. • The cult of personality inherent in memorial structure for great rulers, like Maussollos’s mausoleum or Khufu’s pyramid at Giza, imbues the landscape with the authority of the dead ruler whose majesty demanded the monument. These Wonders are dramatic memorial landscapes used to enlarge and support the legacy the ruler. • Defense is a literal manifestation of power. Defensive works are strong representations of state power. The earliest list of wonders included the walls of Babylon, an expression of Babylonian military authority. • Economic exchange is a potent reinforcement of political power, as it celebrates the material benefits of an effective government. This is illustrated among the Wonders by the lighthouse at Alexandra, as well as by the Colossus of Rhodes, which was an explicit navigation aid as well as a celebration of a military success.

20

B. Marsh and J. Jones

• Sanctity is a manifestation of power in many ancient realms. Sacred sites were state projects in antiquity, linked closely to the divine royal role in preservation of a harmonious cosmos. The religious Wonders are the oldest structures on the list, drawing on already venerable linkages between power and worship. The sacredness of the fifth century Statue of Zeus epitomized Greek identity in Hellenistic times as did the Temple of Artemis. The pyramid of Khufu supported an important politico-religious function. The afterlife of the pharaoh needed to be sustained to preserve the lives of all Egyptians. • Control over nature to generate abundance is the theme of the Hanging Garden, a landscape whose symbolic connection to power may otherwise seem indirect. The Edenic symbolism of a garden in a desert is potent. The Hellenistic story of this Wonder is that it was a reconstruction of her native northern forests for a beloved homesick queen. It represents the power to alter the very ecology of the desert, and by extension, the ability to provide food in a harsh world by irrigation. The most bucolic of the Wonders is also a symbol of power. Self-conscious modern versions of the Seven Wonders are less reliant on the “power” messages than the original Seven Wonders. Modern efforts to list wonders favor the touristic over the powerful. Wonders on recent lists, such as the web-based, commercialized “New 7 Wonders,” are usually linked not to native political power, but to the subsidiary power of the tourist dollar as it is drawn to the scenic and the exotic. The New 7 Wonders list was announced in 2007 – on the numerologically weighty date of 07-07-07 – after a reported 100,000,000 votes worldwide (Table 2.2; see Fig. 2.2). Individual countries, and their tourist organizations, campaigned tirelessly for votes. The National Geographic Society webpage sniffed “The winners were voted for by Internet and phone, American Idol style.” (Owen, 2007) A more scholarly list of wonders, unconstrained by the occult numerology of 7, is UNESCO’s World Heritage Committee’s “World Heritage Site” list of “878 properties forming part of the cultural and natural heritage which the World Heritage Committee considers as having outstanding universal value” (UNESCO, 2009). This list is highly Euro-centric: Belgium has nine cultural sites but Thailand has only three. The selection criteria for the cultural sites are focused on the role of the site within a specific cultural tradition rather than on any universal or global meaning. Related lists abound. A modest empire has been founded by the author of 1,000 Places To See Before You Die (Schultz, 2003) to follow up her lusciously illustrated, Table 2.2 “The New Seven Wonders,” a 2007 list derived from worldwide popular vote. (New7Wonders Foundation, 2007)

Wonder

Location

Christ the Redeemer Colosseum Taj Mahal Great Wall Petra Machu Picchu Chichén Itzá

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil Rome, Italy Agra, India China Jordan’s Peru Mexico

2

Building the Next Seven Wonders

21

best selling catalogue of tourist destinations; at the www.1000beforeyoudie.com site one can buy regional versions of the list, place-a-day calendars, blank journal books, jigsaw puzzles, and board games. Like the Hellenistic list makers, we are still subsuming the cultural landscapes of others into our world, but now through the power of tourism. Taj Mahal and the Great Wall become part of our own cultural landscape, in the same way that archaeological museum displays have captured others’ landscapes: the Elgin marbles and “Cleopatra’s Needle” were located into the cultural landscape of London, not the Mediterranean (having been previously disassociated from their original locations by the Ottoman Empire). The landscape role of features such as these derives from the individual personal experiences of tourists, rather than from external political actors. The Strip in Las Vegas may provide the best synopsis of the role of wondersof-the-world in modern life. The classic Wonders and other wondrous sights of the world are replicated in desert. Great cultural symbols – The Sphinx, Eifel Tower, Brooklyn Bridge and the cityscape of classical Rome – are harvested from their sites and returned to us as farce, having been stripped of detail, context, scale, and sincerity. Las Vegas reminds us of the importance of the tourist to the symbolic geography of the modern world. MacCannell suggests that it is through the tourist that the modern world makes sense of itself, by providing “a way of attempting to overcome the discontinuity of modernity, of incorporating its fragments into unified experience” (MacCannell, 1976: 13). Modernity is not the only source of “discontinuity” for tourism to overcome. The original Wonders list unified the Hellenistic worlds in the same way, by “incorporating its fragments into unified experience.” Alexander’s soldiers were also tourists. But wonders favored by modern tourists reflect a more benign and self-indulgent worldview than the old Wonders did, and only one of the New 7 Wonders could be considered a recent engineering project. The rougher symbol system of the old Wonders is perpetrated more clearly within megaengineering than in the new lists of tourists’ wonders.

2.5 Seven Wonders of Megaengineering How might the landscape tropes derived from the Seven Wonders be mapped onto familiar cultural landscape components of contemporary megaengineering? Table 2.3 offers our list of seven landscape messages broadly derived from the Seven Wonders, matched with contemporary U.S. and ancient examples of such features. Potential negative readings of the same features – “second thoughts” that modern society might have about these feature types – are suggested as well. Perhaps the most common symbolic freight of a modern megaengineered project is abundance through the control of nature, like the Hanging Garden. Dams and irrigation systems show the generative power of their creator, the government. NASA’s space program is another display of the ability of the government to overcome the limits of nature, although its material return to the citizens is limited. Bureau of

22

B. Marsh and J. Jones

Table 2.3 Examples of modern “wonders” in the U.S. organized by themes derived from the ancient Wonders Familiar and traditional landscape tropes

Possible representative U.S. “wonders”

Hellenistic Seven Wonders comparison

Additional ancient comparanda

Modern “second thoughts” about the trope

Abundance, control of nature

Lower Colorado water system, TVA, NASA space programs

Hanging garden

Granaries, irrigation works

Memorial of rulers; celebration of the state; secular sanctity Military Security

Washington DC, National Mall complex, Arlington

Mausoleum, Temple of Zeus, Temple of Artemis

Column of Trajan, Acropolis

Ecological complexity; obliviousness to natural limits, unintended consequences Cult of personality, incipient authoritarianism

Norfolk, Nevada Test Site, Fort Hood Interstate highways, Panama Canal, JFK airport New York skyline, Brooklyn Bridge, Golden Gate bridge Lower Mississippi flood control, Clean water act Palm Springs, Las Vegas, Disneyworld, mega-cruise ships

Ishtar Gate

Hadrian’s Wall, Great Wall, city walls Roman roads, Phoenician fleet, Corinth canal Aqueducts, theaters, temples

Ruinous expense, imperial over-reach Resources and energy consumption, sprawl, Vulnerability to attack, and to shifting fortunes

Pyramid of Khurfu

Sacrifice sites: Parthenon, Teotihuacan

Vulnerability; the technological fix

Hanging Garden

Colosseum, Taj Mahal, panem et circenses

Excess, inequity, resource consumption; new economic limits

Transport, commerce

Civic identification, Civic pride

Societal protection

Conspicuous consumption, whimsy

Lighthouse at Alexandra

Colossus

Reclamation water projects are said, clichédly, to “turn the desert green.” Billions of dollars are spent to provide irrigation and urban water to the arid Southwest, from the Colorado River and elsewhere. The TVA and the Columbia River Project are additional symbols of productivity, of the government’s capacity to provide. It is notable that many of these projects are rooted in the Great Depression, when the need for material support was strongly felt. The importance in antiquity of water projects as demonstrations of government benevolence is a truism; Wittfogel

2

Building the Next Seven Wonders

23

famously hypothesized that the supply water was the primary benefit to the citizens for incorporation into the “pristine state” (1957). Benevolent governmental projects extend far beyond water works. Many governments created their legitimacy through storage and redistribution, borrowing abundance from the population in good times and giving back in poor times. The great granaries of the Inca, Egyptians, and Hittites served this function, and the yearto-year stability that the state provided in this way was essential to societal survival in marginal environments. Some of the greatest expenses of the modern state are similar but non-landscape methods of wealth redistribution to assure the ongoing productivity of the citizens. Social Security and Medicare generate huge political support for the power of the state by transferring wealth between generations. Governmental food subsidies and surplus food distribution are similar phenomena to express abundance by taking relative surplus from a more favored part of the population and giving it to another part. Negative readings of such features of control and abundance are almost as common as positive ones. Gilbert White wrote at length about the ecological hubris of human attempts to control the Colorado, how they generated extensive unintended consequences by altering fluvial systems, and how designers displayed obliviousness to natural complexity (1968). The negative interpretations of human control of nature gain salience as the megaimpacts of megaprojects upon the environment become more widely recognized, viz., deforestation, nuclear war, radioactive waste, ocean pollution, and ultimately global warming. Memorials to leaders and celebrations of state “sanctity” are common uses of public spaces. The state is supported by cults of personality directed toward deceased leaders, or other representatives of the state like soldiers, because these associate the state with the important people and merge that association with the reverence in which the dead are held. The ancient world was thick with grand tombs, burial mounds, and memorial shrines. In Mogul India, leaders would begin building their memorials as soon as they rose to power; those who died young are commemorated only by ambitious foundations. In the U.S. we honor deceased presidents most highly; large engineering projects like cities, airports, a U.S. state, and the entire interstate highway system are named for them. Military cemeteries are some of the most extensive memorial landscapes that can be found in the U.S., and lesser memorials stand in every town in America to hallow senators, generals, and soldiers. The memorials to wars and to past presidents along the National Mall are the grandest examples of these messages in the U.S. But those out-sized monuments from the 19th and early 20th centuries are readily caricatured today by comparison to the massive cult-of-personality installations of the same sort that have been popular in authoritarian states: giant bronze Lenins, Maos, and Saddams. In awareness of this modern re-reading, many recent memorials have been intentionally humansized, such as the 1997 Franklin Roosevelt memorial at which visitors can approach a bronze statue of a man in a wheelchair or pet his bronze Scottie. The famously intimate geometry of the Vietnam memorial on the Mall has a similarly humanscaled feel, especially when compared to the retro formalism and self-conscious neo-neoclassicism of the newer WWII monument.

24

B. Marsh and J. Jones

Few large memorials commemorate women, beyond an occasional homage to a monarch (Victoria Station or Queen Maud Land) or a religious personage (Notre Dame de Paris, or Calcutta, which was named after the goddess Kali). As with so much about megaengineering, memorials remind us of the extent to which the cultural landscape is usually gendered, and the portions of the landscape associated with authority and power will be male. Of the original Wonders, only two involve women closely, and again it is a queen and a goddess (the Hanging Gardens and the Temple of Artemis). The overall male aspect of the engineering landscapes is pointed up by the fetishization of bridges, towers, machinery, and waterworks – “engineering porn,” as they say – in civic and national imagery. Perhaps only the landscapes of leisure and commerce escape dominance by the masculine. The political obligation for the modern Western state to be secular has diminished the role of the sacred in civic landscape symbolism. But the state capitalizes in non-religious ways on the same sensations of awe that are produced in religious contexts. The state creates a range of spaces that can be considered sacred, including those that are sacred in a nationalistic or secular sense, as well as the literally religious like a cathedral or a shrine. All sacred landscapes bear memories of the most critical cultural productions of a people – moments of literal or figurative worship, moments of awe or reverence. War memorials enshrine the sacrifice of the fallen and, therefore, the authority of the ones who can order the war. Sites of loss, like Arlington, Gettysburg, Normandy, and Ground Zero, are engineered into expansive sites of secular sanctity. And the monument always also commemorates the commemorator; every war memorial is a message from the group that built it to the citizens who see it and about proper personal investments in the state. Some landscapes are venerated in themselves rather than through a personality, such as the historical district or the cultural heritage site like Plymouth Rock. Capital cities express political power through the reverence that is given to them as nationalistic symbols as well as in the majesty of the structures provided by the state. Capital cities are the most common planned cities, and are megaengineered as cultural sites with careful sightlines and artful clusterings of monuments. There are more than a dozen examples of brand new national capital cities having been built, such as Brasilia, Islamabad, Canberra, New Delhi, and Washington. Typically the new city is nearer the center of the state than the previous capital and designed to encourage economic development as well as political unity. New capitals are usually emphatic design statements, using extravagant architecture and formalized and geometric landscapes. Cosgrove (1989) demonstrates the layers of verbal, geometric, and numerological symbolism underlying the landscape of Washington, DC, for example. Security is the plainest imperative of the state. The modern political discourse of security often seems shrill to scholarly observers, but an appeal to security is still the one of the surest ways to capture public wealth. Military security is a perennial concern, and a perennial topic for engineered landscape messages. A few huge military complexes can represent the genre in this country – the Newport News naval yards, the Nevada Test Site, or the Pentagon itself, the world’s largest office building. A critical take on these modern security features is also familiar, viz., that they are

2

Building the Next Seven Wonders

25

signs of a paranoid worldview and represent ruinous expenses incurred to support imperial overreach. In earlier times security was shown by forts and other military establishments. In antiquity the wall defined the city, and the wall symbolized the power of the state to protect its people. The Ishtar gate and the Walls of Babylon, from the earlier lists of Wonders, were theatrically grand defensive features. More recent derivative lists of Wonders often include the Great Wall of China, the most emphatic ancient security symbol in the world as well as Hadrian’s Wall. (There is an irony about security being engineered onto the landscape. Although it is a strong symbol, it often falls victim to attackers not connected so tightly to the landscape. The German sweep around the Maginot line during WWI may be the best known example of the contradiction.) Security bears a message for those on the outside of the defended space as well as those within. Security constructions should generate highly levels of confidence and dependence for those within them. And the defenses should project a sense of impregnability from outside, to forestall attack. The best defenses are never challenged. In the post 9/11 world security has become an especially visible landscape element, as U.S. citizens trade freedom of movement and rights to privacy for a (nominal) freedom from fear, which is supported by widespread surveillance in public places, by armored architecture, and by ubiquitous police presences. Today security from violence and terror is often an overprint onto the rest of the landscape: seen in the bomb-proofing applied to buildings, for example, or the securitized structure of the modern airport. Individuals show personal-sized symbols of power by investing in landscapes of security, such as buying into a gated community or hiring guards to accompany them. Ideas of security refer most directly to military power, but modern state security is a more nuanced idea. The U.S. government has been engineering a 2,000 mi (3,200 km) “security fence” on its southern border to protect the country from foreign threats. The threats are not risks of violence, but rather economic threats from low wage labor competition and from drains on the public budget. Security means economic security as well as military security. Transport and commerce are recurrent cultural landscape themes affirming society’s investment in communication and trade. These are highly visible in the U.S. today in the Interstate Highway system, Amtrak, and a dozen giant airports. Travel facilities are overrepresented in the suite of megaengineering projects, as they were among the Seven Wonders. Airports, ports, high speed rail lines, gateway symbols, highways systems, bridges, and tunnels are among the most common examples of megaengineering (Fig. 2.3). The Panama Canal was one of the strongest landscape symbols of the Twentieth Century, an enormous engineering project understood at its time as symbolic of the capacity the United States to alter the landscape to its ends, to make the oceans meet. A modern flip side of the positive image of transport is the great economic cost, and the environmental cost in sprawl, of course, and in the energy and material resource consumption, that these represent. There is a direct political connection from travel facilities to power. In antiquity the road system defined the extent of the empire. The Roman roads were explicit symbols of state power; they were how soldiers traveled quickly to maintain

26

B. Marsh and J. Jones

Fig. 2.3 The Los Angeles Freeway Interchange, symbol of efficient modern travel – and also of sprawl and profligate energy consumption. (Source: ifoto, copyright 2009, reproduced with permission from Shutterstock Images)

control of an expansive empire. “All roads lead to Rome,” thus they also lead from Rome when that need arises. The Roman roads themselves symbolized the reach of the empire, even when the soldiers were not there. The roads were engineered above the landscape, “sunken walls” as some call them, to be ready reminders to restive locals. The U.S. Interstate Highway system was authorized in 1956 through “The Defense Highway Act,” ostensibly for a similar military reason; the overpasses were engineered to fit the dimensions of the intercontinental missile. Social control is often based on the control of the movement of individuals in time and space, and control of movement is a central power of the modern state as it regulates immigration, labor mobility, long distance commerce, vagrancy, and passports (Torpey, 1998). In antiquity travel could be used as a cultural weapon; for example, the Hebrews were transported in the Babylonian Captivity to separate them from their roots in the landscape and thus to assault their identity. The same rending of cultural roots happens in modern times when populations are dislocated, such as the exchange of Muslims and Hindus between the new states of Pakistan and post-colonial India during the Partition, or the territorial displacements of the Armenians, Kurds, Greeks, and Greek Cypriots during stages of the development of modern Turkey. Conversely, pilgrimages imprint a broadly shared cultural identity on otherwise diverse groups. The Hajj unites Muslims from around the world, and travel to the sacred ghats at Varanasi gives a shared landscape meaning to Hinduism. Christianity offers examples of formal and informal pilgrimage sites. In Medieval

2

Building the Next Seven Wonders

27

Europe the faithful walked to cathedrals for the heightened religious experience. In the automobile landscape, driving to suburban megachurches – larger even than the cathedrals – is the optimal religious experience for many. The perceptual significance of travel is important as well. The emotional power of bodily movement upon participants is apparent in the symbolic importance of gates and harbors and terminals, as well as in the ceremonial perambulations that guided the construction of sacred spaces like Hindu temples and Egyptian funereal shrines, and in the processional music of weddings and commencements and inaugurations, in parades, and in military music leading soldiers into battle. Engineering projects related to travel draw on that same psychology of how movement will “transport” the participant. Investments in transport infrastructure also support societal wealth of course; they pay dividends in a simple financial sense. But travel facilities are especially effective carriers of symbolism. Overinvestment in airports and in airport access is common in poor countries. Such facilities are good examples of Flyvbjerg’s megaprojects paradox: hundreds of millions of dollars spent on an airport that handles a dozen international flights a day. Such places are symbolically very important. Travel facilities welcome the stranger, and tell the crucial first story about how well the state supports the interests of its people. Travelers from afar unavoidably witness these projects. Cities, especially, build monuments to their own capacity to command resources and generate civic identification (Fig. 2.4). The term “civil boosterism” was created for exactly this sentiment. Public landscapes speak of economic power of their builders, and the landscape is often the clearest way for cities to brag about their wealth. Aesthetic style is a manifestation of economic power – elegance speaks glowingly of the power to purchase it. A hundred years ago Veblen recognized “conspicuous consumption” as a tool of social differentiation, explaining the

Fig. 2.4 Civic pride of New York incorporated into a U.S. postage stamp, featuring the Manhattan skyline and the gateway symbols of the Statue of Liberty and the Hudson River waterfront

28

B. Marsh and J. Jones

political economy of fancy cars and stylish clothes (1912). A version of this effect can be seen on the cultural landscape in conspicuous construction by cities, states, corporations, and real estate developers. Witness the architectural exuberances of the great urban museums, galleries, opera houses around the world. Sports complexes are examples of this activity, as are skylines and bridges (see Fig. 2.4). However, civic identification is ephemeral, and the monuments are vulnerable either to direct attack like the New York skyline on 9/11, or to vagaries of economics as when a city finds itself with a stadium named after a bankrupt and disgraced company, like Houston, TX, recent home of Enron Field. Societies invest heavily in protecting themselves in non-military ways. Security includes security from threats of nature as well. Flood defense on the Lower Mississippi, one of the largest megaengineering projects in the U.S., was the pride of the region, in the simpler days before Hurricane Katrina. The lower Mississippi flood control systems represent a clear social good, but they are also a strong landscape symbol of government protection. The billions of dollars of pollution control facilities that the government has purchased or mandated, seen in the thousands of expensive sewer plants all over America that keep our water clean, have a similar role. The ancient antecedents for this trope are subtle, or absent in most cultures. The pyramid of Khufu at Giza was understood as a facilitator of societal continuance, since the well being of the Pharaoh in the afterlife was essential for the flood of the Nile and thus the success of the state. Sites of religious sacrifice, such as the great Aztec temples, served to stabilize the ancient world for those people. In modern America landscape features of protection may have come to represent vulnerability rather than safety, after the loss of New Orleans. The diminished sense of security that followed the failure of the levees at New Orleans and an insufficient government response is seen by many as the major assault on the domestic credibility of the administration of George W. Bush. Security is a very important message, in success or in failure. The state is protected through the control of its own citizens. Engineering is often social engineering, to affect the behavior of residents. Buildings that confront explicit security threats are often carefully constructed to guide and divide the occupants. Prisons, airports, high schools, and government buildings are familiar examples. To visit a U.S. embassy abroad in the age of terror is to enter an Orwellian landscape of blank walls, layers of doorways, ill-lit hermetic spaces, and disjointed communication through thick glass. The visitor’s inevitable sense of powerlessness before the strength of the US government may be a byproduct of the need for security, or it may be an explicit design goal. Ancient palaces were designed to inspire helplessness in those who approached them; the Flavian Palace or Mycenaean palaces were heavily guarded, and accessible only through bewilderingly circuitous pathways. The city of Naypyidaw, the new capital of Myanmar that was started in 2005, is a sophisticated social engineering project, protecting the embattled generals from domestic upheaval through the city’s isolation and its dispersed components. Journalist Siddharth Varadarajan referred to the social engineering context of the new city as a “dictatorship by cartography.”

2

Building the Next Seven Wonders

29

Vast and empty, Burma’s new capital will not fall to an urban upheaval easily. It has no city centre, no confined public space where even a crowd of several thousand people could make a visual, let alone political, impression. (Varadarajan, 2007: 69)

The modern American city itself is a space that is engineered – or at least evolved – to control people. Central to this control is in the functional apartheid that is imposed on minority residents all across America, through the use of roads and other infrastructure to physically divide populations, through differential access to public resources, and through the use of redevelopment and annexation to control political enfranchisement (Johnson, Parnell, Joyner, Marsh, & Christman, 2004). Finally, much investment by wealthy individuals or by entertainment companies is meant simply to amuse and to display conspicuous wealth. Las Vegas and the desert leisure communities of the Southwest are prime examples. Resorts and gated developments are semi-privatized examples of landscape expressions of economic power. A discussion of these landscapes inevitably turns to narcissists like Donald Trump, but many others have the same inclinations and the same tastes, if not the same resources. The magnitude of geoengineering at resorts, islands, marinas, ski slopes, and golf courses responds to these inclinations. Landscapes of whimsy might be the purest manifestation of this: the extravagant, but entirely functionless, Dubai coastal construction, Christo-like urban-scale art installations, and the fantastic architecture of gambling venues in Atlantic City and Las Vegas are examples. Commercial spaces also engineer human behavior toward more willing expenditures. The architectural analysis of Learning from Las Vegas provides the classic description of the semiotic commercial landscape into which American car culture is immersed (Venturi et al., 1977) and thousands of commercial strips across the country survive through the same principles. Pedestrian commercial spaces are even more manipulative; the intricate design of a department store or an enclosed mall steers the shoppers’ paths through space, and steers their desires and their commercial behavior as well. But these landscapes also represent wretched excess to many viewers, and remind us of the huge economic, social, and environmental cost of the great income inequities within the US. In today’s economic climate, even extravagant landscapes have come to reflect the new economic limits. As growth slows, resorts are under-occupied and leisure real estate values decline sharply.

2.6 Evolving Meanings Within Megaengineering The landscape symbol systems behind our interpretation of megaengineering projects are evolving rapidly in modern times. Changes in the world are forcing changes in the symbolic weight of megaengineering projects. Political landscape symbolism is always unstable in time. Monumental landscape alteration is an activity favored more in some political and historic circumstances than others. Noting that the period of the building the large Wessex henges, including Stonehenge, was followed by a period of much humbler landscape constructions,

30

B. Marsh and J. Jones

Thomas suggests “It follows that the monuments of the Neolithic are something specific, something which defines a particular social formation” (1991: 29), especially a risky, shifting political environment. The aggrandizing power of monumental features is used more for totalitarian political entities needing enhancement than, for example, for stable and populist social democracies. As political climates shift toward or away from authoritarianism, the political landscapes, including the megaengineered parts, become more or less explicitly about power and authority. Many of our most grandiosely expressive political landscapes are from times of widespread stress, when government paternalism was most welcome. Periods of political uncertain in the 20th century U.S. history are drawn onto the landscape as the massive public work projects of the Depression, the megalithic bureaucratic landscapes of Washington that expanded during WW II, and the many extensive military constructions from the Cold War. An interesting discourse is emerging within the landscape vocabulary about state and corporate behavior. The concept of abundance now includes the new element of “environmental health.” One’s world is only as rich as it is healthy; ironically abundance now can include the idea of not using resources. National parks have projected the concept of wilderness preservation – a variant of the abundance meme – for over a century, but a new measure of state power is the restoration of the previously degraded. States invest in cleanliness, as do corporations. The Kissimmee River in Florida is being restored to its meandering form from before it was “improved” in the 1950s, through billions of tax dollars spent to undo previous engineering. Chesapeake Bay, New York Bight, Boston Harbor, and Lake Erie receive equivalent levels of megaengineered ecological remediation. The ongoing investment of money into removing dams from rivers turns on its head the oddly anthropocentric language once used for control of nature: “reclamation” was what we did to wetlands and rivers when we brought them under human control. Now they are being liberated from human control, although we do not have symmetrical language for “unreclaiming” them. Corporations invest heavily in their own aggrandizement by proclaiming the cleanliness of their effluents; more may be spent on trumpeting some corporate environmental successes than had been spent on the success itself, it seems. Landscape symbols are now experienced from afar far more than before. Landscape features are commonly only seen by secondary presentations of imagery for most people, seen on television far more often than experienced directly. The design of mega-features may be calibrated more for the camera than for the traveler. The internet in general, and perhaps Google maps in particular, level the public experience of distant landscapes: the best view of many places might be digital, no matter how rich you are. As graphical reproduction techniques have improved over the last few centuries, imagery has been displacing direct experience of the built and the natural environments throughout Western consciousness. Even when one is actually on the ground, landscape interaction is often guided by stylized understandings of the correct perspectives on a scene. Tour guides lead their charges to the particular spots from which standard postcard or travel poster images of a site are taken so that tourists’ own pictures will look “right.” Earth itself, with which we

2

Building the Next Seven Wonders

31

should be entirely intimate, is frequently represented by the most remote of images, the canonical 1972 Apollo 17 “Blue Marble” whole disk photograph centered over the South Indian Ocean. The mega-landscape “winners,” the makers of the most wondrous megaengineering projects, are a now different group of people than in even the recent past. A couple decades ago landscape extravagance was largely an enterprise of the Eurocentric states. Now conspicuous construction is more apparent in Asia, in the Persian Gulf, in oil-rich Russia, and especially in China. Shanghai has 4,000 skyscrapers, twice the number that New York has, and another 1,000 are expected in this decade (French, 2006). This is exactly the point of conspicuous consumption, of course: it is important that someone can afford a luxury solely because someone else cannot. The “someones” have been shifting eastward (Fig. 2.5).

Fig. 2.5 Skyline of Shanghai, which has thoroughly eclipsed New York in density of skyscrapers. Quintessentially urban landscapes have become more prevalent in Asia than in the Eurocentric world over the last decade. (Source: Claudio Zaccherini, copyright 2009, reproduced with permission from Shutterstock Images)

Of course, the economic deck is getting reshuffled right now, and the near future is especially unclear. In March 2009, the BBC reported that half of Dubai’s residential and commercial construction planned for the next three years, worth US$ 76 billion, has been canceled or suspended. (BBC News, 2009) In the U.S. government investment is typically up during recessions, but the favored projects are less ostentatious and more labor-friendly than during boom times – fewer opera houses and more mass transit systems or greening projects. The messaging success of extravagant projects may be harder to assess these days, as social values shift in response to outside events. What may recently have been confidently presented as a grand and elegant gesture, a luxurious tropical resort, for example, can as easily be seen as an embarrassing symbol of waste and indulgence. Notice that the resale market for corporate jets became glutted early on in the most recent recession, as companies dumped the newly embarrassing symbols. Expanding public concern about poverty, environmental impact and human rights issues can force reinterpretation of the messages. The heterogeneity of global

32

B. Marsh and J. Jones

culture vastly increases the risk that messages cannot be interpreted as they were sent. The intricate internal power memes of the North Korean autocracy are just tragic and comic to most of the world. The global impacts of macroprojects themselves complicate the semiotics of their landscape manifestation. How should people read a project like the Three Gorges Dam that, in some fashion, glorifies a state, but maybe best known worldwide for its massive degradation of the local environment? Meaning becomes increasingly mutable within the globalized information field.

2.7 Conclusion No aspect of macroengineering makes sense unless it is understood as being part of a landscape symbol system. The magnitude of investment in large projects reflects not only an economic calculation; the projects are also investments in symbolic content. That is why macroengineering seems to present an economic paradox. Many design decisions about large projects act to increase their landscape legibility at the expense of their utility; the engineering itself may become subordinate to symbolic concerns. The messages that are typically linked to the “mega” part are themselves oversized. The project needs to be obvious and emphatic; it needs to evoke “wonder” in a fashion that would be familiar to designers from antiquity. Each large product by a powerful actor supports the ideological legitimacy and authority of that actor. Large scale engineering constructs a landscape that reinforces the power of the builder, whenever it was built. The themes of Hellenistic landscape interpretation represented by the list of Seven Wonders continue to be relevant. As the world evolves, as the world is changed by globalization, geopolitical conflict, economic disruption, and environmental degradation, the landscape symbol systems will change. The most powerful economic actors are likely to be different every few decades, and statements that were admired by one generation may be embarrassing the next. But in many ways the root meaning of large scale alteration of the landscape will continue to resemble the 2200 year old of landscape wonders chosen to track Alexander’s successes through the Near East. Landscape transformation is an explicit representation of economic, military, ecological, and social power, and power is always used to justify more power.

References Baker, A. R. H. (1992). Introduction: on ideology and landscape. In A. R. H. Baker & G. Biger (Eds.), Ideology and landscape in historical perspective: Essays on the meanings of some places in the past (pp. 1–15). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. BBC News. (2009). Dubai property boom hits the wall. Retrieved March 9, 2009, from http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/business/7933265.stm Cosgrove, D. E. (1998). Social formation and symbolic landscape. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press. Cosgrove D. E. (1989). Geography is everywhere: Culture and symbolism in human landscapes. In D. Gregory & R. Walford (Eds.), Horizons in Human Geography (pp. 118–135). London: Macmillan.

2

Building the Next Seven Wonders

33

Cosgrove, D. E., & Daniels, S. (1989). The iconography of landscape: Essays on the symbolic representation, design and use of past environments. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Duncan, J. S. (1990). The city as text: The politics of landscape interpretation in the Kandyan Kingdom. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Duncan Jr., J. S. (1976). Landscape and the communication of social identity. In A. Rapoport (Ed.), The mutual interaction of people and their built environment (pp. 391–401). The Hague, Paris: Mouton Publishers. Flyvbjerg, B., Bruzelius, N., & Rothengatter, W. (2002). Megaprojects and risk: Making decisions in an uncertain world. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. French, H. W. (2006) Letter from China: Quick, catch a glimpse of Shanghai vanishing International Herald Tribune. 6 April Johnson, J., Parnell, A., Joyner, A., Marsh, B., & Christman, C. (2004) Racial apartheid in a small southern town, Review of Black Political Economy, 31, 4. MacCannell, D. (1976). The tourist: A new theory of the leisure class. Berkeley: University of California Press. Meinig, D. W. (1979). Reading the landscape: an appreciation of W. G. Hoskins and J. B. Jackson. In D. W. Meinig & J. B. Jackson (Eds.), The interpretation of ordinary landscapes: Geographical essays (pp. 195–244). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mitchell, D. (2000). Cultural geography: A critical introduction. Oxford: Blackwell. New7Wonders Foundation. (2007). New7Wonders: The official new 7 wonders of the world. Retrieved February 20, 2009, from http://www.new7wonders.com/classic/en/n7w/results/ Owen, J. (2007). Photo Gallery: New 7 Wonders vs. Ancient 7 Wonders. National Geographic Society News. Retrieved February 24, 2009, from http://news.nationalgeographic.com/ news/2007/07/photogalleries/seven-wonders/ Romer, J., & Romer, E. (2001). The seven wonders of the world: A history of the modern imagination. New York: Seven Dials. Sauer, C. O. (1996). The morphology of landscape. In J. A. Agnew, D. N. Livingstone, & A. Rogers (Eds.), Human geography: An essential anthology (pp. 296–315). London: Blackwell. Schultz, P. (2003). 1,000 places to see before you die. New York: Workman Publishing. Thomas, J. (1991). Rethinking the neolithic. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Thomas, W. L. (Ed.). (1956). Man’s role in changing the face of the earth. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Torpey, J. (1998). Coming and going: On the state monopolization of the legitimate “means of movement.” Sociological Theory, 16, 3. Tuan, Y.-F. (1974). Topophilia: A study of environmental perception, attitudes, and values. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. UNESCO. (2009). World Heritage Center – World Heritage List UNESCO World Heritage Centre. Retrieved March 10, 2009, from http://whc.unesco.org/en/list Varadarajan, S. (2007) Dictatorship by cartography. Himal Southasian, 20, 2. Veblen, T. (1912). The theory of the leisure class: An economic study of institutions. New York: Macmillan. Venturi, R., Brown, D. S., & Izenour, S. (1977) Learning from Las Vegas: The forgotten symbolism of architectural form. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. White, G. F. (1968) Water and choice in the Colorado basin: An example of alternatives in water management. National Research Council Committee on Water. No. 1689. Washington, DC: National Academy of Sciences. Wittfogel, K. A. (1957) Oriental despotism: A comparative study of total power. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Zelinsky, W. (1988). Nation into state: The shifting symbolic foundations of American nationalism. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press.

Part II

GIS, ICTs and K-Economies

Chapter 3

Information Technology as Megaengineering: The Impact of GIS Michael F. Goodchild

3.1 Introduction We normally think of engineering, and particularly megaengineering, in terms of big iron: large-scale physical investments in the form of ports, bridges, highways, and dams. Science has its own versions, such as the Hubble Telescope, the CERN Large Hadron Collider, and the South Pole Research Station, each designed in its way to support a number of researchers with a facility that can be shared between them and engineered to high standards of reliability and robustness. Over the years, however, new materials of greater strength, along with various forms of miniaturization, have allowed a steady progress towards engineering solutions that are smaller and in many cases cheaper—towards smaller iron, as it were. New materials led to the vastly increased power of the modern jet engine, and to the light, fuel-saving design of the Boeing 787 Dreamliner. Most spectacularly, perhaps, the individual vacuum tubes and components of early computer circuits have been replaced with chips that integrate millions and even billions of components into a single unit less than a centimeter across that can be mass produced at very low cost. As a result, it has been possible to replace the big iron of the university central computer of the 1970s with a multitude of small machines distributed in the institution’s offices and laboratories. The in-vehicle navigation system, sometimes called a satnav, provides a compelling case in point. Today one can purchase and install for roughly $100 a unit that will successfully track the vehicle, match the track to a digital representation of a road network, identify an address or point of interest as the trip’s destination, and provide detailed driving instructions. All of these services are provided by a package that is small enough to fit, unobtrusively, on the dashboard of a modern automobile. Paradoxically, however, the name commonly assigned to such devices is a “GPS”, derived from the satellite-based Global Positioning System developed

M.F. Goodchild (B) Department of Geography, University of California, Santa Barbara, CA 93106, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_3,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

37

38

M.F. Goodchild

and managed by the US Department of Defense that provides the essential measurements of current vehicle position. The equally and arguably more important database representing the locations of streets and contained in the system is invisible and intangible to the average user, who is not therefore inclined to refer to the device as such, much to the frustration of the vendors of such databases (Navteq or TeleAtlas) whose brand consequently means essentially nothing to the average citizen. In short, we tend to think of services such as this in terms of their physical, tangible expression—not big iron, and not even iron, but nevertheless constructed of real, tangible materials. The bits and bytes of the database have no physical presence and thus little meaning to the user. Even when the hardware and network connections are of significant physical size, their importance is still often unrecognized. Thus it is the GPS circuitry that dominates the public perception of a satnav, not the chips that perform the map matching and generate the visual displays. One of the largest buildings in the Olympic complex constructed for the 2008 Beijing games was an almost featureless cube with no obviously visible function. It housed the very elaborate and extensive computers, routers, and networks that were needed to manage the enormous flows of digital information from the site, and in the sense of this discussion was as much megaengineering as the instantly recognizable “bird’s nest” stadium. In this chapter I seek to redress this imbalance by arguing that in today’s information economy the bits and bytes of digital systems are at least as important as society’s bridges and highways. More specifically, I argue that geographic information systems (GIS), and more generally the geospatial technologies, are just as important in their impacts on society as the traditional megaprojects, and that their long-term effects will be just as profound. The next section discusses the nature of large scale investment in digital technology, or what is often termed cyberinfrastructure. This is followed by a discussion of geospatial technologies: their history, their role in modern society, and their likely development directions. The final substantive section discusses the impacts of these technologies on society, and the growing interest of society in participating more directly in their application.

3.2 Cyberinfrastructure Parallels have often been drawn between today’s electronic communication networks, and specifically the Internet, and the impacts on previous generations of such major investments as canals, railroads, and telephone networks. Describing the Internet as the information superhighway, a term often attributed to Al Gore, makes the point perfectly, inviting us to compare the impacts of the Internet with those of the construction of freeways (in the US the Eisenhower National System of Interstate and Defense Highways), and implying that the massive changes of land use that resulted, with the development of new malls, hotels, and housing developments at freeway interchanges, the collapse of many traditional downtowns, and restructured commuting, were likely to be matched or exceeded by the eventual impacts of the Internet.

3

Information Technology as Megaengineering

39

In the US the term cyberinfrastructure has been widely adopted, largely at the instigation of the National Science Foundation (NSF), to describe the role of digital technology in revolutionizing the way research is conducted. While NSF has often taken a leading role in the building of the US Internet, part of the latter’s power stems from its ability to integrate numerous subnetworks that have been constructed by other public agencies and by private investment. But the muchcited Atkins Report (NSF, 2003) defines cyberinfrastructure as reaching far beyond the communication network itself, as a “layer of enabling hardware, algorithms, software, communications, institutions, and personnel” that lies between a layer of “base technologies. . .the integrated electro-optical components of computation, storage, and communication” and a layer of “software programs, services, instruments, data, information, knowledge, and social practices applicable to specific projects, disciplines, and communities of practice.” The report sees this investment in infrastructure as nothing short of revolutionary in its impact on the way science is conducted, and on the potential for new discoveries and inventions; and vastly outweighing the impact of any single, more traditional big-iron investment. It describes the new science that is enabled by cyberinfrastructure as more collaborative, no longer requiring collaborators to be co-located; as more integrated given the ease with which researchers from different disciplines are able to collaborate; and as more computational, relying on simulation rather than analysis to study the complex systems and problems that increasingly require science’s attention. While the term cyberinfrastructure has its strongest currency in US science, the same basic idea of information technology as megaengineering, with megaimpacts, has now invaded virtually all aspects of human activity in the developed countries. An increasing proportion of retailing takes place electronically, as does more and more of our communication, whether in the form of speech or email. More and more people obtain their news online, to the extent that many traditional print media, notably newspapers, are in danger of collapse. Online entertainment, in the form of participatory gaming, is now occupying a significant proportion of society’s leisure time. Despite this the digital divide is alive and well, and it would be foolish to suggest that the impacts and benefits of cyberinfrastructure will ever be uniformly distributed around the world and throughout human society. The overwhelming majority of the human population, notably in the developing countries, currently has no access to computers or their communication networks. Great progress is being made, but in the constantly accelerating world of electronic technology it seems virtually impossible for the disadvantaged ever to catch up with the advantaged.

3.3 The Geospatial Technologies 3.3.1 Overview Geospatial information can be defined as information about specified places on or near the Earth’s surface, and thus in the environments within which humans live and act. It can consist of statements about large areas, such as the population of

40

M.F. Goodchild

California, or about narrowly defined points, such as the height of Everest, but in every case there is a link between some property and an associated place. To be operational, the associated area must be defined in latitude and longitude, or in some system that can be readily converted to latitude and longitude. Today the set of such systems includes street addresses, since it has become easy to convert them to latitude and longitude in most developed countries, a process known as geocoding or address matching. Indexes or gazetteers of recognized features such as states or lakes also exist, allowing properties associated with such features to be positioned in latitude and longitude; and in many countries there are recognized systems of formal coordinates such as national grids. One of the great successes of geospatial technology in recent years has been in making it almost trivially easy, cheap, and reliable to convert between these alternative systems of geographic referencing, and to embed these features in countless Web services. The general public uses these services, often without being aware of their inherent sophistication, in such daily activities as finding the locations of points of interest such as stores or hotels, acquiring driving directions, or planning travel. Over the past few decades there has been rapid development in a number of technologies that create, process, or analyze geospatial information. GPS has already been mentioned, as a system for the rapid and accurate measurement of location. Various versions exist, some capable of determining location to millimeter accuracies. Another technology is satellite-based remote sensing, which dates in its civilian form from the early 1970s. Today a large array of Earth-imaging satellites are in regular orbits, owned and operated by many countries and corporations, and collecting and transmitting images at ground resolutions as fine as 62 cm. In the aftermath of the Wenchuan Earthquake of May 2008, for example, a large collection of fineresolution images became almost immediately available to the Chinese authorities, including imagery acquired for very different purposes by US intelligence agencies. The last and perhaps most important of these technologies is the geographic information system (GIS), a software package capable of performing a wide range of manipulations on geospatial information, including analysis, modeling, storage, visualization, and many other operations. Such packages are available in many different forms, designed for desktop computers, large scale servers, and hand-held devices, and supplied by commercial vendors, academic groups, and open-source communities. Today it is reasonable to assume that a GIS will be capable of performing virtually any conceivable operation on geospatial information. The first GIS was developed in the 1960s (Foresman, 1998) to respond to a very specific requirement of the Canadian government: the calculation of measures of area from tens of thousands of hand-drafted maps based on field surveys. The federal government had established a committee to provide the provinces with detailed analyses of the Canadian land resource, including its current and potential uses. This would have been an enormously tedious, inaccurate, and labor-intensive task if performed by hand, but even in the primitive computing environment of the time it was possible to demonstrate that a computational solution was far preferable to a manual one in both costs and benefits. The maps in this case represented various forms of land use. But it was not long before other applications developed,

3

Information Technology as Megaengineering

41

in such areas as transportation and the gathering of the Census, and by the late 1970s a consensus had emerged that a wide range of applications could be served by a single, integrated software environment and a single approach to representing geographically distributed phenomena in digital form. The first commercial GISs appeared at that time and by the mid 1980s a substantial software industry had been established. Geospatial technologies have found viable applications in virtually all areas of human activity. In research, they are now essential to any discipline that deals with phenomena on or near the surface of the Earth, from atmospheric science to criminology. A recent editorial (Nature, 2008) argued that there is no longer any excuse for not recording the exact location of any measurement or specimen collected from the environment, though vast numbers of specimens in our museums have only crudely recorded locational information. Geospatial technologies are used to track migrating birds and animals, to model and predict the effects of global climate change, and to study the emergence of residential segregation in cities (Goodchild & Janelle, 2004). In the commercial world, geospatial technologies are essential for the routing and scheduling of delivery and collection vehicles, for keeping track of the distributed assets of utilities, for improving agricultural production through precision agriculture, and for managing cutting and silviculture in forestry operations. In government, they are essential in support of planning, data-gathering, and assessment. However, the most spectacular recent growth has come in the use of geospatial technologies by the general public. One of the first such services was MapQuest, a site that could generate driving directions to specified destinations. After the release of Google Earth in 2005, and later Google Maps and Microsoft Virtual Earth, it became possible for any user, even a child of ten, to interact with detailed geospatial data and tools. This democratization of GIS (Butler, 2006), or at least of some of its basic functions, and the exposure of the general public to the wealth of geospatial data available from remote sensing and GPS, led to a dramatic increase in awareness and engagement. Google has recorded over 300 million downloads of the Google Earth client. More significantly, the release of the Application Programming Interface for both Google Earth and Google Maps in 2005 led to an explosion in the range of applications, as it became possible for people with minimal computing skills to create their own mashups of new data with the imagery and maps of Google Earth and Google Maps, and to publish the results online. Today Google Maps is used as the underlying mapping engine by an enormous variety of services, from hotel reservations to retailing, and the Google Earth mashup has become popular as a way of disseminating the results of scientific research. While GIS has always had a reputation for being difficult to use, and previous efforts at GIS education focused on the training of an elite cadre of professionals, today virtually anyone with access to the Internet can perform sophisticated manipulations of geographic information. The central educational question has shifted from “What does a GIS professional need to know?” to “What does everyone need to know?” to use these technologies effectively, ethically, and responsibly.

42

M.F. Goodchild

3.3.2 Development Directions Past evidence suggests that researchers can be spectacularly unsuccessful at anticipating major developments in the geospatial technologies. In their introduction to the second edition of Geographical Information Systems (Longley, Goodchild, Maguire, & Rhind, 1999), the editors commented that the most glaring omission in their first edition, published in 1991, was any reference to the Web, which began its spectacular growth and impact in 1993 with the release of the first public browser, Mosaic. By the end of 1993 Xerox’s Palo Alto Research Center had published the first Web-based map services and the first Web-based services for finding and obtaining geospatial data online began to appear in 1994. Within a few years the Federal Geographic Data Committee and the Open Geospatial Consortium had begun the process of developing the standards and specifications that would support today’s complex of Web-based services, often known as the GeoWeb or Geospatial Web (Scharl & Tochtermann, 2007). Nevertheless, it is interesting and useful to speculate on what may emerge over the next few years. What follows is of course a highly personal and idiosyncratic analysis and I fully expect a range of different views from colleagues in the research community. First, GPS is increasingly embedded in a wide range of technologies, from mobile phones to vehicles, enabling them to know their locations to meters. Computers are increasingly location-enabled through online services that convert Internet addresses to latitude and longitude, and the latest Microsoft operating systems do this automatically, so that computers finally know not only what time it is, but where on the planet they are currently located (or more precisely, currently connected to the Internet). RFID (Radio-Frequency Identification) also provides the basis for determining location, through the use of small sensors that respond to readers, just as aircraft constantly identify themselves to air-traffic controllers. RFID is the basis for tracking goods from production to sale, for tracking cars through automatic toll gates, and for the congestion charges now being leveled in some cities. Surveillance cameras that can identify faces now offer the potential of tracking individuals as they move around densely monitored areas such as Central London. All of these developments suggest that in future it will be possible to know where everything is at all times. The implications for personal privacy are profound, of course, but so are the benefits of being able to track parolees, pets, and stolen cars, and victims of a major catastrophe. Clearly one would not want to place an RFID tag on every brick in a building, but one might well want to do so with every farm animal in a tightly managed agricultural environment such as the Netherlands, or with every passport issued to a country’s citizens. Second, the geospatial technologies are and have always been primarily twodimensional in their representation of the geographic world. Remote sensing provides two-dimensional images, and while three-dimensional representations can be constructed from pairs of images through photogrammetry, they are limited to the outer surfaces of structures and cannot deal with overhangs, creating models that are often loosely described as “2.5D.” GPS is able to determine elevation as

3

Information Technology as Megaengineering

43

well as horizontal location, but less accurately, and cannot do so in places where satellite signals are blocked, such as inside structures. And although progress has been made in recent years, GIS is also dominated by two-dimensional representation, reflecting its historic roots in capturing the contents of paper maps (Goodchild, 1988). In future we should imagine a world in which the geospatial technologies will become fully enabled in the third spatial dimension, and in which systems for navigating indoors will be as common and widely used as the current systems for navigating the two-dimensional outdoors. Retailing and the service economy will provide one strong motivating application by supporting the finding of destinations within the complex three-dimensional structures that increasingly typify urban shopping. Wayfinding within airports, mass transit systems, and universities are other obvious applications, as are the tracking of staff, patients, and other assets within hospitals. Third, geospatial technologies are already enabling the average person to become not only a consumer but also a producer of geospatial data. The phenomenon known as volunteered geographic information (VGI) (Goodchild, 2008a), a form of usergenerated Web content, extends now to a wide range of geographic information types, from street maps to environmental quality, and to a wide range of scales from the global to the neighborhood. Thousands of individuals around the world are actively involved in the creation of VGI in their spare time, with no training in geography or cartography, with no obvious source of reward, and with no guarantee that what they produce is accurate. The question of quality is clearly key, since we traditionally place great trust in the official, authoritative sources of geographic data. However there is ample evidence that volunteered information, while missing the kinds of quality guarantees provided by official agencies, is in practice of equal or higher quality in many instances (Goodchild, 2008b). VGI is particularly helpful when it can take advantage of the presence of humans as observers and interpreters of local conditions and for properties that fineresolution remote sensing is unable to detect. Early detection of change and early evaluation of damage from disasters are two areas where citizens with their dense geographic distribution are able to provide information that officialdom would find impossibly expensive or time-consuming to collect. While he or she may be of little help in classifying and mapping local soils, the average citizen is an expert in the naming of local features, measuring simple parameters of the environment, and even with a little training in counting local populations of birds or plants. Finally, geospatial technologies are increasingly able to detect and map phenomena in real time. Traditional mapping has been a slow process and maps may in some cases be years out of date before they are published, distributed, and used. But sensors are now available to monitor and sample properties of the environment at frequent intervals, and Web-based technologies allow such data to be assembled and disseminated almost instantaneously. In future, then, it is conceivable that we will know the complete state of the world at all times. Loop detectors, cameras, GPS, vehicle probes, and RFID can potentially tell us the real-time state of a transportation system, allowing citizens to know the level of congestion and associated

44

M.F. Goodchild

pollution at every point in an urban road network, or the precise arrival time of any transit vehicle. Trucks arriving at ports to collect containers could be precisely scheduled, avoiding the complex process of restacking containers to find and load the correct one, and reducing the pollution created by idling trucks. The detailed state of the environment and the state of human health are other arenas where access to real-time geospatial data, and associated monitoring, could provide real benefits to society.

3.4 The Impacts of Geospatial Megaengineering Metrics of the total commitment to geospatial technologies are hard to come by. In the early 1990s the U.S. Office of Management and Budget conducted a survey of annual investments in the acquisition of geospatial data, and showed a total of over $4 billion. But that figure excluded all of the remote-sensing programs of NASA, the GPS program of the Department of Defense, and many others, and was concerned only with data acquisition. We know that ESRI, the leading vendor of GIS software, has an annual turnover of roughly $1 billion. But there are no assessments of the amount of time citizens spend using geospatial technologies, or the amount of time invested in VGI. Nevertheless, it seems clear that despite its diffuse nature and comparative invisibility, the sum total of activity centered on the geospatial technologies is a significant proportion of GNP in the developed countries and that it also occupies a significant proportion of volunteered time. More broadly, information technology now consumes a measurable and growing proportion of the US energy supply; represents an enormous public and private investment in communications infrastructure; and consumes a large and increasing share of household, corporate, and governmental budgets. The geospatial technologies have some very unique and specific impacts on human behavior, however. It is helpful at this point to distinguish between virtual and augmented realities. In a virtual reality (VR), computing technologies are used to replace the user’s real geographic environment with one created entirely from a database. The virtual environment could be immersive, so that all signals from the real geographic environment could be excluded. At the University of California, Santa Barbara, for example, an immersive environment consisting of a 30-ft (9.1 m) diameter sphere with projected 3D vision and sound, the Allosphere (http://www.mat.ucsb.edu/allosphere/), recently became available for interdisciplinary research. In an augmented reality (AR), on the other hand, information technology serves to augment rather than replace the signals coming from the environment. By definition, then, an AR requires the user’s actual location and the location represented in the database to be coincident; whereas in VR they must by definition be disjoint. An AR environment may consist of a heads-up display in which information from the database is superimposed directly on the user’s field of view or it may consist of no more than the screen of a mobile phone. In both cases the role of AR is to

3

Information Technology as Megaengineering

45

augment what the user can see, touch, hear, feel, and smell, by providing supplementary information through the visual or auditory channels. AR can also play a vital role in replacing a missing sense, as for example in applications that assist the visually impaired to navigate through complex environments without sight by providing audible directions (see, for example, Golledge, Loomis, Klatzky, Flury, Yang, 1991). AR can inform a construction project of the positions of utilities under a street, or inform tourists of the locations, menus, and reviews of nearby restaurants. It can provide emergency personnel with vital information about the hazardous chemicals stored in a building, or about the real-time locations of other rescue workers in a smoke-filled structure. The applications of AR to human activities are limited only by our imagination. Nevertheless it is the long-term impacts of AR that are likely to be the most profound. Consider, for example, a tourist in a strange city searching for a coffee shop. Traditionally such services have had to advertise themselves visually, through signage or the adoption of conspicuous locations. But AR-enabled customers can easily find wayfinding instructions to the nearest outlet using online databases. Thus conspicuous locations and intrusive signage are no longer needed, and services can retreat to the cheaper, less obvious locations. In such a world services would no longer need to pay a premium for locations on street corners and main streets, leading to a substantial restructuring of the retail landscape. Real-time knowledge of the state of transportation networks will allow drivers and passengers to respond quickly to congestion, construction, and other interruptions. An interesting pattern may emerge in such situations, as individuals decide whether to reroute, or to hold course on the grounds that conditions will improve as others leave the route. In principle the result of such behavior should be instability, because of the speed with which information passes around the system; perhaps information technology has played a similar role in the instabilities of the world economy that became almost uncontrollable in late 2008. More broadly, geospatial technologies have greatly increased the ability of individuals to see what is happening in their own neighborhoods and around the world. Google’s decision to provide frequently updated, fine-resolution imagery of the Darfur region undoubtedly led to a greater sense of awareness of the atrocities being committed there. At the other end of the spectrum many local communities are employing geospatial technologies to help them understand and manage their own neighborhoods, raise awareness of potential problems, and engage with planning authorities.

3.5 Conclusions I have argued in this essay that the geospatial technologies deserve the status of megaengineering. While they are highly dispersed, often miniaturized to the point of being virtually invisible, and produced by a complex array of companies, individuals, and agencies, many of them acting essentially independently, the sum total

46

M.F. Goodchild

of this investment, nevertheless, combines to produce a substantial set of impacts on human activity. The geospatial technologies largely evolved in a world of two spatial dimensions and with a focus on those aspects of the geographic landscape that are essentially static—the aspects such as topography, soils, and land cover that are the focus of traditional mapping. Recently, however, there have been major advances in our ability to characterize and monitor the world in real time, through the use of networks of sensors and through the willingness of individuals to volunteer information through the Web. The third spatial dimension is also becoming more important in a range of applications and in future it seems likely that the geospatial technologies will operate in the full four dimensions (three spatial dimensions plus time) of the geographic environment. In the human body the various parts develop and function largely independently. The functions of the liver, for example, are very different from those of the foot or the head. The circulatory system reaches all parts of the body, making it difficult to target specific sites such as tumors with drugs introduced into the bloodstream. Only the nervous system is spatial, telling the brain exactly where pain is felt. By analogy, the geospatial technologies acquire, integrate, process, and distribute information that addresses not only what but where, and have consequently been argued to form a nervous system for the planet. What is missing at the global scale, of course, is the equivalent of the brain that integrates incoming signals, stores and processes them, and executes its decisions by passing signals back through the nervous system to control muscular action. Great progress has been made in the past few decades in integrating geospatial data, but we have not yet begun to build the kinds of integrated decision-making systems that can guide the planet into an increasingly uncertain future.

References Butler, D. (2006). The Web-wide world. Nature, 439, 776–778. Foresman, T. W. (Ed.). (1998). The history of geographic information systems: Perspectives of the pioneers. Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall PTR. Golledge, R. G., Loomis, R. L., Klatzky, A., Flury, A., & Yang, X. L. (1991). Designing a personal guidance system to aid navigation without sight: Progress on the GIS component. International Journal of Geographical Information Systems, 5(4), 373–395. Goodchild, M. F. (1988). Stepping over the line: Technological constraints and the new cartography. American Cartographer, 5, 311–319. Goodchild, M. F. (2008a). Commentary: whither VGI? GeoJournal 72, 239–244. Goodchild, M. F. (2008b). Assertion and authority: the science of user-generated geographic content. Proceedings of the Colloquium for Andrew U. Frank’s 60th Birthday. GeoInfo 39. Department of Geoinformation and Cartography, Vienna University of Technology, Vienna. Goodchild, M. F., & Janelle, D. G. (Eds.). (2004). Spatially integrated social science. New York: Oxford University Press. Longley, P. A., Goodchild, M. F., Maguire, D. J., & Rhind, D. W. (1999). Geographical information systems: Principles, techniques, management, and applications. New York: Wiley.

3

Information Technology as Megaengineering

47

National Science Foundation. (2003). Report of the National Science Foundation blue-ribbon panel on cyberinfrastructure. Washington, DC: National Science Foundation. Available online http://www.nsf.gov/od/oci/reports/toc.jsp Nature. (2008). Editorial: A place for everything. Nature, 453, 2. Scharl, A., & Tochtermann, K. (Eds.). (2007). The geospatial web: How Geobrowsers, social software and the web 2.0 are shaping the network society. London: Springer.

Chapter 4

Google and the Internet: A Mega-Project Nesting Within Another Mega-Project Maria Paradiso

4.1 Introduction This chapter discusses the role of the Internet and its main rider “Google” as megaprojects encompassing a global scale, having some universal features and an omnipresence, mediating numerous spheres of everyday life, and possibly exerting deep global impacts with emerging and relevant geopolitical, cultural, and economic implications. The chapter begins with brief discussions of the “meganess” of the Internet followed by itss essence compared to civil engineering megaprojects. In the third section I present its evolution and possible implications for human activities, including those related to information, communications and cognition. I introduce in the forth section, the “Google” case, a major Internet rider, as a megaproject, followed by the fifth section that discusses Google’s nesting within the Internet and theorizing a model of virtual megaproject nesting. The reflexive understanding of Google’s “meganess” is reflected (a) in terms of its nesting, virtually and locally, (b) its roles as a major gatekeeper for digital information; (c) as the principal mediator for communication, (d); its being a most powerful repository of computing power; (e) its constitution the largest storage of localized data; and (f) its being a virtual earth information indexing and mapping tool. All of these initiatives of converge capacities of a mega information and communication system. Also all have geopolitical, political, and cultural significances for the globe. As I discuss below, Google highlights the significance of megaprojects as a new path in the human experience of dwelling in the world, perceiving and having cognition of it, doing business, travelling around it, as well as its building and transformation. The concluding section highlights the significance of Google’s “invisible” cyberspace organization and performances, viz., the culture, the logic, strategies of information and communication organization and practices and what it implies in terms of convergence of corporations, individuals, and places on a global scale, but managed privately. M. Paradiso (B) Department of Social Sciences, University of Sannio, Benevento, Italy e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_4,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

49

50

M. Paradiso

4.2 Essence of the Internet as a Megaproject The Internet has been considered a number of ways in recent years, for example, as a global network of computers linked by telecommunications and protocols (Dodge & Kitchin, 2001) and as the most comprehensive information system (Kellerman, 2002) impacting on geography (Brunn, 1998a) and also as a factor of possibly new geopolitical relations in a frame of a multidimensional state of nodes and networks (Brunn, 1998b). Considering the Internet as a megaproject offers a new perspective within which to examine its very essence, its evolution and impacts. Theorizing the Internet as a megaproject may provide a powerful unified discourse on the significance of the Internet in terms of global trends, since, I argue, the Internet is a force which blurs world cultures, influencing place cognitions and use, enabling individuals, even creating new geopolitical power. In addition, discussing the Internet as a megaproject serves as a powerful cognitive perspective to perceive and assess the global nature of its deep impacts on humanity. In primis, compared to the majority of megaprojects, the Internet is mostly virtual rather than physical. But its nature is also of a general-purpose technology (GPT) (Malecki & Gorman, 2001) (Table 4.1). In this, it is similar to industrial age technologies, such as electricity, railroads, highways, which were and still are megaprojects (for example, the Trans-Siberian project). Secondly it is not just located in one place, as a precise location on specific geographic coordinates, but it is globally extended as a network, that is, a networked geographical structure. Thirdly, it is large in size, as are other traditional megaprojects. One major difference between the Internet megaproject and civil engineering mega-projects is that the Internet is a not owned entity (NOE) while the others are owned entities. Nobody owns the infrastructure of the Internet, not even a single state, nor can any corporation or individual control, maintain, sell, dismiss, rent or even regulate it. For the Internet this “ownership” entails conditions of a no man’s land, or a not-owned entity. And since communication flows span millions of individuals freely interacting in cyberspace and not in a bounded institutionalized locality, the Internet can be considered a borderless entity. Similarly to the majority of megaprojects, the meganess of the Internet can be appreciated at first glance in terms of size and in part from its nature as a general purpose technology. It differs in morphology, not located just in one bounded place,

Table 4.1 The internet as a mega-project Feature

The internet

Traditional mega-projects

Substance Ownership Morphology Scale Organization Maintenance

Virtual Not-owned entity Network Global Distributed Distributed

Physical Owned Point Regional/National/Intern. Centralized On-site

4

Google and the Internet

51

but also in scale: it consists of a global scale with global coverage ensured by computer networks spanning the whole world and connected by telecommunications systems (Dodge & Kitchin, 2001). The meganess of the Internet is certainly marketed in terms of its worldwide distribution and size. Its “virtual” substance is currently present in everyday human life and practices even in remote areas, it shapes places on earth and the life of individuals, as well as mediating and changing many spheres of human activity such as culture, politics, sociality (Adam & Ghose, 2003; Zook, 2000, 2003) and mirror localities (Aoyama, 2001). In other words the meganess of the Internet is also marked by its huge global impacts. As discussed in the literature, the emphasis in understanding the Internet shifted from the pipelines of telecommunications to their “contents,” viz., information (Kellerman, 2002) capable of redefining economic and social geographies. Specifically, the Web, as a mega human-machine space, is capable of giving rise to all kinds of human artifacts (cyberspace) (Dodge & Kitchin, 2001, 2005a, 2005b). This means that the “virtual” nature of the Internet, the socio-technological evolution of the Web, makes its “magnitude” is felt not only in terms of size but its profound impacts affecting the globe. Since the Internet is the most comprehensive information system, as Kellerman (2002) defined it is used and produced by millions of individuals and entities all over the Globe. Thus the Internet’s organization, contents, production and maintenance are distributed and not centralized compared to traditional megaprojects. Moreover, I would argue that in the current path of evolution, the converging nature of technologies highlights its impressive and pervasive nature in terms of the most comprehensive information and communication system. Thus it typifies the Internet and specifically the Web as megaprojects on a global scale. Until a few years ago one could have had the impression that information and communications were the same. But I argue that we can no longer consider the Internet contents, structure and functions only in terms of storage, retrieval, manipulation, exchange, and creation of information. The emergence of converging communication technologies such as VOIP (Voice On Internet Protocol), Internet TV and broadcasting, the evolution of cyberspaces and sometimes their evolutionary dynamics real new human artifacts such as social networks, blogs, scientific projects (working both in a distributed and collective way), advertising, geo-based services, and real time mapping. These advances make the point that the communicative character cannot be conceived as a mere component of a broader concept of information. The communicative power of the Internet allows many actions: instant communications, e-mailing, software like “Meet up” and video calls, all which are communicative means used in decision making in setting up strategies and arranging operations such as mobility. Mobility is important in business, but also in grassroots organizations, for socializing among young people, or perhaps even for terrorists. “You Tube” is yet another example used for by all kinds personalities or “philosophies” to communicate, for sharing actions, in both good and bad events. During the riots in Naples in Winter, 2008, people were linked to the public protests and demonstrations related to the waste disposal

52

M. Paradiso

problem, while yet another group of public disorder “professionals” filmed themselves with mobile phones while communicating police positions, deciding on tactics and movements and interspersing all these actions with slogans, propaganda and the cultural message of hostility to rules, police etc. Obviously, communication activity serves to create additional information: one example is given by the citizen’s media where the experience of communicating in a blog on the tsunami proved to be the best and most powerful way of producing information in chaotic situations via communicative practices. Open source teams allow faster collective reception of new knowledge from all over the world. All these examples show the connectivity and creative power of the Internet as a mega-project for information, communication, and organization. However, communications can also be recorded, analyzed and profiled, which raises concerns of cyber-surveillance and privacy. Paradigmatic it has been the case of Skype China: Tom-Skype, which is monitored and stored chat through filters applied to political sensitive key words (Quomedia, 2008a quoting a report by the Toronto Citizen Lab reference), but also Google’s dilemmas on China about accepting Chinese censorships demands. In the United Kingdom there is a government project worth more than £12 billion pounds for infrastructure (a development of the Ehelon program) to listen to any call and read every SMS or mail, and check every Internet website visited by a UK citizen (Quomedia, 2008b). Some Internet firms can also profile people’s behaviors for commercial and other purposes. In principle, there is an enormous power-information asymmetry between the users exposed to the availability of contents and services on the Web, with themselves and their practices becoming enormous containers of available data which are linked to many activities performed on the web, for example, searching, buying, chatting, creating avatars, calling, protesting, loving, hating, advertising, producing imaging, giving information and data. Looking at the Internet “landscape,” moving through its labyrinth of cyberspace rooms after knocking on the doors of the major gatekeepers (Google, msn, Yahoo), commentators would also argue in terms of intersecting nets, inter zones, grey zones (Bonora, 2001) of human artifacts, objectives, cultures, skills, needs and desires. The emerging key issues are how is the meganess of global communication (the Internet) changing the World? Is there any entity gaining crucial power on the Internet? I could thus argue that the Internet is a powerful “device of complexity” shaping the meanings people assign to the world, with a decisive role performed by programmers and managers who make decisions on software and commercial practice and influence, in a way that is not immediately readable, or people’s visions and meanings. The building techniques of civil engineering embedded in its mega-projects, the architectural culture and skills and the needs of the contractor and future owner, come together to shape the product’s quality, its cultural significance and its influence on competitors, visitors and users. Similarly, software engineering and the needs of profit-oriented Internet companies, shape the quality of the Internet as a powerful mediator of individuals’ behaviors in cyberspace. They also shape sensu

4

Google and the Internet

53

latu, Human-Earth relations since cyberspace is another layer of life (Graham & Marvin, 1996) and we live at the intersection of two reciprocally transformative worlds (Batty & Miller, 2000). The difference in the two forms of meganess is that the Web’s “virtual-cultural architectures” are less readable for the layman. They are less evident because of the more immaterial and codified nature of the telecommunication-software engineering and the Internet company. They are also more “obscure” since the relevant knowledge is relatively new. Neither the technological expertise of software writing nor the coding represents a merely technological construct: if “code is almost infinitely malleable but is ultimately structured by the desires and constraints imposed by its programmers and managers” (Zook & Graham, 2007: 466) as well by their education and curricula (see Paradiso, 2006 for a reflexive discussion on a bridge between engineering, geography and social sciences in the Information Age). Profit goals and stock options are clearly important reasons for modeling software and services. Briefly, both the Internet and the traditional megaproject are not merely technological or business-oriented constructs or neutral spaces. Also the more common mega-projects from Civil Engineering are not neutral and can be contested by citizens. To be sure they are not neutral since they shape places and flows and, in some cases without public consultations, can dramatically alter citizens’ settlements and practices. However the Internet’s meganess as a cultural complexity device seems to affect the mindset and practices even more than traditional mega-projects.

4.3 The Evolution of the Internet and its Implications The Internet is increasingly embedded in everyday life. The more spaces are linked to Internet navigation and interaction, the more life is loaded up with software and codes (Thrift & French, 2002) and the more people using information and communication technologies for personal uses, the more they are exposed to cyberspace. As the cyberspace people are exposed to becomes more complex, the proposal is made to classify it as communication space and cognitive communication cyberspace and refer to it as a novel human spatial experience (Kellerman, 2007). Cyberspace goes becomes mobile via converging technologies in portable personal devices which generates new personal mobilities and shapes the way of living and behaving in places (Kellerman, 2007). As the power of the code is intended to set rules for behavior (and users do not normally know how codes or algorithms are designed), there can be problems associated with an automatic production of information that shapes individuals and the automated production of space given the new landscapes of codes (Dodge & Kitchin, 2005a, b; Thrift & French, 2002; Zook & Graham, 2007). As the information market (Web organization) seems to be oriented towards concentration (market shares of search engines, advertising and the power of online presence versus offline presence), and the Internet rapidly spans earth, there is ample opportunity (but it is

54

M. Paradiso

of great significance), to explore Internet meganess also in terms of (mega) impacts on earth in terms of privacy, power, freedom, equity and surveillance. Obviously these kinds of concerns are typical of democratic, secular countries: can the Internet be the geopolitical arena of a special clash of civilizations? These are concerns of the democratic State versus the dictatorial State (with élites in power), but also of what is collective property (individual rights) versus the space owned by corporations but contributed to the community. In the metaphor of connected earth an enormous “asymmetric relation” of power is fixed, viz., that of information between corporations having an enormous power of calculation and global storage and data tracking, that is, of millions people spread over the earth individually perceiving, using, benefiting and being influenced in their cognition and communication by the Internet in terms of information and communication systems. The relationships of geography (earth) with the Internet can affect several principal human spheres that have a cultural dimension as the most comprehensive information and communication system on earth, a political dimension due to its rapid coverage and reach as regards international or national regulation of communication protocols and standards, an economic dimension as regards investments in infrastructure and research, profit accumulation, market share and control and social, technological, and business dimensions and drivers of change for its adoption and evolution constitute a global space for human cognition and action and that affect individual perception, cognition, action and systems of localized values and meanings. If information and communication technologies are contributing to attenuating the force of destiny towards opportunities for individuals and places (see Kellerman & Paradiso, 2007 for a detailed discussion on the positive side of the coin), some applications and developers, market operations, practices of ranking, mapping, and delivering representations of place, concern how codes, practices in cyberspace negatively shape our world. Researches by Zook and Graham (2007); Graham and Zook (2006); Dodge and Kitchin (2005a) pivotally explore interactions between codes and information and place constructs mostly by means of the case study of geo-coded services and mapping DigiPlace or Google Earth. Next I wish to conceptually and critically discuss the “Google” case, a major Internet rider mostly characterized by giant ambitions and performance of “meganess” on earth namely in terms of the corporation being a major gatekeeper for digital information, It is also the principal mediator for communication; the most powerful repository of computing power on earth; the largest storage of localized data; and the major virtual earth information indexing and mapping tool, with an enormous monetary accumulation in a period of global financial crisis. Google, sometimes confused with the Internet, here is conceptualized as a privately owned mega information and communication system. It seems to have geopolitical, political, cultural and perhaps also environmental significance for the globe, as I will discuss. I mainly argue that the Google megaproject is having a real geopolitical power and profile that also has a quasi military strategy for expansion via a strategic thinking and brilliant technological performances. It is also a “seductive” megaproject

4

Google and the Internet

55

in terms of style and offer that is aimed at the deep nesting in the Internet, in cyberspace, in the everyday life of individuals connected on earth.

4.4 Google as a Megaproject “Every age has a raw material that defines its historical moments. . . . In ours it is information and Google has become its preeminent steward” (Stross, 2008: 3). Certainly, as many would argue, Google is more than a brand name: it is a way of life (Reagan, 2008), given its expansion into every digital communications sector and its endless offer of new enabling services which model the cultural universe of the web. Its market share for web searching (more than 68% estimated for September 2008 by Stross, 2008) and its “relational economics” for advertising pricing and open sources practices, shape the economic universe of the web and mediate a global market for ads. Google also influences the perception of online and offline presence of enterprises with an increasing power to the larger ones (Zook & Graham, 2007). Several reasons can be found for highlighting Google as a megaproject (Table 4.2), including its most ambitious goals and performances (indexing all the web contents, the principal gatekeeper of information globally and mediator of communication, its market share both in terms of major web searches and advertizing), its concentration of talents, its wide distribution of sales, its R&D centers scattered all over the world, and the fact that its enormous computing power exceeds that of Table 4.2 Mega-project Google: Portrait Feature

Elements

Gatekeeper One-stop search destination Money power Human power Web domination Web advertising monopoly? Global knowledge management Global communications Global information and computing Global leader

Global world digital information 68% of all Web searches in 2008 Enormous profits Surplus of talent Like Microsoft for the PC Unsuccessful deal with Yahoo Beyond search: services and applications Ubiquitous: homes, offices, and mobile Three trillion URLs Over 100 international domains with 35 languages for results display and >100 languages for interfaces Agreement with principal DNA research Private co. to access individual DNA data

“Panopticon” Concerns of privacy and discrimination Google as “superpower”

Google.org: addressing the 5 most sensitive geopolitical concerns

Source: Author’s elaboration from: Battelle (2006), Glazowsky (2008), Ippolita (2007), Reagan (2008), Vise and Malseed (2007), Google Corporate information and milestones http://www. google.Com and.it

56

M. Paradiso

State owned entities by increasing the power of knowledge as well as cross-listing data and establishing profiles. Google has launched about 100 products and services that accompanying many spheres of personal information and decisions where relevant data can be profiled and tracked. For services provided, introduced practices and superiority for its algorithm (Page Rank for searching for example), its functional philosophy in leveraging the quality of information related to popularity of sites based on clicks (a disputable approach indeed) and popular site pages inspection, Google can be defined in terms of a complex but also pervasive global system for knowledge management. It behaves like a mediator in information production and consumption and reproduction, practically a standard for present-day communication. Its successful (recently under scrutiny for privacy rights including G-mail scanning of e-mails for advertisements and privacy) expansion into each digital global communication sector and its universalism in terms of more than 100 languages offered and translation are shaping a cultural universe like the web. Its capacity to accumulate, store, track, profile information of different types (images, numbers, texts, calls, emails, newsgroup messages etc) is practically unlimited until a data house can be established on earth. These factors and many other elements reveal a strategy of cultural dominion while becoming a “Global Idol” (Vise & Malseed, 2007 discuss the universal Google appeal and use the expression), that is, (1) The “problématique” of Google “cookies” until 2038 and the unknown filters and controls to deliver search results (Ippolita, 2007). (2). The global reach of its services and initiatives. (3) Its support to Internet satellite coverage projects to reach 3 billion people in developing countries (Rhoads, 2008) and potentially grasp new users worldwide in increasing markets. (4) Its initial “mantra” “Don’t be evil” deteriorated after many events like also the permission for Chinese censorship on behalf of business expansion into potential markets. (5) The seductive approach of relational economics but with asymmetric power (like open source hosted in Google owned code, or ads pricing, the “coopetition” Google-AskJeeves). (6) The Google-open source initiative and agreement with Sun as web developers and creators of standards. (7) The technocratic approach of sensitive global initiatives undertaken by Google.org. Recently Google has undergone scrutiny for possessing too much personal information (Glazowsky, 2008; Ippolita group, 2007; Reagan, 2008). There is a hint of monopoly. The Association of National Advertisers claims to DOJ (Department of Justice) about the Google deal with Yahoo. The World Association of newspapers is concerned that Google in partnership with Yahoo will “become a market controlling behemoth” (Glazowsky, 2008: 3). They made a deal on advertising with Yahoo but, Glazowsky continues, Google does not allow Yahoo to show Google ads on the websites of new publishing partners acquired by Yahoo after is deal with Google. Even though not a monopoly, if the deal materializes there has been a case of impressive concentration of much of the traffic (90% control over search advertising inventory according to the Association of National (U.S.) Advertisers, quoted in Glazowsky, 2008: 2) in cyberspace going in one direction with huge repercussions on numbers of competitors and jobs involved: Google then decided to give up on

4

Google and the Internet

57

Yahoo. It has concentrated in about 50 companies, some of them being global entities and megaprojects like You Tube, others working in a frame of open source (but open source is never completely free and the platform owners can at any moment refuse the developer his/her invented application). Google Earth and the increasing “granularity” can be problematic in terms of privacy, but also in non-deconstructed software and business strategy and in representing the presence of online and off line enterprises (Graham & Zook, 2006). Google is undertaking a new venture and in the physical mega-project style. It is taking the data storage literally out to sea in non-territorial areas (Quomedia, 2008c) in “no man’s territory” with no specific State jurisdiction! Google will not pay taxes on the platform since they are off-shore. Installing the “Marine” server will allow Google to reach all earth time zones (a true Global reach) and it will achieve even more computing power. It would use water for engine refrigeration. What is the environmental loss in reduced biodiversity due to the increased temperature for fauna? Wave movements could be transformed into energy. I argue that the Google megaproject consists of two dimensions: its meganess (size, performances, and impacts) and its “nesting” strategy of the Internet. Its impressive, large scale “nesting” in the Internet (cyberspace, nesting “inside” the nest), in telecommunications (going mobile, WiFi, satellite), and in places (conquering new territories and markets through external nesting, opening commercial, and R&D centers) make one envisage a quasi culture of dominion and as a most daring mega ambition for global conquest and control via seductive products and services, alliances, or purchasing agreements with States. It also reveals the global mass effects because of its incredible information, communication, monetary and human potential. Progressively, country by country, it is conquering physical spaces/markets on the globe and via users and uses of cyberspace. Numerous questions are being raised, including: what are the implications of being the major information gatekeeper and the increasingly powerful communications mediator, the most powerful supercomputing capability on a earth, the largest repository of direct and derived data, the most important concentration of talents, and a surplus place for money on an earth in need of liquidity. Do answers to these questions suggest that Google.org is becoming both a major player and also addressing global problems?

4.5 Google’s Nesting Within the Internet: A Model of Virtual Megaproject Nesting The emerging meganess of Google originated mostly originated from its progressive nesting in the Internet, but in later phases also in personal mobile communications and wide geographic areas (Table 4.3). I suggest four different nesting phases (I and II in cyberspace, III on places, IV in States and in people’s mindset): nesting in cyberspace and becoming a dominant force in it (cyberspace/internal nesting: phase I search monopoly, phase II search as a business); nesting on places by becoming indispensable for people’s every day practices and mobility (places/external, going

58

M. Paradiso Table 4.3 Nesting model for google as a mega-project

Phase

Years

Major developments.

Search monopoly

1997–2000

Search as a business Indispensability and ubiquity

2000–2002 2003–2006

Google as a superpower?

2007–2008

World as an index and Google as its manager. Universalism and market conquest Launches of many services, applications, projects, R&D centers, acquisitions of enterprises, partnerships. People’s everyday life enabler; communication mediator. Universal technocratic potential: Cloud computing; Google.org dedication to solutions of crises worldwide; Android. Google Earth as an open geospatial standard.

Source: examples of major developments from http://www.google.com/corporate/history.html accessed 24 October 2008

on mobile phones and offering local information, communication etc: phase III); nesting in States and in people’s mindset (cultural/mega, phase IV, Google as a “superpower”). Google address needs for simplicity, accelerates time and space compression, brings closer information and communication from far away. Also Google exploits the Internet potential for a “collective brain,” giving the illusion that the earth is on our desktop or possibly on the mobile phone screen. The nest metaphor itself can be likened to the idea of a bird (the Internet) building a nest (the web) where a new bird (Google) nests and later inherits the Nest. However, this metaphor is not enough: Google doesn’t inherit the nest (Internet) but it develops and deeply revolutionizes it. Google is its gate keeper and developer, it nests also on earth through projects and branches and by becoming a “global Idol” (Vise & Malseed, 2007) and mediating people’s communication and information needs and practices, the automatic production of space while influencing cognitive patterns via surfing practices as well as computing of fragmented tracks of information, and also beginning to compete with states and NGOs in international cooperation. I argue for a nesting model of a virtual megaproject with some specific geographic “coordinates,” its origins in Stanford and Silicon Valley, its personal “regional” touch using different languages for search results and interfaces to expand its geographical reach, engaging in geomarketing in analyzing search demands and advertising that is offered in a country and then opening branches in specific countries. It is also being projected to the new Frontier: Asia and China, occupying all possible channels of communication (from wired to mobile), overcoming possible country barriers, for example, global search for talent, distributed cyber collaboration, the global market of “words” exchanged for advertising and processing information). Their corporation’s ambition is profoundly geographic: giving free accessible information to all (digitalizing and indexing and displaying the earth: Page Rank, a Universal library, Google Earth) with a universal research

4

Google and the Internet

59

community (open source strategies, offering computing power for external projects) an indispensable mediator of communication and recently addressing global concerns which may affect also the Giant Google. These are: renewable energies, diseases and illiteracy. Meganess and nesting, recently also via Google.org global partnerships and philanthropy can reflexively lead us to consider Google as a potential world geopolitical entity and also culturally as a global device of cultural complexity (or reduction?) for humankind’s cultural production or reproduction ranging from cyberspace to the globe and vice-versa. One can also envisage a technocratic-scientific illusion of providing universal information: all world information is tracked and stored in one place. This has been a recurrent illusion with illustrious antecedents in the encyclopedic initiatives and less illustrious human fear of not knowing enough and the ambition to know everything. The effort of knowing and representing everything is well illustrated in the Borges’ metaphor of the cartographer trap of representing earth with granularity step by step arriving at a 1:1 representation: the map becomes the earth! The conceptual model used for their brilliant and superior search algorithm is the “tree” graph via links. The tree metaphor makes it possible to surf branches via branches where our perception of the cultural universe explored is the subsystem of the tree’s branch and whose accuracy and completeness we cannot estimate. The latter depends on the information basin bounded by language contents, our key searches and their assessment of content quality we are not normally conscious of filters and controls that are not public. The following examples (Google Corporate, 2008a, b) of major developments and phases identify the steps and results in the emerging “meganess” of Google and its nesting.

4.5.1 Nesting Phase I: Search Monopoly 1997–2000 The emerging “meganess” of Google: The mission for Google’s founders was “to organize a seemingly infinite amount of information on the web.” The E-World is an ocean of information, it needs to be indexed, the World is an Index and Google manages the Index via its superior Page Rank searching algorithm and idea of ranking results (Battelle, 2006). The changes in the nesting process of Google within the Internet: The crucial intuition was that the search is the Internet core; the Google founders’ brilliant minds developed a superior search engine, achieved an attractive image which made them become the gatekeeper of information. It has also made the Internet progressively evolve into a cultural universe thanks to performance, style, morphology, personal customization and languages.

4.5.2 Nesting Phase II: 2000–2002 Search as a Business: Google’s Universalism and Market Conquest The emerging “meganess” of Google: the developers (http://www.google.com/ press/pressrel/pressrelease34.html) started offering searches in Chinese, Japanese

60

M. Paradiso

and Korean. Google reached a point of offering a total number of 72 language interfaces: languages are a sign of Google universalism and strategic Market Conquest. Google AdWords later launched a major overhaul for AdWords, including new costper-click pricing. The self-service ad program promised online activation with a credit card, keyword targeting and performance feedback. They showed an innovative approach of narrow target publicity to provide discrete but useful visualization of search results and ads in two columns. They added search and browse features and launched it as Google Groups. Google.com was available in 26 languages. Google Toolbar was released. It is a browser plug-in that makes it possible to search without visiting the Google homepage. They showed a distinctive and unusual approach of “mass” personal customization, the oxymoron referring to customization possibilities (personal touch) plus worldwide markets (mass effects). Image Search was launched which offered access to 250 million images. A partnership with Universo Online (UOL) made Google the major search service for millions of Latin Americans. And there is the first public acquisition: Deja.com’s Usenet Discussion Service, an archive of 500 million Usenet discussions dating back to 1995. The major partnership with AOL offering Google search and sponsored links to 34 million customers using CompuServe, Netscape and AOL.com Google Labs allowed users to try Google’s new beta technologies from their R&D team. Google News was launched with 4,000 news sources. Users were able to search for things to buy with Froogle (later called Google Product Search). Google’s first hardware release was Google Search. Google revolutionized the Internet as the Gutenberg printing invention empowered people (Vise & Malseed, 2007) and they appear to have revolutionized cultural reproduction and transmission. Changes in the nesting process of Google within the Internet: Google became a Giant of the Ads Market and the most lucrative company introducing more transparent and self service mechanisms for pricing, advertising, and obtaining feedback from campaigns. The company seemed to be opening up a more “democratic” market where smaller online firms seem to have comparable possibilities with bigger ones. Cash is available night and day with a click, money flowed to Google. Via acquisitions, alliances and innovations. Google became not only the gatekeeper to the Internet, but it was launched to become a main Mediator of Communications (Personal, Social, Business, Innovation ones).

4.5.3 Nesting Phase III 2003–2006 Indispensability and Ubiquity: Google Enables, Goes Local, at Our Home, and Goes Mobile The emerging “meganess” of Google: It is now mobile, ubiquitous, multifunctional, versatile, flexible, attractive, and a good interpreter of human needs of simplicity and speed and being facilitated in everyday life routines. Google retains its technological advantage looking for talents all over the world and all over the net! In August 2004 Google’s initial public offering of 19,605,052 shares of Class A common stock took place on Wall Street. Google.cn, a local domain version of Google, went live in China. “Don’t be Evil” mantra collapses under Chinese censorships demands and

4

Google and the Internet

61

business competition pressure. Google advances cyberspace by cyberspace, media by media, country by country, use by use. The changes in the nesting process of Google within the Internet: This corporation launched a massive number of services, made new acquisitions, deepened distributed collaboration for software programming, and it entered new ventures: mobile telecommunication, even more hardware, local contents production, merging different nature and sources information. The company nested also at the user’s home and people mobility facilitated many routines. Google is now mobile, ubiquitous, multifunctional, versatile, flexible, attractive and a “good interpreter of human needs of simplicity” (Vise & Malseed, 2007). Also speed is no longer only the gatekeeper to the Internet or a main mediator of communications (personal, social, business, innovation), but “the Global knowledge management system (all chains of production, consumption, transmission, use) and communications mediators.” Google directly challenges Microsoft’s core business. Google became “the” Internet, the global web developer, a global laboratory, a cultural universe where technocracy is in power. Detailed examples are given in the Table 4.2. Here I mention only one service; Search History launches in labs that allow users to view all the web pages they have visited and Google searches they have made over time. Everyone can keep track of her/his search results but also the Corporation can access and record individual searches. This constitutes a formidable database to be logically processed to detect mental processes and logic in finding result. Is this one step towards Artificial Intelligence?

4.5.4 Nesting Phase IV 2007 – Google as Superpower? Universal Technocracy Potential Versus the Traditional State The emerging “meganess” of Google: Google now ranges from Universal Search and a global collective innovation service and into a new sphere, viz., global philanthropy. Work in progress can be envisaged for the next Google identity .org as a global player in critical world fields (but also related to its primary concerns): Google.org launches collaborations for addressing world critical problems worldwide. It announces five key initiatives: there is a new dedication to solutions that can predict and prevent crises worldwide, improve public services, and fuel the growth of small enterprises. They also announce the Climate Savers Computing Initiative, in collaboration with Intel, Dell, and more than 30 other companies. Google Earth Outreach is introduced and designed to help non profit organizations use Google Earth to advocate their causes. Together with Yahoo and MySpace, they announce the OpenSocial Foundation, an independent non-profit group designed to provide transparency and operational guidelines around the open software tools for social computing. Google. Inc is going towards Market predominant force (in November they finally gave up seeking to acquire Yahoo), a panopticon with an enormous amount of money in time of crisis, plus also a surplus of talent and technological power, a global loci for collaboration and information production and exchange.

62

M. Paradiso

The corporation announced a partnership with China Mobile, the world’s largest mobile telecom carrier, to provide mobile and Internet search services in China. Google Apps Premier Edition launches, bringing cloud computing to businesses. Cloud Computing means that information is permanently stored in servers on the Internet and cached temporarily on clients that include desktops, notebooks, entertainment centers, tablet computers, wall computers, handhelds, sensors, monitors etc (Wikipedia, 2009). For example, Google Apps provides common business applications online that are accessed from a web browser while the software and data are stored on the servers. This is a rather controversial and disturbing concept for privacy and surveillance concerns. With Candidates@Google series kicks off Google becoming a political arena. Traffic information in available on Google Maps for more than 30 cities around the US: the granularity of Google’s geographical information can be under scrutiny for privacy concerns. They sign partnerships to give free access to Google Apps for Education to 70,000 university students in Kenya and Rwanda: the strategic frontier and traditionally States’ monopoly of Education and international cooperation are crossed. They introduce the Gmail Paper Archive. They are under scrutiny for scanning practices of personal communication for purposes of targeting ads. Eight more languages to Blogger, bringing the total to 19: will global communications be detected and profiled? They announce new strides taken towards universal search. Now video, news, books, images and local results are all integrated together in one search result. Google Hot Trends launches, lists of the current 100 most active queries, showing what people are searching for at the moment: sign of high potential database in de-codifying people’s needs and mental paths since people searches per countries – an enormous database- are processed and clustered. Street View debuts in Google Maps in five U.S. cities: New York, San Francisco, Las Vegas, Miami, and Denver. They are currently under scrutiny for privacy concerns. The corporation may be preparing for the next geo-economic frontier, viz., “space:” to infinity and beyond!’ Sky launches inside Google Earth, including layers for information on constellations and virtual tours of galaxies. They partner with IBM on a supercomputing initiative so that students can learn to work at Internet level on computing challenges. They announce OpenSocial, a set of common APIs for developers to build applications for social networks. Android, the first open platform for mobile devices is announced as is the Android Developer Challenge (the Android platform is “a software stack for mobile devices including an operating system, middleware and key applications. Developers can create applications for the platform using the Android framework, program in Java and use the free Linux kernel, Google Android, 2008). The changes in the nesting process of Google within the Internet and States at large: Google has now “superpower” potential with information power as “the largest repository of data all forms all sources,” human technological power with a concentration and surplus of talent plus distributive brain power collaboration on line and worldwide, incredible money and liquidity, the largest powerful super computing system, data collection, storage and processing capability. Google is a cultural universe (where technocracy is in power even though people perceive just

4

Google and the Internet

63

the surface) with an appealing and influential image and mass consensus although some products or alliances are currently under scrutiny.

4.6 Conclusion This chapter has discussed the Internet and its main current phenomenon, Google, as megaprojects and has theorized a nesting model within each other of two “virtual” megaprojects. Also I have highlighted the implication of such nesting. The similarities between the two categories of “virtual” and “physical” megaprojects can be found in terms of size (big) and nature of GPT (general purpose technology). Differences consist mostly in terms of nature (the Internet and Google are mostly virtual, the Internet is a not owned entity) while traditional engineering megaprojects are physical and owned. They differ in morphology and scale: the Internet is a global system, Google also became like this by spanning the whole world in the form of a network. Physical megaprojects are localized in a specific location and the reach is not immediately global. These virtual megaprojects are pushed forward by distributed contributions from individuals located everywhere. Traditional “mega” seem to have a more centralized organization and local and on-site maintenance. Reflexive thoughts on the “meganess” of the Internet and Google and its nesting in the Internet leads to considering this kind of megaproject as a global device of complexity (or reduction) for human cultural reproduction and transmission. They also serve as a global mediating system for information and communication on earth. I have presented Google’s impressive nesting results in three broad phases: internal nesting on cyberspace, external nesting on places, and “internal” nesting in mindset and in States. My thesis is that Google currently has all the features of a genuine geopolitical “superpower.” It has also showed a quasi military expansive strategy via its strategic thinking, an idealistic but technocratic culture, brilliant technological performances (but unknown basic search filters) and a seductive offer approach: the offer of service is really helpful and enable users, however the benefits for the Corporate in terms of accumulated information, potential profiling information, developed applications are of a non-calculable asymmetry of information between the corporation and users/contributors. This special mix of strategies and actions is aimed at nesting deeply in cyberspace, in individuals’ everyday life linked on earth, and in States and in global policy concerns. There is ample room from these examples and discussion to highlight further implications in terms of generated information that is taken for granted. These include a sense of place, asymmetric power of information, a computing and technocratic approach as well as the concentration of surplus resources. Worldwide Internet development intrinsically owes a debt of gratitude to Google for no longer being a topic of interest only for experts and academics. Google made the Internet mobile and indispensable. Google is a dominant force within the Internet and a global player on earth. It is also starting with traditional megaprojects (projects for a data server on an ocean platform). Google’s ideology is: fast

64

M. Paradiso

surfing, speed, simplicity, ranking per popularity multitasking: these constitute our civilization and that of the Internet. Google did not simply inherit the Internet but it has been its main development force and modeling force in a global information management system and as a device of global cultural complexity. Google.org initiatives reflect their technocratic mindset. Its power may now create envy and lead to external challenges of the triadic management power of its two brilliant founders and the CEO. How long can a private entity accumulate so much information and ensure both privacy and avoid surveillance even by the State? Their superpower of money, talent, equipment, and computing, united in all their calls for partnerships in developing countries, challenge both the traditional State initiatives or State organizations in the field of cooperation. Will Google nest and permeate in specific developing regions of the world? Google celebrated its tenth birthday in 2008. Acknowledgements I am grateful to Aharon Kellerman for his thoughtful comments. Responsibility for the article lies, though, with the author only.

References Adam, P. C., & Ghose, R. (2003). India.com: the construction of a space between. Progress in Human Geography, 27, 414–437. Aoyama, Y. (2001). The information society, Japanese style: corner stores as hubs for e-commerce access. In T. B. Leinbach & S. D. Brunn (Eds.), Worlds of e-commerce: Economic, geographical, and social dimensions (pp. 109–128). NewYork: Wiley. Battelle, J. (2006). Google and the others. Milano: Raffaello Cortina (Italian edition, original title The Search, 2005). Batty, M., & Miller, H. J. (2000). Representing and visualizing physical, virtual and hybrid information spaces. In D. G. Janelle & D. C. Hodge (Eds.), Information, place, and cyberspace (pp. 133–146). Berlin: Springer. Bonora, P. (2001). Communicative dominions between borders of sense of attachment and electronic benches. In P. Bonora (Ed.), Comcities. Communications geographies (pp. 3–48). Bologna: Baskerville (in Italian). Brunn, S. D. (1998a). The “Internet” as “The New World” of geography: Speed, structure, volume, and humility. Geojournal, 45(1–2), 5–15. Brunn, S. D. (1998b). A treaty of silicon for the treaty of Westphalia. Geopolitics, 3(1), 107–131. Dodge, M., & Kitchin, R. (2001). Mapping cyberspace. London: Routledge. Dodge, M., & Kitchin, R. (2005a). Codes of life: Identification codes and the machine-readable world. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 23(6), 851–881. Dodge M., & Kitchin, R. (2005b). Code and the transduction of space. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 95(1), 162–180. Glazowsky, P. (2008). Google-Yahoo might be ok for Yahoo, but what about everybody else? September 21, 8:42 am PDT. Retrieved October 6, 2008, from http://mashable.com/ 2008/21/google-yahoo-again/ Google. (2008a). Corporate information. Retrieved October 6, 2008, from http: //www. Google.com/intl/en/corporate/index.html Google. (2008b). Google milestones. Retrieved October 24, 2008, from http://www.google.com/ corporate/history.html Google Android. (2008). Retrieved January 7, 2009, from http://code.google.com/android/ documentation.html Graham, M., & Zook, M. (2006) The soft-ware and hard-where of GoogleEarth: Privatizing DigiPlace? Paper presented at the Association of American Geographers, Annual Meeting, Chicago, IL.

4

Google and the Internet

65

Graham, S., & Marvin, S. (1996). Telecommunications and the city: Electronic spaces, urban places. New York: Routledge. Kellerman, A. (2002). The Internet on earth: A geography of information. London and New York: Wiley. Kellerman, A. (2007). Cyberspace classification and cognition: Information and communications cyberspaces. Journal of Urban Technology, 14, 5–32. Kellerman, A., & Paradiso, M. (2007). Geographical location in the information age: From destiny to opportunity? Geojournal, 70, 195–211. Ippolita (2007). Google’s lights and shadows. Milano: Feltrinelli (Italian). Malecki, E. J., & Gorman, S. P. (2001). Maybe the death of distance, but not the end of geography: The Internet as a network. In T.R. Leinbach & S. Brunn (Eds.), Worlds of e-commerce: Economic, geographical and social dimensions (pp. 87–105). Chichester: Wiley. Paradiso, M. (2006). The bridging role of information geography in integrating the social sciences and engineering. Journal of Urban Technology, 3, 77–92. Quomedia. (2008a). Google walks on the waters, 22 September 2008 (Italian). Retrieved October 6, 2008, from http://quomedia.diesis.it/news/14433/google-cammina-sulle-acque Quomedia. (2008b). Skype monitored chat messages in China, 3 October 2008 (Italian). Retrieved October 6, 2008, from http://quomedia.diesis.it/news/14643/skype-monitorava-messaggi-chatin-cina Quomedia. (2008c). United Kingdom: the Big Brother is arriving and will check calls, sms, and the Web, 6 October 2008 (Italian). Retrieved October 6, 2008, from http://quomedia. diesis.it/news/14666/regno-unito-arriva-il-grande-fratello-che-controlla Reagan, G. (2008). The Google monster. The New York Observer, September 29, 2008. Retrieved October 6, 2008, from www.observer.com/2008/arts-culture/google-monster Rhoads. C. (2008). Start-up seeks to link 3 billion to Net. Google and others invest $60 million in Satellite plan, Wall Street Journal, September 09 10:04 AM PDT. Retrieved October 6, 2008, from http://online.wsj.com/article/SB122091223182012137.html Stross, R. (2008). Planet Google. One company’s audacious plan to organize everything we know. New York: Simon & Schuster Adult Publishing Group. Thrift, N., & French, S. (2002). The automatic production of space. Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, n.s., 27, 309–335. Vise, D., & Malseed M. (2007). The Google story. Milano: Egea (original title 2005 by D. Vise, The Google Story, New York: Random House). Wikipedia. (2009). Cloud computing. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cloud_computing Zook, M. (2000). The economic geography of commercial Internet content production in the United States. Environment and Planning A, 32, 411–426. Zook, M. (2003). Underground globalization: Mapping the space of flows of the Internet adult industry. Environment and Planning A, 35, 1261–1286. Zook, M., & Graham, M. (2007). Mapping DigiPlace: Geocoded Internet data and the representation of place. Environment and Planning B: Planning and Design, 34, 466–482. doi:10.1068/b3311.

Chapter 5

Cloud Collaboration: Peer-Production and the Engineering of the internet Mark Graham

cyberspace is real –President Barak Obama (2009)

5.1 Introduction Many of the megaengineering projects constructed throughout human history have left us with immense and spectacular features on the Earth’s landscape. The Egyptian pyramids, the Great Wall of China, the Panama Canal and Burj Dubai all offer visually unforgettable reminders of the feats that can be accomplished by the concerted efforts of thousands of laborers (c.f. Edwards, 1985; McCullough, 1977; Verner, 2001). The element that all of these engineering projects have in common is the convergence of thousands of laborers in specific moments in space and time. However, with the onset of the Computer Age, an epochal shift in the ways that the fruits of labor can be combined has taken place. Widespread access to Information and Communication Technologies (ICTs) and agile and adaptable systems of workflow now allow people across the globe to collaborate on virtual mega-engineering projects that are unprecedented in scale or scope. Ten or even hundreds of thousands of workers are now able to combine their efforts to create virtual projects that are less visible (from the physical world), but no less ambitious than their material counterparts. Wikipedia, for example, currently (in mid-2009) has 75,000 active contributors working on ten million encyclopedia articles in 260 languages (Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia, 2009). YouTube, the popular video sharing website, now hosts approximately 100 million videos, created and uploaded by hundreds of thousands of people. Perhaps even more astoundingly,

M. Graham (B) Oxford Internet Institute, University of Oxford, Oxford, UK e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_5,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

67

68

M. Graham

200 million people have now uploaded text, hyperlinks, photographs and videos to a Facebook profile. Such amalgamations of the combined efforts of so many people in distinct moments in time and space are simply unprecedented in human history. This fact has not gone unnoticed by social commentators, and there are few remaining large organizations or companies that have not attempted to use the internet to harness the work of segments of the connected global labor force. Indeed, in 2006, the millions of creators of user-generated content on the were awarded Time magazine’s Person of the Year award (Fig. 5.1), with the editor arguing that Web 2.0 (or the technological frameworks for bringing together the contributions of millions of people) represents nothing short of a revolution because it is no longer “the few, the powerful and the famous who shape our collective destiny as a species” (Grossman, 2006). This chapter begins by reviewing these new ways of organizing labor, focusing on the variety of forms that cyberprojects can take. The chapter then discusses the very properties of the internet that allow people from around the world to “come together” and construct projects using the internet. Finally, the chapter concludes by

Fig. 5.1 My/our/your time person of the year award. (Source: Wikipedia.org)

5

Peer-Production and the Engineering of the internet

69

examining whether Web 2.0 projects signal the beginnings of open and democratic cyberspaces, or if they instead represent new forms of exploitation.

5.2 Construction in the Cloud Not since Marx identified the manufacturing plants of Manchester as the blueprint for the new capitalist society has there been a deeper transformation of the fundamentals of our social life. As political, economic, and social systems transform themselves into distributed networks, a new human dynamic is emerging: peer to peer (P2P). (Bauwens, 2005)

The defining feature of the enormous projects being constructed through the internet is the fact that they are being engineered by labor forces that engage in non-proximate and distributed collaboration. While this phenomenon is both new and unprecedented in human history, it has already been labeled with an assortment of terms: “crowdsourcing,” “cloudsourcing,” “user-generated content,” “peer-topeer collaboration,” and “Web 2.0.” However, I would argue that the term that best encapsulates the dynamics of this distributed, decentralized, and largely volunteer workforce is “cloud collaboration.” The metaphor of a cloud is a useful way to refer to the spatiality and the topologies of the internet. The cloud can be seen and moved through, but is not a place that we could ever inhabit. The cloud also represents the totality of cyberspace: a space that certainly exists, but is difficult to draw clear boundaries around (Scanlon & Wieners, 1999). Before examining in more detail the ways that cloud collaboration is structured, it is useful to discuss exactly what is being created. Non-proximate labor forces have been organized to create impressive feats of engineering before. Indeed, it could be argued that most of the products created by transnational corporations (TNCs) in the world today are created by vast workforces of non-proximate laborers. It is, therefore, important to distinguish between engineering projects that create outputs that are plural in nature (e.g. projects run by TNCs like Airbus, Apple or Toyota that exert most of their efforts building thousands (or even millions) of copies of each product), and those that create outputs that are singular in nature and are rooted to one physical or virtual place (i.e., in these cases, a majority of effort is spent designing and creating the project rather than creating copies of it). It is the latter form of virtual project that this chapter explicitly focuses. Considering convergence in both time and space is crucial to understanding how projects created through cloud-collaboration contrast to other large engineering projects (Fig. 5.2). Most megaengineering projects that have been constructed have required laborers to converge in both time and space. The Egyptian pyramids or the Three Gorges Dam could not have been built if workers reported to the construction sites whenever they chose to and stayed at work for as long as they wanted to. Similarly, while the workforces of a TNC may not all converge in space, they do come together in time. Jet planes, iPods, pickup trucks, and every other product made by a TNC could never be efficiently put together if workers did not report to factories at designated times. However, with the projects created by

70

M. Graham

Fig. 5.2 Time and space convergence in various types of large engineering projects. (Source: author)

cloud-collaboration there is rarely any push for workers to report to duty at specific times. Web 2.0 content is not hosted in any one centralized place, but is rather stored in distributed servers that can be accessed from anywhere with an internet connection. Contributors therefore generally work whenever they want and for as long as they want. It is also important to distinguish between projects created on the internet and projects created through the internet. Many of attempts to harness cloud collaboration focus on the latter type of project, and almost always have concentrated on building computer software. One of the most well known examples is the Free Software Foundation (FSF), which has a stated goal of ultimately making software freely available for all computer users.1 These projects work by bringing together the expertise of people around the world to participate on different aspects of the same piece of software.2 While the ability of groups like the FSF to bring together thousands of workers through the internet is certainly an impressive feat,3 their outputs pale in comparison to user-generated content being created and organized in the cloud rather than through it. A variety of forms of collaboration exist which bring together thousands of workers to construct projects in the same cyberplaces. The range of types of collaboration can be generally classified into three types, although there are naturally examples of overlap between categories (Table 5.1).

5.2.1 Social Spaces This category refers to the enormous social forums that have been built in recent years. Online social forums exist in a variety of guises, but primarily serve to facilitate some form of social networking. In some social spaces, contributors are expected to upload personal information including text, pictures, sounds and videos. This information is then brought into the same virtual networked space as the

5

Peer-Production and the Engineering of the internet

71

Table 5.1 Examples of projects that make use of cloud collaboration Social spaces

Content spaces

Cosmographies

World databases of people Spaces in which knowledge is brought into the same social brought together about specific spaces. subjects.

Representations of the physical world in cyberspace using the Earth as an organizing principle.

Project

Description

Project

Description

Project

Description

Facebook

Social networking Business networking Partner search

Flikr

Photo sharing

Bing Maps

Web mapping

WikiAnswers

Questions and answers Ethical consumption Encyclopedia

Google Earth

Virtual globe

WikiMapia

Virtual globe

Video sharing

Wikipedia

Global travel guide

Linkedin Match.com Second Life Warcraft

Wikichains

Virtual Wikipedia world/social networking MMORPG YouTube

OpenStreetMap Street map

Source: author

information provided by each contributor’s family, friends, and colleagues. These have in many ways turned into a giant database of a significant portion of the world’s population. For instance, 200 million people have contributed information to Facebook (a social networking site), over 100 million have uploaded content to MySpace (another social networking website), and 15 million people have provided information to Match.com (an internet dating website). Other social spaces focus less on creating a database, and more on facilitating or bringing into being spaces in which social interaction can occur. The precursors to the large social spaces that exist in cyberspace today were chatrooms and internet forums, with distributed contributors providing the bulk of content. This is not to imply that chat rooms are a thing of the past. They have steadily grown in size, and some such as the Japan-based 2channel now have millions of new posts every day. However it is the massively multiplayer online role-playing games (MMORPGs) that perhaps provide the best examples of spaces being created through cloud collaboration. World of Warcraft, for example, currently has 11.5 million subscribers; each of whom designs an avatar and interacts with other subscribers in an online universe. Second Life is an even more interesting example of a social space created through cloud collaboration. Any of the 15 million users can build virtual objects, own virtual land, buy and sell virtual goods, attend virtual concerts, bars, weddings, and churches, and communicate with any other member of the virtual world (Fig. 5.3). Second Life has become so popular that a variety of institutions based in the physical world have purchased virtual land within the virtual environment4 (e.g. Sweden, Israel, and the Maldives have established embassies, and the British Council, Goethe Institute, and Cervantes Institute have constructed virtual schools in Second Life).

72

M. Graham

Fig. 5.3 Avatars in second life. (Source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/lindenlab/2551390368/in/set72157605197609174/)

Users of Second Life create almost every aspect of the virtual world and, as a result, a relatively complex society and economy has developed (Boellstorff, 2008).

5.2.2 Content Spaces Content spaces are locations on the internet that bring together large amounts of media. Users are both producers and consumers (prosumers) in these spaces (Ritzer, 2009). The most well known example of is YouTube, a video-sharing website onto which 100 million videos have been contributed by thousands of people. Twenty hours of videos are now uploaded by users to the site every single minute of the day (this is the equivalent of 86,000 full-length films being released each week) (YouTube, 2009). Other examples include Scribd, a document-sharing site onto which 50,000 documents are uploaded every day, and Flikr, a photo-sharing site that now contains over 3 billion images uploaded by users. Many content spaces employ the wiki model of collaboration. A wiki is a website that allows anyone to add, modify, or delete content. Some of the most important websites in this category are Wikipedia5 (by far the largest encyclopedia ever put together with 12 million articles in 262 languages), WikiAnswers (a site containing 9 million questions and 3 million user submitted answers), and Baidu Baike (the largest Chinese-language encyclopedia containing 1.5 million articles). The largest wikis impose few restrictions on the scope of their projects. Almost any question can be asked on WikiAnswers (and it is difficult to think of any original question not already included in the 9 million that have been asked on the site. Wikipedia similarly aims to cover “the sum of all human knowledge” in every human language (Dodson, 2005). However, rather than allowing an unlimited scope for contributions, most wikis encourage contributors to focus on specific topics such as psychology (Psychology wiki), the production networks of commodities (WikiChains), and sensitive documents and leaks (Wikileaks).

5

Peer-Production and the Engineering of the internet

73

The fact that anybody can contribute to a wiki from anywhere in the world has led to wikis being described as an exercise in both anarchy and democracy (Ciffolilli, 2003). They allow a deconstruction of monopolies on truth and grand narratives and instead encourage a move towards plural and relatively unstable little narratives. Knowledge constructed in wikis is able to take on a fluid and unfixed character in two main ways. First, content is never considered finished or complete. Wikis always allow information to be moved altered and deleted. A static location in cyberspace (for example http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/President) can thus display very different content at different times. Second, wikis generally do not discriminate against different types of contributors. Most wikis allow anonymous contributions, and never require contributors to submit any professional credentials. While articles can be written collaboratively by people from around the world, a core characteristic of wikis is that they necessitate agreement. Subject matter can be described and represented in only one way. For example, there is only one Wikipedia article that focuses on the Thai island of Ko Tao, while on other Web 2.0 projects (such as YouTube), the island is represented in a multitude of ways. This means that although any person can in theory comment on any subject, there are in fact distinct rules and power-relationships that influence the organization of the labor force. Disputes about visible content are a common feature of wikis, and the methods employed to resolve disputes are often opaque and favor certain segments of the online population. These issues are addressed in more detail following a brief discussion of the final category.

5.2.3 Cosmographies While social spaces and wiki spaces bring together masses of information about the world into centralized nodes or locations on the internet that are organized around theme, person, or any other imaginable principle, cosmographies are built around the idea that the Earth itself can be used as an organizing principle. Included in this category are Google Earth/Google Maps, Yahoo! Maps, Microsoft Live Search Maps,6 Wikipedia, WikiMapia, and OpenStreetMap. In each of the cosmographies, the physical world is represented by contributors from around the globe. Some of the cosmographies allow multiple representations of the same place in the physical world to coexist on the internet. Figure 5.4 is an example of user-generated representations of London’s Trafalgar Square in Google Maps. The website brings together the hundreds of user-generated comments, photographs, and videos of that specific part of London and allows them all to be accessed by navigating to Trafalgar Square using the Google Maps interface. Other cosmographies necessitate agreement and only allow the physical world to be represented in one way. Figure 5.5, for example, is a representation of Trafalgar Square taken from the Wikipedia website. Here, over five hundred creators of the article have to decide on how to best represent any specific part of the world. Many of the physical and cultural characteristics of the planet have now been mapped out by the army of volunteers that contribute their time to one or more of the online cosmographies. Wikipedia has over 50,000 places represented, over

74

M. Graham

Fig. 5.4 The multiple representations of trafalgar square in google maps. (Source: maps. google.com)

Fig. 5.5 A singular representation of trafalgar square in wikipedia. (Source: wikipedia.org)

a million page edits, and over 40.000 contributors. WikiMapia, has an even larger database of user-generated content, with over 10 million places represented in May 2009. The work behind OpenStreetMap is perhaps even more impressive. On 4 May 2009, 113,201 people had uploaded 801,461,215 GPS points into the online database. Google Earth is perhaps the most widely used member of this group, and has been downloaded 500 million times. There are now over one million members of the Google Earth community (bbs.keyhole.com), with almost 700,000 bookmarked placemarks listed on the Google Earth community page7 and over 200 million maps created by users (Scott, 2009). The fact that hundreds of thousands of people have been able to create millions of profiles, encyclopedia entries, and representations of the physical world has lead commentators like Kevin Kelley (2009), in Wired magazine, to claim that cloud collaboration marks a crucial shift in human history: a move towards a new untried

5

Peer-Production and the Engineering of the internet

75

form of socialism or dot-communism (see also Barbrook, 2000). Not only can any virtual project, in theory, now be built by a labor pool of millions of people, but the outputs of that labor will also supposedly be non-hierarchical and democratized (Butler, 2006; Hall, 2007). The virtual world will be created not through top-down decision making, but instead through collaboration, participation, and transparency. It is to a more detailed analysis of these claims that the remainder of this chapter turns.

5.3 Characteristics of the Cloud Accurately defining the distributed, decentralized, and volunteer work that is taking place through the internet is crucial to being able to formulate accurate understandings about the nature and types of projects being constructed. There is a significant amount of power embedded into the terminology and metaphors that are regularly used. For instance, it is often claimed that anybody, anywhere on the planet with the requisite hardware, software and internet connection can contribute to Web 2.0 projects like Wikipedia or OpenStreetMap; thus implying that 1.5 billion people (the current number of internet users) can potentially be brought into the same virtual construction site for any project (Beer, 2008; Breen and Forde, 2004; Goodchild, 2007; Kelley, 2005). Eric Raymond, in a now famous essay on the collaborative software development model, compares the shared cyberspaces in which virtual construction sites are created to a bazaar (1999). Raymond thus implies that two or more collaborators inhabiting non-proximate locations in physical space are able to share more than a topological connection; they are instead seen to be occupying the same virtual space, cyberspace, or “global village” (c.f. McLuhan, 1962). Cyberspace, in this sense, is able to take on an ontic role. It becomes both an ethereal alternate dimension that is infinite and everywhere (because all potential laborers have access to it irrespective of their location in physical space) and fixed in a distinct location, albeit a nonphysical one (because, despite being universally accessible, all willing participants are thought to arrive into the same virtual construction site). It becomes a shared virtual reality and a consensual hallucination (Gibson, 1984), which is “generating an entirely new dimension to geography” (Batty, 1997: 339). This a priori ontology of cyberspace as simultaneously infinite and fixed is prevalent in much of the popular and academic literatures on the potentials of cyberspace (Graham, M. (2010). The spatialities of the digital divide, “Unpublished manuscript”). However, despite widespread adoption, it remains that such conceptions of cyberspace are not particularly useful to our understandings of the ways in which the Internet offers a platform upon which virtual megaengineering projects are constructed. Instead of thinking of cyberspace as an absolute ontic space that is largely disconnected from the physical world, it is perhaps more appropriate to envision cyberspace as “as a socially constructed discourse that simultaneously reflects and constitutes social reality” (Warf, 2001: 6). It can be thought of as existing in a

76

M. Graham

symbiotic relationship with physical space in which users exist in between the physical and virtual worlds (Graham, 2008; Kitchin, 1998; Zook & Graham 2007b, 2007a). In other words, cyberspace does not allow most users to fully divorce themselves from material realities. Why do ontologies of cyberspace matter to the construction of the virtual world? The fact that 1.5 billion people are not actually being brought into a singular virtual space means that despite the global reach of megaprojects like Wikipedia, there remain pronounced geographic biases which are unsurprisingly not dissimilar from the biases in the internet itself (c.f. Castells, 2002; Dodge and Kitchin, 2001; Gorman & Malecki, 2002; Townsend, 2001; Zook, 2000). These biases generally take two forms. First, just because a non-proximate labor force can hypothetically be brought together from all corners of the globe, does not necessarily mean that it will. It is increasingly clear that a large part of the user-generated content on the internet is created by people in the world’s wealthiest countries (EthnicLoft, 2006; Zook & Graham, 2009). Furthermore, not only is there a geographic bias in the creation of content, but it also seems that most contributors are young, highly-educated, and male. A 2008 survey of Wikipedia, for example, found that only 12.8% of contributors were female and the average age was 26.8 years (Wikipedia, 2009). The fact that English is a dominant language on the internet explains some of this bias (Flammia & Saunders, 2007). Social norms, practices, and restrictions also play a significant role. For instance, studies have found that because of the persistence of masculine logics of conflict and honor on the internet, female contributors are often ignored, trivialized, or criticized by their male counterparts (Morahan-Martin, 1998; O’Neil, 2009). Crucially, it also seems likely that it is only those possessing the luxuries of large amounts of disposable time and income that can contemplate donating their labor for free. Second, and perhaps more importantly, just because online content can be created that references any point in the physical world does not necessarily mean that it will (Graham, 2010). Representations of the physical world in cyberspace are overwhelmingly biased towards cities in North America, Western Europe, and East Asia (Zook & Graham, 2009). Large parts of the world remain terra incognita in cyberspace, while others are characterized by myriad layers of detail (Graham, 2010). The differences between various parts of the Earth in cyberspace are often staggering. For instance, in Google Earth, there is now more user-generated virtual content about the Tokyo metropolitan area than the entire continent of Africa (Zook & Graham, 2009). We are, therefore, seeing a correlation between the locations in which the non-proximate labor force is based and locations about which they are creating content.

5.4 Cloud Collaboration Capitalism has discovered a way to exploit the labor power of a whole new population. The only thing better, from the capitalist’s point of view (especially in terms of low-skilled

5

Peer-Production and the Engineering of the internet

77

work), than a low-paid worker is someone (the consumer) who does the work for no pay at all. In Marxian terms, the worker produces a great deal of surplus value, the consumer who “works” produces nothing but surplus value. (Ritzer, 2009: 20)

We have seen that labor resources can now be pooled in ways never before imagined. Yet, puzzling questions remain. Why are millions of people contributing their labor for no apparent material rewards? Who is organizing all of this labor? And perhaps most importantly, who is benefitting? Cloud collaboration, in many ways, appears to represent a step away from the systems of exchange that we are familiar with in contemporary capitalism. The means of production have in many cases become a virtual commons, and private virtual property has become devalued with the emergence of a widespread gift-culture (Barbrook, 1998, 2000; Barbrook and Cameron, 2001). Millions of people are willing to contribute their labor for free in order to share original and remixed contributions with the world as part of the online tapestries of intertextuality (Diakoupoulos, Luther, Medynskiy, & Essa, 2007). Some people simply enjoy contributing, while others do it for personal gain and recognition (Ritzer, 2009). However, behind most contributions lies a belief in the transformative power of the new projects and spaces that are being created. Cyberspace has often been argued to be a bastion of freedom away from many of the constraints inherent to our physical existences. For instance, John Perry Barlow, the author of the now famous “Declaration of Independence of Cyberspace,” stated (to those who seek to control content on the internet) “the global social space we are building to be naturally independent of the tyrannies you seek to impose on us” (Barlow, 1996). Web 2.0 projects have appeared to be no different, and the organizational structures behind most projects created through cloud collaboration appear to be open, inclusive, transparent, and democratic; thus leading contributors to feel that they are working not for a higher authority with interests divergent from their own, but instead for the good of the virtual communities that they belong to. Many of the projects that rely on cloud collaboration actively recruit their labor force by highlighting ideas of freedom, openness, inclusion, and democracy. The GNU (GNU is a recursive acronym that stands for “GNU’s Not Unix”) free-operating system project, for example, has created the Uncle GNU poster (Fig. 5.6). The image is a play on the 1914 British “Lord Kitchener Wants You” and the 1917 American “Uncle Sam Wants You” posters, and suggests that contributing to the free-software movement (just like contributing to the war efforts) is some sort of moral duty. Despite the apparent shift to a freer and more open paradigm of labor, there remain a number of problematic aspects to cloud collaboration. First, it is important to recognize that online projects and communities are not non-hierarchical; there are constraints and controls placed on the enormous amount of work being put forth. These controls can be highly visible and instituted by the corporations or private owners of cyberprojects (Schiller, 1999). Google, for example, often determines what is made visible and invisible on the internet based on human judgments about value (Zook & Graham, 2007a). Controls can also be far less visible (but no less powerful and effective) when they are based on factors like charisma, markets, social

78

M. Graham

Fig. 5.6 Uncle GNU. (Source: Wikipedia.org)

norms, and architecture (code) (Lessig, 1999). Mathieu O’Neil (2009:79) notes that underneath the rules and institutional structures of many online projects there exists an archaic residue: “a zone of rude aggression which is primarily the site of ritualised male proofs of valour and honour.” The charisma of certain personalities (for example, the founder of Wikipedia is able regularly overrule collective decisions due to his prestige) and the transfer of forms of domination and hierarchy into the online world from the offline one means that the construction and organization of online projects is governed by more than just codified rules (O’Neil, 2009). Furthermore, because non-codified forms of power are often difficult to see and pin down, the design and meta-construction of most projects created through cloud collaboration remains a black box to most contributors. Perhaps more worrying are the ways that the financial rewards of cloud collaboration are distributed. O’Neil (2009: 21) argues that “with the mass rise of Web 2.0 and, in particular, of social networking platforms: consumers are now themselves expected to provide the content which will then be used to attract advertising revenue.” Cloud collaboration is thus simply facilitating the accumulation of profits to

Private company Private company

Private company (IAC/InterActiveCorp)

Private company (Linden Lab) Private company (Activision Blizzard)

Facebook Linkedin

Match.com

Second Life

Source: author

Warcraft

Project

Owner

Project

YouTube

Wikipedia

Wikichains

Flikr WikiAnswers

Content spaces

Social spaces

Non-profit (Wikimedia Foundation) Google

Yahoo! Private company (Answers Corporation) Non-profit

Owner

Table 5.2 Ownership of selected cloud-collaboration projects

Wikipedia

WikiMapia

OpenStreetMap

Bing Maps Google Earth

Project

Cosmographies

Private company (Internet Brands)

Non-profit (OpenStreetMap Foundation) Private company

Microsoft Google

Owner

5 Peer-Production and the Engineering of the internet 79

80

M. Graham

those in control of the advertising space of each project (see also Fuchs, 2008). In other words, with cloud collaboration, consumers (because they are also producers) end up paying for their own means of production (Ritzer, 2009). George Ritzer (Ritzer, 2009: 24) argues that this system of labor is inherently a form of control and exploitation. He states that: While it may not in the beginning have been capitalistic, prosumption on Web 2.0 is moving seemingly inexorably in that direction. That is, web sites that might have been created with grand intentions are increasingly being bought up by, or attracting the attentions of, major corporations that are seeking to acquire them because they see in them a huge source of income and profit.

Many companies have now recognized that it makes sound economic sense to use the “wisdom of crowds” to make profits (Finkelstein, 2008). Most of the largest cloud collaboration projects are run by for-profit companies (Table 5.2). Only three of the projects listed in Table 5.2 are operated on a not-for-profit basis, and every major social networking website (e.g. Facebook, LinkedIn, Myspace, Orkut, Second Life, Twitter, etc.) is run as a for-profit company despite relying almost entirely on freely submitted content. In addition, some of the largest and most popular (and in many cases the most profitable) websites on the internet owe a large degree of their success to incorporating cloud collaboration into their business model. For instance, Google has developed a system in which people can place tags on any image in order to improve the Google image search results, and a significant amount of the content on the Amazon group of websites now consists of user-submitted reviews and rankings. It is well known that capitalism is always searching for new, innovative, and more effective forms of exploitation (Ritzer, 2009; Roemer, 1982). However, some such as Tapscott and Williams (2007) now argue that cloud collaboration is simply exploitation that has gone too far. Exploitation is not a simple coercive production practice in the Web 2.0 ecosystem, but is rather something far less obvious. Often repeated claims about shared, open, transparent, and democratic cyberspaces are in many cases failing to match the realities of privately owned and for-profit projects created by an unpaid labor force of millions.

5.5 Conclusions Cloud collaboration has allowed projects of previously unimaginable scale and scope to be constructed. Social spaces have brought together the work of hundreds of millions of people to construct a detailed database about a significant portion of the world’s population. Wiki spaces have provided a forum for millions of people to create and categorize almost all forms of human knowledge; cosmographies similarly have allowed millions to map out countless features of the Earth in centralized databases. Although the internet and various Web 2.0 frameworks have allowed a pooling of labor power from all over the world, the projects created by cloud collaboration

5

Peer-Production and the Engineering of the internet

81

are not created by a representative sample of the world’s population. Rather than bringing everyone into a global village, the internet instead enables hybrid physical/virtual spaces to be created that can never eliminate the global economic inequalities that characterize the physical world. Projects built through cloud collaboration are thus overwhelmingly created by people in cities in North America, Western Europe, and East Asia, and online representations of the physical world are equally biased towards those same places. Perhaps most troubling is the fact that despite oft repeated claims about cloud computing being a way for humanity to build a shared, open, transparent, and democratic space, new cyberspaces are frequently subject to many of the same forms of control and power relations that characterize the offline-world. It seems particularly problematic that large profits are being made from freely contributed labor. The dream of a digital commons, democratically constructed by people from around the world, may yet be realized. However, until then, it will remain important to ensure that the many new megaengineering projects on the internet represent more than just new forms of exploitation.

Notes 1. The founder of FSF, Richard Stallman, believes that his organization’s goal will ultimately “liberate everyone in cyberspace” (Daly, 2009). 2. It should be pointed out that such projects are not limited to the free or open source community. Microsoft Vista took five years and 10,000 workers from around the world to build (Takahashi, 2006). 3. For instance, it is estimated that 60,000 years of work were contributed to the Fedora Linux operating system released in 2008 (Kelley, 2009). 4. While it may initially seem remarkable that embassies are being established in a virtual world, the fact that the population of Second Life is larger than that of a number of countries makes this trend less surprising. 5. The largest languages on Wikipedia are English (2.9 million articles), German (900,000 articles), French (810,000 articles), and Japanese (590,000 articles). The language of Wikipedia content is thus more closely related to indices of wealth and prosperity than the total number of speakers of any given language (e.g. more Wikipedia content has been created in relatively small languages like Dutch or Swedish than in languages like Chinese or Bahasa Indonesian with many more speakers). 6. Some of the cosmographies do not host much of their content themselves, but rather import it from third-party collators of user-generated content. Google Maps and Google Earth, for example, incorporate photographs that people upload to Panoramio.com and comments that people upload to Tripadvisor.com. 7. The Google Earth Community is an online forum focused on producing and organizing placemarks that can be viewed in the Google Earth software.

References Barbrook, R. (1998). The hi-tech gift economy. First Monday 3(12). Retrieved June 1, 2009, from http://firstmonday.org/htbin/cgiwrap/bin/ojs/index.php/fm/article/view/1517/1432 Barbrook, R. (2000). Cyber-communism: How the Americans are superseding capitalism in cyberspace. Science as Culture, 9(1), 5–40.

82

M. Graham

Barbrook, R., & Cameron, A. (2001) Californian ideology. In P. Ludlow (Ed.), Cyrpto Anarchy, Cyberstates, and Pirate Utopias (pp. 363–387). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Barlow, J. P. (2009). A declaration of the independence of cyberspace. 1996. Retrieved May 19, 2009, from http://homes.eff.org/~barlow/Declaration-Final.html Batty, M. (1997). Virtual geography. Futures, 29(4/5), 337–352. Bauwens, M. (2005). The political economy of peer production. Ctheory td026. Beer, D. (2008). Making friends with Jarvis Cocker: Music culture in the context of Web 2.0. Cultural Sociology, 2(2), 222–241. Boellstorff, T. (2008). Coming of age in second life. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Breen, M., & Forde, M. (2004). The music industry, technology and utopia – an exchange between Marcus Breen and Eamonn Forde. Popular Music, 23(1), 79–89. Butler, D. (2006). Virtual globes: The web-wide world. Nature, 439, 776–778. Castells, M. (2002). The galaxy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ciffolilli, A. (2003). Phantom authority, self–selective recruitment and retention of members in virtual communities: The case of Wikipedia First Monday 8(12). Daly, S. (2009). Interview with Richard Stallman. Groklaw 2006. Retrieved April 27, 2009, from http://www.groklaw.net/article.php?story=20060625001523547 Diakoupoulos, N., Luther, K., Medynskiy, Y., & Essa, I. (2007). The evolution of authorship in a remix society. Paper read at HT’07, September 10–12, at Manchester. Dodge, M., & Kitchin, R. (2001). Atlas of cyberspace. London: Addison-Wesley. Dodson, S. (2005). Worldwide Wikimania Guardian Unlimited, October 3. Edwards, I. E. S. (1985). The pyramids of Egypt. London: Penguin Books. EthnicLoft. (2009). Preserving ethnic languages: Swahili on Wikipedia. Newsvine.com 2006. Retrieved April 25, 2009, from http://ethnicloft.newsvine.com/_news/2006/09/06/353434preserving-ethnic-languages-swahili-on-wikipedia Finkelstein, S. (2008). When you have a Wikipedia, everything looks like an edit. Guardian, 8 May. Flammia, M., & Sanders, C. (2007). Language as power on the internet. Journal of the American Society for Information Science and Technology, 58(12), 1899–1903. Fuchs, C. (2008). Internet and society: Social theory in the information age. London: Routledge. Gibson, W. (1984). Neuromancer. London: Harper Collins. Goodchild, M. F. (2007). Citizens as sensors: The world of volunteered geography. GeoJournal, 69(4), 211–221. Gorman, S. P., & Malecki, E. J. (2002). Fixed and fluid: Stability and change in the geography of the internet. Telecommunications Review, 26(7–8), 389–413. Graham, M. (2008). Warped geographies of development: The internet and theories of economic development. Geography Compass, 2(3), 771–789. Graham, M. (2010). Neogeography and the palimpsests of place: Web 2.0 and the construction of a virtual earth. Tijdschrift voor Economische en Sociale Geografie, 101(4), 422–436. Graham, M. (2011). Time machines and virtual portals: The spatialities of the digital divide. Progress in Development Studies (in press). Grossman, L. (2006). Time’s Person of the Year: You. Time. Hall, M. (2007). On the mark: Will democracy vote the experts off the GIS island? Computerworld News. Retrieved June 1, 2009, from http://www.computerworld. com/action/article.do?command=viewArticleBasic&articleId=299936 Kelley, K. (2005). We are the Web. Wired 13(8). Retrieved June 1, 2009, from http://www. wired.com/wired/archive/13.08/tech.html Kelley, K. (2009). The new socialism: Global collectivist society is coming online. Wired 17(6). Retrieved June 1, 2009, from http://www.wired.com/culture/culturereviews/magazine/1706/nep_newsocialism Kitchin, R. (1998). Towards geographies of cyberspace. Progress in Human Geography, 22(3), 385–406. Lessig, L. (1999). Code and other laws of cyberspace. New York: Basic Books.

5

Peer-Production and the Engineering of the internet

83

McCullough, D. (1977). The path between the seas: The creation of the Panama Canal, 1870–1914. New York: Simon and Schuster. McLuhan, M. (1962). The Gutenberg galaxy: The making of typographic Man. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Morahan-Martin, J. (1998). The gender gap in Internet use: Why men use the Internet more than women—A literature review. CyberPsychology and Behavior, 1(1), 3–10. O’Neil, M. (2009). Cyber chiefs: Autonomy and authority in online tribes. London: Pluto Press. Obama, B. (2009). Obama’s remarks on cyber-security. New York Times 2009. Retrieved May 30, 2009, from http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/29/us/politics/29obama.text.html Raymond, E. S. (1999). The cathedral and the bazaar. Sebastapol, CA: O’Reilly. Ritzer, G. (2009). Production, Consumption . . . Prosumption? Georgeritzer.com Work in Progress. Retrieved June 1, 2009, from http://www.georgeritzer.com/work.html Scanlon, J. H., & Wieners, B. (2009). The cloud. The Industry Standard 1999. Retrieved April 26, 2009, from http://www.thestandard.com/article/0,1902,5466,00.html Roemer, J. (1982). A general theory of exploitation and class. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Scanlon, J. H., & Wieners, B. (2009). The cloud. The Industry Standard 1999. Retrieved April 26, 2009, from http://www.thestandard.com/article/0,1902,5466,00.html Schiller, D. (1999). Digital capitalism: Networking the global market system. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Scott, L. (2009). Personal correspondence with Laura Scott: Communications and Public Affairs Officer at Google, June 1. Takahashi, D. (2006). Why Vista might be the last of its kind. The Seattle Times, Dec 4. Tapscott, D., & Williams, A. SD. (2007). Wikinomics: How mass collaboration changes everything. New York: Penguin. Townsend, A. M. (2001). Network cities and the global structure of the internet. American Behavioral Scientist, 44(10), 1697–1716. Verner, M. (2001). The pyramids. New York: Grove Press. Warf, B. (2001). Segueways into cyberspace: Multiple geographies of the digital divide. Environment and Planning B: Planning and Design, 28, 3–19. Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia. (2009). Wikipedia: About. Wikimedia Foundation 2009. Retrieved April 14, 2009, from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:About YouTube. (2009). Zoinks! 20 hours of video uploaded every minute! YouTube 2009. Retrieved June 5, 2009, from http://www.youtube.com/blog?entry=on4EmafA5MA Zook, M. (2000). The economic geography of commercial content production in the United States. Environment and Planning A, 32, 411–426. Zook, M., & Graham, M. (2007a). The creative reconstruction of the internet: Google and the privatization of cyberspace and digiPlace. Geoforum, 38, 1322–1343. Zook, M., & Graham, M. (2007b). Mapping digiPlace: Geocoded data and the representation of place. Environment and Planning B: Planning and Design, 34(3), 466–482. Zook, M., & Graham, M. (2009). Mapping the GeoWeb: The spatial contours of Web 2.0 cyberspace. In Association of American Geographers Annual Meeting. Las Vegas, NV.

Chapter 6

Engineering Community and Place: Facebook as Megaengineering Michael Longan and Darren Purcell

6.1 Introduction Hiro is approaching the Street. It is the Broadway, the Champs Elysees of the Metaverse. It is the brilliantly lit boulevard that can be seen, miniaturized and backward, reflected in the lenses of his goggles. It does not really exist. But right now, millions of people are walking up and down it. (Stephenson, 1992: 24)

Like the Street in Neil Stephenson’s novel Snow Crash, millions of people from around the world gather on Facebook at any moment in time. Moreover, decisions about Facebook’s virtual spaces are made centrally by Facebook’s engineers and designers, much like the centrally controlled Street. The juxtaposition of widespread, global use and centralized control suggest that Facebook may be characterized as a mega-engineering project. On the face of it, the argument may seem preposterous. Unlike a highway, dam, or bridge, social network sites (SNSs) like Facebook leave no readily visible imprint on the landscape and are created through software rather than by bulldozers. Indeed, we argue that Facebook and other SNSs, including MySpace, represent a form of social mega-engineering, though we also suggest that they play a role in transforming material spaces. While the diffusion of SNSs has been uneven at best and follows the geography of the digital divide (Williams, 2001), few technologies save the Internet itself and perhaps Google (see Paradiso, 2010, this volume) have the potential to unify the masses onto one software platform to share their interests, passions and their consumer tastes. SNSs are infrastructures that bring people together virtually, just as many of the megaengineering projects chronicled in this volume facilitate flows of goods, resources, electricity, and people among material places. Engineers build network infrastructure and write computer code to create virtual spaces that encourage the formation of communities which generate shared social capital. Moreover these communities also constitute an engineered audience for marketers. SNSs are a Janus-faced M. Longan (B) Department of Geography and Meteorology, Valparaiso University, Valparaiso, IN 46383, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_6,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

85

86

M. Longan and D. Purcell

marketer’s dream and nightmare as the volumes of information generated are only now becoming intelligible. As megaengineering projects, SNSs also deserve to be considered separately from the Internet. While the Internet is engineered to move data efficiently, SNSs facilitate flows of information among people and create a virtual community of exchange. Because information constitutes the basic building material of SNSs, users play a significant role in crafting their virtual spaces by sharing their own information. Users become engineers. This chapter first documents changes in Internet infrastructure that allowed SNSs to develop. It then explores the concept of virtual places and how they have been conceived of as tools for the social engineering of community. The remainder of the chapter focuses on Facebook and shows how its virtual spaces help to generate community ties and social capital, and in turn, how these virtual spaces may help transform the material world. Finally we examine the notion of few-to-many engineering as well as how users participate in and challenge the engineering of Facebook.

6.2 Facebook’s Mega Audience The fact that SNSs are engineered software platforms attracting millions of users from around the world places them in the same category as the other megaengineering projects discussed in this volume. Growth in the number of Internet users globally has changed the calculus for those seeking to develop SNSs. Internet access and use has diffused from core regions to semiperipheral and peripheral regions of the globe (Fig. 6.1). The decline in the cost of access coupled with deregulation policies and states working to facilitate an “information society” as a path to economic development led to rapid Internet adoption rates in the semiperipheral and peripheral regions of

Fig. 6.1 Change in Internet Development Index (IDI), a measure of the relative infrastructure quality, 2002–2007. (Data source: International Telecommunication Union, 2009). [IDI is not limited to physical infrastructure but also incorporates data linked to levels of education that impact technology usage.]

6

Engineering Community and Place

87

the globe. A combination of private and public efforts have created more bandwidth in countries as varied in their political economy as South Korea and the Middle Eastern monarchies (Abdulla, 2007; Jin, 2005; Lee, O’Keefe, & Yun, 2003). Many peripheral and semiperipheral countries have seen increases in the provision of high quality Internet broadband services in their eagerness to transform their economies and to a lesser degree, their societies (Boas, 2006). This growth across the globe has yielded approximately 1.6 billion Internet users. The growth in physical access and educational attainment along with cultural changes that allow for integration of Internet technologies into daily life have created a critical mass of users to support the development of specialized Internet services (International Telecommunications Union, 2009). The increase in internet usage has also made the Internet potentially more useful for reaching consumers through advertising as well as a tool for gathering information on consumers. Though the Internet sounds like a marketer’s dream, the sheer amount of data available and the lack of standard formats means that it is both difficult to target advertisements and to collect meaningful consumer data. Just as providing free music via radio helped to create an audience that could be packaged and sold (Adams, 2005), marketers need ways to gather audiences online. SNSs perform both of these functions by encouraging consumers to provide personal information in a standardized format as well as providing applications for targeted advertising based on that data. Moreover, because SNSs are engineered communities, they allow marketers to encourage users to participate as spokespeople for their products. SNSs serve as virtual marketplaces that corral and concentrate user attention for marketers.

6.3 Engineering Virtual Spaces While we invoke the term “engineered” to denote the creation of Internet infrastructure, it may also denote the construction of virtual spaces by engineers and users. Though they lack materiality, virtual spaces may be considered to be a type of space. The existence and importance of virtual space is underscored by Shields (2003) who argues that the concept of the virtual has a long history predating the emergence of computing technology, and that scholars should investigate the reality that online virtual spaces hold for users. Individuals carry the social structures and expectations of their material existence with them to their interactions online, which impacts how they use online spaces (Hargittai, 2007). Scholars have observed that even if online spaces differ in form, they often function similarly to material spaces and exhibit place-like qualities. Adams (1992) convincingly argued that television is a gathering place replete with shared social norms that transcend time and space. Others have described the use of technologies to support the formation of communities (Kuehl, 2007; McArdle, 2008; Rheingold, 1993). As the mobile technologies for accessing the Internet become more sophisticated, the interaction among virtual and material spaces increases. Zook and Graham (2007a, 2007b) coined the term

88

M. Longan and D. Purcell

“digiplace” to describe the real-time interaction of physical and virtual spaces produced through the use of geocoded and mapped data using through mobile phones and online mapping technologies. What gives communication technologies, and by extension virtual worlds, their power as spaces is the concept of extensibility. This term denotes a person’s ability to influence events in space and time (Adams, 1995, 2005; Janelle, 1973). Extensibility varies for all people as a function of their class, race, employment structure, nature of their work, and their own motivations. At the same time, extensibility emphasizes the fact that humanity’s epistemology is derived from the body. The concept of extensibility helps one to visualize the multiple linkages forged in the virtual and material realms. Internet technologies enhance extensibility rather than transport a disembodied mind to a virtual realm separate from material space.

6.4 Using Virtual Spaces to Engineer Place-Based Community The mutual construction of virtual and material spaces through extensibility is an important theme in Internet geography research and applies to understanding the interconnection of virtual and material communities (Graham & Marvin, 1996). As with research on the Internet in general, writing about virtual communities in the 1990s focused on their seemingly global and placeless nature as well as the idea of community without propinquity (Webber, 1964). Nevertheless, Rheingold’s (1993) account of life in a virtual community explored the way that virtual community helped to support and enhance face-to-face community in the San Francisco area. His writing influenced an important, but unrecognized, predecessor to Facebook’s social engineering of community, the Community Networking Movement. Community networks are localized networks designed to provide free or low cost access to the Internet and host local information and community discussion. Community networking activists hoped to use Internet access to engineer placebased community. The Internet was a catalytic tool that community networking activists could use to help reconstruct a sense of community and promote civic participation that had been lost to the pressures of modern city life. As Schuler (1996: 9) put it, Community Networking could help to construct “New Communities” that would be “fundamentally devoted to democratic problem-solving.” While many community networks succeeded in providing access to community information, they have had limited success in engineering community because they tended to elide distinctions among community and place. They emphasized providing information about places via the World Wide Web instead of using communication tools to facilitate community conversations (Longan, 2002). Community networking organizations have been more successful at promoting social ties within their own organizations. The construction of the network itself serves as the “res publica” or public thing (Kemmis, 1990) around which community ties are formed (Longan, 2005). As will be shown below, a user’s common participation in constructing social ties with Facebook similarly provides a catalyst for community formation.

6

Engineering Community and Place

89

Community networks are just one example of how people have sought to use online communication to reshape both society and the material landscape. SNSs largely achieve what community networking activists sought to achieve; they provide users with powerful tools that significantly alter both online and offline social relations and spaces.

6.5 Social Networking and Facebook SNSs have existed since 1997 and developed with increasing speed in the middle part of the decade (Boyd & Ellison, 2008). SNSs are distinct from other web sites because they “allow individuals to (1) construct a public or semi-public profile within a bounded system, (2) articulate a list of other users with whom they share a connection, and (3) view and traverse their list of connections and those made by others within the system” (Boyd & Ellison, 2008: 211). Users define an online persona and identify contacts publicly for others to see. SNSs often integrate other communication features including e-mail, chat, and photo and video sharing for example. Facebook, our case study, is arguably the fastest growing of the SNSs both in number of users and in their global distribution. It was originally created for Harvard University students, gradually expanded to other universities, to high schools, and later to the general public. Despite the initial dominance of teens and college-aged users, more non-students are joining Facebook (Kirkpatrick, 2008), with growth now approaching an estimated 200 million users. This means that there over one million users for each Facebook software developer (Facebook, 2009e). As Table 6.1 and Fig. 6.2 indicate, the United States is the largest Facebook user followed by the United Kingdom and Canada. The diffusion of Facebook is highly uneven. Countries such as Indonesia and India have significant numbers of users, but these barely comprise one percent of the population. In smaller countries, usage rates of over 25% of the population are not uncommon; indicating the adoption of Facebook is not limited to student-aged populations. Norway stands out at 43% of its population as registered users, and Denmark at 39%. Low usage rates in some countries are likely due to the popularity of other SNS services including Orkut, in Brazil and India and Xiaonei in China (Table 6.1 and Fig. 6.2).

6.6 Engineering Place and Community with Facebook W. Mitchell (1995: 5) argued that the most important task for architects of the digital world is “one of imagining and creating digitally mediated environments for the kinds of lives that we will want to lead and the sorts of communities that we will want to have.” By comparing different kinds of material spaces with their virtual analogs he demonstrated that architecture matters in the virtual world. In the material realm, bulletin boards, postal mail, living rooms, classrooms, and town halls

90

M. Longan and D. Purcell Table 6.1 Facebook’s 25 largest user countries

Country

Number of facebook users

United States United Kingdom Canada Turkey France Italy Australia Spain Colombia Chile Argentina Indonesia Venezuela Mexico Belgium Sweden Denmark Germany Norway Hong Kong India Greece South Africa Switzerland Egypt

62,614,120 18,148,900 11,637,740 10,767,060 9,706,260 9,301,500 5,601,260 5,305,660 5,152,600 4,704,780 3,765,940 3,245,640 3,146,260 2,330,540 2,251,160 2,161,820 2,148,840 2,083,320 1,986,740 1,818,660 1,689,740 1,482,200 1,471,960 1,429,140 1,319,480

Population estimate 2009 307,212,123 61,113,205 33,213,000 76,805,524 64,420,073 58,126,212 21,007,000 40,525,002 45,644,023 16,454,000 40,482,000 240,271,522 26,814,843 111,211,789 10,404,000 9,059651 5,500,510 82,329,758 4,660,539 7,055,071 1,166,079,217 10,737,428 49,052,489 7,604,467 83,082,869

Percent of population that uses facebook

Percentage of all facebook users

20 30 35 14 15 16 27 13 11 29 9 1 12 2 22 24 39 3 43 26 0 14 3 19 2

31.21 9.05 5.80 5.37 4.84 4.64 2.79 2.64 2.57 2.34 1.88 1.62 1.57 1.16 1.12 1.08 1.07 1.04 0.99 0.91 0.84 0.74 0.73 0.71 0.66

Note: Data derived from figures provided to prospective advertisers on Facebook. They offer only a snapshot and approximation of the geographical distribution of users. The researchers noted minor fluctuations in the data within a 24 h period.] (Source: Facebook User Data Estimate from Facebook.com, 29 May 2009; Population estimate from U.S. Census Bureau, 2009)

are all spaces for community formation. Their analogs, web pages, chat rooms, and discussion forums may be used in attempts to engineer community online, however, unlike their material analogs they are not integrated into everyday life. A critical mass of participants must intentionally seek them out and few forums not devoted to a specific topic succeed online. The user profile on Facebook performs a similar function as a traditional home page on the Internet (Fig. 6.3). Like a home page the profile provides a space for users to represent themselves on the network by sharing interests, photos, and contact information. Profiles are perhaps the most important spaces on Facebook, but it is not the profile itself that encourages community formation. The Internet, Mitchell suggested, replaces contiguity with connection and streets with web links. Yet streets, hallways, sidewalks, yards, and the aisles of the grocery store are some of the most important spaces for community formation. As Massey

6

Engineering Community and Place

91

Fig. 6.2 Percentage of the Population in Selected Countries that Use Facebook. (Facebook data from Facebook.com, accessed 29 May 2009. Population data from the U.S. Census Bureau’s International Population Database, accessed 2 June 2009)

Fig. 6.3 Map of the Facebook profile page

(1994) reminds us places are not simply bounded spaces, but nodes of interconnection. Links and pathways are as important as destinations for the construction of place and the formation of community. In addition to providing gathering spaces, Facebook engineers community by providing links and pathways between profiles. Unlike traditional Internet home pages, users link their own profile to other’s profiles by sending friend requests. Friends may also engage in public discussion by writing on each other’s profile “wall.” Unlike a traditional home page, profiles are produced collectively as well as individually. “Because social network sites do not provide

92

M. Longan and D. Purcell

Fig. 6.4 Map of the Facebook home page where the news feed is located

physical walls for context, the context that users create is through their choice of Friends” (Boyd, 2006). Indeed, one study found that the physical attractiveness and social behaviors of one’s friends on their Facebook profile influenced perceptions of the physical and social attractiveness of the profile owner (Walther, Der Heide, Kim, Westerman, & Tom Tong, 2008). Links to friends and writing on friend’s walls transforms profiles from simple destinations into nodes of interconnection. Yet in order to interact, one must still visit other people’s profiles. Were it not for the News Feed, which enables virtual travel, profiles would be like rooms without windows (Fig. 6.4). The News Feed, controversially introduced in 2006, automatically distributes news about updates to the profiles of one’s friends (Sanghvi, 2006). It creates an “ambient awareness” of other people’s activities, moods, and lives (Bødker & Christiansen, 2006; Thompson, 2008). Reading the News Feed is like walking down a sidewalk, bumping into a friend, and having a short conversation about how things are going. The only difference is that one knows most of the people on the sidewalk. The News Feed therefore acts much as a sidewalk would in a small town where people know each other. Facebook also helps to engineer community in material spaces. As the small town analogy suggests, people use tend to use Facebook to maintain contact with friends they already know, contrary to popular perceptions that social networking is about interacting with strangers (Manjoo, 2009). SNSs and material spaces are highly interconnected (Boyd, 2006). Online social ties are predominately extensions and intensifications of social ties first forged in material spaces. Users on Facebook join regional and local networks based initially on schools, workplaces, and regions which makes finding existing local friends and acquaintances easy. In concert with

6

Engineering Community and Place

93

privacy settings these networks help to simulate friction of distance. Though users can change their privacy settings, by default more of one’s profile is visible to other people on one’s network than to people on more distant networks, thus making it easier to learn more about people close by than distant (Facebook, 2008). The result of this scalar geography is that people tend to use SNSs as a map of one’s existing place-based social relationships and to coordinate daily activities with friends who are close by (Stern & Taylor, 2007). Ambient awareness about others’ activities means that when friends meet face-to-face, they spend less time catching up and more time deepening their relationship. For instance, teachers who share appropriate information about themselves with their students via SNSs can improve their classroom climate as well as teaching outcomes because students learn more about their teachers than they would from their formal interactions in the classroom (Mazer, Murphy, & Simonds, 2007). Groups and events applications allow Friends to efficiently coordinate activities in material space, though there’s no guarantee that that friends will show up (Niedzviecki, 2008). While Facebook is primarily used to maintain existing friendships, it can also be used to forge new relationships in material space. The News Feed often reports on a friend’s interactions with their other friends, meaning that it is possible to encounter people one does not know. In addition, Facebook suggests possible friends who are friends of friends. A search on Facebook can also be used to find out more about people one has met briefly in a face-to-face context or someone seen regularly around town, but with whom one has never had a conversation. A subsequent conversation, “Hello, I recognize you from Facebook!” in material space or a Friend request leads to future online and offline contact and even perhaps real friendship. Here, Facebook functions as a catalyst for contact, converting spatial proximity into social proximity by bridging social distance. Though Facebook friends are not necessarily the same as “real” friends, a study of college students (Ellison, Steinfield, & Lampe, 2007), suggests that even informal contacts may help to enhance one’s social capital. Drawing from Putnam’s Bowling Alone (2000), the study concluded that Facebook helped students to generate and maintain both bridging social capital, generated through weak tie relationships, and bonding social capital, generated through strong tie relationships. The social network helped students create relationships that they could draw upon to combat loneliness, ask for favors, or mobilize to accomplish common tasks. Moreover, the researchers also found that Facebook helped students to maintain social capital after moving to a new place. That Facebook helped students to maintain relationships after they have left a place suggests one final way that social network spaces and material space interpenetrate. Facebook allows place-based relationships to continue even after they have been disembedded from place.

6.7 Facebook’s Role in Transforming the Earth The social capital that Facebook helps to generate may in turn have a role in transforming the face of the Earth, as well as in transforming Facebook itself. Identifying and measuring the ways that Facebook alters both societies

94

M. Longan and D. Purcell

and material landscape is difficult. Nevertheless, we suggest some ways that Facebook may transform the Earth in the realms of the environment and geopolitics. First, Facebook’s size means that it has a major environmental impact, similar to other server-intensive computing operations such as Google (Da Silva, 2008). In addition to power consumption by servers, the energy used to cool the computers is a major component of overall energy use. While estimates vary, one study suggests that data centers may contribute 0.3% of carbon dioxide emissions. This figure is half of the carbon dioxide emissions of the airlines industry. Put another way, data centers generate more carbon dioxide than industrialized economies such as Netherlands, Argentina and Malaysia. (Forest & Brill, 2008). Recent figures provided by Facebook put the number of servers in use by the company at 10.000 (Miller, 2008). Facebook’s contribution to this total will only grow as it continues to expand globally. Beyond its direct environmental impact Facebook may also have other positive and negative effects on the environment, most of which are difficult to measure or confirm. People may substitute communication via Facebook for physical travel or use Facebook to coordinate their travel and improve its efficiency. Alternatively, because Facebook helps people to expand the scale of their contacts to regional, national, and international scales, it may encourage people to travel more than they would otherwise for face-to-face meetings (see Mokhtarian, 2002 for an overview of this issue). Finally, and perhaps most importantly, individuals and environmental organizations use Facebook to raise awareness about environmental issues as well as for fundraising. The political ramifications of Facebook and other SNSs are now becoming apparent. The 2008 United States Presidential campaign saw extensive use of SNS platforms to reach the “Facebook generation” (Fraser & Dutta, 2008) and they are given some credit for successful fundraising efforts, in particular by the Democratic party. Presidential candidates had Facebook pages (a specific type of profile that businesses, politicians, and celebrities may create for publicity) that were heavily visited, and communities formed around each, fostering the drive to donate. The use of social networking in political campaigns is expected to diffuse to other countries, though the effectiveness in other political contexts remains to be seen. Conversely, governments often fear the impact of Facebook. Iran’s government blocked access to Facebook through denial of service for specific URL addresses in the months before the June 2009 Presidential election, only to restore access weeks before the election. After the election the government increased monitoring of Internet use in Iran through the use of deep-packet inspection equipment (installed by Nokia Siemens Networks) that allowed the government to sift through data (e-mails and digital voice communication) via a single chokepoint on the network (Zetter, 2009). Earlier observers noted that the change may have been used by the government to attempt to appear open and democratic, and may have also allowed it to monitor activities of dissidents sharing their opinions on Facebook (Rahmi & Gheytanchi, 2009), and given post-election actions, these views were borne out. Beyond elections, nationalist political movements use SNSs to articulate geopolitical visions and aspirations for sovereignty, which becomes a site of contestation

6

Engineering Community and Place

95

over the meaning of space (Purcell, 2009). As the Kurdistan and Somaliland Facebook groups illustrate, non-existent and unrecognized countries are represented in the virtual world. Those opposed to such political movements fight back virtually, making offensive posts in opponent’s groups or creating oppositional Facebook groups of their own. While clearly not “real” in a legal sense, the creators of Facebook sites for the Kurdistans and Somalilands of the world see these “countries” as quite real and inevitable, and use Facebook to educate the globe about their reality. A multitude of other political activism groups and pages also populate Facebook, taking advantage of SNS tools for organization as well as the large potential audience for their message. Facebook allows for regular communication across a community of people who choose to participate. This results in messages communicated to a niche public that are then shared virally. Upon reaching hard-core committed group members, messages may be posted to personal Facebook sites and forwarded in emails within minutes of viewing. Users are updated regularly with short messages, web links, video, and other media that are intended to reinforce a message, and be shared with others. The speed at which group members can be notified with detailed information and suggestions for action is superior to most other communications platforms, thus the ability to act quickly meshes well with the media environment groups work within.

6.8 Few-to-Many Engineering Although Facebook users have significant power to shape their own profiles and contribute content, they do so within constraints determined by the network’s engineers. Here there are parallels with city planning. Just as urban planners determine the infrastructure needs of a city, create zoning codes that regulate land use, and set design guidelines for districts, Facebook’s engineers and designers design it’s online spaces, determine how its core applications work, and how the interface will look. Moreover, different SNSs have different “zoning codes.” MySpace, for example, resembles Houston, which does not have a formal land use zoning code, because it allows users to do most anything they want with their profile regardless of clarity or usability. Users may alter the default profile’s layout, include their own background images, insert videos and songs, and customize font colors and sizes. Facebook on the other hand, resembles Santa Fe where uniformity of design is enforced across all profiles and “unsightly” applications are relegated to “boxes” that operate like fenced off back yards full of junk. Decisions about zoning and design are enforced through computer code rather than through laws (Dodge & Kitchin, 2005). Where code is inadequate to shape behavior, customer service representatives enforce terms of service rules by limiting access or exiling transgressors (Facebook, 2009c). Unlike a planning agency or a government, Facebook is a business and therefore may engage in few-to-many engineering. Changes can be made to the service without warning or input from users. This top-down hierarchical method of engineering

96

M. Longan and D. Purcell

resembles massive engineering efforts more than contemporary planning practice which emphasizes citizen input and participation in decision making. Moreover, while promoting health, safety, and welfare are central goals for planning, a central goal for Facebook is delivering the attention of users to advertisers. Nevertheless, users are not powerless to shape Facebook and may participate directly in engineering Facebook itself. Facebook’s international expansion required that the site be translated into hundreds of different languages. Rather than hiring translators, Facebook’s engineers created an application that invited users to translate Facebook’s pages into different languages. A voting system helped the engineers to find the best translation. Within 24 hours, 90% of the French version of Facebook had been completed (Facebook, 2009d). “Crowdsourcing” (the sharing of projects and problems online for others to contribute solutions, often without compensation) of problems allows a small group of engineers to have a worldwide impact in very little time. Users also help engineer the site through both sanctioned and unsanctioned feedback that can be either private or public (Table 6.2). Facebook solicits sanctioned Feedback in at least two ways. First, Facebook conducts user experience studies with users and non-users away from public view (Facebook, 2009a). Second, Facebook inconsistently solicits user input for proposed changes to the service both through private feedback and by providing spaces for users to publicly comment on changes. After experiencing bad publicity from the introduction of the News Feed in 2006, Facebook launched a page for users to provide both public and private feedback on proposed changes to the design of user profile pages in 2008 (Zuckerberg, 2008). Later, in early 2009, users and the media interpreted an unadvertised change in Facebook’s terms of service to mean that the company could use data that users uploaded to the service in any way that it wanted (Walters, 2009). Based on the uproar that followed the discovery of the changes, Facebook subsequently reverted to its old terms of service and invited users to participate in a vote on newly revised governance documents (Facebook, 2009b). Initial unsanctioned and public user feedback forced Facebook to create a sanctioned and public process for determining its governance documents. Just months later, Facebook significantly revised the design and function of the user Home page and provided users with a link to provide private feedback to the company but did not provide space for public feedback on the changes (Cox, 2009). While many Facebook users complained privately to their friends via wall posts and status updates, there was no central place for them to publicly express their displeasure or support for the changes to Facebook. As a

Table 6.2 User feedback to facebook Sanctioned

Unsanctioned

Public

2008 Profile Changes Comment process

Private

Solicited feedback on 2009 Home Page Changes

Anti-Change groups and commentary in unrelated Facebook Forums Private discussions among users about changes

6

Engineering Community and Place

97

result, users posted complaints in Facebook-oriented forums unrelated to Facebook governance, informing friends of their disenchantment, and directing them “where” to go on Facebook to find others in agreement. Users’ sanctioned and unsanctioned responses to top-down design changes as well as Facebook’s attempts to social engineer user responses mirror attempts to socially engineer material public spaces. As D. Mitchell (2003: 33) writes “representation, whether of oneself or of a group, demands space.” Furthermore while public spaces for debate can be designated, what makes them public is not the designation. “Rather, it is when, to fulfill a pressing need, some group or another takes space and through its actions makes it public. Representation both demands space and creates space” (Mitchell, 2003: 35). Absent a sanctioned, public space for users to register their discontent, the users took over spaces on Facebook intended for other purposes by flooding them with comments, much like protesters taking over the streets of a contemporary city. While Facebook resembles traditional megaengineering projects, a significant difference is related to spatial inertia and the malleability of virtual space. Whereas the landscape is irrevocably changed when a dam is built to make way for a reservoir, changes online have less spatial inertia. Facebook’s response to the terms of service controversy was simply to turn back the clock and revert to the old terms of service. While Facebook did not simply revert to its older home page in response to user rebellion, it has modified the initial design significantly to address concerns expressed by users (Schoenfelder, 2009). The lack of spatial inertia online means that changes to the virtual space of the network can be made suddenly, but also that the response by users can be just as swift.

6.9 Conclusion Though it may have started out as a small operation, Facebook has become a megaengineering project because of its large and growing user population. Engineers employed by Facebook make decisions everyday that affect the lives of people around the world. Facebook engineers four things. First it engineers the physical infrastructure that allows the service to be offered via the Internet. Second it engineers software that creates virtual spaces and places for users to “inhabit.” Third, those virtual spaces and places are tools that Facebook uses to socially engineer online and offline communities. Finally these communities produce information that can be used to engineer audiences that are then sold to advertisers. Each product of engineering relies upon the output of the previous one. What differentiates Facebook as megaengineering is the degree to which users both participate in and resist the engineering and design of the service and its virtual spaces. In the future, the Internet itself will look more and more like Facebook and other SNSs (Kirkpatrick, 2009). Moreover, SNSs will cease to be contained within the boundaries of the web browser, moving onto mobile platforms, game consoles, and other devices. They will be an integral part of the development of “digiplaces”

98

M. Longan and D. Purcell

(Zook & Graham, 2007a, 2007b). Diffusion of SNSs will continue to mirror the diffusion of Internet access. Conflict over privacy issues and governance will continue, however they may be mitigated as social norms and laws develop to regulate the use of private information from SNSs. We envision three possible scenarios for the future of technological social networking. In the first scenario, the need to deliver and identify an audience may encourage the maintenance of centralized control and few-to-many engineering with competition among different social networking applications vying for hegemony in the marketplace. In the second scenario, the reluctance of users to recreate their profiles on multiple networks, the continual development of platforms that lower barriers to non-English speakers, and the integration of technologies and protocols that support social networking may enable mergers that lead to a dominant centrally controlled social network system. Finally, increasing integration of SNSs may result in the creation of open source social networking platforms. SNSs will interconnect and one will travel among networks using the same central profile which they own and control. Many-to-many engineering will ultimately trump the few-to-many engineering of today. The central questions for the future will be: Who does the engineering? Where? And for what purposes?

References Abdulla, R. A. (2007). The internet in the Arab world: Egypt and beyond. New York: Peter Lang Publishing. Adams, P. (1992). Television as gathering place. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 82, 117. Adams, P. (1995). A reconsideration of personal boundaries in space-time. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 85, 267–285. Adams, P. (2005). The boundless self: Communication in physical and virtual spaces. Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press. Boas, T. (2006). Weaving the authoritarian web: The control of internet use in Nondemocratic regimes. In J. Zysman & A. Newman (Eds.), How revolutionary was the digital revolution? National responses, market transitions and global technology (pp. 361–378). Stanford, CA: Stanford Business Books. Bødker, S., & E. Christiansen. (2006). Computer support for social awareness in flexible work. Computer Supported Cooperative Work: The Journal of Collaborative Computing, 15, 1–28. Boyd, D. (2006). Friends, friendsters, and top 8: writing community into being on social network sites. First Monday 11. Retrieved June 8, 2009, from http://firstmonday.org/htbin/ cgiwrap/bin/ojs/index.php/fm/article/view/1418/1336 Boyd, D., & Ellison, N. (2008). Social network sites: Definition, history, and scholarship. Journal of Computer-Mediated Communication, 13, 210–230. Cox, C. (2009). Responding to your feedback. Retrieved May 20, 2009, from Facebook Blog. http://blog.facebook.com/blog.php?post=62368742130 Da Silva, I. I. (2008) Forget about air travel, your Facebook profile is quickly becoming environmental enemy #1. Wikinomics. Retrieved June 1, 2009, from http://www.wikinomics. com/blog/index.php/2008/05/05/forget-about-air-travel-your-facebook-profile-is-quicklybecoming-environmental-enemy-1/ Dodge M., & Kitchin, R. (2005). Code and the transduction of space. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 95, 162–180.

6

Engineering Community and Place

99

Ellison, N., Steinfield, C., & Lampe, C. (2007) The benefits of Facebook “friends:” Social capital and college students’ use of online social network sites. Journal of Computer-Mediated Communication, 12, 1143–1168. Facebook. (2008). Privacy Policy. Facebook privacy policy. Retrieved May 26, 2009, from http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/policy.php Facebook. (2009a). User research. Retrieved May 20, 2009, from http://www.facebook.com/ research/ Facebook. (2009b). Facebook site governance. Retrieved May 20, 2009, from http://www. facebook.com/facebook?ref=pf#/fbsitegovernance Facebook. (2009c). Facebook help center: Warnings. Retrieved Accessed May 26, 2009, from http://www.facebook.com/help.php?page=421 Facebook. (2009d). Connecting the world: How we translated Facebook [Video]. Retrieved May 27, 2009, from http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=75505423022&ref=mf Facebook. (2009e). Small team, big impact: The people behind photos [Video]. Retrieved May 27, 2009, from http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=183757000483&ref=mf Forest, W., & Brill, K. (2008). Uptime Institute Symposium: Revolutionizing Data Center Efficiency. McKinsey and Company [PowerPoint Presentation]. Retrieved June 1, 2009, from http://uptimeinstitute.org/images/stories/McKinsey_Report/Revolutionizing%20Data%20 Center%20Efficiency%20Presentation%20Version.pps Fraser, M., & Dutta, S. (2008). Barack Obama and the Facebook election. US News and World Report. 19 November. Retrieved June 3, 2009, from http://www.usnews.com/articles/ opinion/2008/11/19/barack-obama-and-the-facebook-election.html Graham, S., & Marvin, S. (1996). Telecommunications and the city: Electronic spaces, urban places. London: Routledge. Hargittai, E. (2007). Whose space? Differences among users and non-users of social network sites. Journal of Computer-Mediated Communication, 13(1), Article 14. Retrieved June 4, 2009, from http://jcmc.indiana.edu/vol13/issue1/hargittai.html International Telecommunications Union. (2009). Measuring the Information Society: The ICT Development Index. Retrieved May 27, 2009, from http://www.itu.int/ITUD/ict/publications/idi/2009/material/IDI2009_w5.pdf Janelle, D. (1973). Measuring human extensibility in a shrinking world. The Journal of Geography, 72(5), 8–15. Jin, D. Y. (2005). Socioeconomic implications of broadband services: Information economy in Korea. Information, Communication & Society, 8, 503–523. Kemmis, D. (1990). Community and the politics of place. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Kirkpatrick, D. (2008). Help Wanted: Adults on Facebook. CNNMoney.com. Last updated March 21st. Retrieved June 1, 2009, from http://money.cnn.com/2008/03/21/technology/ kirkpatrick_facebook.fortune/index.htm Kirkpatrick, M. (2009). Despite new openness, Facebook remains fundamentally closed – ReadWriteWeb. Read Write Web. April 27. Retrieved June 7, 2009, from http://www. readwriteweb.com/archives/despite_new_openness_facebook_remains_fundamentall_1.php Kuehl, M. (2007). Hey, aren’t we friends on myspace? Linking lesbians in virtual and material landscapes. Unpublished master’s thesis, Department of Geography, University of Oklahoma, Norman, OK. . Lee, H., O’Keefe, R., & Yun, K. (2003). The growth of broadband and electronic commerce in South Korea: Contributing factors. The Information Society, 19, 81–93. Longan, M. (2002). Building a global sense of place: The community networking movement in the United States. Urban Geography, 22, 213–236. Longan, M. (2005). Visions of community and mobility: The community networking movement in the USA. Social and Cultural Geography, 6, 849–864. Massey, D. (1994) Space, place, and gender. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Manjoo, F. (2009). You have no friends. Everyone else is on Facebook. Why aren’t you? Slate Magazine, January 14. Retrieved June 7, 2009, from http://www.slate.com/id/2208678/.

100

M. Longan and D. Purcell

Mazer, J., Murphy, R., & Simonds, C. (2007). I’ll see you on “facebook:” The effects of computermediated teacher self-disclosure on student motivation, affective learning, and classroom climate. Communication Education, 56(1), 1–17. McArdle, S. (2008). Come ‘out,’ Come ‘out,’ wherever you are: The MySpace lesbian and her material social worlds. Unpublished MA thesis, Department of Geography, East Carolina University, Greenville, NC. Miller, R. (2008) Facebook now running 10,000 servers. Data Center Knowledge. April 23rd. Retrieved June 1, 2009, from http://www.datacenterknowledge.com/archives/2008/ 04/23/facebook-now-running-10000-web-servers/ Mitchell, D. (2003) The right to the city: Social justice and the fight for public space. New York: Guilford Press. Mitchell, W. (1995). City of bits: space, place, and the Infobahn. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Mokhtarian, P. L. (2002). Telecommunications and travel: The case for complementarity. Journal of Industrial Ecology, 6, 43–57. Niedzviecki, H. (2008). Facebook in a Crowd. The New York Times, October 26, sec. Magazine. Retrieved September 22, 2010, from http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/26/magazine/26livest.html. Paradiso, M. (2010). Google and the internet: A mega-project nesting within another megaproject. In S. D. Brunn (Eds.), Engineering Earth: The Impacts of Megaengineering Projects. Dordrecht: Springer. Purcell, D. (2009). Stateless of Facebook: Constructing Representations of Territorial Aspirations. Presentation at the annual meeting of the association of American Geographers, Las Vegas, NV. Power Point Slides. Retrieved June 7, 2009, from http://ou.academia.edu/ DarrenPurcell/attachment/109619/full/Stateless-on-Facebook–Stateless-on-Facebook– Constructing-Representations-of-Territorial-Aspirations. March 24, 2009. Putnam, R. (2000). Bowling alone: The collapse and revival of American community. New York: Touchstone. Rahmi, B., & Gheytanchi, E. (2009). “The Politics of Facebook in Iran” Open Democracy. June 1. Retrieved June 4, 2009, from http://www.opendemocracy.net/article/email/the-politics-offacebook-in-iran Rheingold, H. (1993). The virtual community: Homesteading on the electronic frontier. Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley. Sanghvi, R. (2006). Facebook gets a facelift. Facebook Blog. September 5. Retrieved June 8, 2009, from http://blog.facebook.com/blog.php?post=2207967130. Schoenfelder, S. (2009). Facebook relents on redesign; Is it a good move? Retrieved June 1, 2009, from http://www.digidaydaily.com/stories/facebook_relents_on_redesign_is_it_a_good_move/ Schuler, D. (1996). New community networks: Wired for change. Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley. Shields, R. (2003). The virtual. London: Routledge. Stephenson, N. (1992). Snow crash. New York: Bantam Books. Stern, L. A., & Taylor, K. (2007). Social networking on Facebook. Journal of the Communication, Speech & Theatre Association of North Dakota, 20, 9–20. Thompson, C. (2008). Brave new world of digital intimacy. The New York Times, September 7, sec. Magazine. Retrieved September 22, 2010, from http://www.nytimes. com/2008/09/07/magazine/07awareness-t.html?_r=1&pagewanted=all Walters, C. (2009). Facebook’s new terms of service: “We can do anything we with your content. Forever.” The Consumerist. February 15. Retrieved May 20, 2009, from http://consumerist.com/5150175/facebooks-new-terms-of-service-we-can-do-anything-wewant-with-your-content-forever Walther, J., Der Heide, B., Kim, S., Westerman, D., & Tom Tong, S. (2008). The role of friends’ appearance and behavior on evaluations of individuals on Facebook: Are we known by the company we keep? Human Communication Research, 34, 28–49. Webber, M. (1964). The urban place and the nonplace urban realm. In M. Webber (Ed.), Explorations into urban structure (pp. 79–153). Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

6

Engineering Community and Place

101

Williams, K. (2001). What is the digital divide? In K. Williams (Ed.), d3: Proceedings of the Digital Divide Doctoral Students Workshop. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan School of Information. Retrieved May 28, 2009, from http://www.internetworldstats.com/stats.htm Zetter, K. (2009). WSJ: Nokia, Siemens Help Iran Spy on Internet Users. Retrieved June 23, 2009, from http://www.wired.com/threatlevel/2009/06/wsj-nokia-and-siemens-help-iran-spyon-internet-users/ Zook, M., & Graham, M. (2007a) The creative reconstruction of the internet: Google and the privatization of cyberspace and digiPlace. Geoforum, 38, 1322–1343. Zook, M., & Graham, M. (2007b). From cyberspace to digiPlace: Visibility in an age of information and mobility. In H. Miller (Ed.) Societies and cities in the age of instant access (pp. 231–244). Dordrecht: Springer. Zuckerberg, M. (2008). Thoughts on the evolution of facebook. The facebook blog. September 18. Retrieved May 20, 2009, from http://blog.facebook.com/blog.php?post=31033537130

Chapter 7

Real-Time National Stability Engineering: Mapping the 2009 Afghan Election Tom Buckley, Sean Gorman, Laurie Schintler, and Rajendra Kulkarni

7.1 Introduction The re-building of institutional capacity in post-disaster and post-war zones requires massive engineering efforts. The needs of people on the ground in these situations are often approached from the top-down via emergency groups, NGOs, and governments (Jones, Wilson, & Rathmell, 2005). For actors on the ground, research has shown that such efforts may require ad-hoc capacity to adapt, understand, share, and quickly assess their situational context (NRC, 2007). In the study outlined below, participants were plagued by a variety of barriers ranging from lack of power to lack of trained technical personnel. In a report on improving geospatial support for disaster management the National Research Council identified several critical barriers to successful response to emergencies: a combination of lack of adequately trained staff and technically complicated geospatial software tools, lack of agreement and means for successful data distribution, and data “format[s] which are unrecognizable or unusable [for] responding agencies (NRC, 2007: 157).” A collection of researchers, open source software projects and companies has been developing technology to advance the delivery of geospatial and data sharing capabilities to non-technical users in ad-hoc environments. Recently, a few of these participants coordinated a volunteer effort to test how individual actors might apply such technology in Afghanistan. Specifically, the team deployed a collection of interoperable technologies in Jalalabad Afghanistan to support data sharing and mapping initiatives for the humanitarian, governmental, and indigenous stake holders in the region. This overview will give some background to the project. First, the paper will briefly review how data has been collected and mapped in Afghanistan for the past 50 years. Second, a review on the project’s background will be provided. Third, the paper will review the construction of a coalition of civilian, business, and government technologists including USAID, NGA, NDU, Naval Post Graduate School, UNDP T. Buckley (B) FortiusOne, Inc., Arlington, VA 22201, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_7,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

103

104

T. Buckley et al.

– FortiusOne, Google, OpenStreetMap, Sahana, Stamen, INSTEDD, Development Seed. Lastly, there will be a discussion of specific mapping cases and analyses from the Afghanistan elections.

7.2 Historical Background Between 1950 and 1960, the U.S. Government and Russia reached an agreement with the government of Afghanistan for creating maps from aerial photographs of the country. Russia photographed the northern quarter of the country, while the U.S. photographed the bottom three-quarters. Both countries produced high quality maps from the imagery, which became the National Atlas for Afghanistan at the time. During the 1980s, after the Russian invasion of Afghanistan the US Department of Defense produced numerous detailed maps as part of their support for anti-Russian insurgents. In one account, paper maps were kept out of Russian hands in the late 70s by an Afghani cook who dropped them off at the U.S. Embassy (Shroder, 2001, 2008). Mapping in Afghanistan is still undertaken by the U.S., as well as other military forces, the United Nations, and numerous NGOs (Beck, 2003). As was the trend in the 1970s, nations still fight to gain control over information, which they think of as strategic. In 2001, as the U.S. began bombing Afghanistan, the U.S. National Imagery and Mapping Agency bought all rights to imagery of Afghanistan taken by the IKONOS satellite, at the time the satellite with the most detailed imagery (BBC, 2001). This purchase meant not only that the U.S., would have access to all the imagery, but no other country or organization could buy them Demographics in Afghanistan have been described as “wild guesses and inadequate data (Dupree, 1980).” Throughout the hostilities of the 1980s the Central Statistics Office (CSO) of Afghanistan was largely unable to collect data. In 1992 it effectively shut down. Many of the records that the CSO had collected have been destroyed. Post 2001, the staff of the statistics office has increased tenfold and a housing and population census was implemented in 2003 and 2005. In spite of this, social statistics today are still described as being based on “ad hoc surveys” (CSO Afghanistan, 2007).

7.3 Taj Project Background For several years, individual volunteers and NGOs have worked to provide infrastructure for the Jalalabad area to promote civil-military information sharing. In trying to achieve this goal, stakeholders have run into a variety of challenges ranging from Internet connectivity to the inability to effectively map the variety of contributed formats. A crucible for testing solutions to these problems evolved at the Taj where stakeholders regularly meet, both formally and informally. The Taj is a guesthouse that was once part of the United Nations compound in Jalalabad, which has the benefit of satellite based Internet connectivity and wifi for visitors.

7

Real-Time National Stability Engineering

105

The social networks created at the Taj have resulted in ad hoc data sharing between the disparate government, humanitarian, construction and NGO groups in the region. The enhancement and promotion of these kinds of information exchanges can be a boon to such groups (Bennett, 1995). This activity was semiformalized when a hard drive was donated to reside at the Taj to provide a simple repository for shared data. The data-sharing program was started by the Synergy Strike Force (SSF), which was established by Dave Warner of Mindtel. The SSF is a volunteer team that works to support humanitarian relief and stabilization efforts in post conflict environments such as those in Jalalabad, Afghanistan. The program consists of a private volunteer organization comprised of individuals with various technical skills and access to a wide range of social networks. Much of the data shared at the Taj was geospatial in nature, but mapping it was challenging. Most of the stakeholders in the field did not know GIS, and even if they did, were lacking access to desktop applications. The SSF team found one of the volunteer team’s Web based mapping services, GeoCommons, and started using the public Website to map data. The downside to this approach was their satellite up-link powering the Taj’s wifi was slow and connectivity could be intermittent or plagued by brown outs. After learning from the team at the Taj about their use of GeoCommons, the team let them know about appliances that had self-hosted OpenStreetMap and Blue Marble map tiles that could run locally without Internet connectivity. Traditionally, this work has been done via a rack-mounted server, but that solution did not make sense for SSF’s purposes. As a result, the team sent a prototype deployment on a Mac-Mini, loaded it with numerous Afghanistan data sets, and donated it to the program.

7.4 Camp Roberts Exercise Shortly after the discussions with SSF several team members attended CrisisCamp in Washington DC, and met a variety of stakeholders interested in using technology to help with humanitarian relief projects. John Crowley invited several of the team members to participate in a STAR-TIDES sponsored exercise at Camp Roberts to simulate deploying technology for humanitarian relief in harsh climates (no power, no Internet etc.). SSF member Todd Huffman attended the exercise, and brought along a hardware appliance to test out integration possibilities. In addition to the Afghanistan data the appliance included an Afghanistan specific geocoder for georeferencing data from the field. Once at Camp Roberts, Todd integrated the appliance into a larger workflow of participating technologies. The set up at Camp Roberts included the technologies diagramed in Fig. 7.1. The basic workflow started with NGA FedExing a brick of Afghanistan imagery to Camp Roberts for the exercise. Next, the data was stripped off the brick and loaded into Google’s portable Fusion server. The fusion server then served up tiles to

106

T. Buckley et al.

Fig. 7.1 Camp Roberts architecture diagram

the GeoIQ appliance as well as the Sahana and Development Seed mapping applications, which were also being leveraged in the exercise. Field data collected through spreadsheets, SMS, and paper annotations, was then uploaded, geo-referenced, shared, mapped and analyzed in GeoIQ. This allowed data to be easily collected in the field and then overlaid and analyzed on top of NGA imagery by non-technical users. Not only did this allow for more efficient and robust field operations, but also data from the field could now be easily shared back to headquarters. From a potential operational scenario, this could allow NGA to not only send out imagery but also have data easily federated back for further analysis and dissemination. The testing went exceedingly well and several of the participants became interested in the Afghanistan test deployment that the team was participating with through SFF and Todd Huffman. Google graciously donated a mobile Google Fusion server and configured it to serve tiles to the GeoIQ appliance. In addition, Walking Papers was loaded onto the GeoIQ appliance to work with the OSM tile generator already in place. Walking Papers allows a user to print a map with the NGA satellite imagery and OSM street data, take it into the field, and then make annotations with any kind of writing instrument (pen, pencil, marker). Each map also has a QR code, which allows the data annotated on the image to be easily digitized and brought into OSM as new features. At the simplest level a field operator simply takes pictures of the map, sends it back via email or MMS, and the image can be digitized. When the new digitized data is fed into OSM it can trigger the GeoIQ appliance to render a new tile with the updated data. This is a compelling tool for updating data in a dynamically changing environment. For instance, a bridge is

7

Real-Time National Stability Engineering

107

sabotaged and the map can instantly reflect its loss and communicate the fact to a large universe of users as the most current map for the area of operations.

7.5 Field Deployment for the Afghanistan Elections The first test for the appliance was the Afghanistan elections. Todd and the SSF team had already coordinated with a wide variety of NGO’s in Afghanistan to share data throughout the elections. By leveraging the GeoIQ appliance they were able to georeference large amounts of ad hoc data and create a variety of pertinent maps with the information. In addition, all the shared data sets were cataloged in the appliance creating an archive that could be searched by any of the participating groups to find data from the various contributing organizations. USAID took a lead in sponsoring the pilot for the election and opened up several of their databases to be made available through the appliance. This resulted in hundreds of datasets being available to the team including data from the field and legacy databases providing detailed information on the historic and current state of Afghanistan. In addition to the data contributed from organizations, the appliance also tapped into the SMS messages being catalogued by Alive in Afghanistan that were being reported by citizens during the election. These included reports of violence and potential voter fraud. This provided a critical real-time perspective from citizenry on the unfolding elections, leveraging the potential of mobile phones to be fieldbased sensors. Like news sources, live feeds from individuals can result in biased analysis, but steps can be taken to reduce the way that biased data affects analysis (Danzger, 1975). The combined workflow of the Afghanistan deployment can be seen in Fig. 7.2. The data sharing initiative in Jalalabad resulted in a tremendous amount of data being contributed and shared with the various participating stakeholders. Over a terabyte of data was collected from a multitude of government agencies, NGO’s and humanitarian volunteers. The process of engaging with various stakeholders in Afghanistan provided three key lessons that helped successfully enable effective data sharing in the field: (1) Create immediate value for anyone contributing data: when users contribute data they should get an immediate return on that investment. In the case of the Afghan pilot that meant getting to see contributed data on a map of highresolution satellite imagery as soon as a contributor uploaded it. The imagery for Afghanistan was made available by NGA, then tiled and served up on the Google Fusion Server. (2) Make contributor’s data available back to them with improvements: any data that goes in should be available to download back out again. Further, the data should come back better than when it went in. In the Afghan pilot this meant if a participant shared data as a spreadsheet format into the platform they could get

108

T. Buckley et al.

Fig. 7.2 Afghan elections architecture diagram

the data back out in a variety of other useful formats – KML, shapefile, Atom, JSON, spatialite. (3) Share derivative works back with the data sharing community: urge users who create derivative works, with shared data, to contribute their data products back to the group. In the case of the Afghan pilot researchers were taking the detailed data from the field and feeding it into their sophisticated models and simulations. Researchers would then upload the results into the appliance to share the derivative works back with the data sharing community. This meant that agencies and individuals that shared data again got a better product back by contributing. The researchers get better data to feed their models, and a virtuous self-perpetuating feedback loop is created that sustains increasing data sharing. While a wide variety of data was collected and mapped throughout the pilot one of the main focuses was providing data transparency and analysis of the August 20, 2009 Afghanistan presidential election. One of the persistent realities of daily life in Afghanistan is violence and visualizing the location and concentration of violence through maps provides a personalization that highlights the depth of problem. Specifically the team was interested in mapping violence during the election, so its impact on voter turnout could be assessed. Figure 7.3 provides a small slice in time for violence between August 11 and August 26, 2009. The map highlights an interesting spatial pattern illustrating violence in both urban areas like Kandahar, Kabul, and Jalalabad as well less populated

7

Real-Time National Stability Engineering

109

Fig. 7.3 Afghanistan attacks by district, September 2–8, 2009

Fig. 7.4 Change in violence by district, August 11–September 9, 2009

mountainous regions. The violence appears to be coalescing largely in the Southern regions of Afghanistan with pockets of violence in the Northwest region of the country. While there are patterns over time, violence in the country is transient and insurgent activity can increase and decrease dynamically based on a variety of factors. Figure 7.4 illustrates how violence changed between August 11 and September 9, 2009 allowing us to view the pattern of violence before and after the elections. The areas in orange have experienced an increase in violence since the election and the areas in blue have decreased in violence. This exposes interesting patterns in places like Kandahar where violence is spilling over from recently secured areas

110

T. Buckley et al.

to geographically tangential locations. Overall there does not appear to be a systematic spatial pattern to where violence is increasing and decreasing, but should be examined in a more rigorous manner in the future. Hopefully the apparent lack of systematic violence means that any single political or tribal was not targeted to prevent their turnout. Again this is an assertion that needs to be examined more rigorously. The presence of insurgent violence driven by tribal warlords, the Taliban and Al-Qaeda threatened holding safe and fair elections in Afghanistan. The US government, NGO’s and the Afghanistan government all put precautions in place to enable an effective election process, but there were still wide spread reports of election violence and fraud (Constable, 2009). One of the main objectives of the pilot in Jalalabad was to provide transparency around the elections through citizen access to data on results fraud and Election Day violence. The last two maps provided a high level perspective of where violence may have influenced voter turnout. The following maps provide multiple perspectives on Election Day fraud issues from different stakeholders. Figure 7.5 illustrates where official fraud complaints where made about the election, aggregated by province. The second map illustrated Election Day complaints and incidents reported through Alive in Afghanistan’s mobile phone based SMS service. The service was set up to allow Afghan citizens to report election related violence and fraud through anonymized text messages from their mobile phones. This effort was set up outside of the government of Afghanistan and United States concerns by “Alive in Afghanistan”; a group of volunteers working on providing a voice to Afghan citizens. Their volunteers utilized a mobile phone based violence monitoring platform

Fig. 7.5 Total fraud complaints by province for the 2009 Afghanistan presidential election

7

Real-Time National Stability Engineering

111

Fig. 7.6 Citizen reported election day incidents

called Ushahidi. The platform was developed during the Kenyan elections to allow citizen reporting and monitoring of violence. It was subsequently made available as a free open source platform to be used across the world for related efforts. To date this has included monitoring strife or election fraud in Gaza, India, Uganda and Kenya. The map of Election Day incident reports is shown as Fig. 7.6. The maps provide two different perspectives on Election Day irregularities. The first map’s data was generated by the Independent election Commission of Afghanistan, the official government election agency. The second map was generated by volunteer efforts which anonymized citizens’ reports. While both maps show concentrations in the Kabol area, the anonymized data from Alive in Afghanistan shows a divergent pattern from the official government reports. It is beyond the scope of this brief survey to analyze these patterns, but there are rich opportunities for examining the intersection between volunteered geographic information and official source information. This is especially true when there are concerns of fraud or corruption from official source data. To further inspect the potential for fraud and corruption in the official source information the data from the Independent Election Commission seen in the previous map provided the opportunity to run fraud models with the data collected from the field. Specifically, a fit to Benford’s law was run to detect the potential for fraud in the preliminary vote results. Benford’s law states that in lists of numbers from several, but not all, real-life sources of data, the leading digit is distributed in a specific, non-uniform way. More precisely Benford’s law posits “the null hypothesis that the first digit in the candidates’ absolute numbers of votes is consistent with random selection from a uniform, base 10 logarithmic distribution modulo 1” (Roukema,

112

T. Buckley et al.

Fig. 7.7 Benford fraud analysis of Afghanistan election results

2009). Applying this technique to the Afghanistan election results produced the map shown as Fig. 7.7. The areas in dark grey illustrate provinces where the likelihood of fraud is high because the numerical distribution of digits is far from what would be expected according to Benford’s law. This provides an interesting contrast to what was seen in the official fraud reports. There is a distinct divergence between the two, although there are similarities between Benford analysis and what was reported by citizens through the “Alive in Afghanistan” service. It is not the intent of this paper to delve into the methodological details of using Benford’s analysis to scrutinize voter fraud, but more detailed reviews of the technique applied to the topic can be found in papers by Roukema (2009) and Mebane (2009). The results of the fraud analysis do provide a good example of how data collected in the field can be leveraged by researchers to produce derivative products and then share those back with stakeholders to create mutual benefit. Researchers get access to higher quality and more recent data while field contributors get access to analysis of their data to better inform their efforts on the ground. Further, researchers can receive valuable feedback from the field on the accuracy of their models to provide better error bounding and validation for future work.

7.6 Conclusion Engineering earth covers a wide variety of human endeavors, and perhaps one of the most challenging is building stability in conflict regions around the globe.

7

Real-Time National Stability Engineering

113

Afghanistan is one of the most difficult environment encountered having challenged the British, Soviet and American attempts to provide stability to the region. While it is debatable whether or not it is the roles of external powers to stabilize and build sovereign nations this paper has outlined a piloted attempt to facilitate better information sharing and transparency between indigenous and external stakeholders. Transparency around the political process is one key aspect to providing confidence in government by citizens and thus a key pillar to nation stability. While engineering is often associated in the building of physical things, increasingly information infrastructure, both technical and tacit, is critical to providing the foundation for human endeavors.

References BBC. (2001, Wednesday, 17 October, 2001). US buys afghan image rights. British Broadcasting Corporation. Retrieved October 14, 2010, from http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/ science/nature/1604426.stm Beck, R. A. (2003). Remote sensing and GIS as counterterrorism tools in the afghanistan war: A case study of the zhawar kili region. The Professional Geographer, 55(2), 170–179. Bennett, J. (1995). Meeting needs: NGO coordination in practice Earthscan. April 1995 204 pages 234 × 156 mm ISBN 9781853832352. Last Retrieved October 14, 2010, from http://www.earthscan.co.uk/?tabid=1007 Boudewijn, R. F.(2009). Benford’s Law anomalies in the 2009 Iranian presidential election. Annals of Applied Statistics. Preprint. Web. Retrieved September 9, 2009, from http://arxiv.org/PS_cache/arxiv/pdf/0906/0906.2789v3.pdf Central Statistics Office Afghanistan. (2007). Country report afghanistan. 6th management seminar for the heads of NSOs in Asia and the Pacific, Hong Kong. Constable, P. (2009). Unease grows over Afghan election. The Washington Post. Retrieved October 14, 2010, from http://www.washingtonpost.com/wpdyn/content/article/2009/ 09/12/AR2009091202765.html Danzger, M. H. (1975). Validating conflict data. American Sociological Review, 40(5), 570–584. http://www.jstor.org/stable/2094196 Dupree, L. (1980). Afghanistan. USA: Oxford University Press. “Jack Shroder: Afghan terrain and the search for bin Laden.” Cnn.com Online. 18 October 2001. Web. Retrieved October 13, 2010, from http://archives.cnn.com/2001/COMMUNITY/ 10/18/ret.shroder.cnna/index.html (October 18, 2001 Posted: 3:09 PM EDT (1909GMT)). Jones, S. G., Wilson, J. M., & Rathmell, A. (2005). Establishing law and order after conflict Rand Corp. Mebane, Walter R. (2009). Note on the presidential election in Iran, June 2009. University of Michigan – Walter Mebane. Web. Retrieved October 14, 2010, from http://wwwpersonal.umich.edu/~wmebane/note22jun2009.pdf National Research Council. (2007). Successful response starts with a map: Improving geospatial support for disaster management. Washington, DC: National Academies Shroder, J. (2008). Ch 2. In D. Z. Sui (Ed.), Geospatial technologies and homeland security. Research Frontiers and Future Challenges. Dordrecht: Springer.

Chapter 8

Engineering Time and Space with the Global Fiber Optics Industry Barney Warf

Among the various ways in which human beings have engineered the earth’s surface, the contemporary worldwide fiber optics network surely ranks as one of the largest, more important, and impressive for its sheer size and impact. Fiber optics lines – the seamlessly integrated network of glass wires about the size of a human hair, bundled together in cables of several thousand – form the core of the global telecommunications infrastructure. Indeed, far more than any other technology, such as copper cables, microwaves, or satellites, fiber optics supply the vast bulk of data, voice, and video transmission services around the world. Because of their capacity to deliver high volumes of information rapidly and securely (e.g., via broadband), fiber optic cables form the backbone of the Internet as well as private corporate lines, and are widely used in the electronic media for commercial and residential purposes (e.g., cable television). The technology is thus central to understanding contemporary economic, political and cultural transformations. This chapter offers an overview of fiber optics as a technology, an industry, and a force within the contemporary world. It begins with a brief history of how this phenomenon came to be, including the long history of scientific innovation behind it. Second, it situates and contextualizes fiber optics within the contemporary information-intensive global economy. Unfortunately, this issue has often been approached in apolitical and technocratic terms that ignore the social origins and consequences of the industry. Third, it turns briefly to the urban dimensions of this technology, the ways in which it is implicit in folding and refolding the spatiality of urban accessibility. Fourth, it maps out the global geography of fiber optics, focusing on the two major markets across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Fifth, it explores three consequences of the fiber boom of the 1990s, including a wave of corporate failures, the emergence of so-called “dark fiber,” and the challenge that fiber poses to the satellite industry.

B. Warf (B) Department of Geography, University of Kansas, Lawrence, KS 66045, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_8,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

115

116

B. Warf

8.1 A Brief Historical Overview of Fiber Optics Fiber optics are long, thin, flexible, highly transparent rods of quartz glass (or less commonly, plastic) about the thickness of a human hair that can transmit light signals through a process of internal reflection, which retains light in the core and transforms the cable into a waveguide (Agrawal, 2002; Crisp & Elliot, 2005; Freeman, 2002). (See Table 8.1 for a brief list of key terms relating to fiber optics.) They can transmit voice, video, or data traffic at the speed of light (299,792 km/s); because light oscillates much more rapidly than other electromagnetic wavelengths (200 trillion times per second in fiber cables v. two billion per second in a cellular phone), such lines can carry much more information than other types of telecommunications. Modern fiber cables contain up to 1,000 fibers each and are ideal for high-capacity, point-to-point transmissions. Moreover, fiber cables do not corrode or conduct electricity, which renders them immune to electromagnetic disturbances such as thunderstorms. Their development reflects a long history of experimentation and technological change. The origins of fiber optics go back to Jean-Daniel Colladon at the University of Geneva, who demonstrated light guiding in 1841. Subsequent experiments in 1870 by British physicist John Tyndall, who used moving water through curved rods to conduct light, showed that optical signals could be bent and that light therefore did not need always to travel in a straight line. In 1880, William Wheeling patented the method of “piping light” through mirrored pipes. Alexander Graham Bell’s “photophone” in the 1880s transmitted voice signals on a beam of light; the concurrent introduction of Thomas Edison’s light bulb enhanced the popularity of technologies of light. In the 1920s, Scottish television inventor John Baird and Clarence Hansell in the U.S. patented the idea of using transparent rods to transmit images (Hecht, 1999). In the 1950s, experiments by Brian O’Brien at the American Optical Company and Narinder Kapany (who coined the term “fiber optics”) at the Imperial College of Science and Technology in London developed a fiberscope, or forerunner to contemporary fiber optics, a technology that led to laparoscopic

Table 8.1 Key terms related to fiber optics (1) Dark fiber: fiber optic cables that are not in use, resulting from either planned or unplanned overcapacity. (2) Deregulation: decrease or removal of government controls in an industry, including prices, ownership, and market penetration. (3) Fiber optics: glass wires that transmit information via rapidly oscillation pulses of light over long distances. (4) Globalization: increase in the volume, scope, and rapidity of international transactions. (5) Internet: worldwide interconnected system of computer networks designed to transmit information of various types, including data, voice, and video. (6) Overcapacity: excess supply of a good, in this case fiber optic cable transmission ability, relative to demand, resulting in unused or underused portions. (7) Repeaters: devices designed to capture, amplify, and transmit information along fiber optic cables to minimize signal attenuation.

8

Engineering Time and Space with the Global Fiber Optics Industry

117

surgery. The introduction of a dense coat, or cladding, around the glass core, by Lawrence Curtiss of the University of Michigan, prevented the loss of light and led to near-perfect internal reflection within the core of the cable. In the 1960s the use of laser diodes in helium-neon gas perfected this technique at Bell Labs in New Jersey. In 1956 British physicist Charles Kao showed that light attenuation was caused by impurities in the glass and suggested optimal maximum levels of glass purity for long distance transmission. Ten years later, Robert Maurer, Donald Keck and Peter Schultz of the Corning Glass Works (later Corning, Inc., now the largest provider of fiber cable in the world) developed rods of pure fused silica that greatly reduced light attenuation to the levels that Kao specified. In 1960 Theodore Maiman of the Hughes Research Laboratories in Malibu California produced the first operational laser. As computer equipment became rapidly more sophisticated and widespread, US military uses of fiber optics began as it deployed them for communications and tactical systems. In 1975 computers at the NORAD headquarters in Cheyenne Mountain were linked by fiber optics. The technology was also central to the development of the Internet. Indeed, much of the durability and reliability of the Internet reflects its military origins, for its original purpose was to allow communication among computers in the event of nuclear war. Simultaneously, the microelectronics revolution initiated enormous decreases in the cost of computers and exponential increases in their power and memory, making communications the primary bottleneck to corporate productivity. As fiber optics increasingly appeared to meet rising demand in this sector, corporate applications rose steadily (Jorgenson, 2001; Olley & Pakes, 1996). In 1977, AT&T installed the first telephone lines to use fiber optic cables, a network 25 miles in length that could carry 672 voice channels, beneath downtown Chicago; GTE followed immediately in Boston (Goff, 2002). However, it was during the massive global changes in the world economy at the end of the 20th century that fiber came into its own as the dominant medium of telecommunications. Telephone companies and other providers of telecommunications services began rapidly replacing older copper wire cables with fiber optics, which many observers expect will become virtually the only telecommunications transmission technology in the future. Fiber optics facilitated the explosive growth of e-commerce, which includes both business-to-business transactions as well as those linking firms to their customers, including electronic data interchange (EDI) systems, digital advertising, online product catalogues, the sharing of sales and inventory data, submissions of purchase orders, contracts, invoices, payments, delivery schedules, product updates, and labor recruitment. Indeed, fiber optics arguably transformed the Internet from a communications to a commercial system, accelerating the pace of customer orders, procurement, production, and product delivery (Malecki, 2002). In addition, fiber optics are used in a variety of scientific and medical equipment. Fiber cable itself comprises are relatively small share of the total cost of an undersea cable system. Thus, improvements in fiber optics capacity and efficiency in the 1990s rested on other components of the system. Because signals inescapably attenuate during transmission, repeaters are necessary to maintain the fidelity of

118

B. Warf

optical signals. The first generation of repeaters converted optical signals into electronic voltage in order to amplify them, then reconverted them to optical signals; early fiber cables required frequent repeaters, often every 5–10 km (3.1–6.2 mi). As the purity of fiber cables improved, and as repeaters improved in power, the need for repeaters decreased accordingly. In 1991, optical amplifiers, which remove the need to convert light to electronic signals, such as the erdium doped fiber amplifier (EDFA), improved the efficiency of transmission over electronic amplifiers by a factor of 100. The TAT-12 line, installed in 1995, was the first long-haul system to use EDFA technology. Today, in long-haul cables, repeater distances range as high as 500–800 km (310–497 mi). Similarly, dense wavelength division multiplexing (DWDM), first developed in the 1970s, made it possible to transmit multiple wavelengths over a single fiber. As a result of these numerous improvements, fiber’s bandwidth capacity increased more than 200-fold, from 10 mbps in the 1970s to as high as 50 terahertz per second (thzps) in 2005.

8.2 Theorizing the Growth of Fiber-Based Capitalism As numerous observers have pointed out, global capitalism in the late 20th century underwent an enormous sea-change. Telecommunications constitute an integral part of this transformation. The ability to transmit vast quantities of information in real time over the planet is crucial to what Schiller (1999) calls digital capitalism. Large transnational corporations with offices and plants located in multiple national markets require intense coordination of the activities of vast numbers of employees working within highly specialized corporate divisions of labor. Information acquisition, processing and dissemination lie at the heart of many such activities. The exploding demand for high bandwidth corporate communications has thus been a major force behind the growth of the international communications infrastructure. For Castells (1996) this transformation is mirrored in the space of flows and the new geometries that accompany it, which wrap places into highly unevenly connected networks, typically benefiting the wealthy at the expense of marginalized social groups. However, the global space of flows is far from randomly distributed over the earth’s surface: rather, it reflects and reinforces existing geographies of power concentrated within specific nodes and places, such as global cities, trade centers, financial hubs, and corporate headquarters. Indeed, because the implementation of fiber lines reflects the powerful vested interests of international capital, these systems may be seen as “power-geometries” (Massey, 1993) that ground the space of flows within concrete historical and spatial contexts. Financial and producer services firms were at the forefront of the construction of fiber networks in large part because they allowed the deployment of electronic funds transfer systems, which comprise the nervous system of the international financial economy, allowing banks to move capital around a moment’s notice, arbitrage interest rate differentials, take advantage of favorable exchange rates, and avoid political unrest (Langdale, 1989; Warf, 1995). Fiber carriers are heavily favored by large

8

Engineering Time and Space with the Global Fiber Optics Industry

119

corporations for data transmissions and by financial institutions for electronic funds transfer systems, in large part because of the higher degrees of security and redundancy this medium offers. Such networks give banks an ability to move money around the globe at stupendous rates: subject to the process of digitization, information and capital become two sides of the same coin. Liberated from gold, traveling at the speed of light, as nothing but digital assemblages of zeros and ones, global money performs a syncopated electronic dance around the world’s neural networks in astonishing volumes. In this context, finance capital is not simply mobile, it is hypermobile, i.e., it moves in a continual surge of speculative investment that never materializes in physical, tangible goods. The world’s currency markets, for example, trade more than $1 trillion every day, dwarfing the $25 billion that changes hands daily to cover global trade in goods and services. In the securities markets, fiber optics facilitated the emergence of 24 h/day trading, linking stock markets through computerized trading programs. Deregulation was also a fundamental part of the growth of the global fiber optics system. This process was initiated by the US with the breakup of AT&T in 1984, which had long enjoyed a monopoly over domestic telephony and was broken up by an antitrust suit. Deregulation opened the door for a proliferation of new fiber optics service providers such as MCI, which grew to become the second largest provider in the world. Sprint arose as the first corporate telecommunications provider entirely based on fiber optics; others such as Qwest followed shortly (Fig. 8.1). In the US the 1996 Telecommunications Act further eliminated regulatory oversight, effectively ending the boundaries between local and long distance traffic and opening the door to a wave of mergers and acquisitions

Fig. 8.1 Qwest national fiber network. (Cartography by Dick Gilbreath; source: www. alliancedatacom.com)

120

B. Warf

(Warf, 2003). Soon thereafter, British Telecommunications, France Telecom, and Deutsche Telekom were partially or totally sold en masse to private investors, and in Japan, the monopoly long held by Nippon Telegraph and Telephone (NTT) was broken by government fiat (although like France Telecom, it remains largely publicly owned). The World Trade Organization’s Basic Telecommunications Agreement, which went into effect in 1998, also fostered competition worldwide. Today, stateowned or regulated telecommunications monopolies are increasingly rare around the world. In 2005 roughly 1,000 fiber optics and two dozen public and private satellite firms competed to provide international telecommunications service, the vast majority of which originated in economically developed countries. The consequences for the market structure of telecommunications were dramatic, including new competitors, improved service, and rapidly falling costs, although Graham and Marvin (1996) note that in this climate, providers may freely engage in “cherry picking,” i.e., servicing only high-profit clients at the expense of the needy and disempowered. Large fiber networks are generally owned and operated by consortia of firms. Until the 1990s, all commercial fiber lines were built, used, and paid for by a handful of monopoly carriers such as AT&T, British Telecom, Japan’s Kokusai Denshin Denwa (KDD), known informally in the industry as “The Club.” The Club system allowed telecommunications carriers to construct and own undersea cables and to serve as their users or vendors. Typically, landing facilities are owned by carriers from the country in which the facility is located but the “wet links” (undersea cables) are jointly owned by club members. Under the club system, AT&T, for example, ventured aggressively into the international fiber optics market as it globalized in the face of declining market share in the US, often by entering strategic alliances that stretched across national borders (Warf, 1998). Similarly, Sprint affiliated with France Telecom and Deutsche Telekom to form Global One in 1996, and AT&T and British Telecom acquired a 30% share of Japan Telecom. Table 8.2 lists the major submarine cable networks in place in 2003 for the two largest markets across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Under the Club system, capacity was allocated and payments made before or during construction of the network. Members were required by national regulators to sell capacity to non-members on a non-discriminatory basis close to cost. Allegations arose that Club members discriminated against new entrants by offering disadvantageous conditions of membership, such as capacity prices. However, as deregulation encouraged new entrants into the cable markets, the Club system began to fragment. Private systems, in which carriers invite non-carrier investors such as banks, emerged as an alternative system, and recently, non-carrier systems have also appeared.

8.3 Urban Geographies of Fiber Optics Starting in the 1980s, telecommunications firms began to build a large interurban network of fiber optics lines in the US, whose aggregate networks exceeded 50 million km (30.5 million mi) by 2001. The largest fiber optic lines

8

Engineering Time and Space with the Global Fiber Optics Industry

121

Table 8.2 Major trans-Atlantic and trans-Pacific fiber optics cables Name

Operational capacity

Date

Landing station locations

TransAtlantic: TAT-8 PTAT-1 PTAT-2 TAT-9 TAT-10 TAT-11 TAT-12 TAT-13 Gemini AC-1 Columbus 3 TAT-14

560 mbps 1.26 gbps 1.26 gbps 1.12 gbps 1.12 gbps 1.12 gbps 5 gbps 5 gbps 2.5 gbps 2.5 gbps 2.5 gbps 10 gbps

1988 1989 1992 1992 1992 1993 1995 1995 1998 1999 1999 2000

FLAG Atlantic Apollo TransPacific: HAW-4/TPC-3 GPT H-J-K NPC TASMAN-2 TPC-4 HAW-5 PacRim East PacRim West TPC 5/6 KJG TPC-5 Southern Cross China-US

10 gbps 10 gbps

2001 2002

U.S., U.K., France U.S., U.K., Bermuda, Ireland U.S., U.K. U.S., U.K., France, Spain, Canada U.S., Germany, Netherlands U.S., U.K., France U.S., U.K. U.S., France U.S., U.K. U.S., U.K., Germany U.S., Spain, Portugal, Italy U.S., U.K., France, Netherlands, Germany U.S., U.K., France U.S., U.K., France

560 mbps 280 mbps 280 mbps 1.26 gbps 1.12 gbps 1.12 gbps 1.12 gbps 1.12 gbps 1.12 gbps 5 gbps 1.12 gbps 5 gbps 2.5 gbps 2.5 gbps

1989 1989 1990 1990 1991 1992 1993 1993 1994 1995 1995 1996 1999 1999

PC-1 Japan-US FLAG Pacific 1

10 gbps 10 gbps 10 gbps

2000 2000 2002

California, Hawaii, Guam, Japan Guam, Philippines, Taiwan Hong Kong, Japan, S. Korea Oregon, Alaska, Japan Australia, New Zealand California, Canada, Japan California, Hawaii Hawaii, New Zealand Australia, Guam California, Oregon, Hawaii, Japan S. Korea, Japan, Guam California, Hawaii, Guam, Japan California, Hawaii, Fiji, Australia California, Hawaii, Guam, S. Korea, Japan, China, Taiwan Japan, U.S. Japan, U.S. Japan, U.S., Canada

Source: Smith (2003)

(T3, OC-3, OC-4, and OC-12) lines connect a handful of large metropolitan areas, whose comparative advantage in producer services has benefited significantly by publicly-installed telecommunications systems (For examples, see http://cybergeography.planetmirror.com/cables.html). While the largest metropolitan regions are well served (particularly New York, Chicago, Washington, DC, Atlanta, Los Angeles, and Seattle), many other areas (such as the rural South) have few connections. High capacity fiber lines are particularly important in regard to access to high-density material, e.g., graphical content on the WWW. For high volume users (typically large service firms), for whom the copper cables used by

122

B. Warf

telephone companies are hopelessly archaic, these lines are an absolute necessity. For large real estate developers, fiber capability has emerged as a critical issue in determining the price and attractiveness of corporate office space, indicating that relative space via connectivity is as important as accessibility via conventional transportation. Moreover, numerous cities have taken the initiative to establish their own municipal fiber networks as part of their economic development strategies to attract firms rather than wait for the private sector, often in the form of public-private partnerships. In such cases, fiber lines are often packaged along with the other municipal utilities such as water, electricity, or natural gas. Thus, a grid of fiber lines surrounding the core of cities has become an indispensable part of urban comparative advantage. Rural areas, in contrast, often suffer a distinct disadvantage in terms of this digital divide (Gabe & Abel, 2002). Fiber optics providers prefer large metropolitan regions where dense concentrations of corporate and residential clients allow them to realize significant economies of scale and where frequency transmission congestion often plagues satellite traffic (Singhi & Long, 1998). So-called “global cities” such as New York, London and Tokyo (Sassen, 1991) are prime beneficiaries, using fiber optics lines to spread their sphere of influence around the planet. For example, the Atlanta metropolitan region exhibits 400,000 mi (644,000 km) of fiber optic lines, which have been important to the revival of downtown regions and enhanced its competitive position within the national urban hierarchy (Walcott & Wheeler, 2001). Within cities, fiber lines accelerate the creation of wealth by corporate elites, generating geographies of inequality in which the wired and the wireless, the haves and have-nots of the information, live in close proximity; even in the most networked of cities, there exist large disenfranchised groups who pay the costs of the digital economy but reap relatively few of the benefits. In contrast with metropolitan areas, rural areas, with relatively small populations and low market potential, hold little market appeal. This urban bias, and the social schisms it deepens, is replicated at the international scale; Graham (1999) notes that the skein of fiber cables linking the world’s major cities is vital to their role and domination over the world economy. Despite the mythologized notion that fiber optics lines erase spatiality, therefore, it is evident that the geographic impacts of this technology are highly selective. The growth of fiber optics for commercial and residential purposes, such as cable television, assumes that local lines are effectively linked to high-capacity backbone routes. However, this connection often confronts the “last mile” problem, the gap between a facility or client and a Point of Presence (POP), the point at which the facilities of an inter-exchange carrier are accessible. Telecommunications and cable television companies have devoted substantial resources to overcoming this problem, and as a result, broadband access has improved gradually. Some, such as Verizon, have pioneered the development of fiber-to-the-premises (FTTP) networks.

8.4 Geographies of Global Fiber Optics Networks Despite exaggerated popular claims that telecommunications render distance meaningless (e.g., Cairncross, 1997), the geography of fiber optic lines reflects the

8

Engineering Time and Space with the Global Fiber Optics Industry

123

accumulated imprints of successive rounds of investments in space and time. The placement of terrestrial networks reflects the complex ways in which space, the global economy, and technology are wrapped up in each other. Spurred by the growth of information-intensive services and predictions of unending growth in Internet traffic, telecommunications companies undertook an orgy of fiber optic cable construction in the 1980s and 1990s. Laying transoceanic fiber cables entailed a host of technical and organizational issues, a process that extends back to 19th century attempts to cross the oceans with telegraph lines (Hugill, 1999). In addition to the costs of purchasing fiber, telecommunications companies must pay for the laying of fiber across the ocean floor and the installation of “manholes,” on-shore bunkers designed to allow access for repairs. AT&T’s Submarine Systems, the world’s largest supplier of undersea telecommunications systems, operates a fleet of six cable ships to service its 230,000 km (142,915 mi) of undersea cable. Submarine lines must be routed to avoid seismic activity (earthquakes and undersea avalanches), ships’ anchors, deep sea currents, fishing trawlers, and military activities, and must be armored against sharks, which are attracted by electromagnetic emissions. While the original lines were point-to-point, the development of submarine branching units (SBUs) allowed multiple points to be served simultaneously, leading to more complex network configurations. Moreover, most submarine cables today are “self-healing,” meaning that they offer redundant capacity and high resiliency, so that the loss of one link can be easily and rapidly compensated by others. Today, the world’s fiber system totals more than 25 million km in length, connecting all the world’s continents except Antarctica (Fig. 8.2).

Fig. 8.2 The World’s major fiber optic cables. (Source: Adapted from Staple, 2007)

The geography of global fiber networks centers primary upon two distinct telecommunications markets crossing the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, connecting two of the major engines of the world economy, North America and East Asia

124

B. Warf

(Chaffee, 2001). In 1988 in conjunction with MCI and British Telecommunications, AT&T initiated the world’s first trans-oceanic fiber optic cable, Trans-Atlantic Telecommunications (TAT-8), which could carry 40,000 telephone calls simultaneously. The trans-Atlantic line was the first of a much broader series of globe-girdling fiber lines that AT&T erected in conjunction with a variety of local partners. Because large corporate users are the primary clients of such networks, it is no accident that the original and densest web of fiber lines connects London and New York, a pattern that extends historically to the telegraph and telephone (Hugill, 1999). The next generation, TAT-9 and TAT-10, which began in 1992, could carry double the volume of traffic of TAT-8. The third generation, TAT-11 to TAT-13, was the first to use EDFA rather than older repeaters. Newer generations of cable were even more powerful. Starting with the Trans-Pacific Cable (TPC-3) in 1989 connecting the New York and Tokyo stock exchanges, a growing web of trans-Pacific lines mirrored the rise of East Asian trade with North America, including the surging economies of the Newly Industrialized Countries. In 1996 the first all-fiber cable across the Pacific, TPC-5, was laid. In 2006 a consortium including Verizon and five Asian providers announced plans to lay an 11,000 mi (17,703 km) US-China link that would support 1.28 terabits of information, 60 times the capacity of the next largest cable, in time for the Beijing Olympics in 2008 (Shannon, 2006). In 2007, Google announced the purchase of large quantities of trans-Pacific fiber cable with the aim of launching a multi-terabit Unity service in 2009. The complex interplay of deregulation, globalization, and technological change increased the international transmission capacities and traffic volumes for fiber optics carriers explosively. Between 1988 and 2003, for example, trans-Atlantic fiber optic cable capacity increased from 43,750 voice paths to 45.1 billion (103,000%), while across the Pacific Ocean, cable carriers’ capacity rose from 1,800 voice paths to 1.87 billion (an astonishing 1.6 billion percent). In addition to the two major markets, fiber lines have extended into several newer ones. In 1997 AT&T, NYNEX and several other firms (including, for the first time, non-telecommunications firms) opened the self-healing Fiberoptic Link Around the Globe (FLAG), a system that eventually expanded to 55,000 km (34,175 mi) connecting Europe and Southeast Asia (Fig. 8.3). The world’s longest submarine telecommunications network (Denniston, 1998), FLAG, the world’s longest submarine telecommunications cable, filled a void in undersea cable capacity between Europe, the Middle East, and Asia. It also hooked into regional systems such as the Asia Pacific Cable Network, a 12,000 km (7456 mi) system linking Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong, the Philippines, Thailand, Vietnam, and Indonesia, as well as the Caribbean Fiber System (i.e., the Eastern Caribbean Fiber System, Antillas 1, Americas 1, and Columbus 2). Unlike earlier systems, FLAG allowed carriers to purchase capacity as needed, rather than compelling them to purchase fixed quantities. Africa is surrounded by an interlinked series of fiber systems (Fig. 8.4). The first of these includes a dense network that extends across the Mediterranean Sea and exit via the Suez Canal, such as the Columbus III, SeaMeWe, and the self-healing

8

Engineering Time and Space with the Global Fiber Optics Industry

125

Fig. 8.3 The FLAG network. (Cartography by Dick Gilbreath)

Fiber Link Around the Globe (FLAG, the world’s longest) line, each of which has extensions into cities in Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, and Egypt. The widely publicized Africa ONE (Optical NEtwork) system designed to surround the continent collapsed in the dot com crash of the early 2000s. In its wake, consortia of telecommunications companies led by AT&T, Sprint, Vodacom, and Verizon gradually pieced together a network on the western side of the continent. A third system, centered on East Africa, includes the privately-funded, 17,500-km. long Seacom cable completed in 2008 and owned mostly by African investors, which links to 21 countries. In 2010, the Eastern Africa Submarine Cable System, or EASSy, also came on-line, further adding to that region’s supply of telecommunications services.

8.5 Three Consequences of the Fiber Optics Boom The massive surge of supply in the global fiber optics industry generated three distinct, important, but unintended effects: oversupply and economic crisis, the growth of “dark fiber,” and a serious challenge to the satellite industry. As with all industries in which supply increases markedly more rapidly than demand, the explosive growth in the world’s fiber optics capacity ultimately led to overcapacity and declining utilization rates (ElBoghdady, 2001). As the growth of the world’s fiber optics networks’ transmission capacity outstripped the rise in demand, transmission prices plunged in a deflationary spiral throughout the first decade of the 21st century, often by as much as 90% (Fig. 8.5).

126

B. Warf

Fig. 8.4 The Africa ONE fiber system. (Cartography by Dick Gilbreath; source: http://news.bbc.co.uk)

Telecommunications corporate stock prices plunged, forcing numerous fiber optics firms into debt and bankruptcy and most others into financial restructuring. The list of casualties from this debacle in the early 2000s included: Global Crossing, Metromedia Fiber Network, Viatel, MCI/Worldcom, Williams Communications, Winstar Communications, and PSINet. Some victims were purchased by buyers eager to become players on the global stage: in 2003, for example, FLAG Telecom was bought by the Indian wireless services provider Reliance. Low fiber transmission prices, in turn, helped to keep down the costs of telephone calls and other applications of the technology.

Engineering Time and Space with the Global Fiber Optics Industry

127

100 90 80 70 Miami-Sao Paulo

60

Hong Kong-Tokyo

50

Los Angeles-Tokyo 40

London-New York

30 20 10

: 20 2 02 :3 20 02 : 20 4 03 : 20 1 03 :2 20 03 : 20 3 03 :4 20 04 : 20 1 04 :2 20 04 : 20 3 04 : 20 4 05 :1 20 05 : 20 2 05 :3 20 05 :4

02 20

20

:1

0

02

Monthly cost of 1.55 mbps connection ($000s)

8

Fig. 8.5 Declining prices of fiber optics services, 2002–2006. (Source: Calculated from data in Staple, 2007)

Overall capacity utilization rates fell below 50%, leading to large quantities of unused “dark fiber.” With considerable amounts of dark fiber, corporate clients often lease excess backhaul capacity from former monopolies in order to connect domestic networks to the international system. In addition to system overcapacity, dark fiber reflects the high costs of planning and instilling fiber lines, which leads providers to lay more than necessary in anticipation of rising future demand. For example, a utility company may deliberately install dark fiber in the expectation of leasing it to a cable television company in the future. In addition, however, dark fiber also came to mean the leasing of unused fiber capacity from network service providers. (Indeed, some companies specialize in this market.) A third consequence of the explosion of fiber capacity was mounting competition with the besieged satellite industry, with which fiber optics are quasi-substitutable (Pfeifenberger & Houthakker, 1998). While satellites are ideal for point-to-area distribution networks common in the mass media, especially in low-density regions, fiber optic lines are preferable for point-to-point communications, especially when security is of great concern (Maclean, 1995). Before the explosive growth in fiber capacity in the 1990s, satellites were traditionally more cost-effective for transmission over longer distances (e.g., more than 500 mi (804 km), while fiber optic lines often provided cheaper service for shorter routes (Langdale, 1989). The rise of the integrated global fiber network, however, steadily eroded satellites’ share of global traffic in data and video transmission services. Despite the pitch by satellite operators that satellites could provide Internet backbone services as a way to bypass terrestrial congestion, fiber remains by far the preferred technology. Satellites simply cannot offer sufficient security or backup capacity to be economically competitive with fiber. In 2003 fiber optics carriers comprised 94.4% of worldwide transmission capacity (up from 16 % in 1988), including 91.3% across the Pacific and 95.2% across the Atlantic Ocean (Warf, 2006).

128

B. Warf

8.6 Concluding Thoughts Fiber optics are one of the great transformative innovations to emerge from the microelectronics revolution of the late 20th century. The development of this technology was the culmination of a long history of research by individuals, universities, the military, and corporations, and led to a mode of telecommunications significantly more powerful, secure, and rapid than competing technologies. However, because technology is a social, not simply technical, phenomenon, the dramatic expansion in fiber optics capacity and utilization reflects the historicallyspecific circumstances of global capitalism as it emerged from the crises of the 1970s and the end of the post-WWII economic boom. Fiber optics were ideal for the information-intensive nature of financial and producer services, particularly when security is of critical importance, and firms in this sector comprised the driving force behind the demand that propelled a vast global network of lines in the 1980s and 1990s. Whereas the two largest markets are those stretched across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, newer networks have increased the reach of fiber optics into Latin America and Africa. At multiple spatial scales, from the urban to the nation to the world, therefore, fiber optics lines realigned the geographies of centrality and peripherality. Far from annihilating space, therefore, the industry reconfigured it. However, the logic that propelled the industry to such prominence also gave rise to the overcapacity and end of the “dot com” boom in the late 1990s and early 2000s, initiating a severe period of corporate retrenchment and restructuring. Unused capacity, dark fiber, appeared in both planned and unplanned forms. The dramatic decline in prices that accompanied this trend posed severe competitive problems for fiber optics providers, including a wave of bankruptcies, but also eroded the market share held by substitutes to fiber such as satellite services. What does the future hold for this industry? In the short term, the substantial overcapacity in long-distance fiber generated by the boom of the 1990s will be difficult to overcome. Future market potential likely rests in the provision of services to residences (e.g., cable television and high-speed Internet), if the last mile problem may be conquered effectively. The wireless revolution may also pose a competitive challenge to fiber optics. It is evident from these remarks that fiber exhibits the dynamism and fluidity characteristic of the telecommunications sector as a whole.

References Agrawal, G. (2002). Fiber-optic communication systems. New York: Wiley. Cairncross, F. (1997). The death of distance. Boston: Harvard Business School Press. Castells, M. (1996). The rise of the network society. Oxford: Blackwell. Chaffee, C. (2001). Building the global fiber optics superhighway. New York: Springer. Crisp, J., & Elliot, B. (2005). Introduction to fiber optics (3rd ed.). London: Newnes. Denniston, F. (1998). FLAG – fiber-optic link around the globe. Sea Technology, February, 78–83. ElBoghdady, D. (2001). Fiber-optic firms face issue of overbuilding. Washington Post, February 28, 1.

8

Engineering Time and Space with the Global Fiber Optics Industry

129

Freeman, R. (2002). Fiber optics systems for telecommunications. New York: Wiley. Gabe, T., & Abel, J. (2002). Deployment of advanced telecommunications structure in rural America: Measuring the rural divide. American Journal of Agricultural Economics, 84, 1246–1252. Goff, D. (2002). Fiber optics reference guide (3rd ed.). Woburn, MA: Focal Press. Graham, S. (1999). Global grids of glass: On global cities, telecommunications, and planetary urban networks. Urban Studies, 36, 929–949. Graham, S., & Marvin, S. (1996). Telecommunications and the city: Electronic spaces, urban places. London: Routledge. Hecht, J. (1999). City of light: The story of fiber optics. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Hugill, P. (1999). Global communications since 1844: Geopolitics and technology. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University. Jorgenson, D. (2001). Information technology and the U.S. economy. American Economic Review, 91, 1–32. Langdale, J. (1989). The geography of international business telecommunications: The role of leased networks. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 79, 501–522. Maclean, G. (1995). Will fiber optics threaten satellite communications? Space Policy, 11, 95–99. Malecki, E. (2002). The economic geography of the Internet’s infrastructure. Economic Geography, 78, 399–424. Marra, W., & Schesser, J. (1996). Africa ONE: The Africa optical network. Communications Magazine, 34(2), 50–57. Massey, D. (1993). Power-geometry and a progressive sense of place. In J. Bird, B. Curtis, T. Putnam, G. Robertson, & L. Tickner (Eds.), Mapping the futures: Local cultures, global change (pp.59–69). London: Routledge. Noam, E. (1999). Telecommunications in Africa. New York: Oxford. Olley, G., & Pakes, A. (1996). The dynamics of productivity in the telecommunications equipment industry. Econometrica, 64, 1263–1297. Pfeifenberger, J., & Houthakker, H. (1998). Competition to international satellite communications services. Information Economics and Policy, 10, 403–430. Sassen, S. (1991). The global city: New York, London, Tokyo. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Schiller, D. (1999). Digital capitalism: Networking the global market system. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Shannon, V. (2006, December 19). Group plans to build China-U.S. fiber optic link. New York Times. Retrieved September 15, 2009, from http://www.nytimes.com/2006/12/19/ technology/19cable.html?pagewanted=all Singhi, M., & Long, H. (1998). New undersea cable developments and satellite services: Toward complementary coexistence in the 21st century. Proceedings of the 20th Pacific Telecommunications Conference (pp. 566–569). Honolulu: Pacific Telecommunications Council. Smith, D. (2003). Digital transmission systems. London: Springer. Staple, G. (2007). Telegeography 2006: Global telecommunications traffic statistics and commentary. Washington, DC: Telegeography, Inc. Walcott, S., & Wheeler, J. (2001). Atlanta in the telecommunications age: The fiber-optic information network. Urban Geography, 22, 316–339. Warf, B. (1995). Telecommunications and the changing geographies of knowledge transmission in the late 20th century. Urban Studies, 32, 361–378. Warf, B. (1998). Reach out and touch someone: AT&T’s global operations in the 1990s. The Professional Geographer, 50, 255–267. Warf, B. (2003). Mergers and acquisitions in the telecommunications industry. Growth and Change, 34, 321–344. Warf, B. (2006). International competition between satellite and fiber optic carriers: A geographic perspective. The Professional Geographer, 58, 1–11.

Chapter 9

The Internet in Three Finnish Cities: Accessing Global Networks Tommi Inkinen

9.1 Introduction Large scale engineering projects are traditionally associated with physical structure development. One term used to describe these massive processes and their final outcomes is megaengineering. Massive projects have emerged during the history. Brunn (2008) outlined examples such as the Egyptian pyramids, Roman Coliseum, Machu Picchu, the Great Wall of China, and more recently the U.S. Interstate Highway System. Common to all these examples is that they are local, regional or national developments having a visible physical form. What we consider as “large scale” is dependent on time of their construction and the contemporary context when they are analyzed. A common denominator for these tasks countable as “mega” is that they are extensive in their size and economic costs. They also have significant impacts to economic, environmental and social dimensions within the context they emerge. These impacts expand to global scales far beyond their original geographical location. Massive structures are also often used as landmarks and tools for location marketing. Hoover Dam located in the state border of Nevada and Arizona is a good example of both an electricity production site and a tourism attraction. In addition to location-bound foci of civil engineering, there are other types of technological engineering trajectories accountable as mega. In a contemporary world the information transferring technologies are examples of immaterial megaprojects based on software development. The most important technological advancements include the development of global mobile networks and the emergence of the Internet available to wide populations. These developments have small or non- visible consequences compared to the physical structure building, but their immaterial impacts in the world economy and on local living have been enormous. It is noteworthy that these two megatrends have been converging during the last

T. Inkinen (B) Department of Geosciences and Geography, University of Helsinki, Helsinki, Finland e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_9,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

131

132

T. Inkinen

decade. The Internet was originally an issue of computing whereas mobile networks derived for the need of voice communication. I consider the development of the Internet as a “mobile turn” (e.g. Urry, 2002; Uteng & Cresswell, 2008) and the emergence of global online services clearly as megaprojects. Even though their provision structure is rather different from “single purpose” targeted structure developments, the Internet has several analogues common to physical megaprojects. First, it has impacted economies greatly and provided new ways of creating massive amounts of wealth. Second, information accessibility and Internet connection availability can also be considered as a civic right. The support actions to enhance the electronic inclusions traditionally involve the provision of free Internet access in libraries, education units from elementary levels to universities, and in public offices. In addition, there arel businesses that offer free Internet access within their premises. Third, technology integration into urban structures contributes to place promotion. This is one of the main drivers to motivate cities to participate in network structure creation. I present here a network example of megaengineering, viz., how to make the Internet (as a megaproject) accessible to various societal groups in open and public city space. As such, this paper includes aspects relevant to large scale developments: social (or electronic) inclusion in that project. This view describes rather well the term “augmented city” (e.g. Aurigi & De Cindio, 2008) which refers to technology implementations within city space. Spatial concepts, such as public space, have parallels to urban network terminology including popularities of open access, hotspots, open networks or social media.

9.2 Access to the Internet as Socio-Spatial Technology Phenomena Large engineering projects are often considered as symbols of development. For a geographical perspective such the development, usually understood in economic terms, gives impetus to widely used slogans such as creative development, informational development or knowledge-based development. These terms are often used to highlight technology-driven local, regional and national development. Also on particular policies and policy documentations which have emerged to support the alliance between economic and technology development within a context of location. An influential term used in the debates surrounding technology project implementations and social inclusion of all parts of population is digital divide, which is mainly associated with global scale differences in the Internet penetration among countries (e.g. James, 2008; Norris, 2001). Digital divides also occur and emerge within regions, cities and societal groups. Earlier studies on the geography of the Internet showed that the main determinant in the Internet use depends on the life situation. Age is one of the main explanatory variables in the content use of Internet resources. Age also reflects education phases and finally income levels. The most active user groups are students and knowledge workers (Inkinen, 2006).

9

The Internet in Three Finnish Cities

133

Megaengineering projects, by definition, include a combination of vast resources through various networks. This definition applies to the Internet as well, because the Internet is a network in the very essence of the term. Data transaction networks such as telephone, cable TV, and electricity lines and grids deliver data signals carrying specific contents trough nodes including fixed and wireless terminals and modems. From the engineering point of view, the Internet access provision is a question of using existing networks to provide content via user interfaces. Internet is as worthy as the content it delivers. The contents are created by organizations and individuals and their cross- and overlapping networks. In a geographical sense, the Internet provides a potential for location-free information distribution. In the late 1990s and early 2000s this perspective was commonly associated with the debate of “diminishing meaning of distance” or “death of geography.” However, later the analysis pointed out that the content provision and technological development of the Internet, both in terms of accessibility and bandwidth (hardware) together with contents (software), are locally constructed and bound to global networks. Internet technologies can be divided into the main categories of hardware and software. These technologies capture also the essence of “physical” and “immaterial” (or virtual). Some scholars have also pointed out that software itself is only a carrier for content. Thus, software should be separated from content because, for example, the word processor is empty and the author creates the content. There are really two distinct segments in a legal sense (Benkler, 2000). Similarly, another type of classification was used by Loo (2007) in the analysis of Internet service provision and “Internet development.” She refers to information production (content creation) and the uses of the information (content consumption). Kellerman (2002, 2006) has examined both the worldwide Internet distribution as well as mobile turn within geographical setting. He (2006: 101) approaches wireless information technologies with a classification that includes selected properties of individual, societal and spatial aspects. My approach involves all these three aspects because individuals, as citizens or consumers, are a typical target group of technologies. Societies can also be regarded as cities or communities that are also collective organizations on local level. Finally, spatiality defines the context in which technology implementation takes place. This point is evident considering, for example, the maintenance of megaengineered projects. Internet maintenance is always a dispersed individual issue of server support or access provision. Civil engineering projects on the other hand are concentrated to the sites on question. The Internet access provision structure also has relevance. Private sector Internet service providers (ISPs) commonly offer services based on their hotspot locations. They are commonly located in hotels, airports and other location specific places. These services are either provided by national or international Internet operators. In general, teleoperators commonly have a strong position in Internet service provision. Private hotspot Internet use is priced according to each company’s policies depending on use time from minutes to weeks. Free-of-charge urban Internet access networks have been implemented in cities around the world. They are commonly created in joint cooperation between local

134

T. Inkinen

organizations. In many cases, universities play an important role in these developments together with a local development company (often owned by the city) or from one to three companies. These Internet access networks often cover only core centre areas. However, coverage expansion varies according to the service provision solutions. This type of collaborative network access provision is an example of a triple-helix (for example, Etzkowitz & Leydesdorff, 2001) or B-U-G (businessuniversity-government) collaboration (for example, Kasvio & Anttiroiko, 2005). They also demonstrate the varying attitude of local city administrations towards the “global access” rhetoric. The emergence of the Internet as a megaproject technology for a long time stressed mainly technology aspects. Today’s concept of the Internet is founded on the origins of the U.S. military network Arpanet created in the early 1970s in which four universities (UCLA, Santa Barbara, Stanford and Utah) played significant roles in the creation of this first four-node experimental network. The commercial use of the Internet and the expansion of the network to ordinary homes started in the mid 1990s. Currently, the discourse of “wireless Internet” or “fidelity” (WiFi) is dominant in terms of marketing and technological development. Outdoor urban networks are actualizations of this discourse, that is, comprising the essentials of “wireless society” through information transfer and exchange. Another main strand in access provision concerns Wireless Local Area Networks (WLAN) and mobile networks. In terms of hardware and signal processing WLANs are based on standardized industry technologies. The three main solutions are variants of the IEEE 802.11 standard (802.11a, 802.11b and 802.11 g). Subsets (a) and (g) provide theoretical speed of 54 Mbps and the (b) standard 11 Mbps. These are also used in studied case networks. Questions of standardization and interoperability between the different technology domains remain one of the main challenges. Influential future development will be the battle between market shares of short ranged WLANs (computer) and 3G or 4G (mobile phone) technologies. Currently, 3G networks still provide rather slow connection for the majority of users. In Finland, the most common mobile phone data transaction rate is currently around 386 kbs whereas WLANs provide an access speed around 2 mbs. In addition, there are 3G experiences problems related to functionality and international pricing. Contracts between telephone companies vary and in particular the Internet use in foreign countries with 3G may result in significant expenses. There has been cases in which the monthly telephone invoice has exceed 10, 000 Euros due to Internet use abroad with mobile telephones, even within European Union countries. Voice calls are regulated by the EU (a call from one EU country to another costs a maximum of 56 Eurocents per minute from 1 July 2009 onwards), but data transaction costs are not. This cost information exemplifies the problems of market pricing in the field of international data transactions with consumer products. However, if 3G services are priced reasonably and their connection speeds increase to fixed broadband level, it seems likely that mobile 3G Internet accessing will become dominant due to extensive geographical coverage. In technical terms, another major debate surrounding information technologies and computing is the dualism between open access (OA) service provision and

9

The Internet in Three Finnish Cities

135

closed systems. Perhaps the most well known general example is from the operating system Linux. This debate fits well into other topics than engineering due to the fundamental distinction between (closed) in-house product development against (open) user community development ideology. This aspect also combines technology development to social structures, human behavior and interaction. The Internet has also another side of the coin considering the marriage of finance/economy and technology. It impacts masses in all parts of the world and in several cases has become a necessity for information distribution and also obtaining information. Therefore, social structures and the adaption processes of new technologies gain relevance. I deepen the social scientific foci of this paper to consider the perspectives of technology adoption and related implications that technologies have to end-users, whether they are citizens, customers or producers of Internet contents. The Internet includes elements of transforming human practice into codes: search engines are good examples. Information searches become an unquestioned routine and the codified process through which information sources are accessed. Technologies tend to be embedded into everyday life resulting often in uncritical considerations of the electronic footprints that the user leaves behind. For example, a primer in user friendly technology development has been the mantra of usability. User interface design aims to produce as easy to use as possible solutions for consumer markets. This, however, includes a paradox: the development of user interfaces to “plug-and-play” ideology definitely makes technology penetration higher, but also the number of technology users not knowing enough of the implications of their network behavior, for example, in terms of information security, at the same time also increases. This path leads actually to a quasi informal development that refers to increasing possibilities to use technologies, but also contributes to a relative decrease in levels of knowledge regarding technological functions among technology users. Knowledge regarding basic functionalities of the Internet and computer technologies, including software viruses, data protection and privacy, is fundamental to secure and protect work stations from not being abused by a third party.

9.3 Internet Technology and Social Life Next I summarize some complexities involved in these crossings concerning the Internet in terms of technology, information distribution, economy and social life. These points also illustrate the dimensions relevant for the actualization of a global megaproject at a local level: Technology: Issues in Internet accessing are a concern in three main spheres. They are: signal provision method (WLAN vs. 3G), software and content creation logic (OA vs. closed), and selection of end-devices (mobile devices vs. lap-tops). The distinctions in these categories become blurred in time due to the evident technological convergence of these technologies depicting theories presented in the 1980 that related to the social-shaping of technology and technology-society interrelations (e.g. Heap, Thomas, Einon, Mason,

136

T. Inkinen

& Mackay, 1995). Currently, we are able to witness merger between the computer and mobile devices. Information distribution: The Internet has provided a new means to distribute information particularly in countries with democracy deficits. There are several examples concerning countries that deliberately want to control Internet contents among their population such as China and Iran. The openness promotes freedom of speech and to the politics of democracy. Moreover, these manipulations are dependent on service provider agreements (e.g. Google and national government). Thus, local level information producers may achieve a global audience through the Internet, while the local (national) context determines to a large extent the way the Internet is regulated and how accessible it is. Economy: The creation of innovative Internet services has produced massive amounts of wealth and income for some producers. Search engine companies are perhaps the best examples. Terms such as “new economy” or “information economy” have been conceived. The main source of financial flows on the Internet is derived from marketing (banners and sponsored links) or end users payments. The global economy is reflected at the local level via online shops (market places), networking (user communities) and virtual contents (products). The Internet has extended the possibilities of immaterial or virtual products and income sources. Social life: The contents of the Internet function as a means to create knowledge from information. Thus, individuals create their image of the world to a large extent via indirect information sources. The Internet provides an easy option to access information from varying spatial scales. A critical assessment of the information quality should be recognized. This point relates to the simplified “press the button” doctrine of computing user interfaces. Issues of privacy and Internet security (in terms of abuse of open networks) remain one of the key challenges in their provision. These four main groups are one way of looking at the complex web of information distribution and Internet access provision. They have parallels to each other and contribute to each other’s contents. The main recognition is that the internet access provision is not only a simple issue of technology provision but it also reflects broader societal and communal ambitions and values that have impacts on everyday life.

9.4 Global Network Locally Accessible in Three Finnish Cities I begin with three major questions: (1) What types of solutions have the cities used, if any, to provide Internet access? (2) What organizations participate in the provisions of these networks?

9

The Internet in Three Finnish Cities

137

(3) Who is able to used them and have the service providers identified specific user segments with different fees? I used fieldwork observation with a laptop computer to answer these questions. Table 9.1 is constructed on the basis of discussed socio-spatial spheres of the Internet. Observation (Hay, 2000) is commonly used to analyze human behavior in a location. My approach focused on technology availability. I walked the streets of the central areas of these Finnish cities with a laptop and estimated the extensiveness of the network coverage. In Helsinki this was problematic because the city does not have a “single branded” network; also available outdoor networks are provided either by ISPs or other businesses. Therefore, the network descriptions available regarding these networks are augmented with the observation method. It can be regarded as a modification of observation on location. I also considered the functionalities of the network according to my use and experience. These tasks included being familiarity with the functionality of the network, that is, I was able to connect to the network (as it was supposed to) and actualize the data transaction speed. In theory, the networks should provide 10 mbs connection, but in practice the data speed was between 50 and 150 kbs. Moreover, there were no significant differences in the actual network speeds between the cases. The objective network descriptions (see http://www.panoulu.net, http: //www.sparknet.fi/index.php, and http://ptp.hel.fi.wlan/) that are available regarding these networks are augmented with my experience of the access functionalities (see Townsend, 2008: 231). The following cases are from Finland, which is considered a

Table 9.1 A summary of urban WLAN provision in three Finnish cities Property

Helsinki

Oulu

Turku

Network coverage

Fragmented center Private

Core center

Extended centre

Payment per use

Fully OA (RotuaariWLAN) Non

Private sector No

Triple-Helix Yes

Semi (Sparknet) Private (Openspark) Membership in participating organization Triple-Helix Yes

Non (service providers)

City of Oulu

N/A

1065 (2009)

ICT Turku Ltd (Publicly owned development company) 2365 (2009)

High due to high number of independent providers

Dependent on a location network

Dependent of home organization network

Access logic (OA, semi, private) Login requirements

Provision arrangement Elements of location marketing Main organization

N access points (hotspots) Reliability

138

T. Inkinen

Nordic welfare state (e.g. Esping-Andersen, 1990, 1996) with relatively low income differences between societal groups and regions. I will present three case cities and their efforts to provide urban space outdoor Internet access, referring to the possibility of logging into a WLAN in an outdoor conditions within their city centers. The case study cities are Helsinki (population 570,000), Turku (170,000) and Oulu (130,000). Table 9.1 illustrates the main differences among these cities. The city of Oulu is selected because it has used IT as a place promotion tool since 1980s. Today, the city hosts one of the Nokia’s main product development sites and the corresponding subcontracting network has created an impressive growth in terms of population and tax income. The provision a fully OA urban network continues the enhancement of this “technology centre” discourse, which is strongly supported by the city administration (Äikäs, 2000). The WLAN network itself has been realized in collaboration between the University of Oulu, Oulu polytechnic, and the local telephone company. The collaboration agreement was made in 2003. Four networks are combined under the brand of PanOulu (http://www.panoulu.net). These cover different areas in the city center such as the city hall, educational units and city center. The network usable in the city center is fully open access, that is, not requiring user specific authentication process. The second case is the city of Turku and Sparknet (http://www.sparknet. fi/index.php) outdoor network. It is managed by a local, city owned development company, ICT Turku Ltd. Originally, the network was created by the University of Turku and a small private company. The city joined the organizational collaboration in 2003. Thus, Oulu and Turku created their urban Internet access networks approximately at the same time. Sparknet has the widest geographic area in all urban networks in Finland (Sparknet, 2009). It has two network systems. “Sparknet” is the network used by organizational partners and is accessible with user rights provided to these organizations. “Openspark” is a community network targeted to residents of Turku. The individuals that are not involved with organizations provided Sparknet may purchase access time similar to other private ISPs. However, Openspark’s physical coverage area is more extensive than in the cases of hotspot service providers. The third case city, Helsinki (http:ptp.hel.fi/wlan/) exemplifies a business driven fragmented competition model of Internet service provision. The mayor of Helsinki has stated that the city will not start to compete with Internet operators by providing no cost or low cost Internet access services. Therefore, Internet use in the center of Helsinki is more expensive and is based on numerous private actors. Helsinki misses the collaboration link that smaller cities have been able to produce. From the end-user point of view the collective and wide coverage network in Helsinki would be easier and cheaper to use than fragmented private sector short-distance networks. Table 9.1 summarizes case study locations of Helsinki, Turku and Oulu. The answer to the first question stated above is presented in the “Access login” and “Login requirements” segments of Table 9.1. Illustrates the Internet provision

9

The Internet in Three Finnish Cities

139

in cities reflects examples of broad societal ideologies: a market driven competition model referring to access pricing through market competition (Helsinki), a mixed model including organizational and individual alternatives for access charge (Turku) and a public financed experiment with full open access (Oulu). Networks of Oulu (PanOulu) and Turku (Sparknet and Openspark) are collections of organizational networks. These include accesses provided by educational units, libraries, administrative offices and other organizations within the network. The second main question is answered in the “Provision arrangement” and “Main organization” segments of Table 9.1. It indicates that when city organizations participate in joint collaborative efforts, they also want to use the provision as a tool for their image marketing nd place promotion campaigns. For example, in the case of Turku, the old city history (starting from the 13th century) is intertwined with discourse on the information society explicitly (also Äikäs, 2000). The main question concerns civil society and segmenting of the population: how targeted is the user of these networks. The division in Table 9.1 (who is the user) shows that in the case of Helsinki the user is the customer, that is, a person ready to pay for Internet accessing. In the case of Turku organizational membership matters and in Oulu everyone is provided OA service. The OA ideology in the access provision is intriguing, as it also includes several information security threats. Therefore some urban administrations want to have a least a registration process for use of the service to help to identify user misconduct. From the end user this is the easiest and the most convenient way to proceed, but as discussed, it includes risks for network misuse such as spamming, illegal downloading, and the distribution of questionable materials. These security issues, including the abuse of a fully open network, are evident and expected in this type of experiment. The network connections must be changed in short periods to short coverage distances in Helsinki. In addition, the accumulate charge for using networks is considerably higher for the end-user. Turku, on the other hand, provides a rather reasonable middle way. Access requires registration to one of the public sector institutions, such as the library or an educational unit. Individuals can participate in the expansion of the network coverage through the Openspark network. The idea is that the person participating is given a segment of the bandwith for public use and then granted the right to use the whole network. Finally, it should be remembered that there are other several public sector organizations that also provide outdoor Internet access to their members. Examples include universities which are public institutions in Finland which provide their own network services. All Finnish higher educational units belong to a so-called HAKA system that enables all persons with within one university passwords to access WLANs in all other universities. However, this access is limited only to the vicinity of university controlled hotspots. Quite commonly they cover an entire campus area, but in the case of e.g. Helsinki, where the central campus is dispersed across the central city, it is in practice possible to use free WLAN with a rather extensive coverage.

140

T. Inkinen

9.5 Discussion: Internet Access in Finland and Megaengineering? The paper title at the outset asked whether local access outdoor Internet can be regarded as an illustration of megaengineering. The answer depends on what point of view is used. In local, regional and urban development, Internet technologies are something that commonly is taken for granted. To the social scientist, however, the presented structuring “how to create these networks” raises the question whether the service should be free of charge or not to the end user? And what socio-spatial and economic implications do these solutions hold and how do global businesses and information sources fit into the picture? The attitude towards a “no cost” Internet service provision also reflects society’s attitude and tradition to information use and knowledge creation. Urry (2002: 270) discusses issues of mobility and raised relevant questions regarding virtual mobility and social condition. His article deals mainly with the intersection of physical movement and virtual presence, that is, who is present on the Internet and who is not? These concerns also relate to the studied access provision. Low or no cost Internet access provision benefits people who are able to use mobile devices such as palm- or lap-tops. For them WLAN accessibility provides one more option to participate and use a global megaproject. Another question is whether the information inquiring person’s use would decrease if these networks would not exist. Due to this fact, the access provision itself does not aid those who are unable to use computing in the first place. Therefore, the no cost Internet provision might also be seen as supporting the already networked or computer literate societal groups and, thus, further increases the digital divide, that is, it has the opposite effect. In Finland wireless Internet access costs as well as mobile telephone costs for the end-user are, and have always been, relatively low. Finland is ranked as the fifth cheapest country in mobile telecommunications pricing in Europe (Ficora, 2009). All Nordic countries are among the nine cheapest EU-countries. This result should be considered in light of general price levels, considering consumer electronics, Finland is the fourth most expensive country in the EU (Eurostat, 2008). This illustrates the bias between costs in products that are expensive compared to relatively inexpensive communication costs. The outcome is a complex mix of spatial scales and organizations operating on them as well as public authorities and the agreements between them. In addition, the role of creative individuals who might come up with a breakthrough idea should not be underestimated even in a large picture. There are countless examples, particularly in the contents of Facebook, Linux and Skype. All these services have in common the idea of an open access information provision. In the case of Linux, the whole system development has been dependent of the user community. However, it seems that when innovative “open” systems and make a global breakthrough these systems tend to start moving towards “closed” systems. For example, copyright issues of user provided personal photos and pictures in Facebook illustrate this trend.

9

The Internet in Three Finnish Cities

141

There are several open questions that need be considered in future research dealing with societal implications of technology, especially when thinking of changes in spatial scales from global phenomena (Internet) to local reality (access provision and content creation): (1) The importance of location as a context. Global processes always have their roots in a spatial context. Internet expansion to worldwide information sources and information distribution channels provide information that is used in locations. These interactions between global information and local conduct are a potential field for geographical research. For example, how does the emergence of new ideas and innovations diffuse through the Internet and what local factors are determining the phase of the adoption process? (2) The applications and implementations of Internet access should be framed into comparative perspectives and into wider societal contexts. National values and ethos reflect the methods that are used in the service provision. They also determine the extensiveness of information availability to different societal groups. For example, how do different countries use and make benefit of the Internet and computer technologies in elementary education and thus create a tradition of information technology use as an everyday resource? (3) There is a need to further develop measurements for human-technology/human interactions on the empirical level. This is a difficult task due to the fact that the most important impacts that technologies bring are bound to the using the information obtained from networks: the use of information (or technology) is mainly an individual process of thought whereas measurements operate on an aggregate level. The transformation of the subjective experience of importance into a measurable code illustrates the problem of quantifying qualitative phenomena. How does one measure the importance of the Internet in the addition to individual knowledge resources? The combinations of perspectives at varying spatial scales may also provide fruitful research designs, that is, combining individual, local, regional, national and finally international aspects probably results in synergies in the knowledge creation regarding the information society development. Thus, the development of measurements of various scales and the integration of specific content areas of information technology and society in geographical contexts will broaden our view of the contemporary world.

9.6 Conclusions The Internet is without doubt a megaproject in the sense of networking. The network provides its own replenishment through other networks. Public open access Internet networks exemplify local efforts to generate an information society. Whether or not cities start to create their own network access systems is dependent on the motivation and need of the local condition. The drivers for the motivation are coming from

142

T. Inkinen

global sources. Technological development has made it possible for actors at various and changing spatial scales to take part in networks outside their own local vicinities. Furthermore, “networking” will continue to grow its importance in global affairs as well as the importance of the Internet as an information resource itself continues to grow. Finland has a long tradition of technology discourse as part of its national development. Nokia’s development and its present status have influenced not only the telecommunications industry in Finland, but also it has increased its national profile and international awareness of Finland (Castells & Himanen, 2002). Technological advancements in ICTs, therefore, have implications that are far more reaching than just economic success or a marvel of engineering; they reflect societal conditions and the image of a nation and its citizens. The main reason for cities to provide free of charge Internet access relates to image creation. Information and knowledge cities have been widely used to describe efforts in place promotion. Local development companies, commonly operating with public sector funding from the city, are usually the key organizations responsible for public Internet access provision. These companies are often organizing the required public-private partnerships or “triple-helix” functions of local resources. In this regard, technology/knowledge oriented development discourse, in several cases, use relatively studied concepts of economic geography. In an empirical sense, Finland provides several different solutions to noncommercial Internet access networks in outdoor spaces. The main question is that whether or not Internet access should be considered as a civic right or a commercial product. In more detailed way, the question concerns the right to obtain information. Commercial Internet service providers usually overprice their services in short access sessions. Countries with great differences between socioeconomic groups have a higher probability of experiencing both spatial and social digital divides. Therefore, the Internet and online resources, whether mega or not, have local impacts in terms of information provision and use. Acknowledgements This paper is part of research funded by the Academy of Finland project 127213.

References Aurigi, A., & De Cindio, F. (Eds.). (2008). Augmented urban space. Articulating the physical and electronic City. Aldershot: Ashgate. Benkler, Y. (2000). From consumers to users: Shifting the deeper structures of regulation toward sustainable commons and user access. Federal Communications Law Journal, 52(3), 561–579. Brunn, S. (2008, July). Welcoming remarks. Engineering Earth: A conference on the impacts of megaengineering projects. Lexington, KY: University of Kentucky. Castells, M., & Himanen, P. (2002). The information society and the welfare state: The Finnish model. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Eurostat (2008). Consumer electronics and household appliances – Comparative price levels in 37 European countries for 2007. Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://epp.eurostat.ec.europa. eu/cache/ITY_OFFPUB/KS-SF-08-063/EN/KS-SF-08-063-EN.PDF Esping-Andersen, G. (1990). The three worlds of welfare capitalism. Cambridge: Polity Press.

9

The Internet in Three Finnish Cities

143

Esping-Andersen, G. (Ed.). (1996). Welfare states in transition. Social security in the new global economy. London: Sage. Etzkowitz, H., & Leydesdorff, L. (Eds.). (2001). Universities and the global knowledge economy. A triple helix of university-industry-government relations. London: Continuum. Ficora (2009). Mobile Phone Service Prices 2009 – International Comparison. Finnish Communications Regulatory Authority publication 3/2009. Retrieved July 4, 2009, from http:// www.ficora.fi/attachments/englantiav/5hZDeLzGf/KV_GSM_loppuraportti_koko_ paketti_EN.pdf Hay, I. (Ed.). (2000). Qualitative research methods in human geography. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Heap, N., Thomas, R., Einon, G., Mason, R., & Mackay, H. (Eds.). (1995). Information technology and society. A reader. London: Sage. Inkinen, T. (2006). The social construction of the urban use of information technology: The case of Tampere, Finland. Journal of Urban Technology, 13(3), 49–75. James, J. (2008). Digital divide complacency: Misconceptions and dangers. The Information Society, 24(1), 54–61. Kasvio, A., & Anttiroiko, A.V. (Eds.). (2005). e-City. Analysing efforts to generate local dynamism in the city of Tampere. Tampere: Tampere University Press. Kellerman, A. (2002). Internet on earth. A geography of information. Chichester: Wiley. Kellerman, A. (2006). Personal mobilities. London: Routledge. Loo, B. P. Y. (2007). Strategies of internet development in the Asia-Pacific region. Journal of Urban Technology, 14(1), 3–22. Norris, P. (2001). Digital divide. Civic engagement, information poverty, and the iInternet world wide. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sparknet. (2009). Wireless access everywhere. Retrieved January 29, 2010, from http://www. sparknet.fi/index.php Townsend, A. (2008). Public space in the broadband metropolis: Lessons from Seoul. In A. Aurigi & F. De Cindio (Eds.), Augmented urban space: Articulating the physical and the electronic city (pp. 219–234). Aldershot: Ashgate. Urry, J. (2002). Mobility and proximity. Sociology, 36(2), 255–274. Uteng, P. T., & Cresswell, T. (Eds.). (2008). Gendered mobilities. Aldershot: Ashgate. Äikäs, T. A. (2000). Heritage and high-tech: Landscapes of image cities. Nordia Geographical Publications, 29(2), 11–23.

Chapter 10

ICTs and Activities on the Move? People’s Use of Time While Traveling by Public Transportation Bertil Vilhelmson, Eva Thulin, and Daniel Fahlén

10.1 ICTs, Time Use, and Travel 10.1.1 Issue Are people’s perceptions and uses of travel time changing in our ever-expanding information society? Is the capacity to use time more meaningfully while on the move enhanced by the spread of modern mobile information and communication technologies (ICTs), such as laptop computers, cell phones, portable music players, wireless broadband, and the Internet? One line of mobility research questions the established view of travel time as wasted time in people’s daily lives and doubts whether travel demand only derives from a desire to engage in activities at destinations (Lyons & Urry, 2005; Mokhtarian & Salomon, 2001; Urry, 2006). More useful or productive travel time is believed to be a salient feature of the emerging network society. Train cars and buses are changing into “mobile spaces” where various useful activities, such as work, social interaction, and relaxation are performed while on the move. The notion of more useful travel time may have implications for future mobility levels and the modal distribution of travel, making longer journeys more acceptable (fueling regional extension and urban sprawl) and improving the competitiveness of public transportation versus the car. Our intention is to draw on this alternative perspective on travel time and to consider the significance of productive/useful/meaningful travel time given present mobility levels. First, we glance at the theoretical background, after which we present some preliminary findings from our ongoing project examining the relationships between ICT, activities, and transportation.

B. Vilhelmson (B) Department of Human and Economic Geography, School of Business, Economics and Law, University of Gothenburg, SE 405 30, Gothenburg, Sweden e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_10,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

145

146

B. Vilhelmson et al.

10.1.2 Theoretical Concern In most transport modeling, travel is treated as a cost and disutility in people’s lives. Travel time is assumed to be unproductive and wasted. It is treated as distinct from the meaningful and productive activities people perform at the various locations distributed in space and that give rise to travel. The only value of time spent traveling is derived from what is undertaken at the destination (Holley, Jain, & Lyons, 2008). Accordingly, it is no surprise that major investments in the transportation sector are often justified by the travel time they can save (Jain & Lyons, 2008). Current research is challenging this position (e.g., Lyons, 2003; Mokhtarian, 2005; Ohmori & Harata, 2008). One argument is that the activity of traveling itself can possess a positive utility in people’s lives. The individual traveler gains something from being away from or between fixed locations, activities or people. Ory and Mokhtarian (2005) review a list of reasons why daily travel might be desirable for its own sake: adventure, variety, independence, status, exposure to the environment, escape, curiosity, and physical/mental relaxation. It has further been suggested that account should be taken of the utility derivable from activities undertaken while traveling. Travel time is not necessarily wasted, “dead,” or empty time (Holley et al., 2008; Kenyon & Lyons, 2007; Lyons & Urry, 2005; Mokhtarian, 2005). On the contrary, time spent on the move (i.e., in the bus, train, and car) can and is being used to perform various meaningful activities, such as working, relaxing, socializing, and communicating. It is further emphasized that people’s capacity to perform activities while on the move is enhanced in our increasingly informational society. Schwanen and Kwan (2008) suggest that modern ICTs (cell phones and the Internet in particular) can fundamentally increase the spatial and temporal flexibility of people’s daily lives. From a time-geographic perspective, they argue that the constraints of capability, coupling, and authority that surround various activities are reduced by ICTs, as people can meet, communicate, and interact almost anywhere, anytime, and for any reason. ICTs make activities less tied to specific time-spaces and let people undertake more activities at any given time or place. Furthermore, ICTs are increasing the windows of opportunity for shopping and other errands, allowing people to circumvent the restrictions imposed by the opening hours of various facilities. All in all, ICTs, especially the cell phone, make people more connected, allowing interaction-based planning and activity-scheduling that is more instant, flexible, and spontaneous in time and space (Thulin & Vilhelmson, 2008). The spread of modern ICTs combined with the ongoing virtualization of many everyday activities (e.g., e-work, e-shopping, various e-services, and contacts via e-mail, MSN, SMS, and blogs) could weaken the association between activity, place, and time (Couclelis, 2000, 2004). Mobile ICTs, such as laptops, cell phones, and wireless Internet, provide new opportunities and access to activities for those traveling. People can make more productive use of “empty” moments throughout the day, for example, using travel or waiting time more productively. Daily travel is transformed into a hybrid mobile place where certain activities can take place and virtual and physical communication can occur simultaneously. Train cars

10

ICTs and Activities on the Move?

147

and buses may become regular places of work and business interaction, places where people organize daily meetings or rest and relax. Mobile technologies and networks—enabling potentially new ways of engineering time and space—are certainly expanding this range of opportunities, but how are they really being accessed and used in real life?

10.1.3 Previous Empirical Studies A few empirical studies have specifically addressed the question of travel time use. Recent surveys of how passengers (business travelers in particular) use their time when traveling by train have been conducted in England (Axtell, Hislop, & Whittaker, 2008; Lyons, Jain, & Holley, 2007), Japan (Ohmori & Harata, 2008) and Norway (Hjorthol, 2008). Findings from these studies indicate that leisure activities were most common, activities such as leisure reading and window gazing/people watching. Relatively few people were using their travel time productively for work or study. The results also indicated that differences in traveling mode (i.e., different classes of travel), journey duration, and work hours affected the participation rate in different activities. Most passengers were using cell phones while on the move, while other mobile ICTs, such as laptops and wireless Internet, were relatively uncommon. There were substantial though not overwhelming signs that travel time was acquiring a positive utility; only a minority of travelers considered their travel time to be wasted time. Productive uses of travel time were generally considered more worthwhile than time spent on “anti-activities.” Using focus group interviews, Jain and Lyons (2008) explore the notion of travel time as “a gift” in people’s daily lives. They find two key categories of travel time where the traveler actively benefits from the journey: travel time as transition time (giving time to adjust and transition between places and activities) and travel time as time out (legitimizing a break in daily activity). They further conclude that mobile technologies expand the opportunities for travelers to equip themselves for the transition time and time out. In addition, based on small-scale qualitative research on mobile workers and their travel, Poppitz (2007) stresses the importance of putting the use of regular commuting time use into the context of everyday life, and of not exaggerating the role of single determinants, such as new technology and specific equipment.

10.2 Mobile Activities on Bus and Train 10.2.1 Preliminary Findings of a Swedish Survey In the following, we present some empirical observations from ongoing research on how people actually spend their time when traveling by bus and train in an everyday context. We initially explore what activities really take place while traveling. Is travel dominated by work, leisure, relaxation (“time out”), and social interaction,

148

B. Vilhelmson et al.

or perhaps by “anti-activities” such waiting, doing nothing, and sleeping? We further consider the role of equipment and the extent to which mobile ICTs are actually used. Finally, we discuss how worthwhile passengers consider their travel time to be. We draw on data from an activity-based time-use survey of 400 passengers of public transportation. The survey was recently conducted in the Gothenburg metropolitan area, the second largest metropolitan area in Sweden with a population of about one million (in 2009). In the November 2008–January 2009 period, respondents were recruited among passengers on four train and bus lines linking four towns in the region with the city of Gothenburg (Fig. 10.1). The lines were regarded as typical routes for intraregional commuting (i.e., excluding local and interregional trips),

Fig. 10.1 Public transportation network in the survey area—Gothenburg region, Sweden. Transportation lines included in the survey are Uddevalla–Göteborg, Trollhättan–Göteborg, Borås– Göteborg, and Kinna–Göteborg

10

ICTs and Activities on the Move?

149

and the average journey length was one hour. In total, 402 passengers on 42 departures (10 by train and 32 by bus) on regular weekdays (between 06:00 and 22:00) were included. The respondents were contacted personally en route, told about the survey, asked whether they were willing to participate, and, if so, asked to pay attention to their use of travel time and be prepared to report how they spent it on the actual trip. A link to a web-based questionnaire was then sent to the respondents via e-mail. The response rate was 51% of all passengers. The composition of the sample was typical of users of regional public transportation in Sweden, as 60% were women and most passengers were either students or gainfully employed commuters. Due to the design of the study, elderly people (with no e-mail), people difficult to contact (sleeping or extremely hurried), and children were underrepresented. The survey primarily concerns how journey time was spent on various activities, what equipment was brought and used, and how the traveler valued the time use en route. Special attention was paid to the use of portable ICTs (e.g., cell phones, laptops, and mobile broadband). Questions were also asked about trip characteristics (e.g., distance, duration, and purpose) and relevant background data concerning the individual. This includes information on circumstances that might affect activity patterns and time use, such as commuting habits, perceived stress, environmental attitudes, and attitudes towards public transport. To extend our investigation beyond the limits of previous research on mobile activities, our investigation captures the time-use dimension more systematically. Furthermore, we focus on everyday regional travel (not interregional or local travel) and include travel by bus (not only train). Consequently, the respondents report an average trip time of one hour (mean value = 54 min; s.d. = 16) and that 95% of all trips lasted more than 30 min. As expected, trips were concentrated in rush hours in the morning, at lunch time, and in the afternoon. Forty percent of all trips were to or from work, 40% were related to school, and the rest were for various shopping, visiting, and leisure purposes.

10.2.2 Frequent Activities en Route Now, what do people really do when they regularly spend an hour traveling on public transportation? This basic question of the study could of course be answered in several ways, depending on how activities are measured. One straightforward measure is how many passengers engage in particular activities during the trip; this approach indicates that the most frequent activities are very passive in character (Table 10.1). “Doing nothing,” “window gazing,” and “sleeping/resting” are common “anti-activities” performed by around half of all surveyed passengers. Other common and somewhat more active activities are “using the cell phone,” “thinking/planning,” “listening to music,” “reading,” and “socializing,” while even more active or productive activities such as “studying” and “working” are only performed by one fifth of all passengers. In general terms, it seems that “passive” activities are more common than more “active” ones. In terms of the most frequent activities, it appears that actual travel time use (in regional commuting) conforms to an

150

B. Vilhelmson et al. Table 10.1 Activities while traveling measured in terms frequency and time intensity

Activity

Frequency—percent of all travelers performing a certain activity

Time intensity—minutes per person engaged in a certain activity

Window gazing/doing nothing Sleeping/snoozing SMS/cell phone calls Thinking/planning personal issues Listening to music/radio/e-book Reading for leisure Talking to other passengers Studying Working Eating, drinking Other leisure activities E-mail/chat Taking care of children Hobby

53.5 46.0 43.5 38.8 31.8 30.6 21.4 21.4 16.9 11.7 8.0 6.7 5.0 3.5

16 21 9 14 32 24 40 23 26 9 15 13 21 13

Source: Authors’ survey, Gothenburg region, Sweden, 2009

expected stereotype: mobile time as a kind of unproductive waiting-time, a disutility that is more or less motivated by purposeful stationary activities surrounding the trip. A person could, however, engage in more than one activity during the trip, for example, resting a while and then starting to read or study.

10.2.3 Time-Intensive Activities Yet, the importance of activities could be measured more elaborately, not least as regards to how much time is really spent on particular activities. If we focus on how much time a person engaged in a specific activity really spends on it—what is here called time-intensity—we get a different picture from that given by merely ranking the frequency of common activities (see Table 10.1). The list of time-intensive activities is topped by “social interaction” and “listening to music,” as well as cognitively more intense and demanding activities such as “working” and “studying.” “Sleeping/resting” and “doing nothing” are here are ranked lower, indicating that most people take just a little time out, maybe only a few minutes, during a journey. From this time-use perspective, it seems that active or productive time uses, such as social communication, work, and study, when performed take more time than do more passive ones. This further indicates that many people spend their travel time in rather meaningful and productive ways that are hard to consider as disutility or a waste of time.

10.2.4 Equipped Time This leads to the question of “equipped” travel time. To what extent do travelers bring certain ICT equipment and portable devices with them on their journeys?

10

ICTs and Activities on the Move?

151

This also indicates intentions or plans to actively use the journey for meaningful activity. Not surprisingly, the cell phone is the most common device used by the travelers, and newspapers, books, music players, and material for studies or work are also common. Slightly more than 20% of all surveyed passengers carry laptops; about 40% of these passengers actually use their computers during the trip and 20% connect to the Internet via mobile broadband, in other words, becoming virtually mobile. (It is reasonable to believe that this virtually mobile group is growing fast). In addition, when used, the computer is a very time-intensive type of equipment: on average, a laptop user spends 40 min (of the average 55-min trip) using her/his computer, that is, for most of the journey. As regards to other types of equipment, material for work and study and music players comprise considerable travel time.

10.2.5 Valued Time This brings us to a third dimension of time use en route, namely, whether travel time is considered worthwhile or wasted. Notably, we find that two-thirds of the surveyed passengers find time use on the actual trip to be “rather” or “very worthwhile,” and that only one third find it more or less wasted time. If we focus on one important group of passengers, those who found their travel time “very worthwhile” (15% of all surveyed travelers; n = 60), and consider how much time they spend on certain activities or using certain equipment, we find that productive activities such as studying and working rank high (Fig. 10.2). In addition, these truly satisfied travelers frequently spend time using ICT-based equipment, such as laptops, cell phones, and portable music players. We see a tentative relationship between the amount of ICT use, on the one hand, and travel satisfaction, on the other—an important observation warranting further analysis. As these early mobile ICT users could be regarded as “forerunners,” they represent the potential for an increase in the popularity of public transport (versus car driving). Our findings are, of course, not homogenous across the surveyed passengers. There are some notable differences between young and old, and, not least, from a gender perspective. More men than women perceive their travel time being worthwhile (69% vs. 60%). Also, productive activities and the use of laptop computers are slightly more common among men. However, the spread of mobile ICTs that can be used for productive purposes is still comparatively limited, though progress is rapid, especially among working people. What are the technical and social conditions necessary for continuing growth in ICT-based mobile work during travel time? A preliminary look reveals that 50% of all surveyed passengers were gainfully employed, meaning that many could potentially do some work en route. In fact, 40% of these employed passengers state that they could already do so, and 15% can even include working en route in their regular working time, indicating institutional incentives to promote mobile work. From the point of view of technical access, 25% of those gainfully employed also brought laptops on their journeys to/from work, 67% of them actually used them, and 28% accessed the Internet via a private mobile broadband connection. Finally, the cell phone is of course a more established tool for work-related communication and,

152

B. Vilhelmson et al.

Fig. 10.2 Average time spent on various activities or using various kinds of equipment by travelers who perceive their trips as “very worthwhile” (n = 60). Average trip time = 55 min. Source: Authors’ survey, Gothenburg region, Sweden—preliminary findings

not surprisingly, was used by most commuters during their trips. It is reasonable to believe that cell phones serve as continuing enablers of the use of laptops and the Internet.

10.3 Concluding Discussion This report is based on preliminary findings concerning how people use travel time in a period of growing “virtual mobility,” that is, access to and the use of mobile ICTs. Our conclusions must, therefore, be tentative in nature. Overall, a preliminary general impression is that our results, which are valid for intraregional trips by bus and train, to some extent confirm previous research on long-distance travel by train in various parts of the world. We conclude that even comparatively shorter trips also increasingly integrate physical and virtual spaces, leaving room for extended mobile activity. It is not difficult to see that the spread of mobile ICTs has played a role in transforming the use of travel time. In addition, we conclude that most passengers already find their travel time valuable and do not only perceive it as wasted time or a cost. We find some indications that ICT may play a reinforcing role here, a crucial issue for further data analysis. We also find that using time productively (for study or work) and using various types

10

ICTs and Activities on the Move?

153

of electronic equipment (e.g., laptops, music players, and cell phones) are significant features of trips that are considered very worthwhile. However, it should be noted that, as mobile ICT use is still rather low in terms of frequency of use by all travelers, it should still be regarded as offering considerable potential for growth. Our results further indicate that productive time use and laptop computer use are more common among men compared to women. Men are also more satisfied with their travel time than women. Thus, gender aspects and digital divides are of crucial importance for the continued analysis of people’s mobile engineering of time and space. Accordingly, it is important to recognize the broader perspective of daily life when discussing the use and value of travel time. The context of everyday activities and routines essentially structures people’s use and perception of time, even when on the move (Vilhelmson, 1999). This is indicated by the fact that most of the surveyed passengers use parts of the journey as transition time or time out. Therefore, ICTs may well confer more utility and meaning on certain existing activities undertaken while traveling, but perhaps not fundamentally transform the basic activity patterns of and need for rest, listening, reading, communicating, and working throughout the day. Finally, the notions of mobile space and productive travel time may have implications for future mobility levels and the modal distribution of travel. Enhanced possibilities to undertake worthwhile activities while on the move may extend journey times and make longer journeys more tolerable; for example, the working day could be said to start at the beginning of the journey. This might have geographical impacts, for example, fuelling intraregional migration, regional enlargement, and urban sprawl. By improving the competitiveness of public transportation, better opportunities for activities undertaken on the move may encourage a modal shift away from the car system to more sustainable and environmentally friendly mobility options.

References Axtell, C., Hislop, D., & Whittaker, S. (2008). Mobile technologies in mobile spaces: Findings from the context of train travel. International Journal of Human Computer Studies, 66(12), 902–915. Couclelis, H. (2000). From sustainable transportation to sustainable accessibility: Can we avoid a new tragedy of the commons? In D. G. Janelle & D. C. Hodge (Eds.), Information, place and cyberspace (pp. 341–356). Berlin: Springer. Couclelis, H. (2004). Pizza over the Internet: E-commerce, the fragmentation of activity and the tyranny of the region. Entrepreneurship & Regional Development, 16(1), 41–54. Hjorthol, R. (2008) Bruk av reisetid ombord på toget. Report no. 983/2008. Oslo: Transportökonomisk Institutt. Holley, D., Jain, J., & Lyons, G. (2008). Understanding business travel: Time and its place in the working day. Time & Society, 17(1), 27–46. Jain, J., & Lyons, G. (2008). The gift of travel time. Journal of Transport Geography, 16(2), 81–89. Kenyon, S., & Lyons, G. (2007) Introducing multitasking to the study of travel and ICT: Examining its extent and assessing its potential importance. Transportation Research Part A: Policy and Practice, 41(2), 161–175.

154

B. Vilhelmson et al.

Lyons, G. (2003). Future mobility—it’s about time. Paper presented at the Universities Transport Study Group Conference, Loughborough, UK. Lyons, G., & Urry, J. (2005) Travel time use in the information age. Transportation Research Part A: Policy and Practice, 39(2–3): 257–276. Lyons, G., Jain, J., & Holley, D. (2007). The use of travel time by rail passengers in Great Britain. Transportation Research Part A: Policy and Practice, 41(1), 107–120. Mokhtarian, P. (2005) Travel as a desired end, not just a means. Transportation Research Part A: Policy and Practice, 39(2–3), 93–96. Mokhtarian, P., & Salomon, I. (2001) How derived is the demand for travel? Some conceptual and measurement considerations. Transportation Research Part A: Policy and Practice, 35(8), 695–719. Ohmori, N., & Harata, N. (2008). How different are activities while commuting by train? A case study in Tokyo. Tijdschrift voor Economische en Sociale Geografie, 99(5), 547–561. Ory, D., & Mokhtarian, P. (2005) When is getting there half the fun? Modeling the liking for travel. Transportation Research Part A: Policy and Practice, 39(2–3), 97–123. Poppitz, A. (2007). Work and ride: The everday life of mobile workers during train travelling. Paper presented at the Third International Winder Academy: New Work in a Mobile World, Rovaniemi, Finland. Schwanen, T., & Kwan, M.-P. (2008). The Internet, mobile phone and space-time constraints. Geoforum, 39(3), 1362–1377. Thulin, E., & Vilhelmson, B. (2008) Mobile phones: Transforming the everyday social communication practice of urban youth. In S. Campbell & R. Ling (Eds.), The reconstruction of space and time: Mobile communication practices (pp. 137–158). London: Transaction Publishers. Urry, J. (2006). Travelling times. European Journal of Communication, 21(3), 357–372. Vilhelmson, B. (1999). Daily mobility and the use of time for different activities: The case of Sweden. GeoJournal, 48(3), 178–185.

Chapter 11

Assembling Video Game Worlds Ian Graham Ronald Shaw

11.1 Introduction Orbited by two moons, White Lady and Blue Child, Azeroth is a world inhabited by elves, humans, dwarves, goblins, trolls, gnomes, and dragons. It is a world comprised of three main continents, with islands spattered across its dangerous seas. Azeroth’s geography ranges from lush forests with wild fauna, to lonely snowcapped mountains and enchanted cities. This strange universe is the setting for the award-winning online video game, World of Warcraft. With over 11 million subscribers the game is currently the most popular “massively multiplayer online role-playing game” (MMORPG), having captured well over half of the online multiplayer market in 2008. If World of Warcraft was a country, it would be the 75th most populated in the world, one ahead of Greece. With such an enormous userbase and numerous accolades and cultural memes, the game is a mainstream hit and for many users is their primary form of social recreation. Adopting a unique online persona or “avatar,” players can enact and perform a multitude of alternative characters, genders and races. Indeed, this escapism is part and parcel of the attraction of the game. But beneath this quite extraordinary virtual community, there is a complex assemblage of software code, hardware technology, and communication channels that enable a seamless virtual experience. What is particularly interesting in the context of this book are the ways that such communities blur the line between an engineered “reality” and an engineered “virtuality.” It is precisely this unclear interface that this chapter seeks to further elaborate. Traditional megaengineering projects, from dams to skyscrapers, have discrete material boundaries and relations. They can be identified, counted, and navigated, even if they are, in turn, comprised of a complex network of people, places, and technologies. With the explosion of the internet and the proliferation of video games in homes across the world, an interesting shift has taken place. No longer are engineering projects solely material enterprises, and no longer is the design of the project I.G.R. Shaw (B) Department of Geography and Development, University of Arizona, Tucson, AZ 85721, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_11,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

155

156

I.G.R. Shaw

ever “complete.” Instead, virtual worlds have come to occupy an increasingly complex domain of interaction for software engineers and players throughout the globe. Taking its cue from this shift, this chapter elaborates on gaming communities as assemblages that constantly slide between (and blur) the clear divide between the “real” and the “virtual.” Deploying the conceptual blueprint of “assemblage theory” from Manuel DeLanda, I argue that games such as World of Warcraft are spaces produced by a hybrid assemblage of material and representational components, and that, far from ever being “closed,” are worlds engineered to be in a deliberate and constant state of transformation. The chapter is composed of the following sections. First, it explores the economics of the video game industry, noting the transfer between real and virtual currency. Second, it explores the multiplayer aspect of games through Xbox Live. Third, the chapter takes hold of some of the controversy in the literature surrounding racist, gendered, and violent on-screen representations. Fourth, the “military entertainment complex” is explored through America’s Army. Finally, the main theoretical contribution of the chapter is made, with assemblage theory used to construct an analysis of video games based on the interaction of material, representational, territorializing, deterritorializing, and coding components.

11.2 Assembling the Video Game Industry Before unpacking the complex assemblages of online gaming communities, this section will provide context for what is an enormous and expanding industry. For example, while the U.S. economy grew at less than 4% between 2003 and 2006, over the same period the video game industry expanded by 17% and will support over 250,000 American jobs in 2009 (Entertainment Software Association, 2009a). Within the U.S., the industry has a highly uneven geographical concentration, with the majority of design and production clustered in the state of California. The company Activision Blizzard Inc, formed as the result of an $18.9 billion dollar merger in 2008, is headquartered in Santa Monica. Owning the rights to extremely popular franchises from Warcraft to Crash Bandicoot, the company shrugged off worldwide recession by posting revenues of $5 billion dollars in 2008. Overall, the video game industry enjoyed record sales in 2008, with 97.6 million units sold, amounting to a staggering $11.7 billion in revenue. The Entertainment Software Association (2009b) reveal startling data on players, too; for example 68% of American households play video games, the average gamer is 35 years old and 25% are over the age of 50. Women over the age of 40 are the industry’s fastest growing demographic, accounting for 40% of players overall. What is also significant are the ways the virtual worlds of video games are themselves spaces for economic activity (and not just in terms of subscription fees for online video games that average $15 dollars a month). We are all by now used to brand placement in movies. But it is only more recently that advertisers have targeted video game worlds for their products. Players often utilize and navigate

11

Assembling Video Game Worlds

157

objects in gaming worlds that are apt for branding, from luxury cars to in-game placards that can advertise anything. This growing phenomenon of in-game advertising was worth $80 million dollars in 2005. This is hardly surprising, given that Nelson, Yaros, and Keum (2006) argue that feelings of in-game immersion can persuade the player to purchase real-life brands. But there are more commercial opportunities in video games than brand placement and subtle (or not-so-subtle) advertising. I remember being struck, back in 2005, when the MMORPG Everquest II incorporated a feature in the game that enables you to order a pizza while in the middle of a virtual universe. Players simply typed the command “/pizza” in the game console, placed their order, and a fresh pizza would be delivered shortly after. Further economic “blurring” between online and offline worlds is outlined in Malaby’s (2006) study of “capital” in video games. Here, in-game virtual items that represent a high degree of social capital within the game, such as valuable weapons or high-level characters, are sold and traded online. With close to a million participants and a turnover of $360 million dollars in 2006, Entropia Universe is a prime example of a virtual world with a real cash economy that allows fortunes to be generated from virtual business transactions, such as trading in-game real estate. It is no exaggeration to say that megaengineering brings in megabucks. Indeed, the trading of virtual currency for real currency is estimated to generate between $200 million and $1 billion annually and employs hundreds of thousands of people worldwide, with a consumer market of between 5 and 10 million people (Heeks, 2008). Although now clamped down upon by game developers, “gold farmers” are online players that amass virtual “gold” within games like World of Warcraft and then sell it on auction sites like eBay for real money. China represents 80–85% of total gold farmers, with each “employee” earning an average of $130 dollars a month. Each “farmer” is predominately male between the ages of 18–25, working 12 h shifts 7 days a week, and is often a rural migrant. Since the predominant cost of gold farming is labor, it come as no surprise that gold farms are located in low-wage countries like China, a country that has at least 50,000 of these virtual workshops (Heeks, 2008). Within China they are located in urban areas of coastal provinces, due to the proximity of ICT infrastructure, gamers, and overseas connections. Such is the staggering scale of this virtual economy that in 2009 the Chinese government banned the trading of virtual currency. This controversial move, while certainly affecting millions of users and reducing the billions of Yuan traded each year, may simply push the practice even further underground, and to other countries such as India. More generally, the regulation of online currency trading throws up a host of legal problems, many of which call into question the notion of ownership and property rights, as well as the law’s ability to define fictive universes (Humphreys, 2009; Lastowka, 2009). There is also the issue of virtual sovereignty, since the trading of virtual currency is not currently regulated by any kind of overarching legal body (such as the WTO). Commenting on China’s recent move to limit virtual transactions, Edward Castronova notes: “This action shows that at least one government is concerned about the way virtual worlds challenge its control of society,” adding “As virtual currencies take over more and more purchasing power, control over the

158

I.G.R. Shaw

effective money supply shifts from the central bank to the game developers” (New York Times, 2009). Companies like Zeevex have started to provide digital “lockers” to act as online storage for an array of virtual currency and in-game items. Indeed, it is simply a matter of time before governments and international trade bodies themselves begin regulating what is a multi-billion dollar industry that transcends traditional geographic boundaries. As we are beginning to appreciate, video games that enable online play are extremely social spaces that connect existing peer friendships and bridge together other gamers from around the world. In this sense, to think of video gaming as either isolating or anti-social is somewhat misleading. They are geographically expansive domains that can bring together players from diverse settings and backgrounds. Indeed, they often have implicit rules and expectations that require careful cooperation (Smith, 2007). “Clans” are just one example of both formal and informal gatherings of people that play together. These online social networks range in size from a handful of friends to groups with hundreds of members, from female-only versions to those that cater only for mature players. Clans usually have a leader responsible for organization, and can be found online with their own websites and forums. Clan versus clan matches are organized events and rely on team communication, coordination, and a careful division of gaming skill. In addition to role-playing games, clans compete against each other in “first-person” shooting games like the Unreal Tournament, Call of Duty, and the Halo series of games. Clans often have their own system of organizational ethics and expectations. One of the largest clans, “The Art of Warfare” (TAW) states on its website: “All orders must be followed, whether in combat, training, in daily TAW duty, and including the installation of communications software on the member’s PC. Orders are not up for discussion” (The Art of Warfare, 2009). The World Cyber Games, the largest gaming festival in the world, was held in Cologne, Germany, in 2008 and brought together participants from 74 different countries (Fig. 11.1). The total prize pot was $470,000 dollars. Just like other sporting events, the cyber games involve celebrities, corporate sponsorship deals (such as Microsoft and Intel), and huge international audiences.

11.3 Assembling the Multiplayer: Microsoft’s Xbox Live Service Originally available in 2002 on the first Xbox console, but relaunched again in 2005 on the Xbox 360, “Xbox Live” is Microsoft’s flagship online interface that knots together a portal for online gaming and content delivery. Based on two different types of membership (Silver and Gold – the latter costing around $50 per year subscription fee), the service is certainly an example of a gigantic, networked megaengineering project that has transformed how console gamers play and communicate with each other across the planet. To date, over 30 million Xbox 360s have been sold. As well as traditional play, members can befriend one another, talk over microphones, send messages, and even communicate with video chats. As one of the cornerstones of Microsoft’s home-market strategy, Xbox Live is now part of the gaming experience for most Xbox users, especially those with broadband

11

Assembling Video Game Worlds

159

Fig. 11.1 Map of countries participating in the World Cyber Games 2009. (Source: http://www. wcg.com/6th/history/countries/countries_search.asp). The World Cyber Games, the largest gaming festival in the world, was held in Cologne, Germany, in 2008 and brought together participants from 74 different countries (World Cyber Games 2009)

connections. It is now rare for games to be released without some kind of online component. In addition, Microsoft has partnered with companies like Netflix to enable users to stream movies for a price. Xbox Live has 20 million users from 26 countries across the globe, installed on over 30 million consoles – with 12 million units sold in the U.S. and four million in the U.K. alone. Instead of hosting players on centralized servers, Microsoft uses a client-based format whereby individual Xbox 360 consoles host each online match. Players are able to battle each other on a range of games, including the popular titles Halo 3 and Call of Duty 4. Millions of people can be found playing at any one time. Each user is identified by their own personal “Gamertag,” which is a unique name capable of identifying the player across each game she or he plays. In effect, they are similar to the avatars of MMORPGs, and are now fully customizable (the player is able to modify and manipulate the appearance of their avatar – an invention lifted right from Nintendo’s “Mii”). These identifiers allow for the accumulation of player statistics, rewards, achievements, and reputation. For example, on Bungie.net players can view in extreme minutiae a track record of their performance in the game Halo 3. The website also reports that within the last 24 h over 750,000 players has battled on over two million matches. Microsoft recently attracted controversy by preventing users from stating their sexual preferences in their Gamertag. Once the Xbox 360 is switched on, the player is automatically logged into Xbox Live. A pop-up window displays if the player has any new personal messages, and also shows the number of friends that are currently online. To take Halo 3 as an example, once the game has been loaded (from either the DVD or hard drive) the player has the option of choosing from a variety of multiplayer game modes. After selecting the game type (for example a “team slayer” – where two teams fight each other on a single map), Xbox Live searches for people of a similar level of

160

I.G.R. Shaw

skill and experience, and will then populate the map with these players – all of which are identified by their unique Gamertags. Within the game map, the player is able to communicate with team members through the microphone (which can get increasingly annoying – and can be muted), taunt the opposition (likewise), as well as befriending somebody that they get along well with. The seamless blending of human-to-human conversation and virtual gaming is the main attraction of Xbox Live, and goes a long way to explaining its enormous popularity. Of course there is more to Xbox Live – including a “Marketplace” where older games can be purchased (for $5–15), movies rented, television shows downloaded, and a range of other content that is available for a price. In addition, trailers and game demos can be downloaded to the Xbox 360’s hard-drive for free. The list of other features includes Windows Live Messenger, as well as upcoming services such as the use of social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter. Taken together, it is no underestimation to call Xbox Live a megaengineering project; it assembles together millions of human bodies, television screens, modems, wireless routers, digital content, messages, video chats, and innumerable technologies to deliver a single social space that is not quite virtual, and not quite “real.” Played on Earth: but not quite as we know it.

11.4 Assembling Controversy Given any megaengineering project, from nature-changing dams to Le Hague nuclear plant in France, there are economic, environmental, social, political, and cultural consequences. This is the unavoidable result of altering the interface between humans and environments. Video game worlds are no different. As engineered products, distributed to millions (who are in turn connected together via meganetworks), they are never far away from public controversy. Linked to violence and criticized for racial and heteronormative representations, video games are inseparable from wider cultural debates and “wars” (Squire, 2002). To elaborate, the portrayal of women in video games is usually highly sexualized, and more often than not, women are absent from games altogether (Burgess, Stermer, & Burgess, 2007). Lara Croft from the Tomb Raider series of games and one of the most iconic female figures to have emerged on any platform, has all the stereotypical hallmarks of an industry dominated by masculine imaginaries and discourses (Cassell & Jenkins, 1998) as well as a more general tendency to privilege white users (Lovink, 2005, Jansz & Tanis, 2007). In 2008 a European Parliament report called for an end to gender stereotyping in video games. But perhaps the situation is more complex than a first glance would admit. For although an abundant number of games released are wrapped and packaged in masculinist and belligerent narratives, there is the constant space for the subversion of traditional gender roles and expectations (Bryce & Rutter, 2003; Royse, Lee, Undrahbyan, Hopson, & Consalvo, 2007; Walkerdine, 2006). At the start of this chapter I discussed the creation of on-screen “avatars” in games like World of Warcraft. These are virtual characters designed and manipulated from an inventory

11

Assembling Video Game Worlds

161

of possibilities by the player. From choosing between races (elf or human) to deciding between different types of classes (warlock or warrior), a unique avatar is born on-screen, destined to be played by the gamer sat at home. This ability to perform as somebody else and in a different world is part and parcel of hyperreal experimentations in postmodern identities; “Indeed, virtual worlds may offer opportunities to recreate gender identities in ways that we have only begun to imagine” (Hayes, 2007: 47). Of course, it is equally likely that one’s virtual persona will be no different from their everyday one. The gendered and racial dimensions of video games usually take a backseat to the controversy generated by violent gaming worlds. Graphic violence, murder, and on-screen crimes are frequently linked to the same activities off-screen, precipitating annual waves of moral panic by the public. In the U.S. and Canada the gaming industry is self-regulated by the Entertainment Software Ratings Board, which awards “ratings” to games submitted – from “early childhood” to “adults only”. One of the most recent controversies surrounded the release of the phenomenally successful Grand Theft Auto IV – a game series never far from criticism. The organization “Mothers Against Drink Driving” decried the “drunk driving” element to the game, where the main protagonist is able to become intoxicated and then drive recklessly (with accompanying blurred vision). Similarly, the video game Bully drew negative attention from educators, parents and politicians due to its (admittedly tongue-in cheek) theme of bullying in an imaginary school. Perhaps the most controversial of all recent releases is the game Manhunt (and its sequel), in which the player is encouraged to perform stylistic and brutal executions. Despite the “violence for the sake of violence” motif of the title, whether or not there is a “spillover” into the real world remains a hot topic. The literature on violence and video games is dominated by a multitude of psychological studies, yet remains largely divided and lacks a clear consensus as to whether or not there exists a concrete correlation between video games and violence, and indeed whether such causation can be established beyond doubt. A range of other factors interfere with any simplistic claim: . . .the research data don’t support the simplistic claims being made about a causal relationship between violent video games and real-world violence perpetrated by the broad range of teenagers who play them. More important, focusing on such easy but minor targets as violent video games causes parents, social activists and public policy makers to ignore the much more powerful and significant causes of youth violence that have already been well established, including a range of social, behavioral, economic, biological and mental health factors. In other words, the knee-jerk responses distract us from more complex but more important problems. (Kutner & Olson, 2008: 190)

11.5 Assembling the Military Entertainment Complex War is a megaengineering project that involves the massive mobilization of bodies, logistics, and communications, not to mention the dispersion of propaganda and the careful construction of spectacle. The so-called “War in Iraq” (and Afghanistan for

162

I.G.R. Shaw

that matter) is a multi-billion dollar trans-national project that continues to drain resources from the U.S. and other countries involved in the occupation. It is difficult to imagine the management of a bigger event; the construction of nuclear power plants or irrigation schemes, while certainly complex, are largely limited to single sites or groups of sites. War on the other hand is multifaceted, emergent, unpredictable, and dispersed across a multitude of geographies. One of the geographies that the U.S.’s war has come to occupy most insidiously is virtual space. That is, video games have become enlisted in the ubiquitous 21st century “War on Terror.” Video game worlds are perennial ideological spaces. Whether racialized or gendered, it has always been difficult to step outside of their political milieu. Since the terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001, video games have become increasingly complicit in furthering the spread of dangerous neo-Orientalist spectacles (Höglund, 2008). To borrow a Lacanese turn of phrase, the War on Terror has become an ideological “quilting point” – a Master Signifier that organizes the representations internal to video game worlds around a dominant theme of a superior U.S. and a barbaric Middle-East. Of course, it is primarily war games that have been quilted with U.S. imperialism, but these are extremely popular genres. Consider the fact that war game Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare (set within a generic Middle East landscape) has sold over 13 million copies to date. The War on Terror spectacle is by no means exclusive to video games. Everyday life is itself a militarized domain, shot through with mundane but no less pernicious hegemonic representations, whether on televisions or in the movies. But how did this situation come to pass? Leonard (2004) argues for a “Military-Academic-Entertainment Triangle” in which in the U.S. Army is itself responsible for the production of video games. Moreover, virtual space is not just an ideological product, but is engineered to serve as a “training ground” for soldiers: The Defense Department has also been closely associated with games such as Rainbow Six: Raven Shield and Socom II: U.S. Navy Seals, utilizing each as a means to test and train military personnel in leadership skills. In 2003, the Army also signed a $3.5 million deal with There Inc. to develop a series of virtual military theaters, including a virtual Kuwait City to train soldiers in a simulated attack on the U.S. Embassy there. (Leonard, 2004: 3)

This unholy union is the subject for Halter’s (2006) analysis of the crosspollination between video games and the U.S. Army. The first-person shooter America’s Army, while by no means alone in its on-screen orientalist depictions, is certainly the crystallization of imperial representation. Financed by the U.S. government (costing over $7 million), developed by the U.S. Army and distributed for free download on the internet, the game was first released in 2002 and has had a number of updates since then. As the official website for the game advertises: America’s Army is one of the ten most popular PC action games played online. It provides players with the most authentic military experience available, from exploring the development of Soldiers in individual and collective training to their deployment in simulated missions in the War on Terror. (America’s Army, 2009)

11

Assembling Video Game Worlds

163

Players can choose their Army role within the game, from an “automatic rifleman” to a “combat medic.” Like many games of ilk, the basic premise of the game does not steer far from the tried-and-tested formula of first-person shooter games. The difference with America’s Army is the level of realism and propaganda tied to the game. Where the bleed between reality and virtuality hits a high note is with the “Real Heroes Program.” The game incorporates a “Virtual Recruiting Station” where players are able to interact with the profiles of veterans of the “Global War on Terrorism.” Real soldiers’ biographies are available to read, videos can be streamed, and a range of real-life acts of bravery can be discovered. In addition, the America’s Army website features profiles of real-life soldiers playing the game, listing a brief blurb about their experiences. Quite where the distinction between real and virtual propaganda lies is difficult to obtain. Instead, the game is much more of a Möbius Strip, where divides like “inside” and “outside” are replaced by a looping continuum of information. The community of America’s Army players is part of a large and acentered assemblage: the “War on Terror” is waged across deserts, media stations, and PC screens. Having explored this game in detail, I want to conclude this section by discussing war games more generally. It is worth quoting at length the following observation from Leonard (2004: 4): War video games are no longer purely about training soldiers already enlisted; rather, they are about recruitment and developing future soldiers, while simultaneously generating support among civilian populations for increasing use American military power. Americans of all ages are thus able to participate collectively in the War on Terror and in Operation Iraqi Freedom, just as if they were members of the military. Their trigger happiness becomes a metonym for their happiness with American military efforts. With a little money and the switch of a button, the divide between real and virtual—between civilian and military, between domestic and foreign—is erased as we wage war through gaming.

The consequences of playing war games can spill out from the screen. Whether galvanizing racial stereotypes, ossifying Oriental depictions, rewriting history, or sanctioning the War on Terror, video games are far from simplistic child’s play. They contribute to a hegemonic “common sense.” It is not just that video games are alone in their imperial representations, but rather they assemble together to form a larger “Military Entertainment Complex.” It is precisely within the mundane, the implicit, and the common sensical, that ideological hegemony reveals its grasp. The renewed post-9/11 appetite for “good versus evil” narratives is often played out in video games through allegory, intertextuality, and subtle manipulation (Ouellette, 2008). In this sense, the military entertainment complex is an assemblage of overlapping megaengineering projects, from the U.S. Army’s reliance on the engineering of consent, to the game developers that depend on those profits reaped from Orientalist spectacle. The mere existence of video games produced by the U.S. Army should be taken as proof positive that virtual space is integral to an interlocking geography of war. The War on Terror is now universally mediated through image and spectacle; the real is relegated to a second-order tier for those viewers and gamers in the West. Nowhere are the consequences of this more dangerous than in the depictions of

164

I.G.R. Shaw

torture in video games. Here, not only is torture glorified, but its logics and rationales are far too simple and carefree. Torture is rendered down to an uncomplicated and binary algorithm, in which moral choices and complexity have been evacuated. As Sample (2008) argues, George W. Bush’s “advanced interrogation techniques” are integrated into a gaming world in which successful torture is guaranteed: the enemy will always “cough up.” Bringing in the work of Georgio Agamben, Sample goes on to assert that torture in games like Splinter Cell and 24: The Game naturalize a “state of exception” in which the state transgresses the law in order to preserve it. In this sense, the state of exception, as an already prominent feature of democratic nations, becomes legitimized in virtual space. What is at stake then, are the ways virtual geographies engineered in video games come to overlay and dominate the real geographies of the world. From Full Spectrum Warrior and America’s Army (both developed and funded by the U.S. Army) to Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare, the Middle East is an ideological space of Oriental design and fantastical implementation, disseminated for public consumption and sanction of the War on Terror. Arabian cities are represented as maze-like worlds, where women and children are distinctly absent, and the only residents are gun-toting “enemies” intent on killing Americans: a state of “perpetual war” (Höglund, 2008). It is precisely these virtual topographies that must be combated, not with guns and bombs, but with ideas in the classroom (Leonard, 2004), and above all, a firm recognition that gaming worlds cannot be treated as innocent spaces.

11.6 Assembling Video Games Assemblages, writes DeLanda (2006), are wholes whose properties emerge from the interactions between parts. Deploying a realist social ontology, DeLanda’s work builds on the theory of multiplicity from Gilles Deleuze and seeks to bridge the gap between the “micro” and the “macro,” or between individual and society. In particular, DeLanda is dismissive of any approach to ontology that defines identity through accounts of “interiority.” This view is expressed most fully in the “organismic metaphor” whereby parts are defined by their internal relations to an all-encompassing and transcendent whole. But neither does the opposite atomistic logic hold true. In contradistinction to both types of reduction (to the whole, to the individual), assemblages must be thought as constituted immanently by variously mutating connections of self-subsistent component parts. Assemblages are thus the outcome of their relations of exteriority. Parts can be attached and reattached to other assemblages, and this addition of new parts will recalibrate the assemblage itself. In this sense, there is nothing “necessary” about an assemblage; it is instead a contingent and non-linear outcome of the capacities of component parts. In addition, DeLanda defines the assemblage as located between two principal axes: one axis is the role that the assemblage plays from a purely material to a purely expressive or representational one. The other axis defines the processes underwriting the assemblage from stabilizing (territorializing) to destabilizing (deterritorializing) forces. A third axis defines specialized media that code and decode the assemblage,

11

Assembling Video Game Worlds

165

Table 11.1 Video game assemblages Material

Representational

Geographies Technologies Bodies Territorializing Repetition: old parts Software Code

Spatiality: perspective + freedom Architecture: ludological + social Discourse Deterritorializing Difference: new parts

such as genetic and linguistic parts. In any such case, each of these is just another component of the assemblage and must be thought immanently and not as a transcendental structuring device. What I want to loosely retain and transform from DeLanda’s complex blueprint are the material, representational, territorializing, deterritorializing, and coding axes, in order to position video games as hybrid assemblages. Notwithstanding the multitude of components involved in their production, this will involve (a) assembling the geography of video games in terms of material sites, bodies, and players (b) discussing the “worldy representation” of video games (c) arguing for the “repetitious” and “differential” nature of video games (d) discussing software code (Table 11.1). What I want to impress is the idea that engineering video games, specifically online ones, requires bringing together a potentially infinite number of assemblages. The first part of this thinking involves an investigation of the material geographies unique to a video game’s development. At the start of this chapter I mentioned the American video game industry which employs 250,000 people and is concentrated in California. More broadly, Johns (2006) demonstrates that the international video game industry is structured around three main global regions: America, Japan, and France. Emerging markets such as Latin America and Asia remain a marginalized consumer and producer market due to piracy in the regions. What began as a rich and heterogeneous landscape of developers and publishers is now concentrated in large firms like Electronic Arts, Activision, Ubisoft and Vivendi Games. This developer consolidation is a reflection not only of the drive for publishers’ profit, but also an outcome of the massive costs involved in producing video games for today’s high-end platforms. For example, 1982s Pacman cost $100,000 to develop, whereas today the average Playstation 3 game costs an estimated $15 million (BBC News, 2007). In addition to geographic sites, technological materialities are important for constructing any video game. Virtual worlds today are far larger and more complex than they were even five years ago, and this is directly tied to technologies available for development. Finally, the “affective” or embodied dimension is our last material component. As I have argued elsewhere, the player’s body is always-already entwined in the experience of video game play: Video game worlds expose bodies to events which produce a range of affects from fear to joy. Game space is increasingly an affective landscape, and once the player turns his or her attention to the experience of space, he or she is shaped not by the representations of space, but of the body’s affective articulation in another world (Shaw & Warf, 2009: 1340–1341).

166

I.G.R. Shaw

The materiality of video games is, therefore, assembled by (a) geographies, (b) technologies, (c) and bodies. Now we must turn our attention to the “worldy representations” of video games, the expressive assemblages that get by far the most attention in the game studies literature. Here again, these representational assemblage are constructed by three main component parts (a) worldy spatiality, (b) worldy discourse, and (c) worldy architecture. Briefly, the worldy “spatiality” points to the perspective and freedom of the virtual world. Worldy discourse covers the symbols, narratives, and ideological meanings animated by the world. Finally, worldy architecture incorporates the basic ludological structures or “rules” of the game, as well as the social infrastructure incorporated. Taken together, they provide an analytical blueprint for interrogating the complexities of virtual gaming worlds. There are elsewhere discussions of spatiality in video games (Wolf, 1997). While I could elaborate upon a potentially infinitesimal typology of spatialities, I think it is most helpful to discuss spatiality in terms of the perspective utilized by the game, as well as the degrees of freedom available to the player. There are three main types of perspective: transcendent, mediated, and immanent. Transcendent perspectives are remote and detached. Pioneered by industry giant Peter Molyneux, the godgame genre of games such as Populous, Syndicate, Theme Park, Dungeon Keeper and Black and White fully exploit this Cartesian removal to engender the feeling of spatial omnipotence. Mediated perspectives are “third person” perspectives, likened to viewing a camera affixed a few feet above from the on-screen characters head, such as the Tomb Raider series of games. Finally, immanent perspectives remove the on-screen character altogether, and interaction between virtual space and the player is experienced directly. This is seen in first-person shooters like Call of Duty 4. In terms of degrees of freedom, each spatiality is positioned somewhere between a “smooth” and a “striated” typology (Deleuze & Guattari, 1987). Smooth spaces are rhizomatic, open, non-linear, and posses high degrees of freedom. The player is able to manipulate the world and make organic choices. In contradistinction, striated space is rigidly mapped, closed, and linear, possessing limited degrees of freedom. The player is bound by strict spatial axiomatics. Together, perspective and freedom construct the unique worldy spatiality of each video game. Moving on to worldy discourse, we have just covered the neo-Orientalist imaginaries animated in war games. More generally, each video game contains an array of discourses, symbols, meanings, and ideological narratives that often reflect realworld counterparts. These can be implicit or explicit, and most studies tend to focus on gendered, racial, sexual, and violent elements. In this sense, video games can be “read” as types of texts (Klastrup, 2009; Lastowka, 2009) that can offer the player a deep and immersive textual realm and back-story (Krzywinska, 2006). Nowhere is this more important than in role-playing games, from offline titles like The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, to online worlds such as Everquest II. In either case, there is a discursive textual landscape that the player enters a relationship with. The final component of worldliness is its architecture. This involves a discussion of two types of architecture within any video game: a ludological and a social one. In the first case, what are the rules of the game? What are the play mechanics?

11

Assembling Video Game Worlds

167

What can the player do and not do within the virtual universe? In contradistinction to representational assemblages, ludological architectures are what enable activities of play (Frasca, 1999). Social architecture on the other hand, while certainly integral to the virtual world, is distinct to the extent that in-game chat and communication is not a necessary element of play. That is, in many online games like World of Warcraft, players can chose to form communities called “guilds.” Social architecture is extremely important in engineering virtual worlds and in-game cultural norms (Yee, 2009). As Chris Lena, producer of Everquest adds “You make real friends, real life friends, and you spend a lot of time with them. That’s emotional attachment, there are feelings and shared experience, exposure of self that creates really strong bonds” (Hayot, 2009). In this sense, the socially engineered components of virtual worlds lend themselves to long-term emotional investment by the player, both consciously and unconsciously. DeLanda (2006) adds territorializing and deterritorializing components to enable discussion of the stability of the overall assemblage. In the context of video games, what kinds of forces and components are responsible for this stability and instability? What I want to discuss here is the role that innovation and creativity plays in the industry. Unfortunately, many mainstream hits are based on multi-million dollar sequels that seldom deviate from tried and tested formulas (Call of Duty 1, 2, 3, 4, 5; Halo 1, 2, 3). While this template often guarantees profit for developers and publishers, it means that video games are often accused of becoming increasingly “dumbed down” to appeal to the masses. Ontologically then, there is a great degree of repetition within the overall identity of any given video game. Opposing this stabilizing force is the risk-taking role played by creativity and difference. Deterritorialization involves a deviation from existing blueprints, and a truly novel approach to the construction and implementation of video games. Breakaway hits in this regard include Super Mario 64, one of the first games to make the leap to three-dimensions. Also with Nintendo, we can think of the unique “Wii Remote” (a controller with a built-in optical sensor) as revolutionizing the relationships between video games and bodies. In any case, each video game is constructed from an uneven assemblage of old and new components. Linked to this idea of change and development is the process of “coding” as the method of structuring the entire video game world. This is the final assemblage, and one of the most important component parts of any video game; the underlying software code. The programming of the video game world effects practically everything, from the realism of the expressions depicted by on-screen characters to the amount of freedom available in creating game space. DeLanda (2006: 15) discussed genetic code and language as vehicles for synthesizing and coding the overall assemblage. However, we can also imagine software code as acting as both a limiting and enabling force. As technological assemblages have developed in sites around the world, the code used by designers has become more complex and advanced, with pushes towards adaptive Artificial Intelligence (Spronck, Ponsen, SprinkhuizenKuyper, & Postma, 2006). Games that “learn” from character behavior add to the immersion and realism the player experiences. The difference between Pacman and The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion is worlds apart. From rat-infested dungeons to

168

I.G.R. Shaw

enchanted forests, Oblivion rejoices in a radically open and rhizomatic network of spatialities enabled by its software code. Equally impressive, each Oblivion nonplayer character (NPC) is programmed with a unique set of needs and wants, giving rise to over 1000 personalities. Contextualized Artificial Intelligence allows the many actions and events within virtual space to converge in creative and complex ways. Gavin Carter, producer of Oblivion, talks about their revolutionary “Radiant AI:” The “Radiant” part of the title refers to the way a character’s awareness isn’t strictly limited to a few hard-scripted objects or activities. It radiates out into the surrounding environment and beyond. They can choose to interact with anything they come into contact with based on parameters we set up when we create them. This includes having conversations with one another, sitting down and reading books, buying food and supplies from shops, farming, exploring, engaging in combat with creatures or one another, and a wide range of other activities.

In summary, we need to think of video games as types of worlds produced by the coming-together of a multitude of assemblages. In thinking of the worldy character of video games our attention seamlessly slips between the “real” and the “virtual,” or the material and the representational. Components are always-already bound together in the appearance and logic of a particular world. As Klastrup (2009) adds: “Worldness in general seems to be the sum of our experiences within the framework provided by the gameworld . . . of a fictional universe that you can actually inhabit and share with others, and of our experiences with it as particular game design, which both enables and restricts our possibilities of performing and interacting in and with the world.” And the geography of virtual worlds, like a distorted diorama, always reflects our social, cultural, and ideological imaginaries right back at us (Hayot & Wesp, 2009a).

11.7 Conclusion It should now be clear that video games are massively engineered projects that defy reductive analyses. They have fundamentally changed the way we interact with the world, technology, and each other. Millions of people are playing thousands of games across hundreds of online worlds at any given time. Virtual communities are gossiping, arguing, battling and joking in clans and guilds across a labyrinth network of servers and cables; each player paying their monthly subscription fee to remain denizens of these digital universes. The video game industry is a sprawling behemoth that generates incomes for ICT graduates in Santa Monica as well as gold farmers in China. Upon trying to find a “center” to video games, we soon discover that they are acentered assemblages built from a variety of component parts, both material and representational. Indeed, what is equally interesting are the ways that video games are always in a state of transformation. Not only is the relationship between player and game an unpredictable topology, but online worlds in particular are contingent upon the social interaction internal to their virtual universes. Without this social interaction subscriber numbers and therefore subscriber

11

Assembling Video Game Worlds

169

fees would dwindle. In this sense, the player is much more than an end-user or passive consumer, but an active producer of capital in a continually transforming online world (Humphreys, 2009). In recognition of this, future virtual worlds need to move towards securing an integrative and democratic space for play. Video games are fundamentally open assemblages defined by their relations of exteriority. Open to capital, open to ideology, open to social interaction, and open to a range of other components they are nonlinear systems plugged into a host of changing multiplicities. It is no exaggeration to call video games megaengineered projects. They are worlds without ends, domains without borders and rhizomes entwined with bodies, discourses, and the fabric of the Earth. As Hayot and Wesp (2009b) summarize: “. . .virtual worlds exert powerful effects on the ‘real’ world, producing among other things, shifts in capital and the development of markets to trade it in, the filing of lawsuits regarding the distribution of property or of virtual violence, and changes in the languages spoken by their users, to name only a few of the ways the virtual world has fed back into the real.” The continual bleed between the real and the virtual is likely to produce ever more hybrid worlds as corporate interests proliferate, economic activity accelerates, and the war machine dominates. But as active producers of these digital universes, the “game over” screen is far from inevitable for social and political justice. Whether resisting the military entertainment complex or racist and sexist representations, the first step is always the disassembly of a commodity that has always been more than meets the thumbs.

References America’s Army. (2009). Features. Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://www.americasarmy.com/ aa/intel/features.php BBC News. (2007). Cost headache for game developers. Retrieved July 7, 2009, from http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/business/7151961.stm Bryce, J., & Rutter, J. (2003). The gendering of computer gaming: Experience and space. In S. Fleming & I. Jones (Eds.), Leisure cultures: Investigations in sport, media and technology (pp. 3–22). Brighton: University of Brighton, Leisure Studies. Burgess, M. C. R., Stermer, S. P., & Burgess, S. R. (2007). Sex, lies, and video games: The portrayal of male and female characters on video game covers. Sex Roles, 57(5–6), 419–433. Cassell, J., & Jenkins, H. (Eds.). (1998). From Barbie to mortal kombat: Gender and computer games. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. DeLanda, M. (2006). A New philosophy of society: Assemblage theory and social complexity. New York: Continuum. Deleuze, G., & Guattari, F. (1987). A thousand plateaus: Capitalism and schizophrenia. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Entertainment Software Association. (2009a). Economic data. Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://www.theesa.com/facts/econdata.asp Entertainment Software Association. (2009b). Game player data. Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://www.theesa.com/facts/gameplayer.asp Frasca, G. (1999). Ludology meets narratology: Similitude and differences between (video)games and narrative. Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://www.ludology.org/articles/ludology.htm Halter, E. (2006). From Sun Tzu to Xbox: War and video games. New York: Thunder’s Mouth Press.

170

I.G.R. Shaw

Hayes, E. (2007). Morrowind. Gendered identities at play: Case studies of two women playing. Games and Culture, 2(1), 23–48. Hayot, E. (2009). Interview with Chris Lena. Game Studies, 9(1). Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://gamestudies.org/0901/articles/interview_lena Hayot, E., & Wesp, E. (2009a). Towards a critical aesthetic of virtual-world geographies. Game Studies, 9(1). Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://gamestudies.org/0901/articles/ hayot_wesp_space Hayot, E., & Wesp, E. (2009b). Special issue – EQ: 10 years later. Game Studies, 9(1). Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://gamestudies.org/0901/articles/hayot_wesp Heeks, R. (2008). Current analysis and future research agenda on “Gold Farming:” RealWorld production in developing countries for the virtual economies of online games. Development Informatics Group, Institute for Development Policy and Management. Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://www.sed.manchester.ac.uk/idpm/research/publications/wp/ di/documents/di_wp32.pdf Höglund, J. (2008). Electronic empire: Orientalism revisited in the military shooterr. Game Studies, 8(1). Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://gamestudies.org/0801/articles/hoeglund Humphreys, S. (2009). Norrath: New forms, old institutions. Game Studies, 9(1). Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://gamestudies.org/0901/articles/humphreys Jansz, J., & Tanis, M. (2007). Appeal of playing online first person shooter games. Cyberpsychology & Behavior, 10, 133–136. Johns, J. (2006). Video games production networks: Value capture, power relations and embeddedness. Journal of Economic Geography, 6(2), 151–180. Klastrup, L. (2009). The Worldness of EverQuest: Exploring a 21st century fiction. Game Studies, 9(1). Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://gamestudies.org/0901/articles/klastrup Kutner, L., & Olson, C. K. (2008). Grand theft childhood: The surprising truth about violent video games and what parents can do. New York: Simon & Schuster. Krzywinska, T. (2006). Blood scythes, festivals, quests, and backstories: World creation and rhetorics of myth in World of Warcraft. Games and Culture, 1(4), 383–396. Lastowka, G. (2009). Planes of power: EverQuest as text, game and community. Game Studies, 9(1). Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://gamestudies.org/0901/articles/lastowka Leonard, D. (2004). Unsettling the military entertainment complex: Video games and a pedagogy of peace. SIMILE: Studies In Media & Information Literacy Education, 4(4), 1–8. Lovink, G. (2005). Talking race and cyberspace – An interview with Lisa Nakamura. Frontiers – A Journal of Women Studies, 26, 60–65. Malaby T. (2006). Parlaying value: Capital in and beyond virtual worlds. Games and Culture, 1(2), 141–162. Nelson, M. R., Yaros, R. A., & Keum, H. (2006). Examining the influence of telepresence on spectator and player processing of real and fictitious brands in a computer game. Journal of Advertising, 35(4), 87–99. Ouellette, M. A. (2008). “I hope you never see another day like this”: Pedagogy & allegory in “Post 9/11” video games. Game Studies, 8(1). Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http:// gamestudies.org/0801/articles/ouellette_m Royse, P., Lee, J., Undrahbyan, B., Hopson, M., & Consalvo, M. (2007). Women and games: Technologies of the gendered self. New Media and Society, 19, 555–576. Sample, M. L. (2008). Virtual torture: Videogames and the war on terror. Game Studies, 8(2). Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://gamestudies.org/0802/articles/sample Shaw, I. G. R., & Warf, B. (2009). Worlds of affect: Virtual geographies of video games. Environment and Planning A, 41, 1332–1343. Smith, J. H. (2007). Tragedies of the ludic commons – understanding cooperation in multiplayer games. Game Studies, 7(1). Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://gamestudies.org/ 0701/articles/smith Spronck, P., Ponsen, M., Sprinkhuizen-Kuyper, I., & Postma, E. (2006). Adaptive game AI with dynamic scripting. Machine Learning, 63(3), 217–248.

11

Assembling Video Game Worlds

171

Squire, K. (2002). Cultural framing of computer/video games. Game Studies, 2(1). Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://gamestudies.org/0102/squire/ The Art of Warfare. (2009). Code of ethics. Retrieved July 9, 2009, from http://taw.net/taw/ codeofethics.aspx Walkerdine, V. (2006). Playing the game: Young girls performing femininity in video game play. Feminist Media Studies, 6, 519–537. Wolf, M. (1997). Inventing space—toward a taxonomy of on and off screen space in video games. Film Quarterly, 51, 11–23. World Cyber Games. (2009). Retrieved July 9, 2009, from http://www.wcg/com/6th/ history/countries/countries_search.asp Yee, N. (2009). Befriending ogres and wood-elves: Relationship formation and the social architecture of Norrath. Game Studies, 9(1). Retrieved July 3, 2009, from http://gamestudies.org/0901/articles/yee

Chapter 12

GPS Collars in Studies of Cattle Movement: Cases of Northeast Namibia and North Finland Katja Polojärvi, Alfred Colpaert, Kenneth Matengu, and Jouko Kumpula

12.1 Introduction The deployment of the US Global Positioning System can be seen as a mega-engineering project in itself. This GPS system consists of 24 satellites and has been operational since 1978; in 1984 the system has been open for civilian use. Spin off from this new technology has been a whole industry based upon GPS-navigation. This together with the advances in Geographical Information Systems (GIS) software has created industries based upon location based knowledge. We can give exact locations to any object, person or process on the surface of the earth, enabling us to produce real time spatial databases. How to incorporate traditional and indigenous knowledge into GIS-data is a fascinating problem. People’s memory of time and place is not exact, but there are markers in space and time which can be used to relate indigenous knowledge with more exact forms of data. Allowing for traditional forms of land use in a world dominated by other more advanced and intensive forms of land use is probably a very demanding task. There will be a need to integrate traditional knowledge with exact data on land use, wildlife, conservation, environment and management. This is definitely an important issue in engineering earth and the environment. Animal behavior and habitat use have been studied by direct observation and radio telemetry. Both methods are labor intensive and time consuming. These studies are very sensitive to factors like number of animals tracked and the length of tracking time, both of which are often reduced by the amount of available resources (Resources Information Standards Committee, 1998). Satellite tracking systems like Argos are available for the long range tracking of migratory animals, however, the cost is considerable. The development of the Global Positioning System (GPS) with global coverage and accuracy of up to 15 m (49.2 ft) has provided a cost effective way to monitor animals on a regional scale. At present researchers have a range of telemetry options available for animals ranging from fish and marine mammal to K. Polojärvi (B) School of Renewable Natural Resources, Oulu University of Applied Sciences, Oulu, Finland e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_12,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

173

174

K. Polojärvi et al.

reptiles, birds and terrestrial mammals. These options include a variety of methods for data collection and storage/transmission, ranging from VHF radio-telemetry to Argos satellite tracking and GPS collars with built in GSM-data transmission. This chapter presents two case studies using GPS collar tracking domestic (bovine cattle in Namibia) and semidomestic (reindeer in Northern-Finland). The case studies show the merits and drawbacks of GPS collar tracking in two very different regions and testing the equipment under very different climate regimes (cold/hot, wet/dry).

12.2 GPS Collars in Animal Tracking Global Positioning System (GPS) telemetry is a widely used method in studies of animal movement, habitat use and resource selection. The method has also been used in monitoring semi-domestic reindeer (Kumpula & Colpaert 2007; Kumpula, Colpaert, & Anttonen, 2007) and domestic cattle grazing (e.g. Agouridis et al., 2004; Bailey, Keil, & Rittenhouse, 2004; Turner, Udal, Larson, & Shearer, 2000). GPS collars have many benefits in studies of animal movement: the collars enable tracking of an individual animal over a long period of time and automatically record geographical position at predefined time intervals. However, GPS collars are expensive and malfunction or total failure of some devices is unavoidable. Aim of the GPS tracking is to produce reliable and accurate data about the movements of an animal. However, various environmental factors influence the availability, quality and strength of satellite signals received by a GPS collar, all potentially leading often to unsuccessful fix attempts and increased positional errors. Terrain obstructions (Cain, Krausman, Jansen, & Morgart, 2005; D’Eon, Serrouya, Smith, & Kochanny, 2002; Lewis, Rachlow, Garton, & Vierling, 2007) and vegetation characteristics such as canopy cover and tree height (Agouridis et al., 2004; DeCesare, Squires, & Kolbe, 2005; Di Orio, Callas, & Schaefer, 2003; Frair et al., 2004; Hansen & Riggs, 2008; Lewis et al., 2007) are additional examples of environmental factors that may interfere with the connections between satellites and GPS receivers. Systematic failure in fix attempts and the inaccuracy of positions also have an influence on the analyses of animal locations and movements (e.g. Frair et al., 2004; Jerde & Visscher, 2005).

12.2.1 Case Study A: GPS Tracking of Domestic Bovine Cattle in East Caprivi, Northeast Namibia During 2006 and 2007, we collected GPS data to study bovine cattle grazing and movement patterns in East Caprivi, Northeast Namibia. The study area is the Salambala conservancy and the floodplains of the Zambezi River and its tributary, the Chobe River (Fig. 12.1). The area is characterized by a flat floodplain, about 900 m above sea level (2950 ft). The climate has a dry and a rainy season, at the end of which the area is affected by sometimes severe flooding of the Zambezi River. The

12

GPS Collars in Studies of Cattle Movement

175

Fig. 12.1 Location of study area, cattle enclosures and tracking data

Fig. 12.2 Typical livestock enclosure, often called a “kraal.” (Photo: Katja Polojärvi)

population of East Caprivi is dependent upon small scale farming and cattle breeding in a fragile environment. Cattle are owned by extended families, which may live in a village near the grazing area or elsewhere. The cattle are kept overnight in enclosures and are herded during daytime on grazing grounds around the village (Figs. 12.2 and 12.3). The cattle a family owns can be seen as a “savings account,” from which animals are taken to market to provide cash when needed. Local land use for farming, cattle

176

K. Polojärvi et al.

Fig. 12.3 Cattle grazing on the Zambezi/Chobe floodplain. (Photo: Katja Polojärvi)

breeding, tourism and conservancy is also becoming more intensive, a development which creates tensions in the traditional tribal land management and has negative effects on the size and quality of pasturelands. An aim of the cattle tracking study is to produce information about the extent of the grazing areas, including the daily movement, and the grazing pattern of the cattle. GPS collar data combined with pasture maps based on satellite image classification and GIS, also enable one to identify both overgrazed and underused grazing areas. The information about the grazing patterns will be combined with results of a study of indigenous knowledge and social structures in land use decision making. During 2006 and 2007 a total 14 Televilt Tellus Basic 5H2D v2.0 (store onboard) GPS collars (Televilt/Followit Lindesberg Ab, Sweden) were attached to bovine cattle (Caprivi Sanga) in ten villages of East Caprivi (Fig. 12.4). The GPS collars tracked the cattle and recorded their location at 1 h intervals. The collars were retrieved after a 1 year tracking period. The downloaded data files have hourly recorded information about the location of the animal. In addition to the date, time, and geographic coordinates, the collars also record the following information (Televilt, 2006): • • • •

Time (s) the GPS receiver has used to obtain the fix. Number of the satellites used to obtain the fix. Altitude (m) when at least four satellites are available. 2D3D: the obtained fixes are three-dimensional when the collar has contact with four or more satellites. Otherwise the obtained fixes are two-dimensional.

12

GPS Collars in Studies of Cattle Movement

177

Fig. 12.4 Bull fitted with GPS collar. (Photo: Katja Polojärvi)

• DOP: dilution of precision is a measure of the quality of the GPS data being received from the satellites. • FOM: figure of merit values indicates the best accuracy achievable from the satellites being tracked. • Temperature (C◦ ) inside the main housing at the time the position was obtained. • X,Y: The activity level that is measured as a certain change in collar position during the time the collar has been used to obtain the fix. Tracking period and amount of data varied due to several technical reasons. Seven collars were lost, destroyed completely or had serious malfunctions. Seven collars with the longest operation periods had recorded location data from 3 months to almost 1 year (Table 12.1). Locations obtained in the night-time, when the cattle are gathered inside the livestock enclosures, revealed that a significant proportion of the locations were inaccurate. The fix rate of the collars was very good, varying from 93 to 99.6%, meaning that the GPS receivers worked very well when they were undamaged and correctly in place. Accuracy assessment derived from the enclosure data showed that about 8.5% of the fixes were inaccurate, 50% of these positions had a positional error below 21 m (69 ft), and 95% of all error was within 175 m (574 ft). We used data of seven GPS collars for accuracy assessment and testing of different data screening options as a way to reduce location error. Basic analysis showed that simple measures of accuracy like DOP and FOM alone are not sufficient to remove erroneous locations. We removed the locations with the following condition: 2D fix and DOP> 6 or 0 1050 m (3345 ft) or DOP≥ 10 or FOM≥ 10 or walking speed of the animal was over 4.5 km (2.8 mi/h). This

178

K. Polojärvi et al.

Table 12.1 Number of successfully obtained fixes, fix rates (%) and operation periods of the GPS collars Operation period Collar 1

Village

Fixes

Fix rate %

Enclosure

From

To

Isuswa

5528

96.8

1A

1.7.2006 29.11.2006

20.8.2006 7.3.2007

1B

7.3.2007

4.6.2007

4 7

Ioma Lyalumba

2098 4868

96.8 95.9

4 7A 7B

2.7.2006 4.7.2006 23.8.2006

30.9.2006 23.8.2006 1.2.2007

9

Ivilivinzi

7778

97.0

9A 9B

6.7.2006 18.2.2007

18.2.2007 5.6.2007

Limai/Mutikitila

7053

90.3

12A 12B

7.1.2007 7.6.2007

1.6.2007 15.8.2007

12C

15.8.2007

4.12.2007

5.6.2007 4.6.2007

7.12.2007 7.12.2007

12

13 14

Mubbu Limai

3848 4344

86.4 97.1

13 14

data screening option was able to eliminate 75% of the most erroneous locations that were located more than 300 m (984 ft) from the livestock enclosures; it retained 97.2% of the locations that were correctly located inside the livestock enclosures. Before data screening, 95% of the night-time locations that were located outside the livestock enclosures were located 70–406 m (230–1332 ft) from the enclosures. The maximum error was over 10 km (6.2 mi). After data screening, 95% of the locations were 74–298 m (243–978 ft) from the enclosures; the maximum error was 4423 m (14,511 ft) (Polojärvi, Colpaert, & Matengu, 2009). The data showed that the daily movement was related to the advancement of the dry season. The herd starts from the cattle enclosure where they are kept for the night (around sunrise 5–7 AM GMT) and moves to the nearest pasture grounds, from there, returns to the enclosure before dark (4–6 PM GMT). The length of the average daily trips varies from 2 to 3 km (1.2–1.9 mi). Speed during grazing is about 1 km/h (0.6 mi/h), maximum speed was about 4.5 km/h (1.7 mph) (Fig. 12.5). When the grazing land becomes poorer, the length of the daily trips increases, until the herd is moved to a new enclosure in fresh grazing areas. It must be noted that the cattle are not grazing freely, but are guarded by herd boys (usually young boys from neighboring Zambia). The herd boys take the herd to the grazing grounds according to grazing conditions and seem to work without much interference by the owners of the cattle. Many farmers reported that they did not know how much distance their cattle travelled on a daily basis. Notwithstanding the fact that the cultural land

12

GPS Collars in Studies of Cattle Movement

179

Fig. 12.5 Tracking data from collar no. 9 during July–November 2006

administration system in the area of study is somewhat fuzzy (in the sense that traditional authorities in principle have the powers to dictate how the land and the benefits from the land are to be apportioned, they do not have the means to enforce prudent land management), data on the movement of cattle could facilitate the implementation of various instruments to enable animal husbandry to be economical. For instance, on one hand, when cattle movement data coming from GPS collars are analyzed in combination with key informant interviews of the farmers, it becomes clear that the current pasture “management” and livestock farming systems reflect in principle the social relationship between people concerning sharing of grazing land and the perceived administration protocols. The data can be utilized to devise a contextual system of management where greater emphasis would be placed on reducing distance traveled on a daily basis, which consequently can lead to increased mass (kg) and livestock productivity. On the other hand, these datasets can also be used to predict the interaction of cattle with wild animals such as buffalos and elephants, which may carry foot and mouth disease (FMD) and anthrax, respectively. GPS data, therefore, can be an essential tool for monitoring and mapping the movement of cattle and areas with frequent animal disease outbreaks.

180

K. Polojärvi et al.

One of the main benefits of this research is that it provides data that agricultural extension officers and veterinarians can use to provide advice to cattle farmers. Unlike many other GIS applications which provide information about the geographical attributes of an area, the data recorded in this research also reflect the social relationships farmers have among themselves and between them and their land. The challenge to the study included the fact that the way grazing land rights are understood by the individuals is dependent on their own understanding of land administration, knowledge which is not written. In addition, the movement of cattle is not necessarily related to the palatability of the grass or the availability of grass. Instead, it may, as in some cases, be related to the choice of a herd boy. This finding poses a challenge because we are not interested in the movement of cattle per se, rather in the reason why the movement pattern is what it is. It would be possible to understand the cattle movement pattern better if the study is undertaken over a period of time, at least 5 years. It is worth remembering that data recorded in a communal land administration system have a social and cultural meaning and these meanings are based on accepted social norms and practices. The movement of cattle from the flood-prone areas to the hinterland is not entirely a choice of the owner. Instead, the choice is in fact linked to the social relationship of the owner and the area to which the livestock will be placed for periods of up to 6 months. It is not whether there are laid down rules, rather, it is a question of following the unwritten customs, in which concepts of social existence and dependence are grounded. Therefore GPS data should not be seen to be a mere indication of how and where the cattle move; it is also an impression of the rules of investments in the system, that is, the way the social system operates and the way the owners try to maintain control of grazing. In addition, cattle farming is not a purpose in itself; it is part of the broader socioeconomic system of land administration and property development that is normally seen as a way of strengthening the role of the communal farmers’ sustenance. Without this perspective cattle farming is lacking societal and legal meaning. Residents the study area emphasize that grazing can take place anywhere provided that it does not result in operational constraints on others. It would be interesting to try to use data on cattle movement and to relate it to grazing land administration and poverty reduction as well as to attitudes and sustainable agriculture. Also how can the GPS data be used to improve the land tenure security? And what influence does distance travelled play in the justification of land ownership?

12.2.2 Case Study B: Analyzing Pasture Use of Semidomestic Reindeer in Finnish Lapland with GPS Collar Tracking Well adapted to the Arctic climate, reindeer and caribou thrive in the harsh conditions of the circumpolar area. Reindeer and caribou utilize grasses, leaves and other green plants during the short Arctic summer and survive the harsh winter by digging for ground lichens. In forested areas also arboreal lichens can be part of their winter diet.

12

GPS Collars in Studies of Cattle Movement

181

In Finnish Lapland semidomesticated reindeer are owned by both Sami and Finnish herders. Reindeer herding is in the core of Sami tradition and has an important social and economic role in many peripheral areas in the north. Coniferous forests cover over two thirds of the reindeer herding area in Finland, and most of these areas are designated as commercial forests. Forest harvesting has gradually changed the composition and age structure of commercial forests especially during the past 50 years (Mattila, 1996; Tomppo & Henttonen, 1996). At the same time, the reindeer herding system in Finland had been intensifying the exploitation of the pastureland. Calf slaughtering, supplementary winter-feeding and anti-parasitic treatment of reindeer have made reindeer herds increasingly less vulnerable to natural population regulation mechanisms and enabled herders to maintain average reindeer densities at a level where winter pastures have gradually become overgrazed in many areas (Kojola & Helle, 1993; Kojola, Aikio, & Helle, 1993; Kojola, Helle, Niskanen, & Aikio, 1995; Kumpula, 2001; Kumpula, Colpaert, & Nieminen, 2000; Väre, Ohtonen, & Mikkola, 1996). The complicated process of deterioration and reduction of winter ranges made reindeer herding more dependent on supplementary winter-feeding, creating extra costs for the herders and reducing profit margins (Kumpula, 2001). Besides global climatic fluctuations (e.g. North Atlantic Oscillation and Arctic Oscillation), there are several geographical and local factors, such as altitude, exposition or vegetation patterns, which can affect snow conditions within a certain area (Hiemstra, Liston, & Reiners, 2002; Tappeiner, Tappeiner, Aschenwald, Tasser, & Ostendorf, 2001; Vajda, Venäläinen, Hänninen, & Sutinen, 2006). Large scale human operations, such as forest harvesting, may also affect snow conditions, especially in large felling areas where the forest canopy is considerably reduced (D’Eon, 2004; Eriksson, 1976; Kirchoff & Schoen, 1987; Koivusalo & Kokkonen, 2002). There is disagreement between the forest industry and reindeer herding, viz., how forestry operations, in fact, change the usability value and snow conditions of reindeer pastureland. Reindeer herders acknowledge that forest openings do not only destroy arboreal lichen pastures (old growth forests), but also reduce amount of terrestrial lichens and disturb the winter grazing of reindeer. Since felling residue covers the soil surface and snow conditions can become more difficult in felling areas than in untouched old growth forests. Besides these factors, forest openings and forest roads may split a continuous winter pasture areas which makes reindeer herding more difficult. On the other hand, forest thinning may improve growth conditions of terrestrial lichens since light increases on the bottom layer of vegetation. Also the amounts of hays and grasses may considerably increase in submesic forest openings after cutting, which then offers plenty of green fodder for reindeer. In order to clarify the effects of forest management and snow conditions on the winter grazing value of pastureland we studied pasture use by reindeer in two reindeer herding districts located in the northern boreal forest area of Finland. The studied questions were: 1. Do reindeer prefer or avoid different kinds of forest habitats during different seasons?

182

K. Polojärvi et al.

2. Are old growth forests still as important for reindeer and reindeer herding during winter as many herders emphasize? 3. Do human perturbations such the constructions of roads and power lines on pastureland cause disturbance for reindeer? 4. How do snow conditions vary within a rugged pine forest landscape utilized by forest industry? 5. What are the relative effects of local factors (effects of elevation, slope aspect, and forest age structure) on snow conditions compared to interannual weather variation? 6. Do snow conditions affect pasture selection by reindeer during winter in a pine forest landscape? From December 1999 to November 2002, we tracked 29 female reindeer in the Ivalo herding district using GPS collars produced by VECTRONIC Aerospace GmbH in Germany (model types GPS 2000 and GPS PLUS) (Fig. 12.6). The collar weight varied between 0.55 and 0.7 kg (1.2–1.5 pounds) depending on the model. The collars were programmed to measure the location of a reindeer with an interval of 8 h. We assumed that this interval was suitable for data collection on the basis of mobility of reindeer as well as the battery capacity of GPS collars. The data were stored in the GPS memory and downloaded after retrieval of the collars. Due to problems in GPS engineering, primarily reduced battery life, the total amount of locations obtained with a GPS collar varied from 32 to 1075 locations. The oldest types of our collars were programmed to indicate the accuracy of each location only as validated or invalidated, meaning that at least five satellites were available and the DOP value was below ten. For the study, we used only observations with a validated

Fig. 12.6 During 2002–2005 altogether 40 female reindeer were tracked by GPS collars in the Oraniemi reindeer herding district, Middle-Lapland. (Photo: Dr. Jouko Kumpula)

12

GPS Collars in Studies of Cattle Movement

183

Fig. 12.7 All locations of GPS-tracked female reindeer (n = 29) from 1999 to 2002 (10,981 locations) in the Ivalo reindeer herding district and classified into three seasonal periods

status. During the entire study period we received a total of 10,977 valid locations (Fig. 12.7). During the years 2002–2005 we tracked 40 female reindeer in the Oraniemi district using both GPS PLUS and GSM GPS-PLUS collars. The GSM-GPS models send the data to a base station over the mobile telephone network using SMS messages. When the animals roamed in areas outside the network, locations were stored on board and sent when the collar was able to contact the network again. We used the same 8 h interval between fixes as before in order to extend battery life. The fix rate of the newer collars was higher and we obtained over 30,000 locations. Inaccurate locations and also locations (DOP > 10 and < 5 satellites) situated inside corrals and feeding places or their vicinity were removed. After that 22,845 locations remained and these were divided into four groups according to the main seasons. It seems that during our study the accuracy and working reliability of the collars increased as the model types developed. The theoretical battery life of these collars is over 1 year, but due to the harsh winter conditions, collars had problems and in the worst cases functioned only two weeks; the best worked well over 1 year.

184

K. Polojärvi et al.

The tracking data were integrated in our GIS system together with other relevant data like DEM, roads and other topographical data, forest stand data, and a satellite image derived pasture map. The pasture map was produced by a semisupervised maximum likelihood classifier from Landsat TM, ETM and Aster images. The pasture selection by reindeer was analysed using the two level Compositional Analysis (CA) where preference of habitats in different seasonal periods was first analysed in the selection of home range area followed by use within this home range, respectively. In this analysis we compared random vs. non-random pasture use and testing avoidance/attraction of different pasture types. In the Ivalo district, which is located in the pine forest area, the reindeer preferred old growth forest (both lichen and hay dominated) and avoided felling areas and linear infrastructure (forest roads and power lines) in the selection and use of their wintering areas. Old growth pine forest had a high preference value especially in late winter. However, during early winter season, when snow conditions were still relatively easy, the study reindeer in the Ivalo district also used sapling stands and young cultivation forests (Kumpula et al., 2007). In the Oraniemi district which is located in the spruce forest area and where old growth forests are more fragmented than in the Ivalo district, the reindeer did not show a clear preference to old growth forests when selecting winter home range area. However, when using late winter home range areas reindeer clearly preferred old spruce forests and avoided young and dense mixed forests. Use of both lichen and hay dominated felling and sapling stand areas were also relatively high in winter home range areas. In late winter reindeer were also attracted to new logging sites to forage arboreal lichens from crown and branches of felled trees (Kumpula, Colpaert, & Tanskanen, 2008). Interannual weather variation mostly affected the depth, density and hardness of snow in the Ivalo herding district. At the forest landscape level, snow depth and density increased with altitude. The thinnest and deepest snow cover occurred on western and northern slopes, respectively. In contrast, forest harvesting did not seem to affect snow conditions. From spring to autumn, reindeer mainly used higher altitude pastures. In early and mid-winter, when snow conditions were easy or moderate, reindeer still preferred higher altitudes, but in late winter when snow conditions and food accession were at their most difficult, they preferred lower altitudes (Fig. 12.8) (Kumpula & Colpaert, 2007). The net energy-balancing hypothesis relating total energy profits and expenditures could primarily explain habitat selection by the study reindeer during winter in these intensively grazed and logged forest areas. In these areas reindeer clearly have a deficit of energy-rich lichens in winter. In our study areas, the availability of both terrestrial and arboreal lichens was best in old growth forests and, therefore, reindeer preferred these forests especially in late winter when grazing conditions were most difficult. In general, it seems also that low elevation forestland has a high winter grazing value for reindeer; however, these same areas are also intensively used by forest industry. This contradiction may become even more problematic in the future, since we assume that especially the use of high elevation forestland pastures may become more difficult for reindeer if global climatic change leads to an increase in winter precipitation.

12

GPS Collars in Studies of Cattle Movement

185

Fig. 12.8 Ten months GPS-track of a reindeer in the Ivalo district

On the basis of our results it is obvious that maintaining a sufficient amount of old growth forest and minimizing linear infrastructure (roads, power lines, snowmobile tracks etc.) in wintering areas of reindeer considerably improves the suitability of these ranges for reindeer herding. However, recent reindeer pasture inventories shows that a great deal of the mature and old growth forest in both of the study districts have been harvested during the period from the beginning of 1970s to the beginning of 2000s. At the same time, lichen pastures have deteriorated markedly mainly due to reindeer grazing. One of the most important targets for reindeer herding, especially in the northern parts of Finland should be a herding system relying only on natural pastures. This, however, would mean the need for a drastic improvement of winter pastures. To improve winter pastures cooperation between all forms of land use is necessary, forestry management practices have to adjusted, pressure of tourism has to be regulated, but also reindeer herding practices have to evolve. It is clear, that changes in pasture environment of reindeer herding should be understood and accepted as large scale and gradual environmental changes, which are the result of the interaction between geographical and geological conditions, climate and different forms of land use.

12.3 Discussion The GPS system provides new possibilities for the study of both wildlife and free roaming cattle. Although the first GPS collars were heavy and had engineering problems the present devices are reliable and can be adapted to any type of animal. For research purposes it is highly recommended to conduct a thorough data accuracy assessment, as positional error can exceed the nominal ±15 m (49 ft). The use of

186

K. Polojärvi et al.

differential corrections methods could improve the accuracy to the sub-meter level. Data can be downloaded using VHF-radio or a mobile telephone network (satellite or land based). GPS collars can also be fitted to collect other environmental data, such as temperature, movement, air pressure etc. It could also be possible to equip collars with cameras, microphones and medical monitoring devices. The present cost of GPS collar equipment ranging from US$ 2000–3000 is still too high for commercial use. A reduction of both the prices and the size of the devices would make it possible for the individual cattle owner to track the whereabouts of his animals, simply by checking his mobile telephone or computer. Comparable devices are already widely in use to track hunting dogs, where a GPS collar with GSM connections transfers data to the hunter who can follow his dog in real time on a map in his GSM-telephone (Tracker Oy, 2009). Other possible developments of the GPS collar devices could be the use of solar panels to extend battery life, or creating local area networks of small cheap devices to monitor large herds of cattle, keeping track of every individual animal, and using only a few more expensive hubs to relay the data to the owners’ computer or mobile device.

References Agouridis, C. T., Stombaugh, T. S., Workman, S. R., Koostra, B. K., Edwards, D. R., & Vanzant, E. S. (2004). Suitability of a GPS collar for grazing studies. American Society of Agricultural Engineers, 47, 1321–1329. Bailey, D. W., Keil, M. R., & Rittenhouse, L. R. (2004). Research observation: Daily movement patterns of hill climbing and bottom dwelling cows. Journal of Range Management, 57, 20–28. Cain, J. W., III, Krausman, P. R., Jansen, B. D., & Morgart, J. R. (2005). Influence of topography and GPS fix interval on GPS collar performance. Wildlife Society Bulletin, 33, 926–934. DeCesare, N. J., Squires, J. R., & Kolbe, J. A. (2005). Effect of forest canopy on GPS-based movement data. Wildlife Society Bulletin, 33, 935–941. D’Eon, R. G., Serrouya, R., Smith, G., & Kochanny, C. O. (2002). GPS radiotelemetry error and bias in mountainous terrain. Wildlife Society Bulletin, 30, 430–439. D’Eon, R. G. (2004). Snow depth as a function of canopy cover and other site attributes in a forestland ungulate winter ranges in southeast British Columbia. BC Journal of Ecosystems and Management, Research Report, 3(2), 1–9. Di Orio, A. P., Callas, R., & Schaefer, R. J. (2003). Performance of two GPS telemetry collars under different habitat conditions. Wildlife Society Bulletin, 31, 372–379. Eriksson, O. (1976). Snöförhållandenas inverkan på renbetningen. Meddelanden från Växtbiologiska institutionen, Uppsala 1976:2, 19pp. and 2 app. Frair, J. L., Nielsen, S. E., Merrill, E. H., Lele, S. R., Boyce, M. S., Munro, R. H. M., et al. (2004). Removing GPS collar bias in habitat selection studies. Journal of Applied Ecology, 41, 201–212. Hiemstra, C. A., Liston, G. E., & Reiners, W. A. (2002). Snow redistribution by wind and interactions with vegetation at upper treeline in the Medicine Bow Mountains, Wyoming, U.S.A. Arctic, Antarctic and Alpine Research, 34(3), 262–273. Hansen, M. C., & Riggs, R. A. (2008). Accuracy, precision, and observation rates of global positioning system telemetry collars. The Journal of Wildlife Management, 72, 518–526. Jerde, C. L., & Visscher, D. R. (2005). GPS measurement error influences on movement model parameterization. Ecological Applications, 15, 806–810.

12

GPS Collars in Studies of Cattle Movement

187

Kirchoff, M. D., & Schoen, J. W. (1987). Forest cover and snow: Implications for deer habitat in south-east Alaska. Journal of Wildlife Management, 51, 28–33. Kojola, I., & Helle, T. (1993). Regional differences in density dependent mortality and reproduction in Finnish reindeer. Rangifer, 13, 33–38. Kojola, I., Aikio, P., & Helle, T. (1993). Influences of natural food resources on reindeer husbandry in northern Lapland. Research Institute of Northern Finland, Research Report, 116, 1–39. (In Finnish with English abstract). Kojola, I., Helle, T., Niskanen, M., & Aikio, P. (1995). Effects of lichen biomass on winter diet, body mass and reproduction of semi-domesticated reindeer Rangifer t. tarandus in Finland. Wildlife Biology, 1, 33–38. Koivusalo, H., & Kokkonen, T. (2002). Snow processes in a forest clearing and in a coniferous forest. Journal of Hydrology, 262, 145–164. Kumpula, J. (2001). Productivity of the semi-domesticated reindeer (Rangifer tarandus tarandus L.) stock and carrying capacity of pastures in Finland during 1960–1990’s. Acta Universitatis Ouluensis, A, 375. Kumpula, J., Colpaert, A., & Nieminen, M. (2000). Condition, potential recovery rate and productivity of lichen (Cladina spp.) ranges in the Finnish reindeer management area. Arctic, 53, 152–160. Kumpula, J., Colpaert, A., & Anttonen, M. (2007). Does forest harvesting and linear infrastructure change the usability value of pastureland for semi-domesticated reindeer (Rangifer tarandus tarandus). Annales Zoologici Fennici, 44, 161–178. Kumpula, J., & Colpaert, A. (2007). Snow conditions and usability value of pastureland for semidomesticated reindeer (Rangifer tarandus tarandus) in northern boreal forest area. Rangifer, 27, 25–39. Kumpula, J., Colpaert, A., & Tanskanen, A. (2008). Porojen laidunten valinta muuttuneessa metsäja maisemarakenteessa Keski-Lapissa (In Finnish with English summary: Pasture selection by semi-domesticated reindeer in the changed forest and landscape structure of central Lapland). Suomen Riista, 54, 69–82. Lewis, J. S., Rachlow, J. L., Garton, E. O., & Vierling, L. A. (2007). Effects of habitat on GPS collar performance: Using data screening to reduce location error. Journal of Applied Ecology, 44, 663–671. Mattila, E. (1996). Porojen talvilaitumet Suomen poronhoitoalueen etelä- ja keskiosissa 1990luvun alussa. Folia Forestalia, 4, 337–357. Polojärvi, K., Colpaert, C., & Matengu, K. (2009). Data screening and accuracy assessment of GPS collar tracking data of bovine cattle. Manuscript. Resources Information Standards Committee. (1998). Wildlife Radio-telemetry, Standards for Components of British Columbia’s Biodiversity, No. 5, Version 2.0. Retrieved June 22, 2009, from http://ilmbwww.gov.bc.ca/risc/pubs/tebiodiv/wildliferadio/rtelml20-10.htm Tappeiner, U., Tappeiner, G., Aschenwald, J., Tasser, E., & Ostendorf, B. (2001). GIS-based modelling of spatial pattern of snow cover duration in an alpine area. Ecological Modelling, 138, 265–275. Tomppo, E., & Henttonen, H. (1996). Suomen metsävarat 1989–1994 ja niiden muutokset vuodesta 1951 lähtien. Metsätilastotiedote, 354, 1–18. Televilt (2006). Tellus GPS System. User Manual, 7 April 2006. Followit Lindesberg AB (former Televilt, TVP Positioning AB), Sweden. Tracker Oy. (2009). Retrieved July 6, 2009, from http://www.tracker.fi/webshop/index.php?pPath= 1&language=en Turner, L. W., Udal, M. C., Larson, B. T., & Shearer, S. A. (2000). Monitoring cattle behaviour and pasture use with GPS and GIS. Canadian Journal of Animal Science, 80, 405–413. Vajda, A., Venäläinen, A., Hänninen, P., & Sutinen, R. (2006). Effect of vegetation on snow cover at the northern timberline: A case study in Finnish Lapland. Silva Fennica, 40(2), 195–207. Väre, H., Ohtonen, R., & Mikkola, K. (1996). The effect and extent of heavy grazing by reindeer in oligotrophic pine heaths in northern Fennoscandia. Ecography, 19, 245–253.

Chapter 13

Engineering Cattle for Dairy Development in Rural India Pratyusha Basu

India’s Green Revolution1 has attracted much attention in studies of the social and environmental repercussions of technological innovations. Its consequences for both society and nature have been demonstrated, not only in terms of increased food production, but also in terms of the loss of diversity of crop breeds, inability to maintain the profitability of small and medium land holdings, displacement of agricultural labor, and loss of community-based, and often more sustainable, agricultural practices and forms of knowledge linked to them (Baker & Jewitt, 2007; Roy, 2007; Shiva, 1991). Less highlighted in such studies are changes in animal husbandry that have accompanied the Green Revolution, these being especially pertinent in the context of India given the continuing use of animal power in agricultural operations (Chakravarti, 1985). The upgrading of cattle and buffalo breeds, in fact, has been a central aim of India’s dairy development program (Rao, Venkatasubramanian, & De Wit, 1995), whose designation as the “White Revolution” very deliberately evokes comparisons with the Green Revolution (George, 1985). This chapter focuses on the engineering of new cattle breeds for higher milk productivity in India to understand how new technologies have to fit into existing social and environmental landscapes in India as much as they seek to transform them. More specifically, it shows how the upgradation of existing dairy cattle, through the use of artificial insemination techniques to produce crossbreds between European dairy breeds (Jersey and Holstein-Friesian) and indigenous Zebu varieties, reflects both the modification of local systems of production in accordance with national and international designs for dairy development as well as the dependence of development outcomes on contextual constructions of rural work. In the process, crossbred cows draw attention to the complicated meanings of engineering since their dissemination is involved with wider histories of colonial and postcolonial development as well as the role of household-level gender relations in the shaping of rural livelihoods. In India, new cattle breeds have the potential to disturb

P. Basu (B) Department of Geography, University of South Florida, Tampa, FL 33620, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_13,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

189

190

P. Basu

existing articulations between agriculture and dairying, leading to an imposition of the values of dairy development even as farmers assign different and wider meanings to cattle. Diverse linkages between science, technology, and society are thus implicated in dairy development revealing the extent to which meanings of engineering emerge in implementation. By juxtaposing the meanings of crossbred and indigenous cattle in India, this chapter aims to highlight the complexities of the engineering of rural natures and extend current understandings of megaengineering in three ways. First, dairy development provides a means to rethink the connection usually made between the scale of the engineering intervention and its consequences. Studies of environmental transformations have usually focused on how megaengineering projects, from large dams to superhighways, have radically altered existing ecosystems and social relations dependent on them. Given that dairy development in India is focused on cooperatives organized around village level producers, it is not a large project that reaches into smaller places, but instead has served to knit together a number of small producers to build collective strength (Kurien, 1997). Yet, village-based cooperative dairying does not simply turn out to be the opposite of megaengineering. Rather, through the promotion of improved cattle breeds, the collective structure has been utilized to extend the reach of development planning and build economies of scale that are key to capitalist accumulation. India’s dairy development program is thus an opportunity to reflect on how seemingly small-scale development interventions are transformed by their technological accompaniments into the very megascale structures that were sought to be opposed in the initial stages of their conceptualization. Second, dairy development enables a link between the extraordinary aspects of engineering and the everyday activities that underpin this extraordinariness. India’s dairy program highlights the participation of women in dairying as part of its selfrepresentation as a program that empowers marginalized social groups. Yet, the processes through which women’s labor becomes available for dairy development are rarely highlighted, even as women’s labor is a crucial component of the ability of rural households to incorporate dairy cattle in their everyday routines (ESCAP, 1981). The link between new forms of engineering and existing social relations can thus be followed through a focus on dairy development, pointing to the ways in which megaengineering is produced not just through official acts of development, but also through everyday acts of production and reproduction within local contexts (Agarwal, 1985). Third, dairy development demonstrates the ways in which megaengineering projects do not embed themselves in a pristine landscape, but encounter earlier forms of engineering, in the process further heightening the changes unleashed by new technologies (Arnold & Guha, 1995). The maintenance of dairy cattle, for instance, is dependent on access to agricultural resources, and the intensification of agricultural operations as a consequence of the Green Revolution has the potential to both impede as well as enable this access. The precise manner in which Green and White Revolution technologies intersect with one another is thus a significant part of the explanation for the adoption of crossbred cows. A historical approach in this way becomes key to understanding the impacts of mega-engineering, so that

13

Engineering Cattle for Dairy Development in Rural India

191

instead of isolating various innovations, their interactions with one another need to be considered. As prelude to the specific discussion of dairy development, the next section locates existing understandings of the utilization and manipulation of animals within broader understandings of the engineering of nature through colonial power relations and industrial production. This is followed by an examination of policies related to the adoption of European dairy breeds within national dairy development in order to reflect on the equivocal support for crossbreeding with foreign breeds within national planning. The chapter then delves into relationships between crossbred cows and local agricultural practices in order to outline how changes in the breeding of cattle require changes in locally prevalent economic and social meanings of cattle. In the process, the dairy development program’s turn towards strict separations between agricultural and dairying economies can be clarified, as well as the reasons for such separations not being wholly acceptable within local contexts. Crossbred cattle, however, do not only reflect the consequences of engineering, but also become key to understanding how engineering draws strength from already existing household level social relations on the one hand, and physical infrastructures on the other, and these aspects are followed in the remainder of the chapter. Overall, the aim is to understand the forms and outcomes of megaengineering projects in terms of their contextual reconstructions and not merely as manifestations of the power of technical expertise.

13.1 Animal Natures and Human Engineering: From Colonial Histories to Contemporary Industrialization The study of human-environment relationships has recently been reinvigorated by interdisciplinary approaches to the meanings of “nature,” moving from a long standing focus on scientific measurements and regional descriptions towards analyses that situate nature within historical and cultural frames of meaning. Environmental history has been useful in extending such understandings by relating colonial power relations and contemporary landscapes through notions of ecological imperialism, thus tracing the current distributions of plants and animals to environmental exchanges set in motion by European voyages of exploration, and intensified through the reshaping of landscapes to suit colonial commercial and political interests (Crosby, 1986; Grove, Damodaran, & Sangwan, 1998). Focusing on more recent forms of industrialization and commodification of nature, scholars across various disciplines have drawn attention to scientific endeavors that seek to match the rhythms of nature to the continuous need for monetary profits, leading to an intensive manipulation of natural properties which often blurs the boundaries between human and social natures (Castree, 2005). Alongside, cultural studies of nature have culminated in understandings of society that do not solely privilege human endeavor, since contemporary landscapes are not completely saturated with human presence but are also crucially dependent on the harnessing of the power and properties of animals and plants (Anderson, 2003).

192

P. Basu

The most striking studies on the engineering of nature have been provided by historical analysis of the construction of large scale water control projects in India and the U.S. As Worster (1985) has argued in the context of water control in the U.S. West, American projects sought from the start to imitate British colonial projects in India and Egypt, and hence were indelibly linked to imperialist strategies. This desire to control nature could be fulfilled only through a corresponding control over society, and large scale manipulation of water served mainly to concentrate the ability to distribute natural resources within the confines of agencies linked to the state. The link between environmental control and social control is thus a crucial aspect of understanding the implications of megaengineering projects. Since contemporary development in India has proceeded through a firm embrace of modern forms of agriculture and industry, including large scale water control projects, heavy industrialization, and an overall emphasis on adopting new forms of science and technology, colonial projects of environmental and social manipulation can be viewed as continuing into the postcolonial context (D’Souza, 2006). Gilmartin (1995), however, has argued that large scale projects had contradictory meanings within colonial India. On the one hand, they justified control over Indian society in terms of the colonial regime’s ability to implement large scale manipulations of nature; on the other, environmental changes consequent to large scale projects led to the formation of new social identities that threatened to elude the control of colonial authorities. This chapter seeks to add complexity to the position that nature cannot be modified without transforming the social itself by arguing that the relative flexibility of the social is also key to enabling the engineering of nature. In the case of crossbred cows, the possibility of drawing on existing gender divisions of labor becomes crucial to enabling the acceptance of improved dairy breeds. Yet, the objective here is not to downplay or nuance the power of engineering, as much as to highlight the complications that are introduced into discussions of human-nature relationships when the object of engineering is situated at the boundaries between the social and the natural (Mitchell, 2002). Criticisms of technological transformations have often led to calls for a return to traditional forms of nature-based livelihoods and an emphasis on the ways in which local communities continue to maintain more sustainable agrarian traditions in the face of change (Shiva, 1988). Crossbred cows, since they explicitly require an incorporation of European breeds, are especially susceptible to this form of argumentation. Given that India’s dairy program favors intermixing of cattle breeds and not substitution of one by the other, it can be argued that the program anticipates possible attacks on use of foreign breeds. It is also clear, however, that some segments of rural India have not wholly rejected modern forms of either agriculture or dairying as evidenced by the spread of Green Revolution technologies and dairy cooperatives. In his study of the Green Revolution, Gupta (1998) shows the ways in which modern forms of agriculture have become key aspects of contemporary rural identity, so that the technologies of the Green Revolution articulate with existing forms of agricultural and ecological knowledge. The need therefore is to steer a course between pragmatic and critical evaluations of development in order to reflect on the ways in which the clearing of space for new forms of engineering is both

13

Engineering Cattle for Dairy Development in Rural India

193

a local and a global process. In the case of the adoption of crossbred cows, this requires an understanding of the ways in which the science of breeding through artificial insemination changes the very meanings of cattle, but also fits into the ways in which rural producers are reworking their identities in the face of access to Western knowledge and potential participation in global markets. In terms of livestock development, the manipulation of the bodies of chicken to produce an entity that is solely devoted to meat production has been the subject of much critical analysis (Boyd and Watts, 1997; Dixon, 2003). Here the focus is on problems associated with industrializing the chicken, for instance, the susceptibility to disease within chicken coops which are tackled through antibiotics that are potentially harmful to human systems. This has also led to reflections on whether the industrialized chicken should be viewed as a completely new form of animal, given the ways in which it has been bred purely to enhance its commercial meanings. The wider social structures within which the industrial production of chicken has exponentially grown also draws attention to problems with contract farming and the complete takeover of the chicken commodity chain by agribusiness firms. While the Indian crossbred cow may not be as industrialized as the American chicken, the desire to transform a traditional animal into a commercial entity focused exclusively on milk productivity can also be followed through the development of the crossbred cow. New forms of the engineering of rural natures can thus be situated within longer histories of colonialism, continuing moves towards the deepening of industrial systems of production, and advanced forms of manipulation of nature that are promising to become even more prevalent in the future. Alongside, engineering produces new modes of social control, but is also likely to be reshaped within the social context towards which it is targeted leading to the emergence of new social identities. Before we embark on examining these new forms of control and resistance, the next section follows the history of dairy development in order to draw out the meanings of crossbred cows within the wider context of centralized planning in India.

13.2 Rural Dairying and National Development in India The trajectory of development in India can be traced through the central government’s Five-Year Plans (Planning Commission, 2009), which combine a focus on sectoral allocation of funds with policies to alleviate regional inequalities. Within these Five-Year Plans, a continuous interest in cattle development can be clearly discerned, along with a constant wavering across various Plan periods regarding the best locations for the commercialization of animal products and the kinds of animal species that should be promoted (Chakravarti, 1985). In the early period of planning, in the 1950s, the emphasis was on locating dairy enterprises within cities or close to cities in order to serve urban consumers. The establishment in 1959 of the Delhi Milk Scheme (DMS) designed to serve consumers in India’s capital is one

194

P. Basu

prominent example of the focus on urban milk producers, which was sought to be extended over time to other urban areas. Improving the quality of dairy animals, however, was viewed as best undertaken within rural areas, as exemplified by the Key Village Scheme (KVS). At that time, dual purpose cattle breeds, those which could be utilized for both draft and dairying purposes, were promoted as best suited to the needs of Indian farmers. In the 1960s, the KVS was supplemented by the Intensive Cattle Development Project (ICDP) which specifically sought to improve indigenous breeds of dairy cattle and buffaloes, and resembled in its area-specific approach the Intensive Agricultural District Program (IADP) geared towards the diffusion of high-yielding seed varieties. By the 1960s, crossbreeding with high-yielding dairy cattle of European origin made an appearance in Plan documents. The extent to which this introduction of crossbred cattle responded to the needs of Indian farmers or merely reflected the technological biases of international development has become one of the central debates in evaluations of India’s dairy development program. This shift towards increasing the productivity of dairy cattle was simultaneously accompanied by a revamping of the institutional structure of dairying in India, exemplified by the substitution of an urban, or at least suburban, model of dairying with a national dairying model focused on the formation of rural producer cooperatives. The formulation of a national dairy model can thus be viewed as providing a stable framework for the diffusion of crossbred cows. The task of replicating cooperative dairying throughout rural India was entrusted to the National Dairy Development Board (NDDB) established in the small town of Anand in the state of Gujarat in 1965. This decision to locate the NDDB in Anand was deliberate, since the dairy cooperatives to be replicated were modeled on the Kheda District Cooperative Milk Producers Union (KDCMPU) which served villages in central Gujarat’s Anand and Kheda districts (Anand district was previously part of Kheda district and became a separate entity in 1997). The KDCMPU itself was the outcome of a struggle launched in 1946 by farmers from villages around Anand. Protesting the control of milk marketing by Polson, a private dairy company favored by the British colonial regime, Anand’s farmers soon won the right to organize milk production and marketing around their own cooperatives. This struggle also entailed opposition to small-scale milk traders, thus becoming a larger movement for farmer-control over the milk business. The subsequent success of the KDCMPU was underlined by the popularity of its products, sold under the brand name Amul, within urban markets. Such popularity could partly be linked to a highly visible advertising campaign as well as to the cooperative’s ability to gain access to the metropolitan market of Mumbai (then Bombay). Thus, the institutionalization of the Anand model via the NDDB meant that a situated success story was sought to be extended across space, and a local movement was subsumed into the wider landscape of national development. The NDDB’s program of replication, dubbed “Operation Flood,” was officially launched in 1970 and combined the social justice agenda of cooperative dairying, based on serving small farmers and alleviating rural poverty, with an emphasis on the expertise of engineers and managers seeking to meet the needs of dairy plants

13

Engineering Cattle for Dairy Development in Rural India

195

Fig. 13.1 Schematic representation of the Anand model of dairy development

and capture a larger share of the urban market. At the core of the Anand model of dairying were rural producer cooperatives linked to collection of milk at the village level and processing and marketing of milk at the district level. The dairy development program drew on this to build a three-tier institutional structure connecting village-level cooperatives, district-level unions, and state-level federations (Fig. 13.1). While strongly supported by the state, the NDDB was a parastatal organization, and thus a semblance of independence from state control in favor of farmer control was a significant aspect of its institutional ethos. The other prominent aspect of the program was the linking of rural producers to urban consumers, so that the Anand model was based on enhancing milk production in rural areas and milk consumption in urban areas. While this meant that urban dairying was officially discouraged under the Anand model, program officials insisted that rural consumption of milk was not correspondingly depressed as a consequence of the focus on urban markets. The emphasis on urban consumers however has remained a much criticized aspect of the program (George, 1985). Funding to replicate village-level cooperatives across rural India was to a large extent provided by the European Economic Community (EEC) and the World Bank, which further solidified the value of dairy cooperatives within national development. In 1969, the EEC, via the United Nations World Food Program (WFP), had sought to provide excess dairy products as food aid to India, a move which had the potential to undercut Indian dairy production. The NDDB was instrumental in ensuring that proceeds from sales of EEC dairy products were channeled into the replication of cooperative dairying, so that EEC aid promoted the national dairy development program, instead of competing against it for urban consumers.

196

P. Basu

At around the same time, India’s dairy program began to promote dairy production techniques prevalent within advanced dairying countries, most evident in the shift towards cattle breeds that were exclusively geared towards dairying as opposed to the dual purpose breeds more popular in India. Crossbreeding with exotic breeds was explicitly mentioned as an option for the improvement of dairy cattle in the Third Plan, 1961–1966 (Planning Commission, 2009). The World Bank, which funded the replication of cooperative dairying in three states in India from 1974 to 1996, was also supportive of the move towards crossbred cows. Thus, in Bankled evaluations of state-level cooperative initiatives, the extent of acceptance of crossbred cows became a key factor, feeding into a larger emphasis on the commercialization of cooperative dairying services, including veterinary support, artificial insemination, and transportation (Candler & Kumar, 1998; Mergos & Slade, 1987). Critics have argued that the adoption of new dairy technologies was driven by the alliance between Western donors and national development officials rather than by the needs of rural people (Baviskar & George, 1988; Baviskar & Terhal, 1990; Doornbos, van Dorsten, Mitra, & Terhal, 1990). The promotion of crossbred cows came under special attack since dairy farmers, in Anand and across many parts of rural India, utilized buffaloes as dairy animals. Thus, the coincidence between the 1960s–1970s turn towards crossbreeding with exotic breeds and the utilization of international funding for Operation Flood was viewed as the loss of local control. An activist campaign launched in 1985 in the Netherlands to prevent the Dutch government from promoting crossbreeding programs in India provides evidence of the wider opposition that accompanied the shift towards European dairy breeds (ICN, 1985). However, even as crossbreeding appeared in India’s plan documents around the time of Operation Flood, there is a longer history of crossbreeding within India. In the early 1900s during British colonial rule, military dairy farms had been sites for experiments with crossbreeding between exotic and indigenous cattle breeds (Banerjee, 1994). By the 1960s, the Green Revolution had enabled new forms of breeding and higher productivity to be situated within a wider framework of utilizing technological advances to promote rural development. Moreover, the first act of the farmers of Anand had been to hire a U.S. trained engineer, Verghese Kurien, to manage their dairy operations, which seemed to indicate a desire to benefit from new dairy technologies and expertise. It must also be noted that crossbreeding policies from the beginning sought to maintain exotic content at a level of 5/8th, so that the aim was not to produce a purebred exotic dairy cow, but to enable sufficient mixing so that the new form of cattle was suited both to higher productivity as well as climatic conditions in India (Tandon, 1951). Thus crossbred cattle, including European crossbreds, cannot be automatically considered to be either foreign to Indian dairying contexts or completely unacceptable to farmers. The larger issue in the debate over crossbreeding, however, is the ways in which new technologies prevent wider forms of participation in dairying. In other words, how do crossbred cows fit into existing class and gender divisions in rural India? Will the avowed objective of cooperative dairying to serve the interests of small

13

Engineering Cattle for Dairy Development in Rural India

197

producers become lost in the desire to improve the productivity of dairy cattle? This becomes an especially urgent question since the liberalization of the Indian economy in the 1990s, impelled in immediate terms by a balance of payments crisis, but more broadly precipitated by pressures from both international development agencies and domestic industrial interests (Pedersen, 2000). For state-led dairying, which had been protected from foreign competition since the 1950s in order to ensure the growth of the cooperative sector, liberalization has meant a loss of privilege within the national landscape of development as well as a potential loss of rural producers to private dairy companies. While the full impacts of dairy liberalization and consequent privatization have yet to be experienced by cooperatives, it is likely that a greater emphasis on productivity and profits as opposed to serving small dairy producers will lead to spiraling pressures on farmers to adopt more technology-intensive forms of dairying (Rajaram, 1996; Sharma & Gulati, 2003; Singh, Coelli, & Fleming, 2001; Vyas, 2002). Crossbred cows are thus likely to become even more central to future forms of dairying than they are currently. As can be seen in Fig. 13.2, milk production in India has registered a substantial increase from the 1950s onwards. Thus, the 17 million tons of milk produced in 1950–1951 increased to 80.6 million tons by 2000–2001. In fact, the rate of increase shows a marked rise between 1980–1981 and 2000–2001, with a relative change of 155% across this time period. Two econometric studies that seek to explain this increase provide insights into processes of milk production in India. According to Munshi and Parikh (1994), the rise in milk production in India can be explained by an increase in number of cooperatives, as opposed to direct technical inputs which in their study is measured by increase in the use of cattle feed. They attribute this

Milk Production (million tons)

120

100 80

60

40 20

0 1950–1951 1960–19611968–1969 1980–1981 1990–19912000–2001 2009–2010 *

Fig. 13.2 Total milk production in India, 1950–2010 (in million tons). (∗ Figures for 2009–2010 are estimated) (Source: Dairy India 2007: 102)

198

P. Basu

finding to the fact that “the cooperative system may serve as a channel for the dissemination of information, facilitating a broad learning process in the industry, as well as provide an infrastructure base for the adoption of new technology” (p. 222). Candler and Kumar (1998), in a report published under the auspices of the World Bank, attribute increased milk production to technological progress. Since prices paid to dairy farmers have only marginally increased over the period of the World Bank’s funding of cooperative dairying, rise in milk production shows that farmers have been able and willing to produce larger quantities of milk without stimulation from market prices. In both studies, the cooperative dairy program thus becomes key to enabling increased milk production. The number of dairy cooperative societies shows a marked increase from the 1980s, which is a decade after replication of rural dairy cooperatives through Operation Flood was launched, to the mid-2000s (Dairy India, 2007: 116).2 The significance of rural cooperatives in milk production however has to be juxtaposed with the continuing predominance of the unorganized sector in milk marketing. According to Dairy India (2007), 98% of total milk production in India occurred among rural producers in 2005. Out of this production, approximately equal amounts of milk were retained for consumption within rural areas and sent on to be marketed to urban consumers. But only 9% of the milk available for marketing was controlled by cooperative and public dairies compared with 36% of the total production being handled by the private sector. This difference has been explained in terms of continuing allegiances by rural producers to private traders who often set up personal relationships of financial and social support that cannot always be replicated by dairy cooperatives (Hiremath, Singh, & Mergos, 1997). In terms of dairy animals, the relative utilization of cows and buffaloes for dairying varies regionally across India, both in terms of urban-rural divisions and in terms of state-wise distribution. Overall, as shown in Fig. 13.3, cattle exceed buffaloes in terms of total numbers, yet in terms of rates of growth, cattle numbers have steadily declined from 1982 to 2003, while buffaloes show an increase over the same time period. Table 13.1 shows a comparison of the rate of change in numbers of cattle and buffaloes between urban and rural India. It becomes clear here that rates of change differ by type of cattle, so that crossbred cattle have registered an increase across both urban and rural contexts, while non-crossbred cattle show a decrease, especially in rural contexts. Buffaloes, on the other hand, have grown in number between 1992 and 2003, especially in urban areas. The loss of cattle and increase in number of buffaloes has been taken to imply the decreasing use of cattle as draft animals with a corresponding increase in dairy animals, especially buffaloes. The increase in crossbred cows reflects a similar turn towards dairy animals. Milk production by species also shows regional variations in India. About 17– 18% of total milk production is by crossbred cows, while 54–55% is produced by buffaloes (Table 13.2). As can be seen in Fig. 13.4, states in northern and southern India show the highest production of milk in terms of absolute numbers. Yet, when Fig. 13.4 is compared to Fig. 13.5, it becomes clear that the share of crossbred cows in milk production is not very high. Thus, milk production by crossbred

13

Engineering Cattle for Dairy Development in Rural India

199

250,000

Cattle

Buffalo

Number of dairy animals

200,000

150,000

100,000

50,000

1982

1987

1992

1997

2003

Fig. 13.3 Comparison of numbers of cattle and buffaloes, 1982–2003. (Source: Dairy India, 2007: 111)

Table 13.1 Change in rural-urban distribution of cattle and buffaloes, 1992–2003

1992

2003

Change (1992–2003)

Crossbred cows Non-crossbred cows Buffaloes Crossbred cows Non-crossbred cows Buffaloes Crossbred cows Non-crossbred cows Buffaloes

Rural

Urban

Total

13,462 182,425 79,915 21,937 153,714 91,930 62.95% –15.74% 15.03%

1,753 6,944 4,291 2,750 6,780 5,993 56.87% −2.36% 39.66%

15,215 189,369 84,206 24,686 160,495 97,922 62.25% −15.25% 16.29%

cows approaches relatively appreciable levels mainly within states in south and northeastern India. One possible explanation for the higher adoption of crossbred cows in southern India is a shift away from mixed agro-dairy production to pure dairy production which enables the shift to crossbred dairy cows (Nair, 1990a). This explanation could also hold for states of northeastern India. Additionally, northeastern states produce relatively low levels of buffalo milk so that the percentage of milk produced by crossbred cows counts for a larger proportion of total milk produced, and have also been the target of the Integrated Dairy Development Plan (IDDP)

200

P. Basu

Table 13.2 Proportion of total milk produced (in million tons) by cattle and buffaloes, 1995–2004 1995–1996 Cattle Crossbred cows Non-crossbred cows Buffaloes Total milk production

1999–2000

2003–2004

13.6 (17.4%) 19.0 (24.3%) 42.3 (54.0%) 78.3 (100.0%)

15.6 (18.0%) 19.4 (22.4%) 48.0 (55.3%) 86.7 (100.0%)

30.0 (45.3%)

32.6 (52.0%) 66.2 (100.0%)

Dairy India (2007: 102, 109)

Fig. 13.4 Total milk production from cattle and buffaloes, 2003–2004 (in thousand tons). (Source: Dairy India, 2007: 109)

which focused on improving dairy production in non-Operation Flood, hilly, and tribal districts and states. Given the current distribution of crossbred cows, there are two possible trajectories in terms of future diffusion. In one scenario, India’s northern states which comprise the center of its dairy economy could also begin moving towards commercial dairy production and hence towards the adoption of crossbred cows. At the other extreme, the adoption of crossbred cows could continue to show a marked southern bias leading to a division between northern and southern India, with the former continuing to be dependent on buffalo-based dairying and the latter moving further towards crossbred cow dairying. The most recent Eleventh Five-Year Plan, 2007–2012 (Planning Commission, 2009) shows that the emphasis on crossbred cows is likely to be extended into the future. Thus, the Plan mentions the continuation of a program which focuses on “genetic up gradation of indigenous

13

Engineering Cattle for Dairy Development in Rural India

201

Fig. 13.5 Proportion of total milk production from crossbred cows, 2003–2004. (Source: Dairy India, 2007: 109)

cattle and buffaloes, development and conservation of important indigenous breeds and [the evolution of] . . . sustainable breeding policy” (Vol. 3: 11). The juxtaposition of “up gradation” with “conservation” can be viewed as consistent with the more critical approach towards “indiscriminate” crossbreeding with exotic breeds in the Tenth Plan, 2002–2007 (Planning Commission, 2009). Thus, the Eleventh Plan mentions the need to diffuse artificial insemination services to upgrade cattle breeds, but does not specify if the upgradation necessarily involves crossbreeding with European dairy breeds. It is highly likely however that the emphasis on the inculcation of the characteristics of foreign breeds will continue despite this silence. As will be examined in the next section, the meanings of crossbred dairy cows differ substantially from existing values of cattle in rural India. Such differences highlight the ways in which the engineering of dairy cattle also necessitates an appropriation and transformation of the social relations that underpin and continue to characterize rural, agricultural livelihoods.

13.3 Old and New Meanings of Cows: Labor Value and Cash Value3 While official policies and their outcomes portray an equivocal relationship with the potential of European dairy breeds, the reasons for the uneven adoption of crossbred cows become more clarified in terms of local agricultural practices. Generally speaking, farming systems in India can be considered mixed in two ways.

202

P. Basu

First, agriculture largely combines subsistence and commercial cultivation, especially since the majority of landholdings continue to be small in size (Das, 2007). Second, in most farm households, dairying operations are conducted in conjunction with agriculture, so that agricultural resources subsidize the maintenance of dairy animals. The introduction of crossbred cows geared exclusively towards milk production for the market works against both forms of mixed farming. There are two aspects, therefore, to dairy development based on crossbred cows. In terms of the commercial-subsistence combination, crossbred cows entail a dependence on specialized inputs which increase the costs associated with maintaining them. In terms of the agriculture-dairying linkage, crossbred cows do not fit into existing agrarian environments and comprise a separate dairy economy. These two aspects of crossbred cows will be examined in this section (Fig. 13.6). Juxtaposing technologies promoted by the agricultural Green Revolution and dairying White Revolution, George (1990) points out the ways in which they combine to diminish actually existing synergies between agriculture and dairying. To begin with, the hybrid crop varieties promoted under the Green Revolution are unpalatable to cattle and hence cannot be used as fodder. This breaks the link between crop residues and dairy animals and ensures that households become dependent on buying cattle feed. Alongside, crossbred cattle promoted by the dairy development program cannot be used as draft animals, even as farmers continue to be dependent on animal power for their agricultural operations. Mismatches between new seeds and cattle and existing forms of agriculture and dairying thus mean that new technologies require a change in the conduct of rural livelihoods (Nair, 1990a).

Fig. 13.6 Crossbred cow in village in Gujarat. (Source: Author)

13

Engineering Cattle for Dairy Development in Rural India

203

The most important transformation here is in terms of dependence on humped Zebu bullocks. As the Fourth Plan, 1969–1974 (Planning Commission, 2009) describes it, “the rate of progress in this respect [adoption of crossbred cows] will, however, depend upon the degree of the farmers’ acceptance of cross-bred humpless animals as working stock” (Chapter 8, Section 10). In India, bullocks continue to be used for agricultural tasks, like plowing, planting, and weeding, as well as for transport. The ability to depend on animal power becomes even more crucial given the fuel costs associated with mechanization, costs that even relatively well-to-do farmers seek to avoid. In the season of rains, cattle also become the more dependable mode of transport, better able to negotiate unpaved roads than mechanized transport. Since Zebu bullocks are bred for physical strength, they are more suitable for draft labor than the dairy crossbreds. As can be seen in the poster promoting crossbred cows (Fig. 13.7), it is their use as draft animals that is actually illustrated which suggests that the dairy program is seeking to counter existing criticisms of crossbred cows. The unwillingness to shift to crossbred cows for dairying purposes, however, is not linked only to the use of Zebu bullocks for draft purposes, but also arises due to a preference for water buffaloes as dairy animals. Even as the use of cattle and buffaloes varies across India in keeping with climatic regimes and regional traditions of agriculture, the maintenance of a separation between buffalo-based dairy economies and cow-based draft economies is a significant aspect of agrarian livelihoods in particular rural contexts. A cultural preference for buffalo’s milk due to its higher fat content underlies the preference for buffaloes as dairy animals. Given that crossbred cows provide neither bullocks suitable for agricultural labor, nor milk that

Fig. 13.7 Poster promoting Jersey and Holstein-Friesian crossbred cows as “true friends of farmers”. (Photograph obtained from Indore Milk Union, Madhya Pradesh)

204

P. Basu

conforms to local uses, their value for local agriculture and dairying is often difficult to establish. Lack of knowledge of crossbreds is another significant factor in their unsuitability for local agriculture. Zebu bullocks can be bought and sold at local cattle markets, but given that crossbred cows are not part of local economies, the ability to find buyers for them is uncertain. Moreover, knowledge related to diseases and treatments in Zebu cattle is usually available locally. The maintenance of crossbred cows, on the other hand, requires access to specialized veterinary knowledge. Similarly, access to artificial insemination materials and techniques is provided by the dairy program, and breeding can no longer be undertaken on the basis of village-level knowledge and resources. Crossbred cows therefore are dependent on services provided by the cooperative, and the resultant shift in control over dairying to sites and experts outside the village highlights the foreignness of crossbred cows and makes village-level dairying a matter of gaining access to the largesse of development officials. As can be seen in the poster promoting artificially inseminated cattle, the service provider is dressed differently from the farmer and the incorporation of the motorcycle of the service provider further underlines his outsider status (Fig. 13.8). In the context of the village, however, it is local dairy cooperative employees who are trained in artificial insemination (Fig. 13.9), both bringing specialized knowledge within the purview of the village but also setting the stage for possible monopolization of cattle-related knowledge within the realm of the cooperative.

Fig. 13.8 Portion of poster promoting artificial insemination of cattle. (Photograph obtained from Indore Milk Union, Madhya Pradesh)

13

Engineering Cattle for Dairy Development in Rural India

205

Fig. 13.9 Artificial insemination station in village in Madhya Pradesh. (Source: Author)

Besides veterinary and insemination services the dairy cooperative is also a source for cattle feed. The shift from local sources of fodder to prepared cattle feed is imperative to maintaining the higher yields of crossbred cattle, and to ensure year-round nutrition in the presence of seasonal variations in access to green fodder (Nair, 1990b). Yet, to buy cattle feed is also to add to the costs of crossbred cows, and these costs become burdensome in a context where cattle and buffaloes have traditionally been fed on weeds and post-harvest residues, as much as on specially planted fodder crops. The system of dependence between agricultural crops and dairy animals is thus truncated by cooperative dairying when the aim of the program is higher milk yields and not household-level self-sufficiency. An important aspect of the feeding of dairy animals is linked to grazing. What distinguishes crossbred cattle from Zebu cattle and buffaloes is that crossbreds have to be stall fed even when they are not pregnant or lactating. The usual practice in rural India is to graze cattle and buffaloes on one’s own fields or on commonly owned grazing land. Since labor requirements for grazing are much lower than for stall feeding, crossbred cows also stretch household labor availability. Further, not only does fodder have to be brought to crossbred cows, their dung also has to be carried to agricultural fields. Grazing has the added advantage of spreading animal manure on agricultural fields, and preventing excess accumulation near cattle sheds. In many ways, then, the restriction of crossbred cows to the space of the cattle shed

206

P. Basu

changes the geographies of dairying and dairy-related labor, and these changes may not be feasible for, nor acceptable to, all rural households. Without doubt, however, the output of crossbred cows far surpasses that of local breeds of cows and buffaloes. The higher yield of crossbred cows becomes even more advantageous due to its lack of seasonality. For dairy plants, therefore, crossbred cows ensure that milk procurement can better approach milk processing capacity. However, while the quantity of milk produced by crossbreds is high, its fat content is much lower than buffalo milk. Given that milk is paid on the basis of both quantity and fat content at the village cooperative, buffaloes are often viewed as more economically advantageous. The tradeoff between the higher quantity of milk produced by crossbred cows and the higher fat content of buffalo milk is further resolved in terms of the latter when the size of the dairy herd is small, and given that higher production in crossbreds is also linked to higher costs in terms of feed and veterinary services. In such predominantly economic discussions of the differences between Zebu cows, crossbred cows, and buffaloes, religious values attached to cows within Hinduism do not directly intervene. Yet, to the extent that the slaughter of cattle and buffaloes is not mentioned within the dairy development program as a way to augment the financial value of dairy animals, the program adheres to popular Hindu norms. While there were some attempts to officially ban the slaughter of cows in India, no actual law has been passed to this effect at the level of the central government (Noronha, 1994), except to the extent that states have the freedom to make their own laws regarding cattle slaughter and transport of cattle across state lines is often illegal (Krishnakumar, 2003). The use of buffaloes as dairy animals could be a consequence of this animal being relatively less sacred than the cow, so that less productive animals can be more easily disposed. There has been no study as yet of this issue, or of the extent to which the sacred meanings of Zebu cattle are transferred to crossbred cows, though there is no indication that this is not happening. In some ways then, the commercialization of dairying, but not meat production, both conforms to hegemonic Hindu principles as well as maintains a secular aura since the program emphasizes productivity without bringing in religious ideals. Overall, commercial dairy development in India is partially stymied by the fact that cattle and buffaloes are valued in India for their labor power as well as for the cash value of their milk. To the extent that profits from dairying are not the main consideration in terms of local participation in cooperative dairying, as much as the utilization of already existing agricultural outputs, the higher yield of crossbred cows is often not sufficient to propel local farmers towards adopting crossbred cows. Moreover, rural India continues to be characterized by small farmers who own very few dairy animals, so that the higher costs associated with crossbred cows are not feasible for the bulk of its population, unless these costs are subsidized by cooperative dairying. The dairy program was established to ensure that small milk producers have access to milk markets, so that the shift towards greater commercialization signified by improved breeds does not conform to the original model. Since crossbred cows are purely oriented towards the needs of commercial dairying, with cash incomes juxtaposed against higher expenses, they do not fit into rural systems

13

Engineering Cattle for Dairy Development in Rural India

207

that work through subsidizing dairying by connecting it to one’s own agricultural fields.

13.4 Linking New Technologies to Household Work: Gendered Meanings of Crossbred Cows4 The link between crossbred cows and agriculture is not the only factor that shapes their adoption. What is also a crucial component is the labor associated with maintaining crossbred cows, labor that is viewed as being principally provided by women. In other words, the gap between existing agricultural practices and crossbred cows is often filled in through women’s work, so that the gender division of agricultural and dairying tasks enables the adoption of crossbred cows by rural households. In an early discussion of dairy development, a UN conference which focused on women and dairying (ESCAP, 1981), feminist scholars had argued that the adoption of both hybrid seeds in the Green Revolution and crossbred cows in the White Revolution is dependent on the inclusion of women in development. Critics of the dairy development program, however, have argued that the program has achieved exactly the opposite—by taking over processing and marketing tasks previously performed by women, cooperative dairying in fact has reduced women’s control over household-level dairying and hence disregarded their dairying knowledge (George, 1985). Yet, this does not mean that women’s work within cooperative dairying has decreased. In fact, studies of the amount of labor expended on household dairying have shown that dairy development has increased women’s work burdens and thus is dependent on the exploitation of women’s household labor (Mies, 1986; Mitra, 1987). Even as criticisms of the mode of women’s incorporation into dairy development are valid, it is also worth reflecting on why women continue to contribute their labor to dairy development despite both increased responsibilities for work and loss of control over dairying knowledge. In Candler and Kumar’s (1998) evaluation of India’s dairy development program, they argue that dairying work is preferred by women since it can be conducted at home and is more remunerative than agriculture. In contrast, feminist scholars have argued that women’s participation has to be viewed as a pragmatic strategy—in the absence of other avenues of employment, cooperative dairying becomes a valuable option for women (Sharma & Vanjani, 1993). This is not to argue that women’s work is freely chosen by them, or that women’s household-level work is not determined by patriarchal power, but that the gender division of labor is a historically contingent outcome and women’s connections with dairy development are likely to change over time. Thus, declining returns from Green Revolution agriculture especially on small pieces of agricultural land, as well as the need for access to ready cash in an increasingly monetized everyday economy, have to be considered as the larger factors shaping women’s dairying work. Currently, the crisis facing rural India makes steady income from dairying, in conjunction with the ability to subsidize dairying costs through access to some amount of land, an attractive option for households and for the women within them.

208

P. Basu

In the case of crossbred cows, the availability of women’s labor becomes especially crucial since stall-feeding has to be regularly undertaken. Women’s work, either in terms of weeding or the actual cutting of fodder, bridges the distance between cattle sheds and agricultural fields. The immobility of crossbred dairy cattle is thus countered by the mobility of women’s work. It is also worth noting that women’s dairying enables the drawing of value from small land holdings, which though not useful for agriculture can continue to function as sources of fodder. The withdrawal of women from agricultural work, in other words, does not result in a loss of connection with agricultural fields to the extent that women are involved in stall-feeding cattle. Milking is also strongly viewed as women’s work in many parts of rural India (Fig. 13.10). Yet, the higher yield of crossbred cows means that women’s and men’s labor has to be pooled within households to ensure timely milking. This sharing of work supports the notion that commercial dairy development in fact paves the way for the entry of men into the domain of women’s work, and could possibly result in a takeover by men of women’s options for income generation. Given this, local discourses which represent the work of dairying as women’s work could in fact be strategies to ensure women’s access to dairying income. The gender division of responsibilities for animals is also a major part of the explanation for why crossbred cows become linked to women’s work. Thus, the care and use of bullocks is men’s responsibility, and women do not participate in

Fig. 13.10 Milking crossbred cow in village in Gujarat. (Source: Author)

13

Engineering Cattle for Dairy Development in Rural India

209

the draft cattle economy. Given that crossbred cows do not have any draft uses, their suitability as women’s cattle is further enhanced. Alongside, to the extent that draft cattle are replaced by mechanized vehicles and implements for plowing, irrigation, weeding, and harvesting, a large part of milk production becomes available for sale, being no longer required to nourish calves, so that the separation between men’s work and dairying becomes even more pronounced. Yet, even as crossbred cows have been fitted into women’s work routines to counter the decline in agricultural incomes, it is also clear that women are not thereby provided with specialized knowledge related to the crossbred cow economy or cooperative management. Thus, the breeding of crossbreds is dependent on artificial insemination provided by the cooperative, the health of crossbreds is addressed on the basis of specialized veterinary knowledge, and the processing and marketing of milk occurs outside the village. A deskilling in relation to dairy animals is thus installed through the cooperative, and it is likely that the link between crossbred cows and higher incomes from dairying is emphasized in order to represent the loss of men’s and women’s knowledge as the economic empowerment of women. An even more glaring gap between genders is in terms of responsibilities for buying and selling crossbred cows. Thus, as a crossbred cow market begins to emerge, it will also be dominated by men, in similar fashion to Zebu cattle and buffalo markets. The participation of women occurs therefore only in the context of the milk economy; women’s responsibilities for crossbred cows do not extend beyond the cattle shed. From this perspective, crossbred cows maintain, even enhance, the power of scientists, engineers, and managers as well as of men in rural contexts, and women’s key role in dairying tasks does not translate into participation within or control over wider animal economies. The exclusion of women is also expressed in their absence from village-level cooperative boards. Even though, this has been sought to be corrected through the reservation of a certain number of seats for women, village-level administration of cooperatives continues to be in the hands of men, with women remaining absent from decision-making within the cooperative body. More recently, the political exclusion of women has been addressed through the formation of women-only cooperatives, and while these are probably more reflective of how dairying work is conducted within rural spaces, it is not clear if they will ensure women’s participation in wider village-level politics. There is a danger therefore that the link between crossbred cows and women will ensure that women continued to be burdened with the task of ensuring outcomes desired by the dairy development program, without gaining any appreciable political or economic power. The dairy program overtly links ability to profit from crossbred cows to women’s willingness to maintain greater numbers of cattle, without regard to the economic and environmental constraints under which farming households operate, and without considering the ways in which the link between women and dairying builds on gender inequalities that exist within households and in development planning. More recently, women are being exhorted to ensure the quality of milk thus leading to the representation of hygienic milk production as part of women’s larger responsibility for the maintenance of domestic cleanliness.

210

P. Basu

Here again, instead of including women in the construction of strategies to counter competition from private dairies and the wider consequences of neoliberalization for agricultural livelihoods, competitiveness is sought to be ensured through an intensification of women’s responsibilities. Overall, crossbred cows have to fit into gender divisions of agricultural and dairying tasks, which are already being modified due to the declining efficacy of Green Revolution technologies and the global competitions being faced by India’s agricultural sector. Given the new forms and increased amounts of labor that have to be devoted to crossbred cows, women have become crucial to subsidizing the costs of dairy labor. Newly engineered cattle breeds are therefore dependent on householdlevel distributions of agricultural and dairying tasks, and women’s work especially becomes key to the unfolding of dairy development in rural contexts.

13.5 Colonial Traces in Flows of Milk: The Physical Infrastructure of Dairy Development The megaengineering of India’s dairy sector is not restricted only to the body of the crossbred cow and attendant social transformations. Alongside, the wider physical infrastructure required for crossbred cow dairy economies is dependent on advances in transportation and refrigeration technologies. One major reason for the small town of Anand becoming the hub of India’s dairy development program is its links to rail networks that knit together and underpin the development of India’s metropolitan centers. In 1946, when the dairy development program was first being established, Anand was already part of a railway route constructed by the colonial British government as part of wider rail building initiatives, and dairy officials have highlighted the role played by long-distance rail networks in ensuring that Anand’s cooperatives could access a larger milkshed. As comparative studies have shown, the success of Anand’s dairy body, Amul, contrasts with the relative lack of success of milk production and marketing in other parts of India where the Anand model of cooperative dairying was replicated (Basu, 2009b; Mascarenhas, 1988), and transport networks are part of the explanation for this difference. In the postcolonial period, the ability of the state of Gujarat to invest in infrastructural development has further enhanced the efficacy of Anand’s cooperatives in coping with higher quantities of milk production. Thus, the quality of roads in the state ensures that transportation of milk occurs in a timely fashion and access to regular electric supply has enabled milk refrigeration facilities and automated machines for milk measurement to be installed within villages. Without access to such facilities, the cooperative system would not be able to cope with highly productive cattle. States within which infrastructure is relatively underdeveloped thus often show a lesser degree of success in cooperative dairying. Another problem that follows transportation networks in India is that they are geared towards connecting rural resources to urban consumption. This link is especially true of rail networks which were built within a colonial regime that sought to

13

Engineering Cattle for Dairy Development in Rural India

211

draw natural resources away from the interior of India towards port cities, and the contemporary transport of milk has conformed to this metropolitan bias. Thus, dairy development has not inaugurated a new geography of resource flow, but has ensured that milk flows conform to pre-existing colonial geographies of transportation. The engineering of new cattle breeds thereby becomes located within previous engineering designs, so that megaengineering projects build on one another, often exacerbating the social problems that accompanied previous technological designs. As technologies cascade after one another, transport, refrigeration, processing, and breeding technologies are currently being enhanced by new information technologies. While the link between dairy development and information technologies is viewed as enabling further access by dairy farmers to knowledge regarding modern dairying techniques and the possibility of export to global markets, they also ensure that the dairy program promotes an intensely technological form of cooperative dairying that may not be feasible for all small producers and rural places. The ways in which competition between the cooperative program and private dairy companies will exacerbate the technological gap between dairying geared towards small producers and dairying geared towards productive cattle has to also be considered in the evaluation of new engineering designs. The turn towards crossbred cows is thus dependent on physical infrastructures that can cope with higher production, so that crossbred cows draw our attention to the wider histories of megaengineering within which new dairying technologies need to be located. In the process, dairy development becomes linked, not only to patriarchal power, as mentioned in the previous section, but also reflects traces of colonial power.

13.6 Conclusion: The Social Bases of Megaengineering This chapter has located megaengineering not just within the characteristics of the actual technological innovation itself, in this case the body of crossbred dairy cattle, but also in the gendered social relations and colonial physical infrastructures that enable the new technology to make place for itself in local contexts. Overall, it can be argued that the logic of higher production through crossbred cows, the engineering logic, turns out to be very different from the logic of mixed, small-scale farming, in which dairying is a synergistic activity and not separate from agriculture. Crossbred cows thus enable us to make three observations about megaengineering. First, India’s dairy development program provides a means to understand how megaengineering operates under the cover of policies aimed at promoting the smallscale dairy producer. Moreover, while the crossbreeding program is an attempt to ensure that pure European breeds are not unleashed on the village, crossbred cows continue to have far ranging impacts in terms of agriculture, changing connections between agricultural and dairying operations into separations between the two. The consequences for local breeds of cattle and buffaloes are likely to be deleterious. As

212

P. Basu

agricultural options continue to decline, small farmers are likely to be further compelled to turn towards a crossbred cow economy that links them to the development program and loses its links to local contexts. Second, dairy development shows how spectacular leaps in dairy engineering are ultimately dependent on their being fitted into the daily routines of gendered work within rural households. Thus, the process of converting crossbred cows to cash is smoothed by household-level gender divisions between agricultural and dairying tasks, with women’s responsibilities for crossbred cows ostensibly chosen by them in a context where avenues to employment are becoming scarce, but also implemented under the shadow of patriarchal power. The engineering of dairy cattle is thus dependent on the spatial and social meanings of gender identities in rural India. Finally, the effects of megaengineering projects are not linked solely to their own composition and characteristics, but are also built on interactions with past engineering initiatives. The higher milk of crossbred cows has to be efficiently transported and processed, and depends on the quality of already existing road and electric supply networks. In this way, the outcomes of dairy development become partly reflective of past colonial and contemporary inequalities in levels of economic development across India. More broadly, the meanings of megaengineering projects have to be situated at the intersections of technological, social, and environmental changes in order to grasp the complexities associated with their unfolding. Acknowledgements Thanks to Stanley Brunn for extending the invitation to participate in this volume, and for his valuable and constructive comments towards revising the chapter. Thanks are also due to Jayajit Chakraborty for assistance with improving the tables and figures. This chapter is partly based on fieldwork that was supported by an International Dissertation Research Fellowship from the Social Science Research Council (with funds from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation) and a Doctoral Dissertation Improvement Grant from the National Science Foundation (BCS-0000280).

Notes 1. The Green Revolution in India was inaugurated in the late 1960s and dominated into the early 1980s (Eleventh Five-Year Plan, 2007–2012, Vol. 3: 4 in Planning Commission 2009).Principal technologies of the Green Revolution include high-yielding seeds, increased dependence on chemical fertilizers and pesticides, access to large irrigation projects, and shifts towards mechanization (Byres, 1981; Glaeser, 1987; Harriss, 1982, 1972). 2. Dairy India is the authoritative source of information on India’s public and private dairy institutions, providing both longitudinal data as well as current information on technologies and policies related to dairying. One of the sources utilized by Dairy India is the Census of Livestock, which has been conducted in India since the 1920s at five-year intervals. The counting of livestock by breeds, however, was not undertaken till the 2003 Census of Livestock, which is also the latest Census for which data are currently available. 3. The discussion in this section is partly based on dissertation-related fieldwork conducted in two villages in India over 2000–2001. Data were collected through household surveys, open-ended interviews, and participant observation. Results of the ethnographic study are available in Basu (2009a).

13

Engineering Cattle for Dairy Development in Rural India

213

4. The discussion in this section is also partly based on dissertation-related fieldwork conducted in two villages in India over 2000–2001. More specific considerations of the links between gender and dairy development are available in Basu (2009b, 2006, 2005).

References Agarwal, B. (1985). Women and technological change in agriculture: The Asian and African experience. In I. Ahmed (Ed.), Technology and rural women: Conceptual and empirical issues (pp. 67–153). London: George Allen and Unwin. Anderson, K. (2003). White natures: Sydney’s Royal Agricultural Show in post-humanist perspective. Transactions, Institute of British Geographers, 28(4), 422–441. Arnold, D., & Guha, R. (Eds.). (1995). Nature, culture, imperialism: Essays on the environmental history of South Asia. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Baker, K., & Jewitt, S. (2007). Evaluating 35 years of Green Revolution technology in villages of Bulandshahr district, Western UP, North India. Journal of Development Studies, 43(2), 312–339. Banerjee, A. (1994). Dairying systems in India. World Animal Review. Rome: Italy: Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO). 79(2). Retrieved February 9, 2009, from http://www.fao.org/ag/AGa/AGAP/WAR/warall/t3080b/t3080b07.htm Basu, P. (2005). Separating women’s empowerment from dairy development in Madhya Pradesh, India. Papers of the Applied Geography Conferences, 28, 1–10. Basu, P. (2006). The gender of successful development: Women’s words and dairying work in Gujarat, India. International Journal of Interdisciplinary Social Sciences, 1(1), 61–68. Basu, P. (2009a). Success and failure of crossbred cows in India: A place-based approach to rural development. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 99(4), 746–766. Basu, P. (2009b). Villages, women and the success of dairy cooperatives in India: Making place for rural development. Amherst, NY: Cambria Press. Baviskar, B. S., & George, S. (1988). Development and controversy: National Dairy Development Board. Economic and Political Weekly, 23(13), A35–A43. Baviskar, B. S., & Terhal, P. (1990). Internal constraints and external dependence: The EEC and Operation Flood. In M. Doornbos & K. N. Nair (Eds.), Resources, institutions and strategies: Operation Flood and Indian dairying (pp. 339–355). Delhi: Newbury Park, CA; London: Sage. Boyd, W., & Watts, M. (1997). Agro-industrial just-in-time: The chicken industry and postwar American capitalism. In D. G. Goodman & M. Watts (Eds.), Globalizing food: Agrarian questions and global restructuring (pp. 192–225). London: Routledge. Byres, T. J. (1981). The new technology, class formation and class action in the Indian countryside. The Journal of Peasant Studies, 8(4), 405–454. Candler, W., & Kumar, N. (1998). The dairy revolution: The impact of dairy development in India and the World Bank’s contribution. Washington, DC: World Bank. Castree, N. (2005). Nature. New York: Routledge. Chakravarti, A. K. (1985). Cattle development problems and programs in India: A regional analysis. GeoJournal, 10(1): 21–45. Crosby, A. (1986). Ecological imperialism: The biological expansion of Europe, 900–1900. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dairy India Yearbook. (2007). Dairy India 2007. New Delhi: Dairy India Yearbook. Das, D. (2007). Persistence of small-scale, family farms in India: A note. Journal of Internationl Trade and Economic Development, 16(3), 401–410. Dixon, J. (2003). The changing chicken: Chooks, cooks and culinary culture. Sydney: University of New South Wales Press. Doornbos, M. van Dorsten, F., Mitra, M., & Terhal, P. (1990). Dairy aid and development: India’s Operation Flood. London: Sage. D’Souza, R. (2006). Drowned and dammed: Colonial capitalism and flood control in Eastern India. New York: Oxford University Press.

214

P. Basu

ESCAP (United Nations Economic and Social Commission for Asia and the Pacific). (1981). Participation of Women in Dairy Development in South Asia. Bangkok: UNESCAP. George, S. (1985). Operation Flood: An appraisal of current Indian dairy policy. Delhi: Oxford University Press. George, S. (1990). Agropastoral equations in India: Intensification and change of mixed farming systems. In J. G. Galaty & D. L. Johnson (Eds.), The world of pastoralism: Herding systems in comparative perspective (pp. 119–143). New York: Guilford Press and London: Bellhaven Press. Gilmartin, D. (1995). Models of the hydraulic environment: colonial irrigation, State power and community in the Indus Basin. In D. Arnold & R. Guha (Eds.) Nature, culture and imperialism: Essays on the environmental history of South Asia (pp. 210–236). Delhi: Oxford University Press. Glaeser, B. (Ed.). (1987). The green revolution revisited. London: Allen and Unwin. Grove, R., Damodaran, V., & Sangwan, S. (Eds.) (1998). Nature and the orient: The environmental history of South and Southeast Asia. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Gupta, A. (1998). Postcolonial developments: Agriculture in the making of modern India. Durham; London: Duke University Press. Harriss, B. (1972). Innovation adoption in Indian agriculture—The High Yielding Varieties Programme. Modern Asian Studies, 6(1), 71–98. Harriss, J. (1982). Capitalism and peasant farming: Agrarian structure and ideology in Northern Tamil Nadu. Mumbai, India: Oxford University Press. Hiremath, B. N., Singh, K., & Mergos, G. (1997). Impact of operation flood in Madhya Pradesh: A resurvey. Anand, India: Institute of Rural Management (IRMA). ICN (India Committee of the Netherlands/Landelijke India Werkgroep). (1985) EEC milk out of India. Retrieved February 9, 2009, from http://www.indianet.nl/milkman.html Krishnakumar, R. (2003). Beef without borders. Frontline 20(18). http://www.hinduonnet.com. Retrieved February, 9, 2009, from /fline/fl2018/stories/20030912004703100.htm Kurien, V. (1997). The AMUL dairy cooperatives: Putting the means of development into the hands of small producers in India. In A. Anirudh, N. Uphoff, & M. Esman (Eds.), Reasons for hope: Instructive experiments in rural development (pp. 105–119). West Hartford, CT: Kumarian Press. Mascarenhas, R. C. (1988). A strategy for rural development: Dairy cooperatives in India. Delhi; Newbury Park, CA; London: Sage Mergos, G., & Slade, R. (1987). Dairy development and milk cooperatives: The effects of a dairy project in India. World Bank Discussion Paper 15. Washington, DC: World Bank. Mies, M. (1986). Indian women in subsistence and agricultural labor. Geneva: International Labor Office (ILO). Mitchell, T. (2002) Rule of experts: Egypt, techno-politics, modernity. Berkeley: University of California Press. Mitra, M. (1987). Women’s work: Gains analysis of women’s labour in dairy production. In A. M. Singh & A. Kelles-Vintanen (Eds.), Invisible hands: Women in home-based production (pp. 109–144). Delhi; Newbury Park, CA & London: Sage Publications. Munshi, K., & Parikh, K. (1994). Milk supply behavior in India: data integration. Estimation and implications for dairy development. Journal of Development Economics, 45, 201–223. Nair, K. N. (1990a). Cattle breeding technology and draught power availability in Indian agriculture: An unresolved contradiction in livestock economy of India. Bombay: Oxford and Delhi: India Book House. Nair, K. N. (1990b). Cattle development in Kerala: Trends and prospects. Economic and Political Weekly, 25(35/36), 2005–2007+2009–2010. Noronha, E. (1994) BJP: Cow as a political symbol. Economic and Political Weekly, 29(24), 1447–1448. Pedersen, J. (2000). Explaining economic liberalization in India: State and society perspectives. World Development, 28(2), 265–282.

13

Engineering Cattle for Dairy Development in Rural India

215

Planning Commission, Government of India. (2009). 5 Year Plans. http://planningcommission. Retrieved February 6, 2009, from nic.in/plans/planrel/fiveyr/welcome.html. . Rajaram, N. (1996). The impact of liberalization on village milk cooperatives: A sociological study of Kheda district. In R. Rajogopalan (Ed.), Rediscovering cooperation: Volume 3, Cooperatives in the emerging context (pp. 158–175). Anand, India: Institute of Rural Management (IRMA). Rao, S., Venkatasubramanian, V., & De Wit, J. (1995). Consequences of crossbreeding programme in India. Economic and Political Weekly, 30(39), A112–A116. Roy, T. (2007). A delayed revolution: Environment and agrarian change in India. Oxford Review of Economic Policy, 23(2), 239–250. Sharma, M., & Vanjani, U. (1993). When more means less: Assessing the impact of dairy ‘development’ on the lives and health of women in rural Rajasthan (India). Social Science and Medicine, 37(11), 1377–1389. Sharma, V., & Gulati, A. (2003). Trade liberalization, market reforms and competitiveness of Indian dairy sector. Discussion Paper No. 61, Markets, Trade and Institutions Division. Washington, DC: International Food Policy Research Institute. Shiva, V. (1988). Staying alive: Women, ecology and development in India. Delhi: Kali for Women. Shiva, V. (1991). The violence of the Green Revolution: Ecological degradation and political conflict in Punjab. London; New York: Zed Books. Singh, S., Coelli, T., & Fleming, E. (2001). Performance of dairy plants in the cooperative and private sectors in India. Annals of Public and Cooperative Economics, 72(4), 453–479. Tandon, O. B. (1951). Differences in milk production and in age at first calving among Indian and crossbred dairy cattle in India. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Iowa State College, Ames, IA. Vyas, V. S. (2002). Changing contours of Indian agriculture. In R. Mohan (Ed.), Facets of the Indian economy (pp. 185–214). Delhi: Oxford University Press. Worster, D. (1985). Rivers of empire: Water, aridity, and the growth of the American West. New York: Oxford University Press.

Chapter 14

Social Responses to Crop Biotechnology: Bt Cotton Cultivation in Gujarat, India Esha Shah

14.1 Introduction Unlike many other large scale engineering projects, the size of technology in genetically modified (GM) crop biotechnology is miniscule. What makes crop biotechnology a megaengineering project is its spread. According to one survey (James, 2008), the genetically modified seeds were grown in 6 countries in 1996 – the first year of commercialization, which has increased to 13 in 2001, to 18 in 2003, and 25 in 2008. Genetically modified soybean, maize, and cotton constitute substantial part of this spread. Other crops such as canola, squash, alfalfa, papaya, and sugarbeet have been mainly introduced in the U.S. whereas tomato, poplar, petunia, and sweet pepper in China. Recently, genetically modified brinjal (aubergine) is under discussion for the commercial release in India. More than 85% GM crops have been bred for tolerance to specific herbicide and insecticides but almost all the rest are insect resistant varieties. These crops contain the genes controlling the production of a natural insecticide, Bacillus thuringiensis (Bt), which acts specifically on Lepidoptera groups of pests. The current debates on genetically modified crop-biotechnology are often twodimensional, pitching benefits against risks, and proponents against opponents (Stone 2002). Most arguments for and against transgenics are about their outcomes and impacts, whether on farmers, on health and the environment, or on economic performance (Narayanamoorthy & Kalamkar, 2006; Peshin, Dhawan, Vatta, & Singh, 2007; Qaim, 2003; Qaim & Janvry, 2005; Qaim & Zilberman, 2003; Ramanjaneyulu & Kurunganti, 2006; Sahai, 2002; Sahai & Rahman, 2003; Sahai & Rehman, 2004). I contend that framing the debate in terms of “back-end risk and impact assessment” is insufficient to evaluate the appropriateness or the social desirability of genetically-engineered crop technology. Instead my aim is to assess the “front-end issues” such as the social and political context of technological E. Shah (B) Department of Technology and Society Studies, Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, University of Maastricht, Grote Gracht 90-92, 6211 SZ, Maastricht, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_14,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

217

218

E. Shah

choice (Scoones, 2003). I first review social response and performance of genetically modified Bt cotton in several parts of the world and then explores, through an anthropological and historical approach, the social context of the choice of Bt cotton seeds in the western Indian state of Gujarat. More specifically, following four sets of questions are explored. 1. Which farmers in various parts of the world are cultivating geneticallyengineered cotton seeds and why? What is the social response and context of Bt cultivation in different parts of the world? 2. Discussing specifically the case of Gujarat, how have agrarian relations and access to land, water, and labor impinged upon the cultivation of Bt cotton and the multiplication of Bt seeds? 3. Arguing that cotton cultivation has become increasingly risky and uncertain in current times, how have farmers from Gujarat dealt with various forms of uncertainity? 4. Why have farmers from Gujarat popularly adopted Bt seeds, and specifically how has this global technology and knowledge become locally appropriated, modified and exchanged? Ultimately, I seek to explain the cultural, productive, environmental, and cognitive context within which cotton growing farmers in Gujarat adopt, develop and diffuse genetically-engineered crop biotechnology.

14.2 Social Responses to Crop Biotechnology There are only a few studies that have systematically explored the spread of crop biotechnology among different sections of peasantry (cf. Stone, 2007). Who among farmers make a choice of biotechnology and why is a question that has not yet been extensively researched. Based on the available literature, I attempt in this section to provide an overview of GM adoption in some of the major GM cultivating countries. I should note that this survey is by no means exhaustive. According to one argument the GM crops commercially grown today have been designed for production in regions that already support highly capitalized agroindustry (Tripp, 2001). For instance, the powerful sugarcane producer cooperative in Brazil opted for GMOs to decrease overall pesticide use and maintain production levels, but the association of Western Bahian Farmers and Irrigators, the powerful farmers’ group in Brazil’s dynamic soybean production regions, explicitly stated its opposition to GM crops (Jepson, 2002). Although at some point GM soya was smuggled across the border from Argentina and used extensively by the large-scale commercial farmers in Brazil (Scoones, 2008). The anti-GM position of the Western Bahain Farmers and Irrigators association, it is argued, may have co-opted the European “green” argument in which different kinds of commercial interests seems to be playing a dominant role. Brazil ships over 80% of its annual soybean exports

14

Social Responses to Crop Biotechnology

219

and 68% of its annual soybean meals export to European markets. It was estimated that Brazil’s monopoly over non-GM soybean products for the captive European market that prefers non-GM (green) soya benefitted Brazilian traders US$20 per metric ton more compared to Argentina’s GM soybean products (Jepson, 2002). The contrasting positions on GM of sugarcane and soybean growers in Brazil might have been predominantly driven by the common goal of commercial interests. In South Africa, similarly large commercial interests have been the strong advocates of GM maize. They sought to reduce cost of production in response to progressive reduction in farm subsidies given to the white commercial farm sector (Scoones, 2008). What is the small holders’ response to GM crops? The results of a two year survey of smallholders in Makhathini Flats, KwaZulu-Natal in South Africa showed that farmers who adopted Bt cotton in 1999–2000 had higher yields, lower chemical costs, and higher gross margins (Thirtle, Beyers, Ismael, & Piesse, 2003). However, cotton accounts for only about 1% of the total South African agricultural production and small holders form a very low percentage of total cotton producers. Makhathini Flats was a special case as it was a large smallholder development scheme that was created as a showpiece for the international community. As a result, the Makhathini Flats had experimental farm and extension service that was far better than in other areas. Their services would have contributed substantially towards success of Bt cotton among smallholders. Only in India and China, GM crops are primarily smallholder crops where they were adopted on a massive scale even before the regulatory release. The rest of this chapter discusses the case of smallholder adoption of GM cotton in western Indian state of Gujarat to argue that GM seeds were rarely easily afforded by poorer and subsistence oriented farmers. In fact cotton was grown only by landed farmers with easy access to water. The case of China is particularly interesting as the three year survey of Bt cotton adoption in 2000–2001 showed that millions of small holders have been able to increase yield per hectare. It is crucial to point out that these benefits have been accompanied by commercialization of cotton markets in China since the late 1990s. Before 2000, most cotton was purchased by the state owned cotton and jute corporation in 1999 at a price fixed by the government. Since 2000, cotton prices were allowed to be fluctuated with market conditions and cotton mills were allowed to buy cotton directly from growers (Pray, Ma, Huang, & Qiao, 2001). These market friendly developments were crucial for the success of Bt cotton among smallholders.

14.3 Popularity of Bt Cotton: Case of Gujarat Thousands of farmers in India adopting and actively modifying patented Bt cotton seeds provides an additional edge to the debate on the social, economic and environmental appropriateness of genetically engineered crop biotechnology. Bt seeds were supplied by a local seed company called Navbharat in the western Indian state of Gujarat at least 3 years before Monsanto-patented Bt seeds were officially released by the Indian government in 2002. Since then, farmers have produced a number of

220

E. Shah

local brands of Bt seeds by crossing Bt-containing seeds with existing hybrid cotton varieties. These locally produced seeds, including Navbharat seeds, were initially declared illegal. Yielding to pressure from farmers, they are now allowed to be sold inside Gujarat. Locally produced seeds are also popularly believed to be performing better than the government approved Monsanto seeds in Gujarat (Bunsha, 2001; David & Sai, 2002; Sahai & Rahman, 2003; Sahai & Rehman, 2004; Shah, 2005).1 Given this popularity, the Indian government has now officially released 39 different varieties of Bt seeds, including a second generation of Bt seeds with Cry 1 AB gene (popularly known as Cry II gene). A third generation of Bt seeds with Cry III gene is widely speculated. The popularity of Bt seeds among Gujarat farmers gives an additional edge to debates about genetically-modified crops in general, and Bt cotton in particular. Those who celebrate biotechnology, however, often go beyond such impact assessment debates to take a moral position. Thousands of farmers actively appropriating, adopting, and modifying genetically-engineered cotton seeds is not only declared a “success” of the technology.2 Rather it is also linked to an argument that the choice of genetically-engineered seeds should ultimately be left to the farmers themselves. A case such as Gujarat is thus viewed as an undisputable sign of social acceptability and a technological triumph of genetic modification (Taverne, 2005, 2007). Both the tropes, that is, “Bt works” and “it is ultimately farmers’ choice,” are eventually escalated into an argument for the inevitability of genetic modification in crop biotechnology. I wish to challenge the framing of debates on crop-biotechnology in terms of “impact assessment” or “success or failure.” To evaluate the social desirability of technological choice, I consider socio-anthropologically the cultural, productive, environmental, and cognitive contexts within which the cotton growing farmers in Gujarat adopt, develop and diffuse genetically-engineered crop biotechnology. I show that crop biotechnology represents a technological culture with a specific value framework which is endorsed commonly by both multinational companies and certain cotton growing farmers in Gujarat. The cultivation and multiplication of Bt seeds owe their popularity to the fact that genetically modified seed technology did not make any paradigmatic change in the agricultural practices and agrarian relations shaped by the Green Revolution, which has privileged and consolidated the social power of resource rich farmers. Bt cotton’s success is thus part of the successful reproduction of these cotton-growing farmers’ historically acquired and culturally consolidated ability to perform with the technology. Thus the appropriateness or social desirability of crop biotechnology should be understood within a wider frame encompassing technological culture and its democratization (which would also entail democratization of social and agrarian relations), rather than considering the issue in the narrow framework of impact or economic performance of the biotechnology itself. This central concept of technological culture is briefly considered in the next section, before explaining the methodology and findings of the anthropological study in Gujarat.

14

Social Responses to Crop Biotechnology

221

14.4 Engineering the Earth: Explaining Technological Culture The social, political, environmental, and economic impact of large scale engineering projects are causes of major concern in the recent debates on climate change or discourses on development. This volume aims to engage with one of the most pertinent paradoxes of our times. That is, while debates on climate change and changing discourses on development have on the one hand challenged science and technology-based notions of social and economic progress, on the other hand a plethora of megaengineering projects continue to radically transform the social and natural fabric of our surroundings. This chapter does not intend to solve the paradox, but engages with it by drawing insights from philosophical and sociological discussions on technological culture. Various philosophers and scholars have adopted the notion of technological culture to explain the ways in which characteristic traits of our society have become pervasively technological, including the ways in which science and technology become enabling framework that shape collective activities and societal choices over time. Below is a brief discussion on the various interpretations of concept of technological culture and the way it has been incorporated into social responses to crop biotechnology. In the classical philosophy of technology the theme of modern culture becoming technological was central. In the accounts of Heidegger, Ellul, Mumford and some scholars of the critical school such as Marcuse and Adorno, technology reduces human beings to what Hiedegger called “technicised animals.” These works variously critiqued total domination by technological society, reducing human beings to one dimensional man. Such classical philosophy provided a powerful critique of technology-society relationships but in an over-deterministic fashion and by interpreting technology and culture as opposed to each other. In contrast, an emerging focus on technological culture in science and technology studies (STS) emphasises the interplay between technology and culture and even erases the difference by merging the two entities into one. Technological culture in STS is variously interpreted to mean that the characteristic traits of our society are pervasively technological, that is, considering technology as our culture; understanding science and technology from a cultural perspective; presenting technology as a material culture embedded in social processes, and/or acknowledging the fact that the technological and social are inseparable (see Bijker, 2005; Castells, 2000). There also exist other interpretations. Invoking Wittgenstein and discussing information society, Scott Lash philosophically interrogates technological forms of life to mean ways of life, or modes of doing thing, that is, culture in an everyday sense. In line with classical philosophers, Lash is also interested in exploring what happens when forms of life go technological, suggesting that we then make sense of the world only through technological systems (Lash, 2001). These theories of technological culture, however, remain overarching and societal in both classical and contemporary philosophy and even in science and technology studies. A societal analysis of technological culture tends to develop dystopian and apocalyptic overtones as in classical philosophy. In contrast, empirically rich

222

E. Shah

micro-studies of the interplay of technology and culture often lack any meaningful critique of broader directions of technological change (see Keulartz, Schermer, Korthals, & Swierstra, 2004). None of the entities referred here – society, culture and technology – is monolithic, and ideally the term technological culture may signify not just one but many cultures. Thus, the questions is whether different technologies have different cultural connotations? The discussion on the emergence of technological trajectories or paradigms not only includes social and political contexts both at micro (agency) and macro (structural) levels, but also represent the values, interests, ethics, and choices of those who hold social power and who make technological choices (Russell, 1999). A technological paradigm for Russell is thus not only a new solution to a techno-scientific problem but also an enabling framework that shapes collective activities and the choices of individual actors over time. In STS, what are discussed are not only how technological paradigms/trajectories establish their own momentum, but also how they persist in the global economy over long periods of time (Russell, 1999). Russell’s evaluative concept of technological paradigm is further sharpened here by borrowing from Richards (2004). Richards begins, like Russell, with a Kuhnian concept of “paradigm,” viz., the constellation of ideas, values, and techniques that define the course and nature of technological practice. He calls this “culture” based on an interpretation of Durkhemian sociological theory (Richards, 2004). According to Richards, each technological culture has a specific history, collective representation, material framework, shared values and organizational modalities (Richards, 2004). While Russell emphasises the forces of global political economy and social power, he also imparts greater agency to history, representation, values, ethics, and frameworks. The difference between Russell and Richards is the location from which the change is viewed: political economy or culture. Accordingly, the technological culture of genetically-modified crop biotechnology is critically examined below is with respect to the role of history, political economy, sets of ideas, beliefs, values and attitudes, and the responses and perceptions of those who make technological choices. This reworked notion not only places genetically modified seed technology in the context of global and local political economy, but also provides an opportunity to evaluate how its perceptive and material frameworks configure and constitute the actions of the agents who design and use the technology.

14.5 Methodology A word on methodology is pertinent. The chapter represents an outcome of close ethnographic engagement with a number of actors associated with Bt cotton in Gujarat. These include cotton cultivating and seed plotting farmers, marketing agents, shop owners, seed company owners and employers, owners and employers of seed testing laboratories, office bearers of the cotton-growing farmers’ front organization Bharatiya Kisan Union (BKU), and activists of child and migrant labor welfare associations in south Rajasthan and north Gujarat.

14

Social Responses to Crop Biotechnology

223

The specific case study is focused on the area around Manasa town of Gandhinagar district. Manasa occupies a unique position in Bt cotton cultivation in Gujarat as it is a hub of both seed multiplication and cotton cultivation activities. Most of the seed companies in Gujarat are located close to Manasa, while it has a vibrant market of agricultural products, including a huge cotton market. The industrial enclave where seed companies are located is a hub of everyday discussion about Bt seed multiplication and cotton cultivation. Manasa’s cotton seed and product market is supplied through surrounding villages where cotton is a mainstay of agricultural activities. The town thus provides a unique entry point to understand both seed multiplication and cotton cultivation culture which other regions in Gujarat do not provide. My field work was carried out in two parts. I first visited Gujarat in JanuaryFebruary 2005, when illegal seeds were being fiercely debated. In January 2005 the cotton had recently arrived in the market. So had the seeds; they were being sorted and packed. I again visited Gujarat in April 2007 when a new season of cotton cultivation was being readied, and when seeds were being sold, bought, and debated. In both periods, the focus of my study was not cotton fields as such, but on the various spaces where actors assemble to perform their cotton related activities. In addition to engaging with cotton market and seed companies in Manasa, I conducted group meetings with farmers from 10 villages in Gandhinagar district, most of these I visited and revisited in 2005 and 2007. I met my respondents – farmers, seed agents, shop owners and market agents – in their regular haunts, at markets, shops and the offices and shops of cooperative societies. My approach was to engage with them in a group, to begin by asking simple questions about Bt cotton, and then to engage in serious discussion, with an idea to debate and provoke. In Gujarat, each village usually has two or three different types of cooperative society. In some villages I started a discussion impromptu with already present farmers at one of the offices or shops of the cooperative society. At other times I asked a known farmer to invite other cotton growing farmers, and at yet others for discussions. I had discussions with both individual key farmers or BKU leaders. The gatherings usually included 7–12 farmers present, but sometimes 20–25 farmers participated at some point. The discussions usually lasted for an hour or two, while several of the most vibrant discussions lasted into an entire evening. Through these ethnographic methods, the study has thus focused on the cotton enclave of Manasa but has also mapped farmers’ perceptions and practices across a wider spectrum of villages.

14.6 The Technological Culture of Biotechnology and the Agency of Global Crop-biotechnology found its roots in Gujarat by way of the successful crosspollination of two separate parental lines of Bt seeds, viz., the Bt male line genetically modified by global multinational companies such as Monsanto and a female line originated from distinctly local hybrid cotton varieties.3 The genetically-modified seed technology has a crucial implication for Monsanto which has pivotally shaped the technological culture in Gujarat. Bt technology is

224

E. Shah

different from its predecessor, hybrid seed technology, in one important way. Two distinct parental lines are needed to produce hybrid seeds; only the breeder who has those two parental lines can produce hybrids. Replanting or self-multiplying saved seeds will not grow into a crop resembling the previous hybrid plant but rather perform in an irregular and unpredictable way. Hybrids thus force farmers to buy new seeds every season from the seed companies. The technology of hybrids thus is nontextually scripted to have a built-in patent. In contradistinction, Bt cotton varieties are produced by crossing a genetically modified male line with a hybrid female line. Once the gene is inserted, the Bt male lines can be replicated well by controlled self-pollination. Farmers thus have access to both parental lines needed to produce hybrid Bt seeds. That means that genetically-modified crop biotechnology does not have the built-in patent. It therefore requires an external regulatory system to protect the market-interest of the seed companies. This crucial (lack of) script of genetically-modified seed technology has triggered a labyrinth of discussions and controversies all over the world around the issues related to the nature of patents and regulatory systems. A technological script could have made these “textual instructions” for ordering and guarding moral or ethical behavior redundant, as it was in the case of hybrid seed technology (Shah, 2003). This non-scripting of genetically-modified technology has given birth to Gujarat’s own “Robin Hood,” a fond media ascription for Dr. D. B. Desai, the executive director of Navbharat Seeds Company. Navbharat first produced N-151 seeds by crossing a Monsanto designed Bt male line with the GujCot 8 female line. Owing to the non-scripting of the genetically-modified Bt male line, only a handful of seeds was technologically needed for the massive expansion of cultivation of locally produced Bt seeds in Gujarat. Tracing the genealogy of N-151 is less important for this paper; the more important question is to understand what makes the global and local cross pollinate for the biotechnology to find its roots (Shah, 2008).

14.7 The Technological Culture of Bt Cotton in Gujarat 14.7.1 Who can Grow Cotton in Gujarat? Succeeding the green revolution, the technological culture of crop biotechnology has flourished in Gujarat at the interface of the “nature of work” and the “work of nature” including both nature’s subsidy and nature’s unpredictability (Gidwani, 2001).4 I argue here that nature’s agency makes cotton cultivation a risky and uncertain enterprise, to the extent that the nature of work needed to compensate could potentially be afforded only by those who have the necessary cultural capacity, both social and material. The technological culture of crop biotechnology in Gujarat is thus chosen, shaped, and perpetuated by those who hold social power. Cotton is one of the oldest crops cultivated in Gujarat, grown for centuries and especially since colonial times. The native variety of cotton (called Desi) was largely grown in Gujarat before the American variety was introduced in the late 18th and

14

Social Responses to Crop Biotechnology

225

the early 19th centuries. It is a well known chapter in the history of cotton that the American varieties had longer filaments and hence were more suited to the machinery in Europe and they were encouraged by the British even though American cotton was highly susceptible to pest attack compared to Desi varieties (Prasad, 1999). However, it was only in the 1960s and 1970s with the introduction of the green revolution that the hybrid varieties developed from the American family (hirsutums) of cotton made pure Desi (arboreum and herbaceum) varieties uneconomical and obsolete due to their unresponsiveness to fertilizers. The transition from Desi to American cotton has proven disastrous for the balance of organisms in the local environment. With the American cotton came American Bollworm, whose menace became rampant after hybridization and the large scale introduction of pesticides. The history of cotton cultivation in Gujarat is replete with cotton varieties appearing and disappearing at high speed mainly in order to compensate, among other things for pest attack and so keep yields high. Since the 1970s, several hybrid varieties have been introduced mainly to improve crop yield, which many farmers claim would slack after cultivation for 5–7 years. A hybrid variety called GujCot 4 or H-4 (popularly known among farmers as Sankar 4 – Sankar literally means hybrid) was introduced in the early 1970s. It gave, as farmers described, bumper yields, but was not preferred because of its long duration. Meanwhile, a short term variety GujCot 8 (Sankar 8) was introduced, which could be reaped in 4 months time (instead of the 6 month duration of Sankar 4) making it possible to cultivate 3 crops a year or to cultivate one more food crop after the harvest of cotton. GujCot 8 however became heavily infested with pests, and was also susceptible to early dropping. It was followed by GujCot 9 and 10. “And so it goes on,” my informant farmers optimistically concluded. Even after the introduction of GujCot 8 and 9, the short term variety of GujCot 8 remained popular until the late 1990s when it was repeatedly and massively attacked by American Bollworms. The series of hybrid seeds was also accompanied by the introduction of a series of new pesticides. At the heart of the technological culture of the green revolution is such a continuous interplay between the artefacts, new cotton varieties and pesticides, and nature’s agency, that is, worms. Throughout the history of cotton hybridization, pests showed the capacity to develop resistance within a few years. In fact, a leading entomologist argues that pest resistance increased with the increased consumption of pesticides (Kranthi, 2005). The cotton plant has been infested by various types of pest throughout the last 150 years. The entomology of cotton pests has shown their highly dynamic nature; several pests have become major from being minor and vice versa. Although at present, the most devastating pest is American Bollworm (Heliothis and Helicoverpa armigera), others have dominated at different times, including tobacco caterpillar (Spodoptera litura), whitefly (Bemisia tabaci), pink bollworm (Pectinophora gossypiella) and spotted bollworm (Earias vitella) (Shetty, 2004). It is widely reported that the threat of American Bollworms reached catastrophic level in the late 1990s causing several farmers in Andhra Pradesh and Punjab to take their lives (Prasad, 1999; Bose, 2000). Some farmers in Gujarat have used a cocktail of pesticides to control different types of pest and have even targeted pests at different

226

E. Shah

stages of development, but often with no result. Usually 10–12 sprayings and a maximum of 15 sprayings of pesticides are recommended, but farmers claim that since 1996 pests seem not affected even after 30 sprayings a season. This has been corroborated by reports from other parts of the country (Shetty, 2004). By the mid to late 1990s, pesticides started to account for 40–50% or even more of the total cost of cotton production. The new brands of pesticides have become exorbitantly costly even for wealthy farmers. Moreover, nearly half of the country’s total pesticide consumption is said to be used for the protection of cotton (Editorial, 2001). In fact, pests have not just become resistant to pesticides, but have been mounting militant resurgence (technically known as abnormal increases in pest populations), requiring even stronger pesticides. Worms are one type of actors in nature’s drama. Access to land and water also crucially shape the nature of work. To a large extent, access to land in Gujarat is historically determined. Due to the historical advantage received during the colonial period, the Patels are now economically and socially a dominant agrarian caste in Gujarat.5 Even after a socially significant trend of migration to the U.S. and U.K., cotton cultivation still remains an important identity marker for the Patel community. While access to land is historically determined, access to water in north and central Gujarat where cotton is a dominant cash crop is determined through control over tubewell technology. Hardiman shows how the history of ground water extraction has favoured capital-rich farmers. Although the British considered cotton as a non-irrigated crop, Hardiman argues that in the past cotton was always watered with wells to raise the yield (Hardiman, 1998). Current varieties of cotton also need at least 8–15 irrigations for good yield. A large part of mainland and north Gujarat, the cotton growing tract, has an arid and semi-arid climate; surface irrigation concentrated in southern Gujarat is dependent on ground water (Prakash, 2005). The British policy on ground water extraction was so designed that only wealthier cultivators could afford to dig a well in the first place, and then pay the exorbitant taxes levied on it. Later, the policy gave tax exemptions to deeper wells; this policy also favored capital-rich farmers who could afford to dig deeper (Hardiman, 1998). Prakash (2005) takes Hardiman’s argument further to show that the current scenario also favors the wealthier sections of agrarian society in access to ground water. The dominant mode of access is currently through shared ownership of tubewells. In Prakash’s study village, Patels own 53% of the total village land and 67% of the tube wells (Prakash 2005). Although a majority of Patel farmers in Prakash’s study village fall into the categories of marginal, small and medium farmers, their capital share in tube wells (65–67% of the total number of tube wells in the village) give them a much larger share of the ground water now available at more than 1000 ft (305 m). Prakash further shows that the water market that enabled non-tube well owners to access ground water in the past has declined since the late 1990s as a result of electricity supply failures. When water is insufficient even for the shareholders of tube wells, there is little left to sell it to the non-shareholders. No ownership of water sources thus means no cotton cultivation.

14

Social Responses to Crop Biotechnology

227

The risks involved in cotton cultivation due to nature’s agency, pests and water, are thus substantial, and in need of considerable social and material resources to be mitigated. The past historical policies and culture of the green revolution have thus pivotally configured social relations of power, and thereby the cotton cultivation capabilities.

14.7.2 Cognitive Aspects of Technological Culture of Crop Biotechnology Farmers’ perceptions and practices have mutually shaped each other and the technological culture of Bt cultivation. As cotton growing farmers counteract the double attack of nature, viz., rapidly resistance-developing pests and a rapidly declining water table. Thus farmers’ perceptions shape agrarian practices. Such agrarian practices and perceptions in turn further shape access to natural resources and determine who cultivates cotton and who does not. The Patel farmers have been able to retain their hold on cotton cultivation through three key means: (1) access to labor surpluses, (2) a well developed social network that also functions as both a credit and knowledge network, and (3) diversification of livelihoods through migration first to east Africa and now to Britain and the U.S. The outmigration of the Patel community is not discussed in detail here, but see Rutten and Patel (2002) for a detailed discussion. Access to labor and social networks are discussed below. Gandhinagar has long been a key district for the plotting, exchange, and selling of hybrid cotton seeds, and now also for Bt seeds. This exchange takes place through two main channels. Firstly, many seed companies (of which there are about 500 in Gujarat) give contracts to farmers to multiply seeds.6 Many of the seeds thus bought back by the seed companies are sold to other parts of India (currently and illegally). A sizable number of Punjabi farmers visit seed companies located in the Gandhinagar district in the months of April and May to purchase Bt seeds. One seed company owner speculated that 70% of the seeds purchased by the seed companies are sold to other parts of India and only 30% are diverted to the local Gujarat market. Informally, I was told that a considerable part of the seeds thus sold outside of Gujarat are generation F2, that is, they are also mixed with other spurious material. Cotton-growing farmers from Gujarat are not among the important clientele of the seed companies. In Gandhinagar district, much of the seed multiplication and selling for local consumption is done by farmers themselves. Cotton growing farmers in Gujarat have developed a number of new varieties by crossing the Bt gene-inserted male line (with Cry 1 AC gene and later Cry II gene released by Monsanto-Mahyco) with a number of local hybrid female lines. The first such experiment was reportedly conducted by the CEO of Navbharat company, Dr. D. B. Desai, when he crossed the Bt male produced by Monsanto with the GujCot 8 female line to produce a progeny that is resistant to a number of pests including American and spotted and pink Bollworms. At the same time it is suitable for local agro-climatic conditions. Dr. D. B. Desai is often described as a genius breeder, including by a leading entomologist Dr. K. Kranthi at Central Institute of

228

E. Shah

Cotton Research at Nagpur, India. Without access to any institutional knowledge on breeding, farmers in Gujarat have now crossed 60–70 different varieties with the Bt male line (first containing Cry I and later Cry II genes) to produce Bt seeds with varied sets of locally suitable traits. Farmers have even attempted to cross Bt male with Bt female to produce ultimate Bt progeny, and have experimented with crossing Cry I gene lines with Cry II gene lines. These locally produced Bt varieties are then declared as “indigenous” (swadeshi) Bt. Local knowledge about seed crossing has gained significant ground through constant experimentation over the last 5 years. For these experimentations, social networks function as conduits for the exchange of knowledge. It is part of the common repository of popular knowledge that for producing new seeds, the Bt male parental line is essential but not the key. Rather it is the female parental line that determines the performance and stability of the new seeds in the specific agroecological conditions in Gujarat. Following D. B. Desai’s experiment, Bt male was popularly crossed with the female of GujCot 8 for a couple of years. Popularly known as generic N-151, this cross is still commonly cultivated, but also discredited in some circles for its short staple length, for small boll size, and for causing difficulty in harvesting. Subsequent crosses with Vikram 5 and GujCot 4 are preferred for their long staple length and large boll size despite their long duration. Currently, different territories are divided among different crosses: Farmers in Punjab and north Gujarat tend to prefer Vikram 5 and GujCot 8, whereas GujCot 4 is popular in Maharashtra and Saurashtra. What usually takes several years for breeders to achieve in a controlled environment, cotton-growing farmers in Gujarat have achieved through experimentation in a few seasons. This rapid multiplication and experimentation has largely been possible because of access to cheap and skilled labour. Seed plotting of hybrid varieties is traditionally and widely carried out in central and north Guajarat. For the seed plotting, seasonally migrating Adivasi laborers and now young female and child labourers are preferred, a legacy of the green revolution. Adivasis entered the settled village agrarian economy more prominently from the 1970s, especially after the intensification of agriculture linked to the green revolution (Patel, 1992). Adivasis now perform a variety of seasonal agricultural tasks. The easy availability of migrant labor from south Rajasthan helps consolidate highly commercialised and intensive agriculture in the north and central Gujarat. This practice has made it possible for cotton-growing farmers to invest in the development of stable and well performing Bt seeds in relatively short periods of time. The social spread of Bt cotton is thus yet another legacy of green revolution-shaped agrarian relations. The social relations of power also configure social networks and social relations of knowledge exchange. Locally multiplied seeds are diffused through existing channels in social networks which also traditionally function as credit channels. During my discussions, farmers repeatedly invoked the channels of trustworthiness and known people through which all transactions for the sale and purchase of seeds happen. That the seller does not go out looking for buyers, but the buyers come looking for a known and trusted seller, is the operating philosophy that seems to underlie the market of locally multiplied seeds. Questions such as “where do you buy your seeds from?” and “whom do you sell your seeds to?” were uniformly answered

14

Social Responses to Crop Biotechnology

229

“to and from known and trusted people”. To be known is a pre-requisite to be trusted and to be known largely means to come from the same caste group and social network. One farmer explained the logic of cotton cultivation and market as “je vyapari chhe te ja agent cche ane te ja khedut cche” (the merchant, agent and farmer mean all the same). This aphorism accurately represents an overlapping of agrarian and market relations which are primarily caste relations with respect to cotton. The merchants and agents dealing with the marketing of cotton and farmers growing cotton not only overlap each other’s space professionally, but also share caste and kinship relations. Being trusted and known in the community thus goes far in generating not only a creditworthy market reputation, but also an acceptable social identity with further bearing upon marriage and other customs. Markets thus function not through impersonal contractual relations, but through relations of kin and caste. In the absence of an open market space when locally multiplied seeds were declared illegal, and when the market is saturated with spurious and F2 and F3 seeds, this social/credit/market network is the only trustworthy conduit for the exchange of locally multiplied Bt seeds. This social/credit network in the service of diffusion of Bt seeds seems to be thriving on an effervescent sense of solidarity and communitarianism, sustained through a common language of representation and understanding. It was no surprise that many cotton-growing farmers in the periphery of 50 km (31 mi) spoke the same language with the same idiom and expressed similar opinions. Such social solidarity is also manifested in the way cotton-growing farmers perceive the possible implications of widespread Bt cultivation on the environment and accordingly develop agricultural practices. In terms of the efficient utilization of land and water, the resource rich farmers follow various practices. It has been commonly acknowledged that the cultivation of Bt cotton extracts substantial nutrition from the soil and that continuous cultivation for 4–5 years is likely to leave the soil unfit for any other cultivation. Farmers compensate the loss of soil nutrition by rotating cotton with wheat and pulses. Approximately four tractor loads of green manure are ploughed into the field after each crop of cotton, and in addition, a crop of wheat or pulse is cultivated on the same piece to allow the green manure to weather sufficiently. Only in the third season is cotton cultivated again on the same piece of land. This means that for the continuous cultivation of at least a few acres of cotton to maintain a profitable standing in the market, a cotton-growing farmer needs to be holding 7–8 bigha of land (1 bigha = 0.6 acres) – one more reason why only land rich farmers in Gujarat grow cotton profitably. That Bt cotton needs more water than hybrid varieties is also commonly acknowledged. Many farmers acknowledged that when hybrid cotton seeds need water once in 15–17 days, Cry I and II seeds should be watered once in 10–12 or even 5–7 days. Ground water in central and north Gujarat is now mined to a depth of 1000 ft (305 m) and pumps have to be fitted at 600 ft (183 m) to gain sufficient pressure. In cotton-growing farmers’ view, ground water would be unpalatable with a very high fluoride content should levels plummet below 1200 ft (459 m), yet many speculate that this will happen within 5 years. One farmer described the water conserved at 1200 ft as five generations’ old water. “In a decade we have consumed thousand years’ old water” was how one of the farmers dramatically described the state of ground water consumption and its relationship with cotton.

230

E. Shah

14.8 Conclusion In this paper, I address the central paradox of this volume, that is, the contrasting way in which the megaengineering projects continue to dominate our social and environmental surroundings and the way in which these are accompanied by discourses on climate change, environmental degradation, and negative social impact. I do so by explaining the way in which the technological culture underlying one of the most discussed and opposed megaengineering projects – genetically modified crop biotechnology – frame and configure actors’ rationality. A few observations based on the discussion on cultural, cognitive, and productive aspects of the spread of GM cotton in the western Indian state of Gujarat are summarized below that I wish would throw some light on why and how megaengineering projects find global and local acceptance. First, the preceding discussion makes it clear that the knowledge development pertaining to Bt cotton technology in the globalized world has been multipolar. The cross-pollination of the global and local components have enabled Bt cotton to find its roots in Gujarat soil. Thus, multiple global and local actors have joined hands in developing and diffusing the knowledge on Bt cotton seeds. However, multipolarity of knowledge generation does not necessarily entail technological multiculturalism as the case of Bt technology explains. Neither does it ensure automatic democratization as a result of involvement of the political agency of the local. Multipolar development and diffusion of knowledge and local political agency can co-exist with monoculturalism of technology. The popularity of Bt cultivation in Gujarat shows the triumph of a technology supported by both global and local elites (Shah, 2005). Secondly, I suggest that while the communicative rationality of the public sphere is “textually” debating the good and bad of genetic engineering, the technological culture, with its non-textually inscribed rationality, is ideologically conditioning and shaping the direction of action. Genetically-modified crop technology, that is, its rationality inscribed with ideas, values, perceptions, practices, and frameworks – belongs to the technological culture of the green revolution. This technological culture promoted and consolidated the interests of a historically advantaged group of farmers with access to land, water and labor by shaping their perceptions and agrarian practices. The resource rich farmers on the forefront of cotton cultivation in Gujarat have experimented with genetically-modified technology owning to their green revolution-determined access to skilled and cheap tribal, migrant, child and female labor from south Rajasthan. The knowledge generated through these experimentations has been diffused and consolidated through caste-based social and market networks. The social power of cotton farmers in Gujarat has constituted and configured the technological culture of crop biotechnology by responding collectively to the risk and uncertainty of nature’s agency with the social organization of work and technology and by buttressing it through cognitive solidarity. Thirdly, and lastly, the answer to the question of why Bt seeds are popular among farmers and why other technological options to deal with insects are not popularly

14

Social Responses to Crop Biotechnology

231

adopted has only partially to do with the traits of the technological artefact as such. The choice of technology is hardly about “what works and what does not work.” Purely going by traits, a number of technological options would have been possible to solve the pest problems of cotton. Technological rationality in that sense is indeterminate until it is inserted into social space. In this sense, the success of Bt is a performance. It is a core argument of this paper that the artifact is just one component in the success of technological performance. Bt cotton’s success belongs to the successful reproduction of the cotton-growing farmers’ historically acquired and culturally consolidated ability to perform with the technology. This successful performance is not only social but also collective and historical. This centrality challenges the notion of a smart, rational farmer taking a correct decision in favor of his/her private and largely economic interests. Bt may not have given the same performance in Andhra Pradesh and Vidarbha region of Maharashtra where the technological culture may not combine comparable historical and social resources. But I argue that the enabling conditions for social and environmental learning involve a combination of a range of social, historical, and technological factors, which are culturally linked to reproduce a successful agricultural performance. The absence of such technological culture can result in the lack of such performance, even when the artefact in question is same.

Notes 1. According to the Gujarat agricultural department’s data, although the area under cotton in Gujarat marginally grew from 1.615 million ha in 2000–2001 to 1.628 million ha in 2003–2004, both total production and yield more than tripled in 2003–2004. The production increased from 1161 thousand bags in 2000–2001 to 5400 thousand bags in 2004–2005 and yield increased from 122 to 483 kg/ha (Mehta & Patel, 2004). However, these claims, especially of the yield difference between the local and officially released seeds, are contested. For example, a survey of 363 farmers in Gujarat reported that the officially released Monsantopatented Bt seeds gave the highest yield (Gupta & Chandak, 2004). Others attribute the increase in yield to good rainfall since 2001 (Sahai & Rehman, 2004). What is being claimed widely is that locally multiplied seeds, first generic Navbharat and later other locally multiplied varieties, have been cultivated in 60–80% of the total area under cotton in Gujarat since 2000–2001. I do not intend to take a conclusive side in this dichotomised debate. I provide these figures merely to give a flavor of the ongoing debate. 2. Ranjana Smetacek, the Director of Corporate Affairs of India, Monsanto, expressed similar views speaking at the Development Studies Association’s conference on science, technology, development organized at University of Sussex, 18–20 September 2007. It is also referred to by Stone (2007). 3. The separate and monolithic spaces of global and local are increasingly challenged in social sciences. Responding to a closely intertwined interplay between global and local spaces, some scholars instead prefer to use the term glocal. In contradistinction, I have retained the separate identities of global and local precisely to understand the culture of interplay between them. 4. Gidwani employs these mechanisms to account for agrarian change that combines pure determinism and pure contingency variances of history of agrarian change. Unfortunately, Gidwani’s mechanisms have a prominent space for nature, but technology appears peripherally in his conception. He has subsumed all aspects belonging to the physical landscape under the category of “nature” and thus has obliterated the role of technology to transform nature through work.

232

E. Shah

5. During the colonial period, the Kanabis (a peasant caste/community of sedentary cultivators), as against Kolis (shifting cultivators) were elevated into a category of landowners called Patidars. Through changes in the land tenure system during the colonial period, Kanabis encroached upon the land until then cultivated by Kolis and tribals. Since the early to mid 19th century Kanabis, who were eventually re-caste into Patel, ascended in economic and political power. “Patel” was originally a title given to a village officer in charge of tax collection and law and order, but it was now adopted by all members of the Kanabi alia Patidar caste/community. For further discussion (see Rutten & Patel, 2002; Gidwani, 2001; Shah & Rutten, 2002) 6. The two types of seeds known as foundation seeds, 240 g of Bt male and 600 g of hybrid female (usually GujCot 8), are supplied for one acre. One acre can produce anywhere between 100 and 300 kg of seeds. Seeds are planated in May or June and after usually 45–60 days hand-crossing starts, which continues until 120 days.

References Bijker, W. (2005).The vulnerability of technological culture. In H. Nowotny (Ed.), Cultures of technology and the quest for innovation (pp. 52–69). New York: Berghahn. Bose, A. (2000). From population to pests in Punjab: American bollworm and suicides in Cotton Belt. Economic and Political Weekly, 35, 3375–3378. Bunsha, D. (2001). A can of bollworms. Frontline, 18(24), November 24–December 27. Castells, M. (2000). Towards the sociology of network society. Contemporary sociology, 29, 693–699. David, G. S., & Sai, Y. V. S. T. (2002). Bt cotton: Farmers’ reactions. Economic and Political Weekly, 37(46), 4601-4602. Editorial. (2001). Cotton: Survival struggle. Economic and Political Weekly, 36, 3798. Gidwani, V. (2001). Labored landscapes: Agro-ecological change in Central Gujarat, India. In A. Agrawal & K. Sivaramakrishnan (Eds.), Social nature: Resources, representations and rule in India (pp. 216–247). New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Gupta, A. K., & Chandak, V. (2004). Agricultural biotechnology in India: Ethics, business and politics. International Journal of Biotechnology, 10(10), 16. Hardiman, D. (1998). Well irrigation in Gujarat: Systems of use, hierarchies of control. Economic and Political Weekly, 33, 1533–1544. James, C. (2008). Global Status of Commercialised Biotech/GM Crops. Manila: International Service for the Acquisition of Agri-Biotech Applications. Jepson, W. E. (2002). Globalization and Brazilian biosafety: The politics of scale over biotechnology governance. Political Geography, 21, 905–925. Keulartz, J., Schermer, M., Korthals, M., & Swierstra, T. (2004). Ethics in technological culture: A programmatic proposal for a pragmatist approach. Science, Technology & Human Values, 29, 3–29. Kranthi, K. R. (2005). Insecticide resistance: Monitoring, mechanisms and management manual. Nagpur: Central Institute for Cotton Research. Lash, S. (2001). Technological forms of life. Culture and Science, 18, 105–120. Mehta, K. E., & Patel, V. J. (Eds.). (2004). G. M. seeds and policy. Ahmedabad: Krishi Vignan Mandel. Narayanamoorthy, A., & Kalamkar, S. S. (2006). Is Bt cotton economically viable for Indian farmers? Economic and Political Weekly, 41, 2716–2724. Patel, A. S. (1992). Badalatu Gam. Surat: Centre for Social Studies. Peshin, R., Dhawan, A. K., Vatta, K., & Singh, K. (2007). Attributes and socio-economic dynamics of adopting Bt cotton. Economic and Political Weekly, 41, 73–80. Prakash, A. (2005). The dark zone: Groundwater irrigation, politics and social power in North Gujarat. Hyderabad: Orient Longman. Prasad, C. S. (1999). Suicide deaths and quality of Indian cotton: Perspectives from history of technology and Khadi Movement. Economic and Political Weekly, 34, 12–21.

14

Social Responses to Crop Biotechnology

233

Pray, C., Ma, D., Huang, J., & Qiao, F. (2001). Impact of Bt Cotton in China. World Development, 29(5), 813–825. Qaim, M. (2003). Bt cotton in India: Field trial results and economic projections. World Development, 31, 2115. Qaim, M., & Janvry, A. D. (2005). Bt cotton and pesticide use in Argentina: Economic and environmental effects. Environmental and Development Economics, 10, 179–200. Qaim, M., & Zilberman, D. (2003). Yield effects of genetically modified crops in developing countries. Science, 299, 900–902. Ramanjaneyulu, G. V., & Kurunganti, K. (2006). Bt cotton in India. Economic and Political Weekly, 41, 561–563. Richards, P. (2004). Private versus public? Agenda-setting in international agro-technologies. In K. Jansen & S. Vellema (Eds.), Agribusiness & society: Corporate responses to environmentalism, market opportunities and public regulation (pp. 261–283). London: Zed Books. Russell, A. (1999). Biotechnology as a technological paradigm in the global knowledge structure. Technology Analysis & Strategic Management, 11, 235–254. Rutten, M., & Patel, P. J. (2002). Twice migrants and linkages with Central Gujarat: Patidars in East Africa and Britain. In G. Shah, M. Rutten, & H. Streetkerk (Eds.), Development and deprivation in Gujarat: In honour of Jan Breman (pp. 17–36). New Delhi: Sage Publications. Sahai, S. (2002). Bt cotton: confusion prevails. Economic and Political Weekly, 37, 1973–1974. Sahai, S., & Rahman, S. (2003). Performance of Bt Cotton: Data from first commercial crop. Economic and Political Weekly, 38(30), 3739. Sahai, S., & Rehman, S. (2004). Bt-Cotton, 2003–2004: Fields swamped with illegal variants. Economic and Political Weekly, 39(26), 2673. Scoones, I. (2003). Regulatory manoeuvres: The Bt cotton controversy in India. IDS Working Paper 197. Scoones, I. (2008). Mobilising against GM crops in India, South Africa and Brazil. Journal of Agrarian Change, 8(2 and 3), 315–344. Shah, E. (2003). Social designs: Tank irrigation technology and agrarian transformation in Karnataka, South India. Hyderabad: Orient Longman. Shah, E. (2005). Local and Global Elites Join Hands: Development and diffusion of Bt Cotton technology in Gujarat. Economic and Political Weekly, 40(43), 4629–4639. Shah, E. (2008). What makes crop biotechnology find its roots? The technological culture of Bt cotton in Gujarat. European Journal of Development Research, 20(3), 432–447. Shah, G., & Rutten, M. (2002). Capitalist development and Jan Breman s study of the labouring class in Gujarat. In G. Shah, M. Rutten, & H. Streetkerk (Eds.), Development and deprivation in Gujarat: In honour of Jan Breman (pp. 17–36). New Delhi: Sage. Shetty, P. K. (2004). Socio-ecological implications of pesticide use in India. Economic and Political Weekly, 39, 5261–5267. Stone, G. (2007). Agricultural deskilling and the spread of genetically modified cotton in Warangal. Current Anthropology, 48, 67–103. Stone, G. D. (2002). Both sides now: Fallacies in the gnetic modification wars, Implications for developing cuntries, and anthropological perspectives. Current Anthropology, 43, 26–46. Taverne, D. (2005). Science, democracy and fundamentalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Taverne, D. (2007). The real GM food scandal, Prospect. November. Thirtle, C., Beyers, L., Ismael, Y., & Piesse, J. (2003). Can GM technologies help poor? the impact of Bt cotton in Makhathini Flats, KwaZulu-Natal. World Development, 31(4), 717–732. Tripp, R. (2001). Can biotechnology reach the poor? The adequacy of information and seed delivery. Food Policy, 26, 249–263.

Part III

Agriculture, Fishing and Mining Projects

Chapter 15

Turning the Soviet Union into Iowa: The Virgin Lands Program in the Soviet Union William C. Rowe

The virgin lands program was one vast epic. – Memoirs of Nikita Khrushchev (2006)

On September 23, 1959, much of the world’s press rather bemusedly turned their attention towards Coon Rapids, Iowa. The occasion for this unusual notice was the arrival of Nikita Sergeevich Khrushchev, First Secretary of the Soviet Union, at the farm of Roswell and Elizabeth Garst who had invited him for what he stated to be “the most important event” of his scheduled tour of the U.S. (Khrushchev, 1974). Accompanying him on this stopover were Soviet and American officials as well as over 600 members of the press (Fig. 15.1). That the leader of a superpower should pay so much attention to an ordinary farm in rural Iowa (and not be a U.S. presidential candidate) while on a visit to the country with which he was so much at odds and with whom he subsequently would create one of the greatest crises in modern history with the Cuban Missile Crisis, is almost not credible 50 years later. And yet, he was there to discuss agricultural practices, especially pertaining to corn, with Mr. Garst and see firsthand a profitable, if capitalist, farm. The genesis of this trip lay not only with Khrushchev’s agrarian childhood in rural Russia, but more importantly with the implementation of his extraordinarily ambitious agricultural program in 1953 in what is today Kazakhstan and southwestern Siberia known generally as the “Virgin Lands” project. Monumental in scale and breathtaking in scope, it was indeed an epic undertaking, and although it was successful in its initiation, it would ultimately end up as one of the crucial issues that led to Khrushchev’s ouster. However, in 1959, the project was going well and Khrushchev was firmly in power and hoping to expand the project into an overall reorganization of spatial cropping patterns. To do this, he felt he needed to understand Iowa, particularly in how the near monocrop nature of that state could aid him in expanding not only grains, but also beef, pork, and milk products. Because there was no vocal dissent in the Soviet Union, Soviet officials never publicly questioned W.C. Rowe (B) Department of Geography and Anthropology, Louisiana State University, Baton Rouge, LA 70803, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_15,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

237

238

W.C. Rowe

Fig. 15.1 Khrushchev visiting the farm of Iowa farmers Roswell and Elizabeth Garst, September 1959. (Source: www.coonrapidsiowa.info/html/roswell_garst.html@usg)

the wisdom of trying to copy a unique situation in an area with a wildly variant climate. This consideration, along with the expression of Soviet leadership through autocracy, makes it difficult to write of this project as simply a megaengineering project when it is in fact a project inimically tied to one man, his administration, and to his doctrinaire belief in the importance of self-reliance, especially in food production, in the face of increasing tensions with the West. Therefore, consideration will be given to the agricultural situation of the area subsumed under the Virgin Lands Program before, during, and after Khrushchev’s years in power.

15.1 Agriculture Prior to 1953 Russia, from the time of Ivan the Terrible in the fifteenth century, began to expand at the expense of the Turkic peoples of Central Asia and had roughly reached the borders of what would become the five countries of former Soviet Central Asia by the beginning of the nineteenth century. The conquest of Kazakhstan, the most northerly area where the Russian encroachment began, was incremental in the beginning, but full-scale attacks on the region began in 1857. Ultimately, this culminated in the invasion and annexation of the Khanate of Qoqand and the creation of vassal states in the Emirate of Bukhara and the Khanate of Khiva. The primary reason for this expansion was for colonial gain, but there was also a great deal of paranoia about a renewed invasion of Turkic or Mongol people from the east and concern about

15

Turning the Soviet Union into Iowa

239

potential expansionist policies of England from their colonial holdings in India. In 1873, the “Great Game,” as the English called it, between Great Britain and Russia was heating up, and after much anxiety about each others’ intentions (especially in the English press), both sides agreed in principle that the line between the British sphere of influence (Afghanistan) and the Russian would be roughly the course of the Amu Darya, although the Russians pushed well south of this in western Central Asia. The Russian administrative presence in these newly acquired lands at first changed little, as even in areas annexed outright by Russia, the lives of the people in many aspects remained remarkably the same. However, this was not to remain the case for long as events in European Russia would soon cause the settlement of what is now northern Kazakhstan by Russian peasants. The crucial event was the emancipation of the serfs by Tsar Alexander II in 1861 at which time some three-fourths of peasants were controlled by the landowning class (in all some 20,000,000 people). The government allotted holdings to these peasants of only 27 acres (10.9 ha) on average while “state peasants,” or “free rural inhabitants” located mostly in Siberia and northern Russia, fared somewhat better, but on more marginal lands. This situation, along with high payments for the land, caused many peasant families to consider settling east of the Ural Mountains on recently acquired land in the steppe region. In the area of what would become Kazakhstan, the government originally allotted each male settler roughly 81 acres (32.7 ha), but later reduced it to 45 acres (18.2 ha), which, given the irrigation possibilities, they deemed enough for a family. While the situation in the western lands might work for perhaps one or two generations, the choice for many of the descendents of these peasants who had inherited only a small portion of their father’s land was to emigrate to these new lands or to give up farming completely and move to the city. The government in St. Petersburg encouraged resettlement on a large scale because of joint fears that a larger scale movement of peasants into the city would foment unrest as well as a desire to keep native Central Asians from taking all the best land as nomadic and semi-nomadic Uzbeks began to settle on unused lands under the more peaceful conditions provided by the Russian army. It has been estimated that over 1.5 million settlers in just two decades received land in the north and east districts, constituting forty percent of the population in what is now Kazakhstan by 1911. This is further reflected in the number of acres/hectares brought under grain production in Siberia and the Kazakh steppe, which had been dominated previously by nomadic and semi-nomadic Kazakhs. In 1905 there were approximately 17 million acres (6.88 million ha) in grain cultivation; however, by 1913 over 29 million acres (11.7 million ha) were sown. This naturally brought the Muslim population into closer contact and sometimes conflict with both new settlers and the foreign government, conflict that turned into open revolt on several occasions and which required the Russian military to send troops to protect the settlers (Becker, 1988; Hedlund, 1984; Lowe, 2002; Pierce, 1960; Sokol, 1954; Taaffe, 1962; Taubman, 2003; Timoshenko, 1932; Volin, 1970; Wheeler, 1974). When the tsarist government fell after the October Revolution in 1917, agricultural land owned by landowners, monasteries, and the Imperial family were

240

W.C. Rowe

redistributed to peasants, which in many cases translated into increased land holdings. However, overall production fell as the most efficient units in the system had been the larger estates, so that now Russia was dependent for its food supply on small landowners with small amounts of marketable surpluses and antiquated methods of farming. It must be noted that this was not true in all areas although it benefited later Soviet policymakers to make such generalities in their publications. The Lenin administration, therefore, began a move towards collectivization, but this movement was met by violence on the part of the peasantry that devolved into a situation where many peasants only planted enough for their own needs since the government would confiscate the rest. This caused a major famine in Russia in 1921–1922 (grain production was at only 64.5% of the 1913 total and external trade was near collapse) that affected some 25 million people. With continued peasant unrest and famine as well as the need to build the economy after the Civil War, the Lenin administration was forced to abandon what he now called “War Communism” and enact the New Economic Policy that, among other provisions, advocated peasant agriculture and allowed peasants to sell their surplus grain privately. Although qualitatively this policy made the situation the same economically as before the revolution, quantitatively the number of people able to participate in the plan was considerably higher. With this plan in place by 1926, production had nearly reached the level of the pre-World War I years in wheat, rye, and oats when grains covered nearly 90% of all sown area (Table 15.1). However, the government did not let the market decide the price of grain and other crops and throughout the years of the New Economic Policy, the government was continuously confronted with frequently unstable and insufficient amounts (Davies, 1998; Figes, 2001; Frumkin, 1926; Goncharov & Lyniakov, 1967; Hedlund, 1984; Khrushchev, 2006; Laird, 1982; Lenin, 1962; Lowe, 2002; Schiller, 1954; Sotsialisticheskoe Stroitel’stvo SSSR, 1934; Volin, 1970; Waldron, 1997; Wheatcraft, 1991). After the death of Lenin in 1924, Joseph Stalin began to consolidate his hold on the government and by 1928 his government had decided to discard the New

Table 15.1 Grain production in the Soviet Union – 1922–1926 (in millions of pounds)

Year

Wheat

Rye

Oats

1922 1923 1924 1925 1926 1927 1928 1929 1930 1931 1932 1933

23,368.8 27,072.5 28,814.1 45,811.6 53,880.4 47,509.1 48,435.1 41,622.8 59,347.8 48,479.2 44,643.2 61,133.6

40,057.6 43,607.0 41,512.6 50,154.7 52,160.8 53,285.2 42,548.8 44,885.7 52,028.6 48,479.2 48,545.3 53,329.3

17,173.8 18,408.4 19,620.9 25,397.0 32,716.3 28,902.3 36,331.8 34,700.4 36,640.5 24,162.4 24,779.7 33,972.9

Adapted from Sotsialisticheskoe Stroitel’stvo SSSR (1934)

15

Turning the Soviet Union into Iowa

241

Economic Policy and its conciliatory overtures to the peasantry. They then began a massive push towards the collectivization of agricultural lands and herds and away from private land holdings held by conservative peasants, a move that provoked widespread violence and crises (Clark, 1977; Heinzen, 2004; Stalin, 1949). Not only was this push seen as theoretically important in the creation of a communist state, but also it underpinned the ideological framework that would be the hallmark of Soviet social engineering in the countryside. Prior to this time, nearly all rural laborers were classified as “peasants”. Although Mikhail Kalinin, Chairman of the All-Union Executive Committee from 1919 to 1938 was fond of joking that workers and peasants are equally important to the Soviet state by comparing one to the left leg and one to the right leg and asking which a person would rather do without, the Soviet system, especially under Stalin’s government, was to be set up as one of “workers”. Thus collectivization was an attempt to create proto industrial workers out of farm laborers and peasants and to eliminate political opposition from this very conservative class throughout the former Soviet Union (Clark, 1977; Goncharov & Lyniakov, 1967). In this way, Soviet theoreticians placed their focus on a political identity rather than a personal identity that viewed peasants as mired in a “ ‘culturalist’ attachment to locality” (Kitching, 1998). Karl Marx directly addressed this crucial point in the transformation of society in his “Konspekt von Bakunins Buch Staatlichkeit und Anarchie”: Where they (peasants) have not disappeared and have not been replaced by agricultural day laborers as in England, the following may happen there: either they prevent or bring about the downfall of every workers’ revolution, as they have done before in France; or else the proletariat . . . must, as the government, take the measures needed to allow the peasant to directly improve is condition, to win him over to the revolution; these measures contain the nucleus that will facilitate the transition from the previous ownership of land to collective ownership . . . (Marx, 1962: 630–633).

Once peasants were transformed into workers, differences between urban and rural people could be eliminated (or at least lessened) and the idea of a “workers’ paradise” could be brought more fully to fruition. For this society to be engineered, the state would have to collectivize all private plots of land. Thus, Joseph Stalin set this out in his book Building Collective Farms: All boundary strips dividing the land holdings of the members of the artels [collective farms] shall be abolished and all plots of land thrown into one large area of land to be used collectively by the artel (Stalin, 1931: 166).

The process of collectivization where the number of collective farms went from roughly 33,300 in 1928 to 242,400 in 1938, caused production to plummet, especially after the final push for collectivization in 1930. It was not until 1933 that grain production reached the levels of the New Economic Policy (see Table 15.1) and not until 1937 that agriculture in the USSR regained the levels it had in 1913 (Jackson, 1980; Nove, 1992; Sotsialisticheskoe Stroitel’stvo SSSR, 1934; Sotsialisticheskoe Stroitel’stvo, 1939).

242

W.C. Rowe

Though collectivization resulted in hardship among the settled peoples of the USSR, it was, if possible, worse for the Kazakh and Kyrgyz nomads where the government found itself forced to sedentarize them if they were to effectively collectivize their herds. In a 17 November 1929 plenum of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, the transition from nomadic or semi-nomadic to a settled economy would play “a decisive role in effecting a rise in the material and cultural level of the masses and drawing them into socialist construction” (McNeal, 1974: 36). This situation was not accepted by the majority of the Kazakhs and Kyrgyz and they focused their resistance on either slaughtering the herds outright, or driving them into Afghanistan or China. This exodus, along with a collectivization push that had an avowed goal of opening up more land to grain production at the expense of grazing lands, was done in a haphazard way with many of the new collective farms lacking such basics as adequate forage and water. That most of the animals in these collective farms died is not surprising, nor is the widespread famine this situation caused especially during the first winter after the policy was promulgated. Demographers have estimated that nearly one million people died in the ensuing famine that followed collectivization and it would be 1939 before they reattained the population figures of 1926. In terms of animal statistics, the number of sheep shrank from 21.9 to 1.7 million and the number of cattle shrank from 7.4 to 1.6 million between 1929, the year Stalin advocated “The Year of the Great Turn” (Olcott, 1981) and 1933. As quickly as 1930 it became apparent that this policy was exceedingly ambitious causing the Stalinist government to reverse the policy and slow down the collectivization push, which instead of being completed at the latest in spring 1932 reached 95% completion by the end of 1933. However, precollectivization sheep and cattle numbers were not attained until the 1960s after much of the Kazakh population had been resettled onto marginal agricultural lands intended for grain production under the Virgin Lands program (Matley, 1989; Nove, 1992; Olcott, 1981; Stiefel, 1977; Tursunbaev, 1967; Wheeler, 1966).

15.2 Khrushchev and the Virgin Lands To Westerners it is difficult to think of Nikita Sergeevich Khrushchev outside of the lens of three famous events. First was his famous address to ambassadors at the Polish embassy in Moscow in 1956 where a phrase about the West was famously translated as “Whether you like it or not, history is on our side. We will bury you.” Second, the shoe-banging episode at the United Nations in 1960, when the head of the Philippine delegation charged the Soviet leadership with implied hypocrisy in light of Khrushchev’s concern over Western imperialism after the Soviet Union had de facto taken over Eastern Europe. Third, especially for Americans, was the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962, which brought the two superpowers perilously close to war. However, Khrushchev himself wanted to be remembered as a reformer and it is clear, both from his memoirs and from the volume of writing that has been published both during and after his premiership that agricultural reform was of great consequence

15

Turning the Soviet Union into Iowa

243

to him. The centerpiece of this legacy would become one of the greatest agricultural engineering feats of all time, the Virgin Lands program. Khrushchev was born on 15 April 1894, in the small agricultural village of Kalinovka in southwestern Russia, near the Ukrainian border. He would stay there, off and on until the age of fourteen when he joined his father in the mining town of Yuzovka, where working and living conditions, according to biographer William Taubman, “were the stuff of which anticapitalist tracts were made” (Taubman, 2003: 31). Khrushchev would stay there until 1917, where he at first tended cattle and sheep, but later apprenticing to a metal fitter. He joined the Bolshevik Party in 1918 (a year after it had gained power). From then, he worked his way up the ranks, first in a stint as Party Secretary at the Donetsk Mining Technical College, then in July 1925, he became party boss of the Petrovo-Marinsky District in southern Ukraine. From there his career skyrocketed over the next decade as he made his way into Stalin’s inner circle – and an even greater feat – managed to survive there until Stalin’s death on 5 March 1953. The void left by Stalin’s death was at first filled by four figures: Khrushchev, Georgi Malenkov, Vyacheslav Molotov, and Lavrenty Beria. By 1957, however, Beria had been executed, Malenkov demoted, Molotov disgraced, and Khrushchev, through “Machiavellian” means, stood triumphant at the pinnacle of power in the Soviet Union (Taubman, 2003). Considering his early life, it is not surprising that once in power Khrushchev would turn his attention to agriculture and the need to expand agricultural lands in an effort to raise the standard of living throughout the Soviet Union. Indeed, one of the foremost authorities on Russian agriculture, Lazar Volin, claimed “It may be fairly said that Russia was never ruled, in modern times at any rate, by one so steeped and interested in agriculture as Nikita Sergeevich Khrushchev” (Volin, 1970: 331). When Khrushchev rose to the height of Soviet power, issues ranging from the destruction of lands in World War II, during which time agricultural production had fallen by a third that triggered a famine in 1947, to the Stalinist government’s unwillingness to bring new land under cultivation, there was also continued emphasis on funding industrial capacity (20 billion rubles allotted) over agricultural production (2.7 billion rubles allotted) in the first post-war, five-year plan, caused the Soviet Union to have trouble in meeting its peoples’ basic dietary needs. This led Khrushchev to indict Stalin over his apparent lack of attention to agricultural production (among numerous other accusations) and his use of agriculture to finance industry. Although apparently sincere, this stance could also have been to highlight his own extraordinary interest in that realm (Clark, 1977; Davies, 1998; Khrushchev, 2006; Nove, 1959; Sel’skoe Khoziaistvo SSSR, 1960; Shaffer, 1977; Smith, 1987; Volin, 1970). Khrushchev began discussing the possibilities of opening new extensive farming areas to cultivation in early 1953, just after the death of Stalin. However, it was not until 1954 that he began to turn these thoughts into action. In his early months in power especially, Khrushchev, who at the time was First Secretary, did not make any grand announcements himself or lay the groundwork politically for them to happen. That task belonged to the aforementioned Georgi Malenkov, the then premier of the Soviet Union, who could take the fall if the program turned out

244

W.C. Rowe

ill conceived. Malenkov began to lay out a plan that would steer the country away from the “superindustrialization” of the Stalin years to a period that would better address the needs of the Soviet people (although he would later be accused of trying to push this agenda too far and would leave in official disgrace). The impetus to strengthen agriculture was found in the percentage of rural to urban migration in the time since the New Economic Policy. In 1926, 82.1% of the population was rural; however, in 1956, 56.6% was rural. This new urbanization, along with population growth from 147 million in 1926 to 209 million in 1959, clearly required increased productivity, especially in grain production either by extending the land sown or intensifying already sown areas. Khrushchev came out clearly in favor of the former idea and coupled it with a need to increase the material goods available to the people (Clark, 1977; Evans, 1984; Johnson, Breimyer, Heisig, Kirkbride, & Volin, 1959; Nove, 1992). He was thus often quoted as saying, “Communist society cannot be built without an abundance of grain, meat, milk, butter, vegetables, and other agricultural products” (Khrushchev, 1962: 77). Where agricultural production was to be expanded was another matter. Although from a perspective of sheer size, it would appear that augmenting agricultural land in the former Soviet Union would not constitute a problem, as the country was over 8.6 million sq. mi. (22.27 million sq. km); however climate plays a confining role to agricultural expansion. Most of the area of the Russian Republic east of the Ural Mountains is subarctic or tundra except for the area north of Kazakhstan, which is humid continental. Kazakhstan is almost equally divided between mid-latitude desert and mid-latitude steppe, the latter in the north and east of the country. Therefore, a belt of potential productivity existed along the Kazakh/Russian border that bends south in Kazakhstan along the Chinese border towards Kyrgyzstan. It became clear early in Khrushchev’s agricultural campaign that one of the primary locations for this intended expansion would be this “virgin” steppe environment between the Russian and Kazakh Republics (Fig. 15.2). It must be noted however that “virgin” is something of a misnomer here as this new program did not inaugurate just unused land, but also land that had been overused in previous years and had been left fallow for some time. Another common misconception was that there had been no activity here under previous administrations. In fact, Stalin’s government added 56 million acres (22.6 million ha) to the 63 million acres (25.5 million ha) already sown east of the Urals. Therefore, most of the best land had already been designated for agriculture and during the previous ninety years had been settled by first Russian peasants, then Russian agricultural workers. Khrushchev’s goal with the Virgin Lands project was at first to add nearly one-third more land (32 million acres or 12.9 million ha) in what were deemed more marginal areas, but by 1962 a drive to nearly double the 1953 amount in the eastern regions was enacted by the government (Clark, 1977; Timoshenko, 1932; Volin, 1970). This rapid expansion did not go unopposed. In the rhetoric used by Khrushchev to disgrace both Malenkov (who especially had favored intensification of agriculture on existing lands) and Molotov, he cited them as part of an “anti-party” group that opposed the progress exemplified by this project. The key issues seemed to hinge

15

Turning the Soviet Union into Iowa

245

Fig. 15.2 Central Asian agricultural land use map illustrating the major area of the Virgin Lands Project. (Source: Department of Geography and Anthropology, Louisiana State University)

upon a two-sided argument, one side political and the other climatologic. With the first, it was difficult for those who opposed the project to believe that if this land were of such potential value, why had it not been opened before? The second was meant to answer the first: because the areas in question were marginal and precipitation amounts rarely exceeded 16 in (40.6 cm) and more commonly were closer to 10 in (25.4 cm). Compounding this were the further problems of the northerly situation of the land as well as that of high winds that had the potential to turn the whole region into a second Dust Bowl if a prolonged drought were to hit. To put this proposal into relative geographic perspective, the land dedicated to the Virgin Lands Project is on the same latitude as North Dakota, itself a grain-growing area yet one with less variability in its precipitation. Add to this picture is the issue of the whole region becoming a monocrop of spring wheat, a condition that encourages the spread of weeds and damaging insects and creates a greatly expanded need for both insecticides and herbicides. For this reason it seemed apparent to

246

W.C. Rowe

Malenkov and Molotov why no one had tried to turn the area wholesale into agricultural production in the past. Crop yields therefore would be unpredictable from year to year with the potential for major losses of both grain and soil. Unpredictability, however, is not something that could be tolerated within the highly quantified realm of Soviet economic planning and its five-year plans, which called for firm quota assignments. Khrushchev eventually would use this recalcitrance against both, but in the meantime, the foundations needed to be laid (Johnson et al., 1959; Linden, 1966; Timoshenko, 1932; Volin, 1970). Under Stalin, agricultural infrastructure upgrades came partly from federal expenditures and loans but more importantly from income garnered from a collective farm’s surplus. This position was the first change that Khrushchev’s government reversed. Capital investment would now come directly from the government, a fact that can be seen in the first 4 years after Stalin’s death. In 1953, the state invested 985 million rubles; however in 1957, it invested 2.7 billion rubles or nearly tripling the amount and by 1964 (Khrushchev’s last year in power) was investing 5.78 billion rubles. However, imbedded in these figures are the enormous capital outlays by the Soviet government to cover the Virgin Lands Program, with the key years of investment in the Virgin Lands being 1954 and 1955. In these years, total investment in agriculture increased in 1954 to 1.79 billion rubles, nearly doubling the amount from 1953, and in 1955 to 2.2 billion rubles, an increase of a further 21%, a trend that would continue over the Khrushchev years with the exception of 1959–1960 (Table 15.2). At a smaller scale, the gross investment per acre of sown land rose dramatically from 3.2 rubles in 1953 to 7.6 rubles by 1958. Coupled with this was a six-fold increase in procurement prices for grain and lowered taxes. Such expenditures, however, mask the sheer amount spent on the Virgin Lands and infers (as it was not extolled in official publications) a stagnation of economic input (Hedlund, 1984; Kapital’noe Stroitel’stvo, 1961; Narodnoe Khoziaistvo, 1965; Volin, 1970).

Table 15.2 Gross state investment in agriculture 1953–1963 (in millions of rubles) Year

“Productive” investment

“Unproductive” investment

Total investment

1953 1954 1955 1957 1958 1959 1960 1961 1962 1963

881 1,536 1,992 2,118 2,343 2,279 2,021 2,471 2,984 3,386

104 256 273 291 360 404 474 590 743 794

985 1,792 2,265 2,409 2,703 2,683 2,495 3,061 3,727 4,180

Adapted from Kapital’noe Stroitel’stvo (1961); Narodnoe Khoziaistvo (1964); Volin (1970)

15

Turning the Soviet Union into Iowa

247

These numbers, of course, represent only the capital outlay by the Soviet government. To expand agriculture on such a massive scale, you also need human resources. In this objective Khrushchev largely appealed to the Komsomol or Young Communist League to mobilize for agricultural work (Fig. 15.3). For this enterprise, over 300,000 volunteers from the Komsomol (most coming only on a temporary basis) along with 50,000 tractors set out in 1954 for the borderlands on either side of the Kazakh/Russian border. These volunteers came from the heavily populated western region of Russia and Ukraine and had grown up on collective farms and were eager to prove themselves outside of their home districts. Most were young and, according to Leonid Brezhnev (who had been promoted to First Secretary of Kazakhstan and head of the program by Khrushchev), “out for adventure” (Brezhnev, 1978: 77). The initial problem was that the volunteers were overwhelmingly male, but soon each district began a systematic push to lure more females to the region. Volunteers came from all over the Soviet Union, but especially from Ukraine, Belarus and western Russia. Hundreds of new state farms with a few collective farms were organized under quite primitive conditions (Fig. 15.4) and that summer they began the plowing (Fig. 15.5). New roads, bridges, grain elevators, hospitals, schools, storehouses and a myriad of other buildings had to be constructed on very short notice and with limited skilled labor. Consequently, less land was actually sown in 1954 than 1953 because of the need to organize the program and begin the plowing; however, in 1955, 32 million new acres (12.95 million ha) were sown (Fig. 15.6). It was unfortunate for Khrushchev that this proved to be one of the dry years on the steppe and much of the crop was lost and many of the volunteers lost heart and returned west. Some of this feeling can be attributed to the fact that very few of the volunteers new anything about dry lands agriculture and did not yet have enough

Fig. 15.3 Volunteers in the virgin lands. (Source: Brezhnev, 1978)

248

Fig. 15.4 Constructing outdoor stoves in the virgin lands. (Source: Brezhnev, 1978)

Fig. 15.5 The first furrows in the virgin lands. (Source: Brezhnev, 1978)

W.C. Rowe

15

Turning the Soviet Union into Iowa

249

Fig. 15.6 Plowing in the virgin lands. (Source: Brezhnev, 1978)

machinery and infrastructure to fully undertake the job. Yields dropped from 380 to 180 kg/acre and the total harvest for the Virgin Lands dropped 9.5 million tons from 37.5 million tons the previous year. The criticism that began at the advent of the program began to grow and Khrushchev’s position was becoming precarious, yet he was determined to see the project to full fruition and in 1956, he caught a major break. Already reeling from the crisis in Hungary, he could not withstand another crisis with the Virgin Lands Program. However, the rains came in abundance in 1956, and the harvest proved to be a bumper one with yields averaging 440 kg/acre, a figure that surpassed those in Ukraine and older agricultural areas in Russia for the year and provided the Soviet Union with its largest grain harvest in its history (Fig. 15.7). Granted, this harvest had as much to do with the high natural fertility and untapped nutrients in the soil as with the abundant rain in the spring; however, it was trumpeted as a major achievement in Soviet know-how. This victory sealed Malenkov and Molotov’s downfall and Khrushchev went on a long tour of the region with Brezhnev, now promoted to the Central Committee in advance of the successful harvest. Brezhnev probably left just in time. Had he been there to mark the very successful harvest, it is unlikely that Khrushchev would have brought him to Moscow since the success of the program was deemed so important and subsequent bad harvests could have tarnished his rising star. As such, he was neither mired in the Virgin Lands’ early success nor in its later problems (Brezhnev, 1978; Craumer, 1990; Khrushchev, 1970; McCauley, 1976; Medvedev, 1987; Volin, 1970).

250

W.C. Rowe

Fig. 15.7 Wheat fields in the virgin lands. (Source: Photo Collection of Paul English, Department of Geography, University of Texas)

Khrushchev now could turn fully to a directive interrelated with the Virgin Lands Program concerning traditional agricultural lands in western Soviet lands. Although, as mentioned before, investment in traditionally productive agricultural areas in the west did stagnate as all financial and technical assistance was directed towards the east, it should not imply that these areas were ignored. Quite the opposite in the case, as Khrushchev had shown enthusiasm for expanding corn production in his earliest years in power by calling in a speech for an Iowa-style corn belt in Russia and subsequently increasing the number of acres sown in Ukraine and western Russia to 44 million in 1955, a four-fold increase over the previous year. But as with the Virgin Lands Program, this program was just the beginning and these areas were to become the new centerpiece for putting into practice the knowledge he had gained from his trip to Iowa, a trip set in motion by his 1955 speech. Subsequently, in the next year after his trip, Khrushchev increased the amount of corn for all usages (though mostly for fodder) again to 69.6 million acres (28.17 million ha) and raised it again to 91.7 million acres (37.1 million ha) in 1962 in order to raise the amount of meat, milk, and butter from a concomitant increase in cattle and pigs. Khrushchev felt that the implementation of this phase of his agricultural reorganization would be the final phase that would allow the Soviet Union to catch up in terms of production with the United States (Filtzer, 1993; Karcz, 1979; McCauley, 1976; Medvedev & Medvedev, 1976; Smith, 1987; Volin, 1970).

15

Turning the Soviet Union into Iowa

251

15.3 Problems on the Horizon In analyzing the 7 years between 1957 and 1963, both climatic variability and the nature of planning the program come into focus. The year 1957 did not prove to be a very productive year, but the years 1958–1960 were very respectable with yields averaging 340 kg/acre, although it must be noted that the harvest in 1959 was affected by an early frost, another indication of the potentially catastrophic variations in weather conditions in the region. By 1960, however, Khrushchev’s vision seemed to be coming true. Grain yields had increased and, with the new emphasis on corn and fodder in the western lands, the number of cattle had increased by over 15% and the number of pigs by over 35%. Consequently, the amount of beef produced increased by nearly 25%, from 5.8 to 7.7 million tons, and the amount of milk by nearly 38%, from 36.5 to 58.7 million tons between the years 1953 and 1958. With these impressive figures and with such obvious success, overall agricultural investment would trend downward from the height of the initial Khrushchev years when it reached 17.6% in 1956 to 14.2% in 1960 (Smith, 1987). This economic trend proved unfortunate as the variations in precipitation and crop timing would be felt keenly by the drought during the subsequent 3 years which culminated in a catastrophic harvest in 1963 when the yields returned to approximately 180 kg/acre. In that year, the apocalyptic fears of drought and erosion voiced behind the scenes became reality. Over 40% of the arable land of the Virgin Lands area is prone to wind erosion and in 1963 dust storms proved so bad that millions of tons of soil hid the sun for days on end and in some cases the quantity of soil removed was so great it caused the underlying bedrock to begin to show. This problem is one that continues to haunt Kazakhstan particularly as is shown in Fig. 15.8 where the capital city of Astana is nearly obliterated from sight by a major dust storm sweeping off what had been the virgin lands area (Hahn, 1972; Medvedev & Medvedev, 1976; Volin, 1970). Unfortunately for Khrushchev the variability of the weather was only one of the problems he now faced. For all the capital investment and imaginative expansion, appropriate expenditures in machinery and other necessary sectors did not follow suit. According to Khrushchev, 2.7 million tractors were needed (Khrushchev, 1962), yet by 1962 there were less than half that many available. Similar numbers can be found for combines, trucks used for agricultural purposes, and spare parts for existing machinery. Production therefore never matched planned agricultural expansion and what was produced went to the Virgin Lands. The situation was far worse in older agricultural areas of the USSR as they continued to have to use ever-older machinery that required frequent maintenance that further reduced efficiency Also, for such a dry area, little was invested in irrigation; only 10% was irrigated in 1963 (Volin, 1970). A further problem that evolved by 1963 was the consequences of Khrushchev’s pressure for large quotas from this new land. As mentioned earlier, the new soils produced well in the early years; however, the workers were not allowed to offset production on the new land with fallow years to any large extent due to the political mandate from the Kremlin that it was “wasteful”. The amount of land in fallow decreased from 18.9% of all arable land in 1954 to 2.8% in 1963, a figure that is

252

W.C. Rowe

Fig. 15.8 Dust storm in Astana. (Source: www.FunontheNet.in)

rendered even smaller in actual area by the large quantity of land that was added in the intervening years. This scenario became further complicated by the soils in the region having a relatively low nitrogen count, a problem found in over half of the arable land in the former Soviet Union. Even faced with this knowledge, fertilizer use was low in the former Soviet Union except for in cotton production in Central Asia. Agricultural workers could therefore not just simply add more fertilizer to the fields as little additional output of fertilizers by the Soviet chemical industry was ordered until after the beginning of the drought in 1961 when production in nitrogen rose 5.66 million metric tons to 10.2 million metric tons in 1964. Even if the agricultural workers could have just added fertilizer, the monocrop nature of the enterprise over such an extensive amount of land, rather than the mixed agriculture such land required, caused an infestation of weeds. Weeds again called for an order for an increase in herbicides to combat them coming in the same period in 1962 where it barely registered 28% of the amount used in the U.S. for the same year (Craumer, 1990; Evans, 1984; Khrushchev, 1962; Medvedev, 1987; Narodnoe Khoziaistvo, 1965; Zemskii, 1959).

15.4 Khrushchev’s Fall from Power The combination of a 3-year drought, poor planning for agricultural infrastructure, and a disastrous harvest caused the Virgin Lands Project to become the center of attention to those around Khrushchev who stood to gain from his ouster. Although

15

Turning the Soviet Union into Iowa

253

declining yields in the Virgin Lands was not the sole reason for Khrushchev’s fall from power, it was still a very decisive part in his removal and “retirement.” That there was a movement against him and the Virgin Lands Program was apparent from 1 March 1964 when a letter was printed in Izvestia (and hence from the government) that “professed disgust with those unpatriotic souls who spread tales about the bad harvest, food shortages, and the failures in the Virgin Lands” (Hyland & Shryock, 1968). That such a letter appeared publically essentially acknowledged that there was a problem and the people who had cautioned against such a dramatic expansion in croplands had made a point. It also implied that there existed a group that tried to tie these deficiencies to Khrushchev himself. It would not be until October, however, while Khrushchev vacationed on the Black Sea coast, that the shock of his removal would occur. It was shocking in that he did not realize it was coming and that it was carried out so thoroughly that by the time he arrived back in Moscow, the only remaining detail was Khrushchev’s actual resignation on October 14. Brezhnev took over as First Secretary of the Communist Party and because he had participated so willingly in Khrushchev’s government and agricultural plans, there was little of the usual condemnation of policy or of Khrushchev himself, simply that he had retired due to “ill health.” It was rumored that Khrushchev’s last plea before being stripped of all titles was to be given the position of Minister of Agriculture, so great was his desire to continue overseeing his beloved Virgin Lands. In this request he was denied and in this regard it is ironic that 1964 proved to be a bumper crop in the Virgin Lands (Filtzer, 1993; Hyland & Shryock, 1968; Medvedev & Medvedev, 1976). After Khrushchev’s fall, the reactions against both the Virgin Lands and his spatial crop organization were swift. Because of redirected investment, the Virgin Lands had an overall effect on agriculture throughout the Soviet Union. In real numbers, Virgin Lands wheat cost more than double that of grain grown in Ukraine or the northern Caucasus in most years. Therefore, the immediate and practical result was the cessation of adding new land to cultivation as a means of expanding agricultural output, an issue especially important to powerful administrators in western Russia and Belorussia who felt that their areas had been particularly slighted monetarily in order to maximize investments in the Virgin Lands. Next, the new government dramatically lowered Khrushchev’s favored crops, especially corn, although it would be “rehabilitated” in 1969 after dust storms killed many of the winter crops in Ukraine. The amount of fallow land was also expanded. The Soviet Union would continue to experience severe droughts in over 60% of the country’s territory while at the same time that area normally accounts for approximately 75% of grain deliveries (Davies, 1998; Hahn, 1972; Morozov, 1977). Roswell Garst had warned Khrushchev that this undertaking could not be done without a concomitant outlay in fertilizer, machinery, irrigation, pesticides, and herbicides. However, Soviet industry capacity, especially the chemical and machinery industries, did not expand at the same rate as the focus was so much on the immediate expansion of land usage. Even so, the engineering feat that was the Virgin Lands Project cannot be considered ultimately as a complete failure. Because of Khrushchev’s emphasis on agriculture, more investment was poured into this sector

254

W.C. Rowe

and the standard of living across the Soviet Union rose both during and after his administration. Agriculture stopped just being the cash cow of the Soviet economy and real investment continued, albeit in fits and starts, throughout the subsequent decades. Agricultural production grew during this period, especially in wheat, and three-quarters of the increase came directly from the Virgin Lands, which amounted to between 46% (1961) and 68% (1956) of total procurements of wheat during the Khrushchev years (Narodnoe Khoziaistvo, 1961, Taubman, 2003). The ultimate failure of Khrushchev’s dream was in his boasting that the Soviet Union could reach agricultural parity with the U.S. through the Virgin Lands Project. This Cold War attempt to present all aspects of communist economy and life as superior to that of its capitalist nemesis was doomed by the three-pronged problem of variations in weather, lack of sustained investment, and a near megalomaniacal drive to show that good communists could always overcome bad nature regardless of inappropriate agricultural crops and methods used on fragile soils and environments without a parallel increase in machines and infrastructure. Further, this situation was compounded by the very nature of centralized planning and collectivization. There were no “farmers” as such in the Soviet Union, only laborers; therefore, the only incentive was to meet the quotas and demands of the Khrushchev administration, which did not take into account either the health of the land or give any material encouragement to give the laborers the enticement to maximize the potential of the project. The Virgin Lands Project, therefore, fell victim to the ideological way in which communism had been interpreted in the Soviet Union and to the visionary, if erratic, dream of one man to completely reorganize agriculture in the largest country in the world and to blanket the Kazakh steppe in wheat for its people.

References Becker, S. (1988). Russia’s Central Asian empire, 1885–1917. In M. Rywkin (Ed.), Russian colonial expansion to 1917 (pp. 235–256). London: Mansell Publishing Limited. Brezhnev, L. (1978). The virgin Lands. Moscow: Progress Publishers. Clark, M. G. (1977). Soviet agricultural policy. In H. G. Shaffer (Ed.), Soviet agriculture: An assessment of its contributions to economic development (pp. 1–55). New York: Praeger. Craumer, P. (1990). Trends in Soviet dryland farming and soil conservation practices with comparison to North Americandevelopments. In K. R. Gray (Ed.), Soviet agriculture: Comparative perspectives (pp. 176–194). Ames: Iowa State University Press. Davies, R. W. (1998). Soviet economic development from Lenin to Khrushchev. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Evans, A., Jr. (1984). Changes in the Soviet model of rural transformation. In R. C. Stuart (Ed.), The Soviet rural economy (pp. 143–148). Totowa: Rowman & Allanheld. Figes, O. (2001). Peasant Russia, civil war: The Volga countryside in rebellion, 1917–1921. London: Phoenix. Filtzer, D. (1993). The Khrushchev era: De-Stalinisation and the limits of reform in the USSR, 1953–1964. Houndmills: MacMillan Press Ltd. Frumkin, M. I. (1926). Narodnoe Khoziaistvo Vneshniaia Torgovlia SSSR. Moscow: Gosudarstvennoe Izdatel’stvo. Goncharov, A., & Lyniakov, P. (1967). V. I. Lenin i Krest’ianstvo. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Politicheskoi Literatury.

15

Turning the Soviet Union into Iowa

255

Hahn, W. G. (1972). The politics of Soviet agriculture: 1960–1970. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Hedlund, S. (1984). Crisis in Soviet agriculture. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Heinzen, J. W. (2004). Inventing a Soviet countryside: State power and the transformation of rural Russia, 1917–1929. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Hyland, W., & Shryock, R. W. (1968). The fall of Khrushchev. New York: Funk & Wagnalls. Jackson, W. A. D. (1980). The Soviet Union. In G. A. Klee (Ed.), World systems of traditional resource management (pp. 131–164). London: Edward Arnold. Johnson, S. E., Breimyer, H. F., Heisig, C. P., Kirkbride, J. W., & Volin, L. (1959). Economic aspects of Soviet agriculture. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office. Kapital’noe Stroitel’stvo v SSSR: Statisticheskii Sbornik. (1961). Moscow: Gosstatizdat. Karcz, J. F. (1979). The economics of Soviet agriculture: Selected papers. Bloomington: University of Indiana Press. Khrushchev, N. S. (1962). Stroitel’stvo Kommunizma v SSSR i Rasvitie Sel’skogo Khoziaistva, Volume I. Moscow: Gosudarstvennoe Isdatel’stvo Politicheskoi Literatury. Khrushchev. N. S. (1970). Khrushchev remembers. Boston: Little, Brown and Company. Khrushchev, N. S. (1974). Khrushchev remembers: The last testament. S. Talbott (Ed., & Trans.). Boston: Little, Brown and Company. Khrushchev, N. S. (2006). Memoirs of Nikita Khrushchev, Volume 2 reformer (1945–1964). S. Khrushchev (Ed.). University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press. Kitching, G. (1998). The revenge of the peasant? The collapse of large-scale Russian agriculture and the role of the peasant “private plot” in that collapse, 1991–97. Journal of Peasant Studies, 26(1), 43–81. Laird, R. D. (1982). Soviet agricultural and peasant affairs. Westport: Greenwood Press (Slavic Studies Series – 1). Lenin, V. I. (1962). Polnoe Sobranie Sochinenii (Vol. 32). Moskva: Gosudarstvennoe Izdatel’stvo Politicheskoi Literatury. Linden, C. A. (1966). Khrushchev and the Soviet leadership: 1957–1964. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press. Lowe, N. (2002). Mastering twentieth-century Russian history. New York: Palgrave. Marx, K. (1962). Konspekt von Bakunins Buch “Staatlichkeit und Anarchie”. In Werke, Band 18. Berlin: Dietz Verlag. Matley, I. M. (1989). Agricultural development. In E. Allworth (Ed.), Central Asia: A century of Russian rule (pp. 266–308). Durham: Duke University Press. McCauley, M. (1976). Khrushchev and the development of Soviet agriculture: The Virgin Land programme 1953–1964. New York: Holmes & Meier Publishers, Inc. McNeal, R. H. (Ed.). (1974). On the results and coming tasks of kolkhoz construction. In Resolutions and decisions of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, Volume 3: The Stalin years: 1929–1953 (pp. 28–38). Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Medvedev, R. A., & Medvedev, Z. A. (1976). Khrushchev: The years in power. New York: Columbia University Press. Medvedev, Z. A. (1987). Soviet agriculture. New York: W. W. Norton & Company. Morozov, V. A. (1977). Soviet agriculture. Moscow: Progress Publishers. Narodnoe Khoziaistvo SSSR v 1960 godu: Statisticheskii Ezhegodnik. (1961). Moscow: Gosstatizdat. Narodnoe Khoziaistvo SSSR v 1964 godu: Statisticheskii Ezhegodnik. (1965). Moscow: Gosstatizdat. Nove, A. (1959). Soviet agricultural practices and prospects. Oxford: St. Antony’s Papers on Soviet Affairs. Nove, A. (1992). An economic history of the U.S.S.R.: 1917–1991 (3rd ed.). London: Penguin Books. Olcott, M. B. (1981). The collectivization drive in Kazakhstan. The Russian Review, 40, 122–142. Pierce, R. A. (1960). Russian Central Asia, 1867–1917. Berkeley: University of California Press.

256

W.C. Rowe

Schiller, O. (1954). Die Landwirtschaft der Sowjetunion 1917–1953. Tübingen: Arbeitsgemeinschaft für Osteuropaforschung. Sel’skoe Khoziaistvo SSSR, Statisticheskii Sbornik. (1960). Moscow: Gosstatizdat. Shaffer, H. G. (1977). Soviet agriculture: Success or failure? In H. G. Shaffer (Ed.), Soviet agriculture: An assessment of its contributions to economic development (pp. 56–105). New York: Praeger Publishers. Smith, G. A. E. (1987). Agriculture. In M. McCauley (Ed.) Khrushchev and Khrushchevism (pp. 95–117). Houndmills: The MacMillan Press Ltd. Sokol, E. D. (1954). The revolt of 1916 in Russian Central Asia. Series 71, Number 1 of The Johns Hopkins University Studies in Historical and Political Science. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press. Sotsialisticheskoe Stroitel’stvo SSSR. (1934). Moscow: Tsunkhu Gosplana SSSR, Soyuzorduchet. Sotsialisticheskoe Stroitel’stvo Sel’skoe Khoziaistvo SSSR. (1939). Moscow: Gosplanizdat. Stalin, J. (1931). Building collective farms. New York: Workers’ Library Publishers. Stalin, J. (1949). Sochineniia, Volume 12, April 1929–June 1930. Moscow: Gosudarstvennoe Izdatel’stvo Politicheskoi Literatury. Stiefel, M. M. (1977). Séminaire sur le nomadisme en Asie centrale: Afghanistan, Iran, URSS. Berne: Commission Nationale Suisse pour L’UNESCO. Taaffe, R. N. (1962). Transportation and regional specialization: The examples of Soviet Central Asia. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 52(1), 80–98. Taubman, W. (2003). Khrushchev: The man and his era. New York: W. W. Norton & Company. Timoshenko, V. P. (1932). Agricultural Russia and the wheat problem. Palo Alto: Stanford University Press. Tursunbaev, A. B. (1967). Kollektivizatsia Sel’skoe Khoziaistvo Kazakhstana. Alma Ata: Institut Istorii Partii. Volin, L. (1970). A century of Russian agriculture: From Alexander II to Khrushchev. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Waldron, .P. (1997). The end of imperial Russia: 1865–1917. London: St. Martin’s Press. Wheatcraft, S. G. (1991). Agriculture. In R. W. Davies (Ed.), From Tsarism to the New Economic policy: Continuity and change in the economy of the USSR (pp. 79–103). Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Wheeler, G. (1966). The peoples of Soviet Central Asia. London: The Bodley Head Ltd. Wheeler, G. (1974). Russian conquest and colonization of Central Asia. In T. Hunczak (Ed.), Russian imperialism from Ivan the Great to the revolution (pp. 264–298). New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Zemskii, P. M. (1959). Razvitie i razmeshchenie Zemledeiia. Moscow: Gosudarstvennoe Izdatel’stvo.

Chapter 16

The Megaengineering of Ocean Fisheries: A Century of Expansion and Rapidly Closing Frontiers Maarten Bavinck

16.1 Introduction The industrialization of the world’s oceans (Smith, 2000, 2004a, 2004b), otherwise known as the blue revolution,1 took place in a little over a century and has spread to include various economic sectors, including capture fishing.2 Capture fishing is one of the oldest livelihoods in human existence (Von Brandt, 1984), but has recently undergone a tremendous transformation. Uneven as it has been, and taking place in fits and starts, the blue revolution has evolved from myriad centers. It has only been partly blueprinted, or engineered, and technology was only one of its components. Still the process as it has unfolded over the globe has identical features. It is to a tracing of the contours of this global event that this paper is devoted. Most contemporary readers are aware that the revolution in fishing has now reached, or surpassed, its environmental limits. Scientists warn us that a growing proportion of world’s fish stocks are overfished and depleted (FAO, 2009) and that we are fishing down the food web (Pauly, Christensen, Dalsgaard, Froese, & Torrers, 1998). The consequence, some would argue, is that by 2048 all fish stocks will have been exhausted, bringing commercial fishing to a full stop (Worm, Barbier, Beaumont, & Duffy, 2006). The collapsed cod fisheries of the Great Banks have thereby paved the way for a far greater tragedy that will unfold in the years to come. From a more positive side, the World Bank (2008) points out that, with adequate reform, the fisheries will give us access to “sunken billions” of economic benefit. Whether the fisheries managers of today have developed appropriate toolkits to avert the ecological crisis remains to be seen. Fisheries governance is still a new concept (Kooiman, Bavinck, Jentoft, & Pullin, 2005) and still very much in its development. The new mindset, however, should not detract attention from the amplitude and forcefulness of transformation during the 20th century, nor from the fact that technical innovations regarding fishing are proceeding on a daily basis. The blue

M. Bavinck (B) Department of Human Geography, Planning and International Development; Centre for Maritime Research, University of Amsterdam, Amsterdam, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected] S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_16,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

257

258

M. Bavinck

revolution, in other words, has not been terminated but continues below the water line. The first section below sketches the blue revolution as it has taken place in fisheries around the world. It is followed by elaborations of the transformation process in two important fishing regions: the west coast of North America and Southeast Asia. In doing so, I rely on two historical works: McEvoy’s (1986) study of Californian fisheries, and Butler’s (2004) synthesis on history of Southeast Asian fisheries. Both regions are known for the quality of their fishing grounds as well as the productiveness of their fisheries. The Californian case illustrates the process of fisheries development which commenced around the turn of the 19th century in temperate waters, while Southeast Asian fisheries are indicative of the process which started in the tropics almost fifty years later. Attention then shifts to the technology which underlay both blue revolutions. Special consideration is given to the “roving bandits” (Berkes, Hughes, & Steneck, 2006), viz., the distant water fleets which emerged in the 1950s and contribute in no small measure to the fishing pressure. The last section considers the impacts of industrialization and looks ahead to the near future.

16.2 Revolution in World Fisheries Smith (2000, 2004a, 2004b) presents the transformation of world fisheries as part of a larger movement from traditional to industrial society, which commenced around 1780 in Europe but obviously has earlier roots. This societal movement possessed material, economic and social dimensions. Major technological change came to affect fisheries in the late 19th century, based first on the coming of steam then, early in the 20th century the internal combustion engine. These advances greatly increased accessibility to fishing grounds and the power of fishing gear. On the shore side the advent of refrigeration, the auction system, and fast and efficient rail and road transport facilitated the development of markets and thus greatly increased production. (Smith, 2000: 20)

The technical development of fisheries in Europe, North America and select other parts of the world took wing in the decades before WWII and resulted in a dramatic improvement of the efficiency of fishing operations. A similar process was initiated following the war in the newly independent countries of Asia and Africa. Governments, assisted by recently established international bodies, such as the Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO), took up the cause of fisheries modernization with fervor, following the pattern laid out earlier in the west. This implied the development of modern fisheries and the large scale construction of infrastructure such as harbors and refrigeration facilities. A whole set of other technical changes, some smaller, some larger, have occurred in parallel. The improvement of fishing technology was based on a positive assessment of the oceans’ potential, and a blind eye to its long-term limitations. McEvoy (1986)

16

The Megaengineering of Ocean Fisheries

259

gives the example of W.M. Chapman, a biologist who was highly influential in the development of policy for marine resources in the U.S. in the post-WWII period. Chapman, according to McEvoy (1986: 190), “firmly believed that the ocean had vast, untouched reserves of food and that U.S. entrepreneurs had a mission to develop those resources for the benefit of mankind.” I have come across similar views in policy documents related to the blue revolution in India (Bavinck, 2001). In the first instance these optimists appeared of course to be right. For indeed, the quantities of seafood brought to the shore increased by leaps and bound, as data from the post-WWII period illustrates (Fig. 16.1). The world’s fish harvests have increased almost fivefold. For countries that engaged in the first phase of the blue revolution, growth had actually started much earlier. McEvoy (1986: 126) thus estimates that while the fishing population of California remained roughly stable in the period 1899–1925, catches increased ten times. The revolution in fishing technology was accompanied by large scale changes in the organization of harvesting, along lines alternatively referred to as modernism, globalization or Fordism (Armitage & Johnson, 2006; Chuenpagdee et al., 2005). Fordism describes a system of production based on product standardization, decomposition of the production process, technological intensity, relatively inflexible production designs and large production volumes (Harvey, 1989, in Chuenpagdee et al., 2005). It has been applied most to industrial fisheries, and least to small scale fishing. Meanwhile, seafood markets expanded and globalized as preservation technology and transportation improved. Delgado, Wada, Rosegrant, Meijer, and Ahmed (2003) point out that this was paralleled by rising consumer demand and a long and virtually uninterrupted increase of prices. Figure 16.2 provides an indication of price trends in the U.S., which is one of the world’s major markets. The result of all these market changes is that, at the beginning of the 21st century, fish is one of the world’s most traded agricultural commodities (World Bank, 2008).

Fig. 16.1 World production capture fisheries 1950–2008. (FAO, 2009)

260

M. Bavinck

Fig. 16.2 Trends in U.S. real price indexes for fish and seafood products 1947–2006. (World Bank, 2008)

Economically speaking, the 20th century can therefore be typified as the “golden age” not only for Southeast Asian fisheries (Butler, 2004: 292), but for fisheries worldwide. Rather than being associated with poverty (Béné, 2003), fisheries have been a source of great economic wealth, attracting fortune-seekers of various type and capacities. But in every transformation of such proportions, there are winners and losers, and fisheries has seen its share of social differentiation. The biggest loser is of course the environment: many fisheries are currently believed to be severely overexploited (Fig. 16.3). Fisheries are variously classified. Johnson, Bavinck, and Veitayaki (2005; see also Johnson, 2006) make a thoughtful review of the literature, suggesting a division into small-scale, industrial, and intermediate fisheries. Each of these fishing types in principle exploits different parts of oceanic space; small scale fishers relying on inshore waters, small industrial fishermen on offshore areas, and industrial vessels on distant waters. The regular incidence of conflict between fishermen of various technology types points out, however, that there are spatial areas of overlap and contestation (Bavinck, 2005; Platteau, 1989). FAO (2007) calculates that the world fishing fleet currently consists of approximately 4 million vessels, one third of which are decked.3 Most of the other two-thirds are presumably small scale craft. The decked vessels, of various types, tonnage and power, are generally motorized, while this is the case with only a third

16

The Megaengineering of Ocean Fisheries

261

Fig. 16.3 State of world marine fishery resources. (Source: FAO, 2005)

of the undecked vessels. Trawlers are estimated to make up approximately 40% of the aggregate tonnage of the world fishing fleet (Valdemarsen, 2001: 636). All these fishing vessels are operated by approximately 35 million full-time fishermen, the large majority of whom live in Asia and in Africa (FAO, 2007). Statistics demonstrate that while the number of capture fishers in Europe and North America is declining, their numbers continue to increase steadily in other parts of the world (FAO, 1999). Contrary to popular assumption, oceanic space is not evenly fished. This is partly a result of physical and ecological characteristics, and partly because of human geography and technological reach. Biomass is generally concentrated along continental shelves; locations of oceanic upwelling constitute particularly fertile fishing grounds. Historically, however, these could not all be effectively fished. It was only as technology developed that fishing effort expanded geographically. Smith (1994, 1991) provides a typology of fishing regions in relation to urbanization, and distinguishes three types of seas: urban seas, rural seas and wilderness seas, each with its own set of uses. The first adjoin large ports and built-up areas: here fishing competes with many other intense uses of sea space. Rural seas are characterized by less intensive and slightly different use patterns, while wilderness seas are sparsely used at all. Although Smith makes no mention hereof in his discussion of this typology, it coincides more or less with the regions or dimensions of contemporary oceanic law: urban seas are located in territorial waters (<12 nautical miles), rural seas with the Exclusive Economic Zone (<200 nautical miles), and wilderness seas with the high seas in between (Fig. 16.4). With advances in the development of fishing technology, the wilderness zone of the oceans has rapidly been pushed back. Pauly, Alder, Bennett, and Christensen (2003) point out the geographic and depth expansion of fisheries since 1950 and extrapolate the trend to 2050. They note: Over the past 50 years, fisheries targeting benthic and bentho-pelagic organisms have covered the shelves surrounding continents and islands down to 200 m, with increasing inroads below 1000 m, whereas fisheries targeting oceanic tuna, billfishes, and their relatives

262

M. Bavinck

Fig. 16.4 Exclusive economic zones of the world. (Source: Wikipedia) covered the world ocean by the early 1980s. . . . With satellite positioning and seafloorimaging systems, we will deplete deep slopes, canyons, seamounts and deep-ocean ridges of local accumulations of . . . bottom fishes. (Pauly et al., 2003: 1359–1360).

The following sections describe how the variegated processes associated with fishing industrialization have impacted two important fishing regions.

16.3 Blue Revolution in California Arthur F. McEvoy’s monumental study (1986) traces the history of California fisheries from 1850 to 1980, considering the interaction between three elements: ecology, technology and production, and law. He divides this time period into three eras, the first dealing with the foundation of commercial fisheries (1850–1910), the second exploring the industrial frontier (1910–1950), and the third featuring decline and enclosure (1950–1980). We are concerned here mainly with the second phase, viz., the inauguration and industrialization of the fisheries. It is worthwhile, however, noting the basis upon which industrialization in California took place. Following contemporary scientific understanding, McEvoy describes the Californian marine ecology as essentially “lush and varied” (1986:6) and “some of the most valuable fisheries in the world” (1986: xi). Prior to European and Asian immigration into the coastal region, the First Nation population had operated a rich salmon fishery for subsistence purposes. With the arrival of poor immigrants from New England, China and Europe, notably Portugal and Italy, however, this population declined rapidly and the now commercialized fisheries were almost totally usurped (1986: 66). Ethnic specialization took place, and, at the start of the industrial era, The fishing industry . . . consisted of a number of disaggregated sectors, each with its own techniques and markets and all of them transplanted to California from somewhere else. (1986: 69)

16

The Megaengineering of Ocean Fisheries

263

Common to fisheries in this time period was that it concentrated on the inshore zone, which was consequently rapidly depleted. The Second Industrial Revolution and the discovery of oil, however, soon changed the sector thoroughly. Key to this transformation “was the successful application of fossil fuels to fishing and the gradual modification of vessels and gear for work on the open ocean” (1986: 126). This was accompanied by the development of new processing methods – such as canning, and the production of fish meal – and large, new markets (1986: 124). Three new fisheries developed: an open-sea troll fishery for salmon, a high-seas tuna fishery, and a sardine, or pilchard fishery. The industrialized sardine fishery is the most interesting of the three, showing the steepest ascent and, later, the biggest decline too. It developed so quickly, and with so little regulation, that, by the 1930s, this fishery was probably the most intensive in the world, making California the prime fishing state in the country. The crash, which came at the end of WWII, however, was catastrophic (1986: 154), and the sardine fishery never recovered. Nor did many other fish stocks. In reaction, many fishing businesses shifted their activities to other waters. Thus, a distant water tuna fisheries soon developed, as did investments in the Peruvian anchovies fishery (which collapsed in the 1970s). Looking back over the history of Californian fisheries, McEvoy argues, the commercial harvest left in its wake a trail of devastation. By their end, both the quantity and the diversity of life in the current had fallen to unprecedentedly low levels. The destruction was both cyclical and cumulative, the different sectors of the industry depleting their resources, colonizing new ones, and depleting them in turn without altering significantly their essential characteristics or patterns of behavior. (1986: 251)

This pattern of environmental wastage, was, in McEvoy’s estimation, furthered by the specific condition of the legal system. Throughout most of its history, U.S. law worked in service to the private economy to dissolve whatever barriers either the ecology of the resources themselves or the efforts of some fishers to stabilize their relations with the fish might place in the way of sustained expansion. (1986: 253)

Thankfully, this is not the end of the story. McEvoy concludes his analysis on a more positive note, pointing out the “tectonic changes in public attitudes” (1986: 255), which have taken place since the 1970s, and the new focus on conservation.

16.4 Blue Revolution in Asia John Butcher (2004) writes the history of marine fisheries in Southeast Asia in the period 1850–2000. The industrialization of fisheries in this region coincides largely with a time phase he entitles “the great fish race,” which commenced after WWII and lasted into the 1960s and 1970s. This period of rapid expansion, however, was rooted in earlier developments.

264

M. Bavinck

In the mid-eighteenth century, Southeast Asia, which encompasses the contemporary nation states of Indonesia, Philippines, Malaysia and Singapore, and Thailand possessed a thriving fisheries and a strong tradition of fish consumption. Butcher points out a “vigorous trade” in seafood products (Butcher, 2004: 37, 51) and “a huge variety of fishing gears” (2004: 41). However, most of the fishing took place close to shore, and “focused both ecologically and geographically on but a small proportion of the sea” (2004: 57). Fishers relied on passive fishing gears, as well as wind and muscle power. By 1930 catches had probably increased by a factor of three (2004: 71), and demand was growing. Butcher argues that this early increase of fish production was, however, barely accompanied by technological innovation. Rather he suggests that: The great bulk of fish captured in Southeast Asian waters was still caught with fishing gears and vessels that differed little except sometimes in size from those being operated in the mid-1800s. (2004: 72)

Instead of exploiting more distant waters and other ecological strata, fishermen had moved along coastlines into inshore areas that had been barely fished before (2004: 121), and generally intensified their fishing efforts. Technological change was becoming visible at the horizon. Borrowing technologies from Europe and North America, Japanese fishermen had started motorized trawling operations in Southeast Asia, and Chinese fishermen introduced purse seines for the harvest of pelagics such as Indian mackerel. These activities extended fishing into new ecological strata and geographical zones. Butcher is unequivocal, however, about the overall picture: “On the eve of the Pacific War vast sections of the sea were hardly touched by fishing” (2004: 165). The “great fish race,” which commenced after WWII and the independence of previously colonized nations, brought about vast change. The ethos of these new states was “development,” and fisheries was one of the foci of attention (2004: 170–171). Technology played a crucial role in realizing an upsurge in catches. We can list the technological changes that took place one by one – motorization, devices to detect fish, new fishing gears, nets made of synthetic fibers, the greater use of ice, the construction of cold storage facilities, improved land transport, and so on – but it was the combination of various changes that brought about the rapid rise in catches. (2004: 174)

The Philippines was the first country in the region to take off. But it was Thailand that soon became the biggest player. Supported by German fisheries experts, trawling developed in Thailand in a big way from 1960 onwards.4 The Gulf of Thailand, the initial location of fishing, soon became overfished. Rather than resulting in a downsizing of the fleet, the declining catch rates, however, prompted government to provide incentives for the construction of larger boats, and thereby “set off a great diaspora of Thai trawlers” (2004: 198) to other waters in Southeast Asia. Meanwhile purse seining for pelagic species also developed rapidly.

16

The Megaengineering of Ocean Fisheries

265

Trawling and purse seining were the basic elements of fisheries industrialization in other Asian countries too. As these activities spread, two varieties of conflict exacerbated. First, the incidence of conflict with small scale fishermen increased dramatically, a result of the fact that “because of the size and power of their vessels the operators of trawlers and purse seiners could easily destroy any small nets or boats that happened to get in their way” (2004: 229). In addition, small-scale fishermen felt that their livelihoods were being undermined (Figs. 16.5 and 16.6). The second conflict occurred between governments, trying to protect “their” marine resources from the incursions of foreign fleets. These included industrial vessels from Japan, Taiwan and Korea. By 1980 the frontier of fishing in Southeast Asia was closing. Although the demand for fish products continued to grow, and prices remained high, most ecological strata were now heavily fished. Butcher describes the transition as follows: During the 1960s great populations of fish lay untapped ready to be exploited when existing populations were depleted. By the late 1990s fishers were capturing virtually the full range of harvestable fish, crustaceans, mollusks, and holothurians in all ecological strata through the sea within and around Southeast Asia. (2004: 288)

In spite of increasing fishing effort, total catches had stabilized. Investors who earlier had targeted capture fishing, now started to seek more profitable investment venues, such as in aquaculture.

Fig. 16.5 Small-scale fishermen in South India. (Source: Author)

266

M. Bavinck

Fig. 16.6 Fleets of small industrialized vessels in South India. (Source: Author)

16.5 The Role of Technology Although the modernized fisheries of California and Southeast Asia differ in many respects, including the periodization of their blue revolutions, they possess a strikingly similar technological base. The likeness of their harvesting technologies follows from the emulation, adaptation and promotion of successful innovations in other fishing regions, that is, a “globalization of production” which intensified in the course of the 20th century (cf. Thorpe & Bennett, 2001). We noted above the important role of mechanical propulsion, which was introduced to fishing in the late 19th century and was accompanied by the use of new boat-building materials. Although smaller fishing vessels in the present day are often still made of wood, boat yards now often utilize fiberglass reinforced polyester (FRP) for their construction, while steel is preferred for larger vessels. Developments in engine and fiber technology, hydraulics, electronics and refrigeration also impacted vessel design significantly. Ancillary equipment too has made a big difference. Fish finders, which emerged from naval technologies designed and tested in WWII for the detection of submarines, are, writes Valdemarsen (2001: 643), “the non-gear development that has influenced the efficiency of fishing operation most.” In western countries almost all contemporary fishing vessels are now equipped with navigational and fish finding devices, and this technology is spreading fast to other parts of the world. All these technologies have assisted in exploring new fishing grounds, locating and catching target species, processing and preserving catches, and transporting them to market centers.

16

The Megaengineering of Ocean Fisheries

267

Turning to gear, Valdemarsen draws attention to another key moment, the introduction of synthetic fibers, which took place since 1950. When reviewing the outgoing century for events, that have had substantial impact on the development of fishing technologies and practices besides the large scale motorization of the fleet, it is difficult to find anything that overshadows the introduction of synthetic fibers in fishing gears, which can be dated to around 1950. (2001: 641)

Synthetic fibers are not only lighter than, for example, cotton and hemp (allowing fishers to take along more nets at one time), but are much stronger too. The increased strength of netting material, Valdemarsen (ibid.) argues, formed a condition for subsequent innovations. The introduction of transparent monofilament nylon also reduced the visibility of nets and contributed greatly to catch performance. Søndergaard (2006) and Martinussen (2006) have described the momentous changes which occurred parallel to the transition from natural to synthetic fibers in Scandinavia in the period following WWII. A small set of gear types has had an important impact on the fishing industry in the 20th century. Two fishing techniques, trawling and purseseining, stand at the heart of the industrialization effort.5 Building upon earlier fishing methods, neither of these techniques was strictly new. Changing conditions, however, prompted a process of innovation, which propelled these methods to the forefront of the technical revolution. Trawling emerged out of earlier experiences with towed bagnets (Von Brandt, 1984) and is an active fishing method.6 The proliferation of bottom trawl technology followed the development of engine-power which occurred, as we have seen, from the late 19th century onward. “Since then,” Valdemarsen (2001: 641) writes, bottom trawling “has developed to become the most important fishing method to exploit high value fish and shrimp resources living on or in the vicinity of the bottom.” Over time trawl gear has undergone many developments, which has made it suitable for new terrains, depths, and target species. It is widely used to catch shrimp, flatfish and even some roundfish species. With the exhaustion of more accessible fishing grounds, however, trawl fishermen sought to extend their range. The trend in recent years has been towards fishing in worse and worse bottom conditions as well as going into deeper and deeper waters, where bottom conditions often are known to be fairly rough. Trawling in such areas has been made possible not least with the development of rougher bottom gears for protection of the more sensitive netting parts. (Valdemarsen, 2001: 642)

Here again, technology had come to fishermen’s assistance in order to maintain catch levels and incomes. In spite of its popularity among industrial fishers, bottom trawling has recently come under severe criticism, however, for two important reasons. First, bottom trawling has been demonstrated to negatively impact the benthic environment, and thereby the ecosystem of many marine species (FAO, 2004; Pauly et al., 2002).7 Secondly, bottom trawling results in important bycatches of non-target species, which are subsequently discarded (FAO, 2004). This practice is regarded

268

M. Bavinck

as extremely wasteful. New technical innovations are therefore directed toward adapting trawl practice and reducing both negative impacts. A fundamentally different type of trawling, aimed at so-called pelagic species such as sardine, herring, whiting, or Pollack, came about mid-way the 20th century (cf. Von Brandt, 1984: 262ff). Pelagic trawls currently might have a mouth area of 15,000 m2 (161,458 sq ft) – a 60 fold increase in catching volume from the first designs. This type of fishing has become very important in the North Pacific and the North Atlantic. The development of pelagic trawl fishing, Valdemarsen (2001) argues: Has been possible, not least because of the mechanized handling of the trawl with large and powerful net drums, introduction of refrigerated sea water (RSW) to store large amounts of fish in bulk and the fish pump, which can rapidly take onboard large quantities of fish from a codend. Catches might often exceed 100 tonne in many fisheries. (Valdemarsen: 645)

The second technique which revolutionized industrial fishing in the twentieth century was purse seining. This technique relies on using a wall of net to encircle a shoal of pelagic fish at the surface, subsequently closing the net at the bottom in order to prevent the shoal from escaping (Von Brandt, 1984: 301–304). Valdemarsen (2001: 645) argues that modern purse seining depends on two developments that occurred in the 1950s: the introduction of synthetic fibers and the power block for hauling the net. Both of these innovations made it possible to enlarge the scale of fishing operations. The improvement of fish detection technology has contributed greatly to the efficiency of purse seines, so much in fact, that several important fish stocks became heavily overfished in the 1960s and 1970s. Like trawlers, purse seiners are specialized fishing units, often demanding a relatively large crew (15–25) for handling the net. The method is regarded as relatively “clean” in the sense that bycatches of other than target species can often be avoided. This is not always the case, however. The environmental movement has, for example, decried the entrapment of dolphins along with tuna, and demanded remedial measures. The main “problem” of modern purseseining, however, is its ruthless efficiency, viz., utilized together with fish-finding devices, pelagic fish schools have little chance to go undetected and escape.

16.6 Distant Water Fleets Factory ships, or distant water fleets, as they are sometimes called, epitomize the technological innovation process that has taken place in capture fishing most forcefully (cf. Berkes et al., 2006). Although in earlier days too fishermen had engaged in fishing at long distances from their homes, such as on the cod banks off North America, but the scale of these efforts were limited. Between the 1950s and the 1970s, however, nations scrambled to develop large distant water fleets that roamed the Atlantic and Northeast Pacific as well as other promising fishing grounds,

16

The Megaengineering of Ocean Fisheries

269

making use of the most up to date technology as well as the gear types described above. McGoodwin (1990) describes the breathtaking scale of these vessels: The ships were huge, some exceeding 300 ft (91.4 m) in length and 4,000 gross tons. Many were capable of bringing in as much as 500 tons of fish in a single haul and of processing over 250 tons a day. Because of their formidable capitalization requirements – a purchase price of several millions of dollars and daily operating expenses in excess of $20,000 – they were usually underwritten by giant corporations and heavily subsidized by national governments. . .Because of their processing capacity, the ships could stay at sea longer than any fishing vessels had ever been able to before – sometimes for a year or more. Each was a floating factory, and the fleet itself a kind of roving industrial complex, where even the bycatches of untargeted species and the scrap from the on-board processing operations were reduced to fish meal. (1990: 101)

The main operators of distant water fishing fleets in the post-WWII time period were the Soviet Union (now the Russian Federation), and Japan, who together accounted for more than half the total catches (WWF, 1998: 17). Other big players included – in descending order of importance – Spain, the Republic of Korea, Poland, Taiwan, Portugal, Germany, France and Ukraine. Following the fish where they were to be found, distant water fleets sometimes ventured closer into coastal waters. There they came into conflict with local authorities and fishermen. Thorpe and Bennett (2001: 145) describe what they consider in this regard as a process of “ocean colonialism” in Latin America. Others discuss such conflicts in Africa (Alder & Sumaila, 2004), and Southeast Asia (Butler, 2004). The Law of the Sea, which was adopted in 1982 and ratified a little more than a decade later, forced distant water fishing nations to either relocate their activities to

Fig. 16.7 The Atlantic Dawn – the world’s largest factory ship. (Source: www.valderhaug.no)

270

M. Bavinck

the high seas, or to negotiate with coastal states about fishing rights. Coinciding as it did with the leveling off of catches, these circumstances contributed to the scrapping of most of the largest factory ships (McGoodwin, 1990: 103) and an overall reduction in the size of these fleets. Factory ships operating in distant seas are still about, however (Fig. 16.7). Although many of them operate quite legally, others have submerged to become part of the worrying contingent of Illegal, Unreported and Unregulated Fishing (IUU), otherwise known as fish piracy (OECD, 2004).

16.7 Conclusion In the previous pages I have described the industrialization of capture fishing that took place during the 20th century in parallel to other social and economic changes. This process possessed two distinct phases, the first of which centered in the developed world and took off in the period before WWII. The second occurred in developing countries during the second half of the century. Existing fisheries underwent substantial change – hence the term blue revolution – in both instances, and new fisheries came about. Technology played a far-reaching role. The impact of technological change in fisheries has been manifold. From a global perspective, the blue revolution has on the one hand resulted in an enormous increase of fish harvests, and an improvement of food security. Millions of people are still employed in the sector; most of them live in low income countries where alternative employment opportunities are scarce. The globalization of markets and the increase of fish prices has thus contributed to economic wealth, while the World Bank argues that, if we act responsibly, many “sunken billions” are available in future. All these achievements, however, have come at a price. Marine biologists warn us that the enormous increase in technological efficiency has had catastrophic effects on the marine environment. Fish stocks that were previously shielded from predation because of human ignorance or inability, are now buckling under the strain of ever increasing effort. There is therefore a clamor for better governance. The problem is, however, as Chuenpagdee et al. (2005: 27) have suggested, that “new driving forces have developed, surpassing the capacity of the old management systems and putting new pressures on the natural and social systems.” But the 20th century also contains the seeds of what may later be recognized as a new era. The Law of the Sea, which gives coastal states responsibility for the world’s most valuable fishing grounds, constituted the first milestone herein. It has already been supplemented by agreements with regard to high seas fisheries and so-called straddling stocks. The second milestone is the realization, under the guidance of FAO, of an international Code of Conduct for Responsible Fishing (1995). Although implementation is still voluntary, this code is highly influential in directing the course of national and international governance efforts. All over the world, governments are increasing their control over fisheries, and imposing new rules and regulations. One of the most fundamental of these is the inauguration of new property right regimes, such as individual transferable quotas, in capture fishing.

16

The Megaengineering of Ocean Fisheries

271

What have all these changes meant for fishers and their communities? In Europe and North America, the fishing population has declined substantially in size during the 20th century, many old-timers disappearing into other economic avenues. The introduction of new property arrangements has limited entry to the fisheries, and may be affecting the life and long term viability of fishing communities (Lowe & Carothers, 2008). The situation in other parts of the world, such as Asia and Africa, is quite different. Although fish stocks there too are under obvious pressure, the number of fishermen is generally increasing, particularly in the small-scale sector. The fact that alternative employment avenues are scarce and fishermen’s skill sets are limited, contributes to this state of affairs. Meanwhile conflicts between groups of fishermen, as well as between fishermen and other coastal and marine users, appear to be on the increase. Acknowledgement I am grateful to Stan Brunn for his suggestions to improve this chapter. EvaMaria van Straaten helped to trace relevant material.

Notes 1. Bailey (1985) coined the term “blue revolution” to refer to technological developments in tropical fisheries (cf. McGoodwin, 1990). As this process did not differ fundamentally from the one, which took place earlier in temperate zones, I use it as a generic term. 2. Capture fishing stands opposed to culture fishing, otherwise known as fish farming or aquaculture. In this paper the term “fishing” refers only to the former activity. 3. FAO (2009: 26–27) points out the fallacy of statistics with regard to the number of fishing vessels in the world and urges that these figures are no more than indicative of global trends. 4. The number of trawlers is indicative of the popularity of trawling in Thailand. Trawlers increased from 99 in 1960 to 2700 in 1966, and 6300 in 1977 (Butcher, 2004: 195, 199). 5. Industrial fishing vessels make most use of these techniques. Innovations with regard to gill nets have been more important for small-scale fisheries, which rely more on passive fishing methods. 6. Active fishing methods are those in which the fisherman drags or pulls a gear in pursuit of his target species. Passive fishing gears are those in which the gear is stationed in one position and it is the target species that entangles itself. 7. Thus Pauly et al. (2002: 691) compare bottom trawling to the clear cutting of forests in order to hunt deer.

References Alder, J., & Sumaila, U. R. (2004). Western Africa: A fish basket of Europe past and present. The Journal of Environment and Development, 13(2), 156–178. Armitage, D., & Johnson, D. (2006). Can resilience be reconciled with globalization and the increasingly complex conditions of resource degradation in Asian coastal regions? Ecology and Society, 11(1), 2 [online]. Bailey, C. (1985). Blue revolution: The impact of technological innovation on Third World fisheries. The Rural Sociologist, 5(4), 259–266.

272

M. Bavinck

Bavinck, M. (2001). Marine resource management – Conflict and regulation in the fisheries of the Coromandel Coast. New Delhi: Sage. Bavinck, M. (2005). Understanding fisheries conflicts in the South – A legal pluralist perspective. Society and Natural Resources, 18(9), 805–820. Béné, C. (2003). When fishery rhymes with poverty: A first step beyond the old paradigm on poverty in small-scale fisheries. World Development, 31(6), 949–975. Berkes, F., Hughes, T. P., & Steneck, R. S. (2006). Globalization, roving bandits, and marine resources. Science, 311, 1557–1558. Butcher, J. G. (2004). The closing of the frontier – A history of the marine fisheries of Southeast Asia c. 1850–2000 (442 pp). Singapore: ISEAS Publications. Chuenpagdee, R., Degnbol, P., Bavinck, M., Jentoft, S., Johnson, D., Pullin, R., et al. (2005). Challenges and concerns in capture fisheries and aquaculture. In: J. Kooiman et al. (Eds.), Fish for life – Interactive governance for fisheries (pp. 25–37). Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Delgado, C. L., Wada, N., Rosegrant, M. W., Meijer, S., & Ahmed, M. (2003). Fish to 2020 – Supply and demand in changing global markets. In association with WorldFish Centre. Washington, DC: International Food Policy Research Institute. FAO (1999). Number of fishers 1970–1996. Fishery Information Data and Statistics Unit. Rome: Food and Agriculture Organization. FAO (2004). The state of world fisheries and aquaculture. Rome: Food and Agriculture Organization. FAO (2005). Review of the state of world marine fishery resources. FAO Fisheries Technical Paper 457. Rome: Food and Agriculture organization. FAO (2007). The state of world fisheries and aquaculture 2006. Rome: Food and Agriculture Organization. FAO (2009). The state of world fisheries and aquaculture 2008. Rome: Food and Agriculture Organization. Harvey, D. (1989). The condition of postmodernity. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Johnson, D., Bavinck, M., & Veitayaki, J. (2005). Fish capture. In J. Kooiman et al. (Eds.), Fish for life – Interactive governance for fisheries (pp. 71–91). Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Johnson, D. (2006). Category, narrative, and value in the governance of small-scale fisheries. Marine Policy, 30, 747–756. Kooiman, J., Bavinck, M., Jentoft, S., & Pullin, R. (Eds.). (2005). Fish for life – interactive governance for fisheries. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Lowe, M. E., & Carothers, C. (2008). Enclosing the fisheries – People, places, and power. American Fisheries Society Symposium 68. Bethesda (Maryland): American Fisheries Society. Martinussen, A. O. (2006). Nylon fever: Technological innovation, diffusion and control in Norwegian fisheries during the 1950s. Maritime Studies (MAST), 5(1), 29–44. McEvoy, A. F. (1986). The fisherman’s problem – Ecology and law in the California fisheries 1850–1980. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. McGoodwin, J. R. (1990). Crisis in the world’s fisheries – People, problems and policies. Stanford: Stanford University Press. OECD (2004). Fish piracy: Combating illegal, unreported and unregulated fishing. Paris: Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development. Pauly, D., Alder, J., Bennett, E., & Christensen, V. (2003). The future for fisheries. Science, 302, 1359–1361. Pauly, D., Christensen, V., Buénette, S., Pitcher, T. J., Sumaila, C. J., Walteres, R., et al. (2002). Towards sustainability in world fisheries. Nature, 418, 689–695. Pauly, D., Christensen, V., Dalsgaard, J., Froese, R., & Torrers, F., Jr. (1998). Fishing down marine food webs. Science, 279, 860–863. Platteau, J. P. (1989). The dynamics of fisheries development in developing countries: A general overview. Development and Change, 20(4), 565–599.

16

The Megaengineering of Ocean Fisheries

273

Smith, H. D. (1991). The North Sea: Sea use management and planning. Ocean & Shoreline Management, 16, 383–395. Smith, H. D. (1994). The development and management of the world ocean. Ocean & Coastal Management, 24, 3–16. Smith, H. D. (2000). The industrialization of the world ocean. Ocean & Coastal Management, 43, millenium essay, 11–28. Smith, H. D. (Ed.) (2004a). The oceans: Key issues in marine affairs. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers. Smith, H. D. (2004b). The geography of the sea. In Smith, H. D. (Ed.), The oceans: Key issues in marine affairs. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers. (pp. 5–19). Søndergaard, M. K. (2006). The introduction of synthetic fibers in Denmark’s fisheries, c. 1945– 1970. Maritime Studies (MAST), 5(1), 13–28. Thorpe, A., & Bennett, E. (2001). Globalisation and the sustainability of world fisheries: a view from Latin America. Marine Resource Economics, 16, 143–164. Valdemarsen, J. W. (2001). Technological trends in capture fisheries. Ocean & Coastal Management, 44, 635–651. Von Brandt, A. (1984). Fish catching methods of the world (3rd ed.). Farnham: Fishing News Books. World Bank (2008). The sunken billions – The economic justification for fisheries reform. Publication together with FAO. Washington, DC: Agriculture and Rural Development Department. Worm, B., Barbier, E. B., Beaumont, N., & Duffy, J. E. (2006). Impacts of biodiversity loss on ocean ecosystem services. Science, 314, 787–790. WWF (1998). The footprint of distant water fleets on world fisheries. Endangered seas campaign. Godalming, UK: World Wildlife Fund International.

Chapter 17

Impacts of Up-Coming Deep-Sea Mining Tetsuo Yamazaki

17.1 Introduction to Deep-Sea Mining 17.1.1 Manganese Nodules and R and D for Mining Technologies Deep-sea manganese nodules are the first recognized deep-sea mineral resources (Cronan, 1980; Mero, 1965). The deepest of these occurrences are from 4 to 6 km (2.49–3.7 mi) in water depths. The nodules, been found in large quantities at the Clarion-Clipperton Fracture Zones (CCFZ) in the Pacific, have been focused as potential resources for Cu, Ni, Co, and Mn in the next generation (Cronan, 1980; Mero, 1965). For manganese nodules, international consortia conducted some form of tests of prototype mining systems and components in the 1970s (Bath, 1989; Kaufman, Latimer, & Tolefson, 1985; Welling, 1981). However, subsequent progress has been slow down since 1980, due to unfavorable metal-market conditions, which led to the virtual cessation of R&D activities by international consortia since the early 1980s. On the other hand, individual countries have entered the R&D arena since the 1980s as part of their national R&D programs (Herrouin et al., 1987; Hong & Kim, 1999; Muthunayagam & Das, 1999; Yamada & Yamazaki, 1998; Yang & Wang, 1997), because it was necessary to have an original mining technology for getting an exclusive mining claim for manganese nodules in the High Sea Area under the Law of the Sea. Consequently, they got their issued claims from the International Seabed Authority (ISA) as shown in Fig. 17.1 (http://www.isa.jm/). The general concept of mining system is shown in Fig. 17.2. Three major components of the mining system are: a mining vessel on sea surface, a lift system with pipe string and buffer, and a seafloor miner. The miner collects the nodules

T. Yamazaki (B) Osaka Prefecture University, Osaka, Japan e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_17,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

275

276

T. Yamazaki

Fig. 17.1 Issued mining claims for manganese nodules from ISA in CCFZ. Note: India has one in the Indian Ocean

half-buried in sediments on seafloor and sends them via the lift system through the feed regulating buffer. A water flow generated by pumps through the pipe string lifts the nodules up to the mining vessel. The assumed production scales of a mining unit in commercial stage ranged from 5,000 to 10,000 t/d in the consortia’s and national R&D studies.

17.2 Outlines for Environmental Impacts Caused by Nodule Mining Three major sources of in-situ environmental impacts are expected during the manganese nodule mining. They are direct miner tracking on seafloor, a seafloor plume created by discharged sediments from the miner, and a surface plume created by discharged sediments and water from the mining vessel as shown in Fig. 17.2. On the seafloor, a huge amount of deep-sea sediments is recovered with nodules by the miner (Yamazaki, Tsurusaki, & Handa, 1991). Most of the recovered sediments are separated from the nodules and discharged from the miner immediately. They make the sediment-water mixture, suspended near the seafloor as a sediment plume, and then settled on the seafloor again finally. Severe damage of seafloor benthos may occur with the direct miner tracking and the resedimentation, because the benthos is expected to be very weak. The sediment deposition rate is too quick compared with the one under the natural condition. It then shuts down the feed supply to the benthos and covers the seafloor like a very large blanket.

17

Impacts of Up-Coming Deep-Sea Mining

277

Fig. 17.2 Schematic image of manganese nodule mining system and the environmental impact sources

17.2.1 Environmental Impact Studies for Nodule Mining 17.2.1.1 DOMES A pilot investigator of environmental impacts caused by manganese nodule mining was U.S. The Deep Ocean Mining Environmental Study (DOMES 1972–1981) Project, which was carried out by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) in CCFZ, was only one pioneer systematic study of the environmental impacts. Three DOMES reports, which included an environmental baseline study (Ozturgut, Anderson, Burns, Lavelle, & Swift, 1978) and two environmental monitoring results of the nodule mining tests (Burns, Erickson, Lavelle, & Ozturgut, 1980; Ozturgut, Lavelle, Steffin, and Swift, 1980), were published. The monitoring was completed during two of the pilot-scale mining tests conducted by Ocean Mining Inc. and Ocean Mining Associates in 1978 in the Pacific Ocean. The concentrations of particulates in the discharges, and assessed the biological impacts on the surface, as well as benthic plumes were measured. Because no other monitoring of surface discharge during mining tests has been conducted since then, the results still have current value as being of interest. Postmining monitoring of the deep-sea environment was investigated with the Scripps Institute of Oceanography in 1983 in the DOMES area. No change was found in the benthos from the observation and samplings (Spiess, Hessler, Wilson, & Weydert, 1987).

278

T. Yamazaki

17.2.1.2 DISCOL The Disturbance and Recolonization Experiment in a manganese nodule area of the Deep South Pacific Ocean (DISCOL) was started in 1988 by a German group. The numerical and biological analyses are both very important and interesting (Schriever, 1995; Thiel & Forschungsverbund Tiefsee-Umweltsschutz, 1995; Zielke, Jankowski, Sündermann, & Segschneider, 1995), though the disturbance scale created by a towed plough in 1989 was very small. The group observed the disturbed area in 1996, 7-years after the disturbance and found that still some impacts remained on the benthos (Bluhm, 1999; Schriever, Ahnert, Borowski, & Thiel, 1997). These results summarized some important proposals necessary for the environmental assessments of future commercial deep-sea mining activities (Thiel, Angel, Foel, Rice, & Schriever, 1998). 17.2.1.3 NOAA-BIE The Benthic Impact Experiments (BIE I&II, 1991–1995) were conducted by NOAA in CCFZ under cooperation with Russia. After baseline studies in a pre-selected area, the Deep-Sea Sediment Resuspension System-DSSRS (Brockett & Richards, 1994) was used 49 times in an area of 150 × 3,000 m (492 × 9,842 ft). The postdisturbance sampling with CTD, sediment traps, and core samples indicated changes in the faunal distribution in the area. The impact assessment after 9 months indicated that, while some of the meiobenthos showed a decrease in abundance, the macrobenthos showed an increase in their numbers, probably because of increased food availability (Trueblood, Ozturgut, Pilipchuk, & Gloumov, 1997). However, the project was stopped in 1995 and the complete results have not yet reported. 17.2.1.4 JET In Japan, an environmental impact research on manganese nodule mining was initiated in 1989 (Kajitani, 1997). Following 5 years of planning and baseline studies of the environment in and around the Japan’s mining claim in CCFZ, the Japan Deep-sea Impact Experiment (JET) was conducted in 1994 under cooperation with NOAA using DSSRS (Yamazaki & Kajitani, 1999). The detail is introduced in the following paragraph. 17.2.1.5 IOM-BIE A benthic impact experiment (IOM-BIE) was conducted by the Interoceanmetal (IOM) Joint Organization in the Pacific Ocean’s CCFZ in 1995, using DSSRS. In all, 14 tows were carried out on a site of 200 × 2,500 m (656 × 8,202 ft) and the impacts were observed from deep-sea camera tows and sediment samples (Kotlinski & Tkatchenko, 1997). No significant change was observed in meiobenthos abundance and community structure in the re-sedimented area, but alteration in meiobenthos assemblages within the disturbed zone was observed (Radziejewska,

17

Impacts of Up-Coming Deep-Sea Mining

279

1997; Radziejewska & Modlitba, 1999). This finding indicates that the intensity of disturbance and the proximity to the site could have variable effects on the composition of the faunal assemblages. The review of baseline data and benthic impact experiment were reported (Radziejewska, Szamałek, & Kotlinski, 2003). 17.2.1.6 INDEX The National Institute of Oceanography (Goa, India) conducted the Indian Deepsea Environment Experiment (INDEX) for the Department of Ocean Development (Government of India) in 1997 in a pre-selected area in the Central Indian Ocean Basin after a detailed baseline study during 1995–1997. The DSSRS was used 26 times in an area of 200 × 3,000 m (656 × 9,842 ft) (Desa, 1997). Post-disturbance impact assessment studies indicated vertical mixing of sediment, lateral distribution of suspended particles, and differential effects on microbial, meio and macrobenthos both inside and outside the disturbance track (Ingole, Ansari, Matondkar, & Rodrigues, 1999). The post experiment monitoring results after 5 years were reported by Sharma et al. (2003).

17.3 Detail of Japan’s Research in Nodule Claim 17.3.1 Baseline Studies For surface water column, 0–200 m (0–656 ft) in depth, CTD profiling, plankton and water sampling were conducted at every degree of latitude between 5◦ N and 15◦ N along the 147◦ W longitudinal line. The depths of thermoclines, species and sizes of phyto- and zooplankton, and nutritive salt concentrations were also examined (Kajitani, 1997). For the bottom water column, 0–50 m (0–164 ft) in height above seafloor, current profiling was conducted and background sedimentation rates were measured. For deep-sea sediment layers, physical and chemical properties, and the abundance of benthos and bacteria were clarified (Kajitani, 1997). A sediment core sampler, multiple-corer (MC), originally developed for the German study, was used and the effectiveness for surface sediment layer was certified. The corer installed eight subcore tubes, 95 mm (3.74 in) in inner diameter and 610 mm (24 in) in length, into the frame. In the meiobenthos, the size ranges 32–300 μm in deep-ocean area was found to be a good indicator of benthos with MC sampling; the background abundance was also clarified (Shirayama & Fukushima, 1997a). 17.3.1.1 JET An artificial near seafloor sediment plume was created in August 1994 with DSSRS; it was a kind of model collector called “disturber.” The schematic arrangement is summarized in Fig. 17.3. The disturber recovered 352 tons of deep-sea sediments

280

T. Yamazaki

Blanketing by settlement of sediments

Plume Collector Remove & remold Re-deposition

Fig. 17.3 Schematic arrangement of JET

in dried weight during a 20 h-and-27 min operation and flushed them out from a chimney-like duct pipe (Barnett & Yamauchi, 1995). Twelve mooring systems around the tow zones were deployed based on the pre-measured near-bottom current profile. The re-suspended sediments were collected in sediment traps and the current speeds and directions were measured by current meters included in the mooring systems during the experimental period (Fukushima, 1995). Pre-experiment observation (J1) was conducted a few weeks before the experiment to determine background conditions of the experimental area and the ambient seafloor. Samplings of deep-sea sediments for biological, chemical, and physical analyses by MC were the main operations in the period. Thirteen trials were there in the test site. Post-experiment observation was separated into three periods such as just after the experiment (J2), about 1 year after (J3), and about 2 years after (J4). The observation efforts concentrated on the sediment samplings and inspections of the seafloor via a camera system, because monitoring of the benthos covered by the resedimentation was considered to be the most important in these periods. An example of a seafloor photo of the disturber track is shown in Fig. 17.4. Fourteen, 12, and 12 were numbers of the sampling trials in J2, J3, and J4 respectively.

17.3.2 Evaluation of Impacts The resedimentation was analyzed using three methods. Using the data from the mooring systems and an interpolation method, the areal distribution was calculated

17

Impacts of Up-Coming Deep-Sea Mining

281

Fig. 17.4 Disturber track

2.5 km (1.55 mi) long and 1 km (0.62 mi) wide, and the maximum thickness 2.6 mm (0.1 in) in re-disposition (Barnett & Suzuki, 1997). To increase data points for an analysis of the resedimentation, an image analytical technique was developed and applied to the seafloor photos (Yamazaki, Kajitani, Barnett, & Suzuki, 1997). The areal distribution was estimated approximately 3 km (1.86 mi) long and 2.5 km (1.55 mi) wide. It also showed that the heavy resedimentation area, which was thicker than 0.26 mm (0.01 in), was within 100 m (328 ft) of the towed tracks. The extent of the resedimentation area calculated by a computer simulation to qualify the dispersion analysis of re-suspended sediments agreed with these analyses (Nakata, Kubota, Aoki, & Taguchi, 1997). The average thickness of the deep-sea sediment layer recovered by the disturber was calculated to be about 50 mm (2.36 in) from the recovered weight and a stereo photogrammetric analysis (Yamazaki et al., 1997). A quick decrease in the abundance of resedimentation in the meiobenthos community just after the experiment (J2) in the areas and in the recovery about 2 years after (J4) are summarized from J1 to J4 observations by Shirayama and Fukushima (1997b).

17.3.3 Scale Consideration of Experiment The thickness of deep-sea sediment layer recovered by a commercial scale collector was calculated at 57 mm (2.24 in) based on vertical profiles of vane-shear strength and sensitivity of the layer, and 1 kPa of nodule pick-up resistance (Yamazaki et al., 1991). The volume of sediments recovered by the collector and discharged on the

282

T. Yamazaki

seafloor was estimated at 54,000 m3 /d from the recovered thickness, 10,000 t/d nodule production rate in wet condition, and 10 kg/m2 nodule abundance in wet conditions in the calculation (Yamazaki & Sharma, 2001). The total volume of recovered sediments by the disturber was calculated at about 1,400 m3 based on sampling results of discharged water-sediment mixture content from the disturber, discharged rate of the disturber, the total operation time, and about 80% water content of the sediments in-situ (Yamazaki & Sharma, 2001). Thus, the volumetric scale of discharge in JET was only 2.6% of the daily one in 10,000 t/d production rate of commercial mining.

17.4 Japan’s Further Research in Seamount Area 17.4.1 DIETS Because the disturber was towed fewer times than originally planned in JET, it failed to create as dense a tracking zone as expected. The post-experiment core samples were only collected from the resedimentation area, and no data at all were obtained related to the direct destruction of the ecosystem that occurred in the running tracks of the nodule collector. Therefore, a separate experiment was needed to analyze the impact of such activity on the seafloor ecosystem. In another attempt to gather appropriate data, an artificial impact experiment that focused on analyzing the direct destruction of benthos occurring in the running tracks of a nodule collector was conducted in a terrace on the same seamount where the nodule collection test had taken place in the southeast region of Marcus Island in 1999 (Yamazaki, Kuboki, & Matsui, 2001). The experiment was called DIETS (Direct Impact ExperimenT on Seamount). The depth was 2,200 m (7,218 ft), and the nodule population was 15 kg/m2 in the terrace. A towed system called a “scraper” was used in DIETS. The outline of the scraper tow operation is summarized in Fig. 17.5. The nodules and sediments along the track were removed and piled with the tow in accordance with the system design.

Fig. 17.5 Outline of scraper tow (left) and the unit configuration (right)

17

Impacts of Up-Coming Deep-Sea Mining

283

Because the Differential Global Positioning System for the R/V navigation and the Long Base Line underwater acoustic positioning method deployed with the bottom transponders in advance of the scraping on the seafloor were used in DIETS, the position accuracy of the scraper on the seafloor was presumed to be about 10 m (32.8 ft). The length of one tow was scheduled to be 700–1,000 m (2,297–3,281 ft). A dense tow zone of 100 m (328 ft) in width and 200 m (656 ft) in length was set up to make the post-experiment sediment core sampling easy from the places where the nodules had been removed, and a total of 15 tows was planned for this area. That is, if each tow was 6 m (19.68 ft) wide with no overlapping, the width of scraping totals 90 m (295 ft). Even when the tows overlapped an average of 50% of the scraper width, 67.5 m (221 ft) in total or two-thirds of the zone width was covered with the piling. Therefore, the probability of effective sampling from the direct destruction area with MC increased.

17.4.2 Post-experiment Observation and Sampling Successful scraping was confirmed from the seafloor observations as shown in Fig. 17.6. The horizontal extent and the thickness of the resedimentation created by DIETS were detected approximately 200 m (656 ft) to the north and 240 m (787 ft) to the south from the dense tow zone and 0–0.18 mm (0–0.70 in) for increase of sediment cover on nodules, respectively. These were measured by applying an image analysis technique of seafloor photos developed for quantification of resedimentation (Yamazaki, Kuboki, & Uehara, 2001). The extent was quite smaller than the one created in JET. The functional differences between the scraper and the disturber, and the size differences of the two sediments, were considered the main reasons. The removal of the top surface sediment layer and the impacts and recovery were clearly detected from some sediment core analysis data (Ohkubo & Yamazaki,

Fig. 17.6 Observed image of scraper tow tracks

284

T. Yamazaki

Population (inds./10cm2)

200 Seafloor scraping 150

100

50

0 1999 (Before 1999 (After experiment) experiment)

2000

2001

2002

year

Fig. 17.7 Population change of meiobenthos before and after experiment

2003). The water content profiles showed that the top surface sediment layer (1–2 cm (0.39–0.78 in) deep), in which the water content of background is quite high, was cut and taken away. The removal is also recognized from the biological analysis as summarized in Fig. 17.7. Background population of meiobenthos, mainly composed of nematode, was 70/10 cm2 in the DIETS site. The population, immediately and 1 year after, decreased drastically in the nodule removed locations. However, 2 years after, it increased more than the level of background. The reasons of these changes are suggested as follows: • Initially the meiobenthos in the top sediment surface layer is the richest part in population and is removed with sediments and also destroyed. The reduction in the population is observed in this stage. • They return from the surrounding area and/or breeding of the remaining ones occurs. The increase in the population is observed in this stage. The overshooting more than the background level in meiobenthos was also observed in the post-experiment monitoring of JET (Shirayama, 1999). The timing was the same, 2 years after the experiment. However, this occurred in the resedimentation area. The 2 years might be a necessary duration for the reproduction at meiobenthos level from destroyed and dead organisms in the benthic ecosystem. From this viewpoint, much of the amount of dead organisms was considered the reason of the overshooting.

17.4.3 Numerical Modeling Numerical modeling in this research is classified into two parts. The first one was to revise the diffusion model used for the seafloor plume dispersion, re-settlement, and resedimentation in the previous program. Data obtained during NOAA-BIE

17

Impacts of Up-Coming Deep-Sea Mining

285

(Trueblood et al., 1997) were introduced into the model and some trial calculations were conducted for the improvement (Doi, Nakata, Kubota, & Aoki, 1999). The model with wider applicability was finally developed. The second effort one was to create a benthic ecosystem model and to combine it with the seafloor plume diffusion and resedimentation model. The ecosystem model was created based on a carbon mass balance in the bottom layer. Then a series of preliminary test calculations under the resedimentaion and the direct destruction conditions were conducted introducing the JET and DIETS data, respectively.

17.5 Expected Environmental Impacts Caused by Seafloor Massive Sulfide Mining 17.5.1 Seafloor Massive Sulfide Mining Kuroko-type seafloor massive sulfides (SMS) in the western Pacific have received as much attention as resources for gold, silver, copper, zinc, and lead for the commercial mining by private companies (http://www.nautilusminerals.com; http://www.neptuneminerals.com). Since the end of the 1980s, SMS have been found in the back-arc basin and on oceanic island-arc areas at 1–2 km (0.62– 1.24 mi) of water depths. The typical representatives found are in the Okinawa Trough and on the Izu-Ogasawara Arc near Japan (Halbach et al., 1989; Iizasa et al., 1999), in the Lau Basin and the North Fiji Basin near Fiji (Bendel et al., 1993; Fouquet et al., 1991), and in the East Manus Basin near Papua New Guinea (Kia & Lasark, 1999) as shown in Fig. 17.8. The higher gold, silver, and copper contents in one of the areas have increased the likelihood that mining would be profitable, and a pioneer commercial mining venture is scheduled to start in 2012–2013 (http://www.nautilusminerals.com). The planned production scale is 6,000 t/d. The mining system is a similar one like manganese nodules in Fig. 17.1 except the miner and the discharge point of lifted sediments and water. The miner is necessary to add cutting and crushing functions for the SMS ore body. The lifted sediment and water are planned to return to the bottom via pipeline and those discharged near the seafloor.

17.5.2 Ecosystem Around Seafloor Massive Sulfides A unique large biomass ecosystem has been found around active hydrothermal vents (http://www.whoi.edu/oceanus/viewArticle.do?id=2420). They are Beggiatoa, Calyptogena, Bathymodiolus, tubeworms (Riftia pachyptila), amphipods, copepods, snails, shrimps, crabs, sea urchins, sponges, and fishes. All SMS in the western Pacific mentioned above are accompanied by many active hydrothermal vents. The primary productions in the ecosystem are sulfur oxidation using hydrogen sulfide supplied from the venting water and immobilization. The filamentous, colorless

286

T. Yamazaki

Fig. 17.8 Distribution of known active SMS sites in the western Pacific

sulfur oxidizing bacteria Beggiatoa spp. often grows abundantly on top of sulfiderich sediments. They are found around hydrothermal vents throughout the world’s oceans, and may form mats on marine sediments ranging in size from a few millimeters to several meters (Fenchel & Bernard, 1995). Calyptogena spp., which harbors sulfur oxidizing bacteria in their gills, is thought to be sustained by chemosynthetic energy sources under immobilization. Bathymodiolus, and tubeworms (Riftia pachyptila), have the same functions like Calyptogena. They are either found adjacent to hydrothermal vents and Beggiatoa fields. The mass balance in the bacteria mat and the bivalve fields are illustrated in Fig. 17.9. Only the function of chemosynthetic sulfur oxidation is considered in thise figure. The mass balance ecosystem

17

Impacts of Up-Coming Deep-Sea Mining

287

Fig. 17.9 Structural outline of sulfur oxidizing in bacterial mat field (left) and bivalve field (right)

model of chemosynthetic sulfur oxidation around natural cold seepages has been created (Takeuchi et al., 2007). The model is also applicable for hydrothermal chemosynthesis. The other animals found around active hydrothermal vents, such as amphipods, copepods, snails, shrimps, crabs, sea urchins, sponges, and fishes, are the secondary species categorized as the chemosynthesis-affected ecosystem on the organic carbonate creation with the chemosynthetic members (http://www. pmel.noaa.gov/vents/nemo/explorer/concepts/chemosynthesis.html). The food web structure around hydrothermal vent is illustrated in Fig. 17.10 and is compared with the one in normal benthos. Because of additional primary production from the chemosynthesis, the biomass around the hydrothermal vent is quite richer than the one in normal benthos.

17.5.3 Expected Environmental Impacts Caused by SMS Mining Both the direct destruction of the ecosystem that occurred on and in the SMS ore body to be extracted and recovered, and the blanketing of the ecosystem in the surrounding area of the SMS ore body with the resedimentaion of fine particles separated from the SMS ore, are the expected environmental impacts caused by the SMS mining on the seafloor. Not only the active hydrothermal vents, but also the sites,

Fig. 17.10 Comparison of food web structures around hydrothermal vent (left) and in normal benthos (right)

288

T. Yamazaki

where small chemosynthetic communities are present, are recognized as dangerous zones for the seafloor miner. The vents and the sites have active hydrothermal flux routes through fissures and/or faults and high temperature and high corrosive water may be increased and/or induced with the mining activity. The miner’s robotic control mechanism and sensors are too weak against the high temperatures though it is 40–50◦ C (104–122◦ F). The high corrosive atmosphere is also not good for hardware on and around sea floor. Thus, no direct destruction of chemosynthetic community is expected. However, the direct destruction of the chemosynthesis-affected ecosystem and the blanketing of the chemosynthetic community, the chemosynthesis-affected ecosystem, and the normal ecosystem are expected.

17.5.4 Environmental Assessment of SMS Mining Because the chemosynthetic communities around hydrothermal vents are unique and different from the normal ecosystem, the quantitative distribution and abundance data are necessary for baseline analysis. The data on the chemosynthesisaffected ecosystem are necessary, too. However, at present only many scientific and biological studies, such as the chemosynthesis mechanism and DNA analyses, are available in the literature. Therefore, a baseline survey from the chemosynthetic community on the active hydrothermal vent near the target mining site, through the chemosynthesis-affected ecosystem in the transition zone to the normal ecosystem far away from the mining site, are required. As learned from some previous research mentioned in the previous paragraph is that an artificial impact experiment and the post experiment monitoring are both necessary for a deeper understanding the SMS mining impacts on seafloor ecosystem. A small scale extraction and recovery of the SMS ore body such as a pilot or trial mining test is a good chance to evaluate the mining impacts. Both the direct destruction of the ecosystem and the blanketing of the ecosystem must be monitored at least a few years after the experiments. Because of the richer biomass around active vents and continuous hydrogen sulfur supply, the recovery rates of the chemosynthetic community and the chemosynthesis-affected ecosystem are expected to be quicker than the ones observed in manganese nodule areas. However, the actual observation data are necessary and the recovery rate of the surrounding normal ecosystem is impossible to expect. In addition to the biological and physical phenomena, some chemical impacts on the ecosystem may occur, because the SMS ore itself contains many metals. Thus it must also be clarified through the experiment and the monitoring. On the basis of the understanding of the baseline conditions, a numerical ecosystem model around hydrothermal vents should be developed that includes the chemosynthetic community, the chemosynthesis-affected ecosystem, and the normal ecosystem. By applying the experiment and the monitoring data, the model will be improved to simulate the mining impacts and the recovery process. Thereafter, the model is used as an effective tool for expecting scale-upped mining impacts and for assessing environmental impacts with proposed deep-sea mining.

17

Impacts of Up-Coming Deep-Sea Mining

289

17.6 Economic Impacts on Metal Markets 17.6.1 Economy of Deep-Sea Mining On the basis of the R&D efforts that examine the potential markets for manganese nodules, the economic feasibilities of the mining venture in CCFZ (Andrews, Flipse, & Brown, 1983; Charles, Herrouin, Mauviel, & Bernard, 1990; Hillman & Gosling, 1985) and the inside of Cook Islands EEZ (Soreide, Lund, & Markussen, 2001) were evaluated. The conditions and results are summarized in Table 17.1. Another feasibility for deep-sea mining of the Red Sea sulfide mud at about 2 km (1.24 mi) of water depth was examined (Amann, 1985; Nawab, 2001). All these old results suggested less economic attractiveness of the deep-sea mining. Referring to the previous feasibility studies on capital costs and applying the economic parameters for operating costs, some economic potential analyses of mining manganese nodules, cobalt-rich manganese crusts, and SMS for Japan have been conducted (Yamazaki, 2007; Yamazaki & Park, 2005; Yamazaki, Park, Shimada, Iizasa, & Shiokawa, 2003; Yamazaki, Park, Shimada, & Yamamoto, 2002). The studies conclude SMS mining might be economically attractive. In February 2008, ISA held a Workshop on Polymetallic Nodule Mining Technology – Current Status and Challenges Ahead in Chennai, India. An updated manganese nodule mining venture model was discussed and created with many experts in mining technology, metallurgical processing, and economy being present. Based on the model, applying current economic parameters, the economies of nodule mining were re-evaluated and opened to public via the ISA homepage (http://www.isa.org.jm/files/documents/EN/14Sess/LTC/ISBA-14LTC-3.pdf). It included an updating of the construction costs of mining system and a metallurgical processing plant in 2007 as the most important components of any re-evaluation. The results, 14.9–37.8% in IRR (Internal Rate of Return), highlighted a larger interest in manganese nodule mining.

17.6.2 Metal Markets World metal production in 2006 and the abundance of metals in the earth’s crust are shown in Table 17.2. It is realized the most unbalanced popular metal in the production versus the abundance is cooper from Table 17.2. Comparing the planned metal productions from manganese nodule mining in Table 17.1 with the world production in Table 17.2, it is recognized a few cases the values of cobalt and manganese are more than 5% of the market demands. These are no good situations in keeping the metal prices high enough for a new mining venture. In case of the coming SMS mining, the planned metal productions are considered acceptable and smaller than the market demands. On the basis of the production rate and the metal contents of SMS mining announced in the web (http://www.nautilusminerals.com), and assuming the total metal recovery ratios in

Mng mining, rec recovery

Process. (dry) 1.5 M 330 d/y 513 M$ 59%

165 M$

70%

Product 3,375 t/y 18,525 t/y 15,675t/y 404,550t/y

Trans. (dry) 1.5 M 300 d/y 176 M$ 20%

25 M$

11%

Rec. 85% 95% 95% 93%

Reduction and hydrochloric acid leach process

Processing method

Mng. (wet) Production (t/y) 2.3 M Operation days 300 d/y Capital cost 180 M$ Capital cost ratio 21% Equity/Loan 100:0 Operating cost 45 M$ Loan interest 0% Survey cost 6 M$ Operating cost 19% ratio Metal Price Co $ 5.5/lb Ni $ 3.75/lb Cu $ 1.25/lb Mn $ 0.4/lb Taxes 46% NPV IRR 6.4%

Andrews et al. (1983)

Authors

7.4%

Total 29%

Price $ 8.53/lb $ 3.62/lb $ 1.17/lb

Mng. (wet) 4.2 M 300d/y 590 M$ 36% 100:0 77 M$ 0% 3 M$ 34% Rec. 65% 92% 92%

16%

37 M$

Trans. (dry) 3.0 M 300 d/y 310 M$ 19%

Product 5,070t/y 36,708t/y 28,704t/y

50%

111 M$

Process. (dry) 3.0 M 330 d/y 727 M$ 45%

Cuprion ammoniacal leach process

Hillman and Gosling (1985)

Soreide et al. (2001)

12%

Price $ 6.8/lb $ 3.6/lb $ 0.95/lb $ 0.3/lb

20%

Mng. (wet) 2.3 M 250 d/y 282 M$ 30% 50:50 48 M$

Rec. 85% 95% 95% 93%

15%

Product 3,525t/y 19,730t/y 17,810t/y 382,500t/y

65%

156 M$

470 M$ 50%

188 M$ 20% 36 M$

Process. (dry) 1.5 M

Trans. (dry) 1.5 M

10% –81 M 9.6%

Price $ 20/lb $ 3.33/lb $ 1/lb

127 M$ 26% 30:70 21.8 M$ 8% 1.9 M$ 38%

Mng. (wet) 1.1 M

271 M$ 55%

Process. (dry) 0.7 M

Rec. 83% 98% 97%

23%

Product 2,652 t/y 2,548 t/y 1,890 t/y

39%

13.5 M$ 22.9 M$

93 M$ 19%

Trans. (dry) 0.7 M

High-temperature and highReduction and hydrochloric acid pressure sulfuric acid leach leach process process

Charles et al. (1990)

Table 17.1 Conditions and results of earlier economic feasibility studies of manganese nodule mining

290 T. Yamazaki

17

Impacts of Up-Coming Deep-Sea Mining

291

Table 17.2 World metal production and abundance in earth’s crust Metal or product

World production in 2006 (metric ton)

Abundance in Earth’s crust (ppm in weight)

Platinum Mercury Gold Silver Cobalt Molybolenum Tin Magnesium Nickel Lead Zinc Copper Manganese ore Aluminum Steel

518 1,480 2,460 20,200 67,500 185,000 366,000 584,000 1,580,000 3,470,000 10,000,000 15,100,000 33,400,000 33,700,000 123,000,000

0.01 0.08 0.004 0.07 25 1.5 2 23,300 75 12.5 70 55 950 82,300 56,300

Remark: Manganese ore contains about 40% manganese (Source of production data: http://minerals.usgs.gov/minerals/pubs/commodity/statistical_summary/myb1-2006-stati.pdf Source of abundance data: Geological handbook, Heibon-sha, Tokyo, Japan)

ore-dressing and metallurgical processing as 95%, the expected metal productions from the first commercial mining are estimated to be about 128,000 t/y in copper, 14,000 t/y in zinc, 12 t/y in gold, and 63 t/y in silver. These values are the maximum results from one mining unit. All the productions are less than 1% of the market demands. These have less effect on metal prices.

17.7 Summary Remarks Through 37 years of research on the environmental impacts caused by manganese nodule mining, much important knowledge on this mining and other deep-sea mining possibilities have been accumulated. The deep-sea baseline survey, the benthic impact experiment, the post experiment monitoring, and the numerical modeling are all recognized as the important components for the environmental assessment of deep-sea mining. In summary, the following environmental impacts for deep-sea mining are: 1. Careful and sufficient benthic baseline data accumulation is required to evaluate their variations of fluctuation; 2. Developing a benthic ecosystem model as an effective tool to evaluate the quantitative ecosystem reaction against environmental impacts caused by an artificial disturbance (mining operations); 3. A benthic impact experiment is necessary to improve the ecosystem model;

292

T. Yamazaki

4. Scale and rate viewpoints of the benthic impact experiment against the actual exploitation are necessary in order to apply the ecosystem model as a part of any quantitative environmental assessment, and. 5. Quantitative environmental guidelines and assessments are also helpful for the developer of deep-sea mineral resources, because satisfying the present guidelines and assessments are clear and fair. Some uncertainties will always remain in understanding the benthic ecosystem. Though the deep-sea ecosystems are different from place to place, international collaboration in establishing standard approaches and methods for the needed environmental assessment is necessary. From the economic feasibility studies conducted on manganese nodules and the seafloor massive sulfide mining, the more attractive choice today is considered the seafloor massive sulfide mining especially in the current metals’ economies and impacts on the markets for metals.

References Amann, H. (1985). Development of ocean mining in the Red Sea. Marine Mining, 5, 103–116. Andrews, B. V., Flipse, J. E., & Brown, F. C. (1983). Economic viability of a four-metal pioneer deep ocean mining venture. Washington: U.S. Department of Commerce, PB84-122563. Barnett, B., & Suzuki, T. (1997). The use of kringing to estimate resedimentation in the JET experiment. Proceedings, international symposium on environmental studies for deep-sea mining, Tokyo: Metal Mining Agency of Japan, 143–151. Barnett, B., & Yamauchi, H. (1995). Deep sea sediment resuspension system used for the Japan Deep-Sea impact experiment. Proceedings, 1st ISOPE Ocean mining symposium, Tsukuba, 175–179. Bath, A. R. (1989). Deep sea mining technology: Recent developments and future projects. Proceedings, 21st offshore technical conference, Paper No. 5998. Bendel, V., Fouquet, Y., Auzende, J. M., Lagabrielle, Y., Grimaud, D., & Urabe, T. (1993). The White Lady Hydrothermal field, North Fiji Back-arc Basin, Southwest Pacific. Economic Geology, 88, 2237–2249. Bluhm, H. (1999). Holothurians as indicators for recolonisation process in environmental assessments. Proceedings, 3rd ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Goa, 177–184. Brockett, T., & Richards, C. Z. (1994). Deep-sea mining simulator for environmental impact studies, Sea Technology, 7–81, 77–82. Burns, R. E., Erickson, B. H., Lavelle, J. W., & Ozturgut, E. (1980). Observation and measurements during the monitoring of deep ocean manganese nodule mining tests in the North Pacific, March–May 1978, NOAA Technical Memorandum ERL MESA-47. Charles, C., Herrouin, G., Mauviel, F., & Bernard, J. (1990). Views on future nodule technologies based on IFREMER-GEMONOD studies. Materials and Society, 14(3–4), 299–326. Cronan, D. S. (1980). Underwater minerals. London: Academic. Desa, E. (1997). Initial results of India’s environmental impact assessment of nodule mining. Proceedings, international symposium for deep-sea mining, Tokyo, Metal Mining Agency of Japan, 49–63. Doi, T., Nakata, K., Kubota, M., & Aoki, S. (1999). Environmental study of the deep-sea mining of manganese nodules in the Northeastern Tropical Pacific – Modeling the sedimentladen negative buoyant flow. Proceedings, 3rd ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Goa, 163–168.

17

Impacts of Up-Coming Deep-Sea Mining

293

Fenchel, T., & Bernard, C. (1995). Mats of colourless sulphur bacteria. I. Major microbial processes. Marine Ecology Progress Series, 128, 161–170. Fouquet, Y., Von Stackelberg, U., Charlou, J. L., Donval, J. P., Erzinger, J., Foucher, J. P., et al. (1991). Hydrothermal activity and metallogenesis in the Lau Back-ark Basin. Nature, 349, 778–781. Fukushima, T. (1995). Overview “Japan deep-sea impact experiment = JET”. Proceedings, 1st ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Tsukuba, 47–53. Halbach, P., Nakamura, K., Wahsner, M., Lange, J., Kaselitz, L., Hansen, R.-D., et al. (1989). Probable modern analogue of Kuroko-type massive sulfide deposit in the Okinawa Trough back-arc basin. Nature, 338, 496–499. Heibon-sha. (1981). Geological handbook (pp. 1269–1270). Tokyo: Heibon-sha (in Japanese). Herrouin, G., Lenoble, J., Charles, C., Mauviel, F., Bernard, J., & Taine, B. (1987). A manganese nodule industrial venture would be profitable – Summary of a 4-year study in France. Proceedings, 21st Offshore Technical Conference, Paper No. 5997. Hillman, C. T., & Gosling, B. B. (1985). Mining deep ocean manganese nodules: Description and economic analysis of a potential venture. Washington: U.S. Bureau of Mines, IC 9015. Hong, S., & Kim, K.-H. (1999). Research and development of deep seabed mining technologies for Polymetallic nodules in Korea. Proceedings, proposed techniques for deep seabed mining of polymetallic nodules, Kingston, International. Seabed Authority, 261–283. Iizasa, K., Fiske, R. S., Ishizuka, O., Yuasa, M., Hashimoto, J., Ishibashi, J., et al. (1999). A Kuroko-type polymetallic sulfide deposit in a submarine silicic caldera. Science, 283, 975–977. Ingole, B. S., Ansari, Z. A., Matondkar, S. G. P., & Rodrigues, N. (1999). Immediate response of meio and macrobenthos to disturbance caused by bethnic disturber. Proceedings, 3rd ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Goa, 191–197. Kajitani, Y. (1997). The Japanese environmental research for manganese nodule mining. Proceedings, 2nd ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Seoul, 131–138. Kaufman, R., Latimer, J. P., & Tolefson, D. C. (1985). The design and operation of a Pacific Ocean deep-ocean mining test ship: R/V Deepsea Miner II. Proceedings, 17th offshore technical conference. Paper No. 4901. Kia, P., & Lasark, J. (1999). Overview of Papua New Guinea offshore resources. Workshop Report. Offshore Mineral Policy Workshop, Madang, PNG, SOPAC Miscellaneous Report 323, pp. 39–46. Kotlinski, R., & Tkatchenko, G. (1997). Preliminary results of IOM environmental research. Proceedings, international symposium on environmental studies for deep-sea mining, Tokyo: Metal Mining Agency of Japan, 35–44. Mero, J. L. (1965). The mineral resources of the sea. Elsevier Oceanography Series. Muthunayagam, A. E., & Das, S. K. (1999). Indian polymetallic nodule program. Proceedings, 3rd ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Goa, 1–5. Nakata, K., Kubota, M., Aoki, S., & Taguchi, K. (1997). Dispersion of resuspended sediments by ocean mining activity – modeling study. Proceedings, international symposium on environmental studies for deep-sea mining, Tokyo, Metal Mining Agency of Japan, 169–186. Nawab, Z. (2001). Atlantis II Deep: A future deep sea mining site. Proceedings, proposed technologies for mining deep-seabed polymetallic nodules, Kingston, International Seabed Authority, 301–313. Ohkubo, S., & Yamazaki, T (2003). Summary of “environmental impact research on marine ecosystem for deep-sea mining” Conducted by Metal Mining Agency of Japan. Proceedings, 5th ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Tsukuba, 200–207. Ozturgut, E., Anderson, G. C., Burns, R. E., Lavelle, J. W., & Swift, S. A. (1978). Deep ocean mining of manganese hodlues in the North Pacific: Pre-mining environmental conditions and anticipated mining effects, NOAA Technical Memorandum ERL MESA-33. Ozturgut, E., Lavelle, J. W., Steffin, O., & Swift, S. A. (1980). Environmental investigation during Manganese nodule mining tests in the North Equatorial Pacific, in November 1978, NOAA Technical Memorandum ERL MESA-48.

294

T. Yamazaki

Radziejewska, T. (1997). Immediate responses of benthic meio- and megafauna to disturbance caused by polymetallic nodule miner simulator. Proceedings, international symposium, environmental studies for deep-sea mining, Tokyo, Metal Mining Agency of Japan, 223–236. Radziejewska, T., & Modlitba, I. (1999). Vertical distribution of meiobenthos in relation to geotechnical properties of deep-sea sediment in the IOM pioneer area. Proceedings, 3rd ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Goa, 126–130. Radziejewska, T., Szamałek, K., & Kotlinski, R. (2003). Marine environment in the IOM Area (Clarion-Clipperton Region, Subtropical Pacific): Current knowledge and future needs. Proceedings, 5th ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Tsukuba, 188–193. Schriever, G. (1995). DISCOL – Disturbance and recolonization of a manganese nodule area of the Southeastern Pacific. Proceedings, 1st ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Tsukuba, 163–166. Schriever, G., Ahnert, A., Borowski, C., & Thiel, H. (1997). Results of the large scale deep-sea impact study DISCOL during eight years of Investigation. Proceedings, International symposium, environmental studies for deep-sea mining, Tokyo, Metal Mining Agency of Japan, 197–208. Sharma, R., Nath, B. N., Valsangkar, A. B., Khadge, N. H., Parthiban, G., Sankar, S. J., et al. (2003). Monitoring effects of simulated disturbance at INDEX Site: Current status and future activities. Proceedings, 5th ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Tsukuba, 208–215. Shirayama, Y., & Fukushima, T. (1997a). Benthic organism distribution in the Japanese deep sea mining claim area. Proceedings, international symposium, environmental studies for deep-sea mining, Tokyo, Metal Mining Agency of Japan, 311–316. Shirayama, Y., & Fukushima, T. (1997b). Responses of a Meiobenthos community to rapid resedimentation. Proceedings, international symnposium. environmental studies for deep-sea mining, Tokyo, Metal Mining Agency of Japan, 187–196. Shirayama, Y. (1999). Biological results of JET Project: An overview. Proceedings, 3rd ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Goa, 185–190. Soreide, F., Lund, T., & Markussen J. M. (2001). Deep ocean mining reconsidered: A study of the manganese nodule deposits in Cook Island. Proceedings, 4th ISOPE ocean mining symposium, szczecin, 88–93. Spiess, F. N., Hessler, R., Wilson, G., & Weydert, M. (1987). Environmental effects of deep sea dredging. San Diego, CA: Scripps Institute of Oceanography, SIO-Ref 87-5. Takeuchi, R., Yamazaki, T., Monoe, D., Oomi, T., Nakata, K., & Fukushima, T. (2007). Preliminary modeling of chemosynthetic ecosystem around methane seepage. Proceedings, 7th ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Lisbon, 128–134. Thiel, H., Angel, M. V., Foel, E. J., Rice, A. L., & Schriever, G. (1998). Marine science and technology – Environmental risks from large-scale ecological research: A desk study. Contract No. MAS2-CT94-0086, Office for Official Publications of the European Communities, Luxembourg, 210p. Thiel, H., & Forschungsverbund Tiefsee-Umweltsschutz. (1995). The German environmental impact research for manganese nodule mining in the SE Pacific Ocean. Proceedings, 1st ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Tsukuba, 39–45. Trueblood, D. D., Ozturgut, E., Pilipchuk, M., & Gloumov, I. F. (1997). The ecological impacts of the Joint U.S.-Russian benthic impact experiment. Proceedings, 2nd ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Seoul, 139–145. Welling, C. G. (1981). An advanced design deep sea mining system. Proceedings, 13th offshore technical conference. Paper No. 4094. Yamada, H., & Yamazaki, T. (1998). Japan’s ocean test of the nodule mining system. Proceedings, 8th international offshore and polar engineering conference, Montreal, 13–19. Yamazaki, T. (2007). Economic validation analyses of Japan’s proposed nodule, cruist and Kurokotype SMS Mining in 2006. Proceedings oceans 2007, Vancouver. Yamazaki, T., & Kajitani, Y. (1999). Deep-sea environment and impact to it. Proceedings, 9th international offshore and polar engineering conference, Brest, 374–381.

17

Impacts of Up-Coming Deep-Sea Mining

295

Yamazaki, T., Kajitani, Y., Barnett, B., & Suzuki, T. (1997). Development of image analytical technique for resedimentation induced by nodule mining. Proceedings, 2nd ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Seoul, 159–164. Yamazaki, T., Kuboki, E., & Matsui, T. (2001). DIETS: A new bethnic impact experiment on a seamount. Proceedings, 4th ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Szczecin, 69–76. Yamazaki, T., Kuboki, E., & Uehara, D. (2001). Resedimentation analysis from seafloor photographs. Proceedings 11th international offshore and polar engineering conference, Stavanger, 528–535. Yamazaki, T., & Park, S.-H. (2005). Economic validation analyses of Japan’s nodule, crust, and Kuroko-type SMS mining in 2004. Proceedings 6th ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Changsha, 65–70. Yamazaki, T., Park, S.-H., Shimada, S., Iizasa, K., & Shiokawa, S. (2003). A case study of mining seafloor massive sulfides in Japanese EEZ. Proceedings 5th ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Tsukuba, 63–70. Yamazaki, T., Park, S.-H., Shimada, S., & Yamamoto, T. (2002). Development of technical and economical examination method for cobalt-rich manganese crusts. Proceedings, 12th international offshore and polar engineering conference, Kita-Kyushu, 454–461. Yamazaki, T., & Sharma, R. (2001). Estimation of sediment properties during benthic impact experiments, Marine Georesources and Geotechniques, 19(4), 269–289. Yamazaki, T., Tsurusaki, K., & Handa, K. (1991). Discharge from manganese nodule mining system. Proceedings, 1st international offshore and polar engineering conference, Edinburgh, 440–446. Yang, N., & Wang, M. (1997). New era for China manganese nodules mining: Summary of last five years’ research activities and prospective, Proceedings, 2nd ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Seoul, 8–11. Zielke, W., Jankowski, J. A., Sündermann, J., & Segschneider, J. (1995). Numerical modeling of sediment transport caused by deep-sea mining. Proceedings, 1st ISOPE ocean mining symposium, Tsukuba, 157–162.

Chapter 18

When Megaengineering Disturbs Ram: The Sethusamudram Ship Canal Project Michiel van Dijk and Virginie Mamadouh

18.1 Introduction The Sethusamudram Ship Canal Project (SSCP) is a megaengineering project in the Palk Strait, the sea between India and Sri Lanka. The purpose of the canal is to create a navigable route that allows ships to pass through between the two countries, instead of having to sail all around Sri Lanka. This project would enable ship companies to save significantly on travel time, distance and also on fuel and charter costs. Since the Palk Strait is very shallow, depths of less than 3 m (10 ft) occur in some places, extensive dredging is required. A salient detail, however, is that the Palk Strait is home to some of the world’s most diverse and fragile ecosystems. This is why the canal obviously causes a great deal of concern among environmentalists. Also economists have their objections. They state that the costs of maintenance dredging would be so high that the canal could never be profitable and that the canal is not attractive enough for “non-coastal” ships, which are expected to constitute about 70% of the users of the canal. Later on in the debate, the proponents of the canal were confronted with opposition from a completely different source. Across the Palk Strait runs a chain of sandbars and limestone rocks called Adam’s Bridge. Hindu activists believe that Adam’s Bridge is in fact a mythical bridge, called Ram Sethu. Ram Sethu is a bridge built by the Hindu deity Ram to allow his army to cross the sea. In order to complete the Sethusamudram Ship Canal Project, dredging through Adam’s Bridge is required. This undertaking constitutes sacrilege to many Hindu activists as they consider this the destruction of the holy bridge. In a relatively short period, the debate on the Sethusamudram project changed from a discussion on the economic and environmental objections to the canal, which did not receive too much media attention all together, into a political storm on the destruction of the holy

M. van Dijk (B) Department of Human Geography, Planning and International Development, University of Amsterdam, Nieuwe Prinsengracht 130, 1018 VZ, Amsterdam, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_18,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

297

298

M. van Dijk and V. Mamadouh

bridge Ram Sethu. The key question of this chapter is how this megaengineering project became the subject of an intense mega controversy. This analysis is based mainly on a study into the media coverage of the Sethusamudram Project in Indian English language newspapers and magazines over the period from 2005 to 2008 and additional (English language) literature. The second section introduces the project itself, its proponents and their arguments. The third section presents the cases against the project that are pending before the Supreme Court of India and the arguments against the project. The fourth section discusses the Indian political system in order to unravel the dynamics of the debate and the parties involved. The final section considers possible development and also a possible compromise.

18.2 The Sethusamudram Ship Canal Project 18.2.1 The Canal The Sethusamudram Ship Canal Project is the first the attempt ever to dredge an offshore canal on this scale. The Indian government awarded the assignment to design the canal to the Danish-Indian engineering firm L&T-Rambøll Consulting Engineers Ltd. (Tuticorin Port Trust, 2005: 1). This firm has offices in various cities in India, among which in Chennai. The project in its full length measures 152.2 km (94.5 mi). The canal is 300 m (984 ft) wide and 12 m (39 ft) deep. The canal consists of a northern, a central, and a southern section. The southern section measures 20 km (12.4 mi) and runs through a chain of sandbars and limestone rocks called Adam’s Bridge. The central section is the longest and measures 78 km (48.4 mi). Since the sea in this section is already of adequate depth, no dredging is required in this section. The northern section runs through the Palk Strait and measures 54.2 km (33.6 mi); it does require dredging. The canal runs along the maritime border between India and Sri Lanka, approximately 35 km (22 mi) off the Indian coast. Figure 18.1 shows the location of the project (Ramesh, 2005: 536). The canal is situated in the stretch of sea between India and Sri Lanka. Officially this “sea stretch” consists of the Gulf of Mannar to the south and the Palk Bay and Palk Strait to the north. The former and the latter two are separated by Adam’s Bridge. When completed, the canal forms a short-cut from the Indian Ocean into the Gulf of Bengal (Fig. 18.2). It is worth noting that alternative megaengineering plans were proposed to construct a land connection between India and Sri Lanka through the Palk Strait using the Adams, Bridge (Schuiling, 2004).

18.2.2 The Historic Background The idea of cutting a canal through the Palk Strait and into Gulf of Mannar was first coined in 1860 by a British naval officer, Commander A.D. Taylor. Up to 1922,

18

The Sethusamudram Ship Canal Project

299

Fig. 18.1 Project location

nine proposals were made official for this project, but none of these appealed to the British colonial government. Between 1922 and 1955 the idea remained dormant. Between 1955 and 1980 five proposals were submitted to the Indian government, but also none of these appealed. In 1980 the government issued a press statement that such a project would not be economically viable. However, between 1981 and 1986 a government-appointed committee conducted another investigation and concluded that it in fact could be economically viable. This signal gave the project momentum. In 2000 another study was carried out on the feasibility of the canal. In 2005 the Cabinet Committee of Economic Affairs gave a green light to the project, and that same year, the dredging works were officially inaugurated (Paleri, 2005: 15–16).

18.2.3 Proponents and Expected Benefits Major benefits are expected from the project by its proponents. The most articulate proponents are the ruling political parties in the Indian national government and in the Tamil Nadu state government. The foremost proponents among them are the Congress Party in the national politics and its primary coalition partner, the Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK). The DMK is the ruling party from Tamil Nadu and is also present in the national politics. The DMK not only expects major

300

M. van Dijk and V. Mamadouh

Fig. 18.2 Map of sea routes

economic benefits, but also sees a rhetorical victory in the canal, as it regards it as the fulfillment of a “150 year old Tamil dream” (The Hindu:16 September, 2005). The Congress party mainly stresses the economic opportunities in relation to small external effects (Van Dijk, 2008: 70–75). The benefits envisaged are mostly economic, but also some security issues are involved. The project’s main goal is to create a continuous shipping route around the Indian peninsula (Paleri, 2005: 16). Distances between various Indian ports could be shortened by hundreds of nautical miles, according to economists in favor of the project. By using the canal, ships are expected to save up to 36 h in travel time (Suryanarayan, 2005: 23). Another advantage is that the Sethusamudram Canal enables ships traveling from one Indian port to another can fulfill the entire trip without having to leave Indian territorial waters. The canal is also expected to present security advantages as the Palk Strait would be easier to access for the Indian Navy (Suryanarayan, 2005: 25). Other important benefits are expected for the economic development for the state of Tamil Nadu. The port of Tuticorin, which is the closest to the south end of the canal, is expected to grow significantly, which should lead to increased employment opportunities in the port and other related economic sectors. This project should lead to increased growth for the entire local economy. Also benefits for the fishing industry are expected, as they can now cross Adam’s Bridge and use a larger area to

18

The Sethusamudram Ship Canal Project

301

catch fish. Proponents expect the canal to lead to coastal trade development in the broadest possible sense (Paleri, 2005: 16).

18.3 Procedures and Arguments Against the Project At the moment, two legal cases against the project are pending before the Indian Supreme Court. The first case has been filed by Coastal Action Network (CAN). This network is an NGO protecting the coastal environment and the interests of fishermen. In 2007 CAN filed a petition in the Madras High Court, which was later on transferred to the Supreme Court. CAN’s bone of contention is the Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA). CAN activists claim that the EIA contains some significant omissions and that it does not meet several legal requirements. These requirements need to be met before the project would receive environmental clearance. Despite these shortcomings, the project received clearance. Coastal Action Network still attempts to reverse this clearance in the Supreme Court (Van Dijk, 2008: 58–60). Another petition was simultaneously filed by Subramanian Swamy, a prominent Hindu activist. He is the president of a splinter party, the Janata Party and is a very important person in Indian politics, because he is a very articulate and critical opponent of many government development plans. His views have a significant impact on the debate about the Sethusamudram Project (Van Dijk, 2008: 60). Swamy’s argument is based on four points. First, he claims that the Indian Penal Code forbids any damage done to any object that is considered holy by a certain group of people. Since Adam’s Bridge is considered as such by Hindu organizations, dredging there would be a criminal offence. Second, Swamy claims that the EIA lacks several features required by law and that the environmental clearance is not valid. Third, he claims that a marine project of such a scale also requires clearance from the Coast Guard; this was never issued. Fourth, Swamy claims that the project violates international laws. These laws require that India and Sri Lanka set up a joint monitoring committee on the environmental impact of the project, since the international border between the two countries is directly adjacent to the project alignment. This was also never done according to Swamy (2008). As of mid-2009, the Supreme Court had not yet reached a verdict in either of these two cases. Overall opponents articulate three major types of arguments. These are environmental, economic and religious arguments. The first two types are mostly voiced by actors in what can be called the “secular” civil society. These are NGOs, independent academic research institutes and economists. Views in the third argument are articulated by Hindu activists and also by the leading opposition party in the national government, the Bharatiya Janata Party.

18.3.1 Environmental Arguments Environmentalists have two major objections. The first is that the project itself, but also the dredging activities threaten the ecologically sensitive marine areas close-by, specifically, the Gulf of Mannar and the Palk Strait Their second objection focuses

302

M. van Dijk and V. Mamadouh

on the procedures followed by the government while planning and implementing the project. Environmentalists contend that the Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA) reveals several important knowledge gaps. They also claim that the EIA failed to meet several legal requirements (Rodrigues et al., 2007: 24). The Gulf of Mannar and Palk Strait are among the world’s richest marine ecosystems in terms of biodiversity. But, they are also among the most sensitive and fragile in the world. The Gulf of Mannar includes more than 3,600 animal and plant species, including 117 species of coral. Also the majority of sea grass species present in India’s coastal areas can be found here. The Palk Bay is a very shallow sea basin. Its depth never exceeds 15 m (49.2 ft) and it is home to one of the India’s five major coral reefs in India. (Rodrigues et al., 2007: 6–7). Because the Palk Strait and the Adam’s Bridge area are very shallow, extensive dredging would be required to reach a sufficient depth for the canal. Environmentalists fear that the adjacent fragile ecosystems will be severely damaged by the dredging. They also claim that the dredging works, including maintenance dredging upon completion of the canal, destroys organisms on the seabed, including the coral reefs. Organisms outside the dredging route are also threatened. The dredging produces large amounts of sediments making the water turbid, while sediments eventually sink down to the seabed and cover the coral and other organisms. These organisms, require a great deal of sunlight to survive. This sunlight, however, will be blocked by sediment. The amount of sunlight reaching the seabed is also reduced by the increased turbidity of the water (Rodrigues et al., 2007: 30–40). Also the dumping of dredged materials causes concern among environmentalists. The dredged materials are to be dumped in deeper waters, approximately 40–50 km (25–30 mi.) offshore. However, not all dredged materials are to be transported away from the project site, parts of it are dumped on the spot itself, adversely affecting the light conditions in the sea (Rodrigues et al., 2007: 31). The second major bone of contention is that the studies done in the EIA fail to or are insufficient in meeting several legal requirements. For example, only at one specific location along the 152 km (94 mi) long project route has the soil below the seabed been investigated; no extensive depth measurements have been carried and as the impact of sediment flows on the marine ecosystem has also not been assessed. Environmental scientists have also been pointing to knowledge gaps on the impact of extreme weather conditions in the strait, including cyclones (Rodrigues et al., 2007: 14–16). Environmentalists are also pointing to the fact that no study on the consequences of a major oil spill or a grounded ship in the canal has been carried out. The risk of a ship getting grounded in the canal is realistic, given its narrow breadth (only 300 m or 984 ft) and the shallow depth of the surrounding sea. The canal is also believed to be too narrow for ships to turn around while they are traveling through which leaves ships vulnerable to sudden extreme weather conditions. Environmentalists are also pointing to the fact the fact that there is no disaster mitigation plan for these situations, even though this is required by law (Lu & Chernaik, 2004: 7). This is also a reason why Coastal Action Network filed a case against the EIA, which is now pending before of the country’s Supreme Court, as mentioned above.

18

The Sethusamudram Ship Canal Project

303

18.3.2 Economic Arguments Economists state that the savings in time and distance are in fact much smaller than the proponents of the project states. Proponents state that the canal should save ships up to 36 hours of travel time, relative to the existing route around Sri Lanka. However, this figure is only valid for a trip from Tuticorin to Chennai. The latter is the closest harbor to the north end of the canal. Critics say that project proponents are overstating the gains of the project, since a trip from Kanyakumari, at the most southern tip of the Indian peninsula, to Kolkata is said to be shortened by only 18 hours when ships use the canal. Only the savings in time, but also the savings in distance are overstated according to the critical economists. Proponents say that the canal could save up to 570 nautical miles of travel distance. These figures can only be valid for ships moving around the coast of India. Ships moving for example from Mauritius or Europe to Kolkata save up to only 215 and 70 nautical miles respectively and only 8–4 hours respectively, according to the critics. Critics acknowledge that no detailed calculations of savings in terms of distance and time have been made for trips with different starting and destination points. Nevertheless, proponents expect a steady revenue stream from the project, despite these more modest figures (John, 2007: 2993). Economists state that ships on a coastal trip can save a larger percentage of their total hiring costs than ships on a non-coastal trip, because ships on non-coastal trips have no reason to use the harbors at each end of the canal for refueling, while ships on coastal trips do (Rodrigues et al., 2007: 45). Ships on non-coastal trips are expected to constitute around 70% of the users of the canal. In addition, the government plans to charge a tariff that would amount to half of the reduced expenditure in terms of charter rates and fuel costs. The saving will thus be relatively small. Moreover, a more expensive type of fuel has to be used at the lower speeds when ships will cruise in the canal, because cheaper fuel is more likely to damage the engine when it is used at a low speed (Rodrigues et al., 2007: 45). Therefore it could actually be cheaper for ships on non-coastal trips to move around Sri Lanka (John, 2007: 2993). Apart from the limited revenue economists expect from the project, they also point to other critical issues. They also identify the lack of studies that environmentalists have identified. Economists say that the lack of such investigations could result in an underestimation of the required amount of maintenance and capital dredging. Based on the overestimation of the revenue and the underestimation of the costs, economists have serious doubts that the project will be economically viable (John, 2007: 2994–2995). The environmental activists of Central Action Network fear that the project could also be threatening the livelihoods of the traditional fishermen living along the coast of Tamil Nadu. The dredging works and the ships passing through the canal could chase away the fish, leaving those in fishing without an income. It is possible that hundreds of thousands of fishermen living along the coast of Tamil Nadu could lose their livelihoods because of the project. They already are a marginal group in society and are not likely to be very resilient to the

304

M. van Dijk and V. Mamadouh

shocks to their livelihoods caused by the Sethusamudram Project. The implications to them are that the project runs straight through the main fishing grounds. Ships passing through the canal will also limit the area they can fish. Furthermore, the fish will be chased away by the noise from ships and the dredging works. Fishermen organizations have held numerous demonstrations throughout Tamil Nadu to stress their concerns (Coastal Action Network, 2007: 19).

18.3.3 Religious Arguments By the end 2006, the SSCP became the subject of opposition from a completely different angle. A prominent Hindu political activist, Subramanian Swamy, asked that the SSCP should be realigned. In its current alignment, the project route runs through Adam’s Bridge, which is a chain of sand bars and charcoal rocks, separating the Palk Bay from the Gulf of Mannar. However, in Hindu mythology, Adam’s Bridge is in fact a god-made bridge called Ram Sethu. Therefore, he claimed that it should be declared a national monument and that the SSCP should be realigned in order to avoid dredging at Ram Sethu. His remarks did not receive much attention at that time. However, in March 2007, various Hindu priests started to express their concerns on what they regarded as the destruction of Ram Sethu. The government replied to this charge by stating that no man-made structures had been found on the project route after extensive studies. In April 2007, the SSCP started to receive opposition from political parties and Hindu organizations. The leading opposition party, the Bharatiya Janata Party, stated that Ram Sethu should not be damaged, because it is an important place of worship. An important Hindu organization, the VHP, started threatening to organize mass demonstrations against the “break of Ram Sethu” (Van Dijk, 2008: 30). In May, the religious controversy reached a boiling point in politics. During one session of the national parliament, government parties asked the BJP for evidence that Adam’s Bridge is in fact a god-made bridge. Members of the BJP started protesting so loudly after this request that the Speaker adjourned the House for that day. At the same time, Subramanian Swamy filed a case against the breaking of Ram Sethu in the Madras High Court. He stated that is illegal to do any damage to ancient monuments and that the dredging at Ram Sethu should be stopped. This case, as noted above, was later transferred to the national Supreme Court. This transfer has resulted in a ban on all dredging activities on or near Adam’s Bridge as long as the case was pending. In response to Swamy’s claims, the government issued a statement in the Supreme Court that “religious texts cannot be interpreted as historical evidence that any of the characters or events cited ever existed in history.” This statement and also the one that “human history is a scientific study, which must be carried out in a scientific manner, based on tangible evidence,” caused a strong reaction from the BJP, accusing the government of blasphemy. One day later, the government withdrew the statement again (Van Dijk, 2008: 34).

18

The Sethusamudram Ship Canal Project

305

But it was already too late. In the second half of September 2007, the debate on the project reached its ultimate boiling point, with demonstrations and threats against the project by Hindu- as well as fishermen-organizations. As a consequence of this turmoil, the Supreme Court suspended the case until January 2008, in order to calm things down. In February 2008, the government issued another statement, saying that there is no clear evidence whether Ram Sethu is indeed human-made. The government remained silent on the existence of Ram, the issue it burnt its fingers on in September 2007. Based on this lack of evidence, the government asked the Supreme Court to lift the ban and to allow dredging to continue. In May 2008, the Supreme Court asked the government to investigate whether or not Ram Sethu is indeed a national monument and to study the possibilities for other alignment options. To date these studies are not completed and the ban is still not lifted (Van Dijk, 2008: 29–36).

18.3.4 International Issues Apart from these objections from the Indian civil society, concerns voiced by Indian officials and by the neighboring state of Sri Lanka should be mentioned here. A megaproject like this also raises a number of security concerns. The conflict between the Sri Lankan government and the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) has been of particular concern to this project. Fears are that the LTTE could place sea-mines in the canal or that it could hijack ships cruising through. Indian Naval officers, therefore, recommend that substantial efforts are made to safeguard the canal (Hiranandani, 2009). The LTTE has in fact tried to use the project to its advantage. In 2005, it called for a halt of the project, unless their territory was to be recognized as a de facto state (Lankanewspapers.com, 17 September 2005). The government of Sri Lanka is also concerned about the possible environmental impacts of the project. It is particularly concerned about the possible implications for the Gulf of Mannar Biosphere Reserve, which lies in the border area of the two countries. Sri Lanka is advocating precautionary measures during the construction, operation and maintenance of the canal (Nakhandala, 2005: 37). The Sri Lankan government has a rather ambivalent perception of the expected economic impacts on the country. It regards the project as an opportunity for economic cooperation between India and Sri Lanka, but on the other hand, Sri Lanka is concerned that less ships will use the port of Colombo (Nakhandala, 2005: 39). Despite these concerns, the Sethusamudram Project has always been of only marginal importance in Sri Lankan politics (Frontline, 16 July 2005).

18.4 The Dynamics of the Struggle About the Canal Throughout the Indian debate, religious arguments have become increasingly important. This shift of the focus of the debate has a number of explanations, all which

306

M. van Dijk and V. Mamadouh

are related to the Indian political system. This section elaborates on this system and the political actors in the debate.

18.4.1 The Political System of India Since Independence in 1947, India has been a federal state, consisting of the central government in New Delhi and state governments in each state. Both levels of government have their own political alignments and dynamics. Each state also has its own political alignments. Apart from two years of dictatorship from 1975 to 1977, the country has always been a parliamentary democracy (Brass, 1994: 35). The division of powers between the central government and the state governments has been institutionalized in the “Union List,” the “State List” and the “Concurrent List.” These Lists are parts of the Constitution of India (Johari, 2008: 308). The Union List contains all the powers and privileges assigned to the central government, which include defense and foreign policy, but also the policy on infrastructure, maritime shipping, major ports and ancient monuments. The State List includes all powers assigned to individual states, including fisheries, local government and the maintenance of public order. The Concurrent List includes powers assigned to both levels of government. Economic and Social Planning is one of the policy domains of the Concurrent List (Government of India, 2004: 220–224). This division of powers makes the central government the primary level on which decisions on the Sethusamudram project can be made. An important feature of both (central and state) levels of government is the prevalence of party coalitions. In elections, multiple parties act as a single actor through these coalitions. Coalitions also make common statements in Supreme Court cases. After elections, the parties of the ruling coalition divide the ministries among each other, but the leading party generally delivers the Prime Minister and often assumes the most important ministries (Guha, 2007: 653–654). The coalitions in individual states are not necessarily parallel to the coalitions at the national level. That is, each state has its own political dynamics and most states also have specific regional parties (Van Dijk, 2008: 7). During the period of the debate studied here, three coalitions dominated in national politics. The ruling coalition was the United Progressive Alliance (UPA) under the leadership of the Congress Party, joined by the Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK) and others. The opposition was united in the National Democratic Alliance (NDA), under the leadership of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP). Third, there was the Left Front, a coalition of two Communist parties, that supported the UPA until recently. The ruling coalition in the state of Tamil Nadu is the Democratic Progressive Alliance (DPA). This government is formed by the DMK, the Tamil Nadu Congress Committee (TNCC), the Pattali Makkal Katchi (PMK) and the two Communist parties. The TNCC is the state branch of the national Congress party in Tamil Nadu. The opposition is united in the Democratic People’s Alliance, which is abbreviated as DPF and consists of the All India Inna Dravida Munneta Kazhagam (AIADMK) and three other parties.

18

The Sethusamudram Ship Canal Project

307

18.4.2 Party Dynamics and the Debate on the Megaproject There were six political parties involved in the debate about the Sethusamudram project. At the national level in New Delhi they are the Congress Party and the Bharatiya Janata Party. In Tamil Nadu, the Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK) and the AIADMK are the major players. These regional parties are also active in national politics. Finally, the Left Front coalition is also active in the debate on both levels of government. An examination of the role of each of these parties in the debate and how party politics influenced their positions is needed. The Congress Party was founded as a nationalist movement under British colonial rule and was led by Gandhi in the struggle towards Independence (Brass, 1994: 69). Prior to the 1990s, this party has been the most powerful party in India. But then, the power of the Congress started to decline. So far, no single party has been able to fill the void, leaving a political and ideological vacuum behind. This vacuum leads to fluxes in politics as other parties attempt to fill this gap (Vanaik, 1997: 173). Its ideological orientation is primarily “left of center,” but, nonetheless, very broad. This broad ideology enables the party to maintain its amorphous character and to form broad coalitions and a large support base (Johari, 2008: 552). The Congress Party expects major benefits from the Sethusamudram Project in terms of economic growth and employment opportunities. The party has not contributed directly to the discourse shift in the debate, as it has always been a proponent of the project. Its decline in power, however, could have facilitated it. Also the statement on Ram has poured oil on the fire, which turned out very useful for the opposition. The Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) has always been the archrival of the Congress in national politics. It was formed after a breakaway from the Janata Party in 1980. One of the party’s primary goals is to form a national consensus around Hindu national identity, thereby, excluding other cultural groups. This can be considered an unmistakable but carefully formulated message supportive of Hindu nationalism (Graham, 2006: 160). Throughout the 1980s the party had been a small opposition party. But, in the 1990s, the party started to grow quickly, partly at the expense of the Congress party (Vanaik, 1997: 174). The party seeks to turn into India a modern industrial state, but it does use Hindu religious symbols as a means to create the national unity it envisages (Brass, 1994: 87–88). Currently, the BJP is the major political opponent of the Sethusamudram Project. It is however important to note that in 2005 the party was still claiming to have taken the initiative to implement the project (The Times of India, 11 July 2005). In 2007, however, the party switched to being an opponent. They feared that the possible “breaking” of Ram Sethu would hurt the religious feelings of many Hindus. The party now also wants to declare Ram Sethu a national monument. However, a more down to earth explanation is their determination to be in opposition to Congress. The Dravidian Parties, the Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK) and the All India Anna Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (AIADMK), are the two major parties from Tamil Nadu. The former is also a coalition partner of Congress party in national politics. They have always been each other’s archrivals, although they have shared

308

M. van Dijk and V. Mamadouh

roots in the so-called “Dravidian Movement.” Their primary goal is to promote the Tamil regional cultural identity and to defend that identity against “the intrusion of the Hindi language.” This shared primary goal, however, does not lead to a shared point-of-view regarding the Sethusamudram Project. DMK is a major proponent of the project, while the AIADMK is a major opponent. Moreover DMK regards the Sethusamudram Project as a “150 year-old Tamil Dream.” Like the Congress party, it expects a large increase in economic growth and employment opportunities in Tamil Nadu and it wants to use the Project to turn Tamil Nadu into one of the economic power areas of India. The leader of the party heated up the controversy around Ram Sethu considerably by several remarks on Ram that offended the opposition. The AIADMK, however, is a major opponent. Unlike the BJP, the party has always been an opponent, but it has also changed its motivation during the debate. It started to oppose the project on environmental grounds, especially by stressing the flaws in the Environmental Impact Assessment. Later on, their bone of contention also turned out to be the breaking of Ram Sethu. They also claim that this project would hurt the religious feeling of millions of Hindus (Van Dijk, 2008: 75–76). The party thus moved closer to the BJP in the debate, again for strategic reasons. The Communist Parties are also proponents of the Sethusamudram Project, but they are only indirectly involved in the debate. The Communist Party of India (CPI) and the Communist Party of India (Marxist) (CPI(M)) are separate parties, but they generally work together on a common platform. Despite this, they have slightly different ideologies (Rodrigues, 2006: 224–227). Their main point is that they accuse the opponents of the project of trying to use it for their own political interests. They accuse the BJP of turning the project into a religious issue, while they were taking credit for implementing it at the start. The CPI(M) stresses the need to address genuine, economic and ecological, concerns on the project. Despite their limited role in the debate, they are very important actors. They provided the Congress with a majority in Parliament, thereby supporting the United Progressive Alliance (UPA) coalition. This support became even more important, because this alliance was under pressure due to conflicting views on other political issues. In the summer of 2008, the Left Front withdrew its support of the Congress, which weakened the Congress party’s position in the national Parliament and also in the Sethusamudram Debate (Van Dijk, 2008: 78).

18.5 Conclusion The key question of this chapter was how a megaengineering project became the subject of a mega controversy on religion. Debate on the project started as a relatively low profile discussion on the environmental and economic objections to the canal. Later on it turned over into a political storm on what Hindu activists see as the destruction of Ram Sethu. This reversal in the debate has multiple explanations. The foremost political explanation is the deteriorating powerbase of the Congress party at that time. Since 1990s the party has been losing power, but no single other party has been able to

18

The Sethusamudram Ship Canal Project

309

fill the ideological and political vacuum left by the Congress. Also on a shorter timeframe, the position of the Congress was weakening. The Communist parties withdrew their support to the Congress-led UPA-coalition, depriving it of a majority in national parliament. The controversy on Ram Sethu could, therefore, also be interpreted as an attempt of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) to use this vacuum to its advantage. Another explanation for the storm on Ram Sethu is related to the Indian culture. Environmentalists in the debate are basing their opposition to the canal on the paradigm that the environment is something fragile that should be protected from harmful human interference. This paradigm, however, was formed during the Enlightenment period in Western Europe during the 18th century. This paradigm reflects a predominantly western way of thinking. Hinduism also has ideas on preserving the environment, but these are not based on modern-day environmental concerns, but rather on the idea the Earth is sacred and should not be polluted. In other words, there is an immense difference between the paradigms of modern-day environmentalists and Hindu ideas on preserving the environment (Tomalin, 2004: 266–267). The western environmental paradigm is not so widespread in India, while Hinduism, by contrast, is prevalent all throughout the country. This fact explains why it is much more difficult to influence the public opinion and to receive media attention on the Sethusamudram Ship Canal Project for environmentalists than it is for Hindu activists, therefore, for ecological arguments than for religious arguments. The Indian Supreme Court still has to rule in the two main cases regarding the project. Is a compromise likely that could be acceptable to both the government and the Hindu-activists? It is difficult to imagine how religious arguments can be rolled back by the BJP, even if it is more strategic for the party to support the project again. As a point of fact, the Supreme Court of India already has suggested both parties in the case of Subramanian Swamy take the first steps in the direction of a technocratic compromise. It suggested that the government should carry out a study into a possible re-alignment of the project. At the western end of Adam’s Bridge lies Rameswaram Island (see Fig. 18.1). The Supreme Court asked the government to investigate whether or not it would be possible to realign the project, so that it would run between the Indian mainland and Rameswaram Island. With this alignment no dredging is required on Adam’s Bridge which would save Ram Sethu from being damaged or destroyed, while the canal could still be implemented (Van Dijk, 2008: 66). At this point (mid-2009) the results of these studies were not yet published and the fate of this megaproject remains uncertain.

References Brass, P. R. (1994). The politics of India since independence. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Coastal Action Network. (2007). Impacts of the proposed Sethusamudram ship canal project. In: Coastal Action Network. Sethusamudram shipping (sea channel) canal project – development for whom? (pp. 7–35). Chennai: Coastal Action Network. Frontline. (2005) Sethusamudram Project – Sri Lanka’s Fears, 16 July.

310

M. van Dijk and V. Mamadouh

Government of India. (2004). The constitution of India. New Delhi: Government of India. Graham, B. D. (2006). The challenge of Hindu nationalism: The Bharatiya Janata Party in contemporary Indian politics. In: P. R. deSouza & E. Sridharan (Eds.), India’s political parties (pp. 155–172). New Delhi: Sage. Guha, R. (2007). India after Gandhi – The history of the world’s largest democracy. New York: HarperCollins. Hiranandani, G. M. (2009). The Sethusamudram ship canal project. [online]. Indian Defence Review, 23(4): 3 February 2009. Retrieved June 5, 2009, from http://www. indiandefencereview.com/2009/02/the-sethusamudram-ship-canal-project.html Johari, J. C. (2008). Indian polity (revised ed.). New Delhi: Lotus Press. John, J. (2007). Sethusamudram canal: An expensive voyage? Economic and Political Weekly, July 21, 2993–2997. Lankanewspapers. (2005). LTTE wants to halt Sethu or recognition as defacto state [online]. Retrieved June 5, 2009, from http://www.lankanewspapers.com/news/2005/9/3576.html Lu, M., & Chernaik, M. (2004). Evaluation of environmental impact assessment for the proposed Sethusamudram Ship Canal Project. Eugene: Environmental Law Alliance Worldwide. Nakhandala, S. (2005). Sethusamudram project – Sri Lankan perceptions. In: E. K. V. Nambiar & V. Suryanarayan (Eds.), Sethusamudram project – divergent perspectives (pp. 35–39). Kozhikode: University of Calicut. Paleri, P. (2005). Sethusamudram ship canal project: An appraisal. In: E. K. V. Nambiar & V. Suryanarayan (Eds.), Sethusamudram project – divergent perspectives (pp. 9–18). Kozhikode: University of Calicut. Ramesh, R. (2005). Sethusamudram shipping canal project. Current Science, 88(4), 25 Februari, 536–537. Rodrigues, V. (2006). The communist parties in India. In: P. R. deSouza & E. Sridharan (Eds.), India’s political parties (pp. 199–252). New Delhi: Sage. Rodrigues, S., Rodriguez, S., John, J., Arthur, R., Shanker K., Sridhar, A. (2007). Review of the environmental and economic aspects of the Sethusamudram ship canal project. Bangalore: ATREE. Schuiling, R. D. (2004). Palk Strait: Repairing Adam’s Bridge with gypsum? Current Science, 86(10), 1352–1353. Suryanarayan, V. (2005). Sethusamudram project: Strategic dimensions. In E. K. V. Nambiar & V. V. Suryanarayan (Eds.), Sethusamudram project – divergent perspectives (pp. 19–34). Kozhikode: University of Calicut. Swamy, S. (2008). Speech at book presentation in New Jersey, USA, 24 May 2008 [online]. New Jersey: Subramania Swamy. Retrieved from http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3tZOUw5P0U. Accessed 28 Aug 08. The Hindu. (2005). Sethu Project was due to Party’s sustained effort: Vaiko, 16 September The Times of India. (2005). BJP leader flays Centre over SSCP function, 11 July. Tomalin, E. (2004). Bio-divinity and bio-diversity: Perspectives on religion and environmental conservation in India. Numen, 51, 265–295. Tuticorin Port Trust. (2005). Preparation of DPR and evaluation of EIA study for Sethusamudram ship canal project. Tuticorin: Tuticorin Port Trust. van Dijk, M. G. (2008). Sethusamudram in rough waters – explaining the shift in a political debate. Amsterdam: University of Amsterdam, Department of Geography. Master Thesis. Vanaik, A. (2006). [1997]. Communilization of the Indian polity. In P. R. deSouza & E. Sridharam (Eds.), India’s political parties (pp. 173–199). New Delhi: Sage.

Chapter 19

Deep Drilling: Tunnel Spaces as Gender Spaces Elisabeth Joris

19.1 Introduction As a part of the Alpine chain of Western Europe, the Saint Gotthard massif separates north and south, as a pass and a tunnel the Gotthard connects German and Italian-speaking Europe, and as a part of the national narrative it connotes the heart of Switzerland and is entwined in hero myths.1 The titles of the chapters in il San Gottardo (Galleria Gottardo, 1997), a book in four languages (Italian, French, German, and English) published in 1997, speak for themselves: The Saint Gotthard as the Womb, The Saint Gotthard as the Heart, The Saint Gotthard as the Artery, and The Saint Gotthard as the Brain.2 Already in these metaphors of the physical body can be seen the strong gender-specific charging of the Alpine crossing that has played an outstanding role mainly since the first piercing of the mountain approximately 125 years ago. As the shortest European north-south connection, the first Gotthard railway tunnel caused a sensation at the time (Gesellschaft für Ingenieurbaukunst, 1966). Today, the Gotthard region is being reconfigured through the tunnel construction sites of the New Transapline Rail Route (NEAT) (Schobinger, 2002; Steinmann, 2002; Zbinden, 2002). The new Gotthard base tunnel will open in 2015 as the longest tunnel in the world and associated with new and also gender-specific attributions (Jeker, 2002). Because the understanding of “tunnel space” takes as its reference only the boring through of the mountain, women were forgotten and remained forgotten up to today in the gender-specific attributions (Bieri & Tschannen, 2006). But if we consider the wider surroundings of the tunnel, the whole lifeworld around the tunnel, as a part of the tunnel space, then also women come into view, women whose everyday lives were shaped by the specific living conditions connected with tunnel building (Joris, Rieder, & Ziegler, 2006). Below I focus on three aspects: first, on the lives of women and men, based on examples at the tunnel construction sites at the two portals of the historical Gotthard E. Joris (B) Historian, Gemeindestrasse 62, CH-8032, Zurich, Switzerland e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_19,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

311

312

E. Joris

tunnel and other tunnel construction sites; second, on the emotional meanings with which the Gotthard and its crossing are charged; and third, on the gender-specific changes at today’s New Transalpine Rail Route (NEAT) construction site of the new Gotthard base tunnel.3

19.2 Women and Men of the Gotthard Tunnel Construction Site, 1872–1882 19.2.1 From One Tunnel Construction Site to Another: The Example of the Fate of Barbara Luz From 1868 to 1874, the 0.78 mi (1.25 km; 1,259 m) long Hochdorfer tunnel was built in southern Germany. With the building of the tunnel, a Catholic, South Tyrolean miner named Xaver Silverio Joris, from Nanno in today’s Trentino (a province that belonged to Austria-Hungary up to the First World War and was awarded to Italy after 1918), came to the Black Forest. Besides the Piedmontese in northern Italy, the South Tyroleans made up the largest group of tunnel construction workers. It is reasonable to assume that Xaver Silverio Joris had worked previously at other tunnel construction sites, but from this point forward we can trace his journey through life. For in 1873 during the building of the Hochdorfer tunnel, he encountered Barbara Luz from Schietingen, the daughter of a Protestant miller and farmer. Barbara became pregnant, and in June of 1874 as an unmarried woman, she gave birth to their son, Immanuel. Just under two years later, near the tunnel construction site of the Kanonenbahn [Cannon Railway] of Baden, their daughter Rosine was born; two years after that, near the tunnel construction site on the Tuttlingen-Singen line in southern Germany, daughter Marie arrived, and finally, on June 22, 1880, the pastor of Wassen, who also served the tunnel village of Göschenen at the north portal of the Gotthard tunnel construction site, baptized their youngest daughter, Julie.4 It is most likely that Xaver Silverio Joris had followed the Karlsruhe engineer Robert Gerwig, who had already been responsible for the loop tunnel for the Black Forest railway to Göschenen. However, miner Joris’ stay at the foot of the Gotthard was brief: In 1880, shortly after falling rock crushed his leg, he died in the tunnel hospital. Barbara Luz, 29 years old, then left the Canton of Uri with her four children, the youngest was three months old, the oldest was six years old, and returned to her father’s family in the Black Forest in southern Germany. The example of Barbara Luz points out the provisional character of the tunnel construction site as a place and life world. Her story also shows that not only engineers and miners but also women and children followed the tunnel construction sites. It shows that their existence, even if only so indirectly, was affected by the dangers of tunnel building. And finally, it shows that there were definitely relationships between local residents and those that moved to the sites, even if the relationships were regarded mostly with suspicion or even outright disapproval.

19

Deep Drilling: Tunnel Spaces as Gender Spaces

313

19.2.2 The Demographic Shift: Gold Rush Mood in the Alps The approximately 9 mi (15 km) long rail tunnel through the Gotthard was built from 1872–1882 as the most important European north-south connection for freight and person transport. From a national perspective it connected Italian-speaking southern Switzerland with German-speaking Switzerland; from a regional perspective it connected the municipality of Göschenen at the north portal with the municipality of Airolo at the southern portal. During the ten-year period of the construction of the tunnel (1872–1882), Göschenen, which until 1875 belonged to the municipality of Wassen, underwent development that made it the largest political municipality of the Canton of Uri. With a population of 300 before the Gotthard tunnel was built, Göschenen grew to over 3,000 residents in 1880, of which 800 persons were from Switzerland and about 2,500 persons who had come to the site from other countries. Most of these foreign nationals came from northern Italy, but others came also from France, the German Empire, and Austria-Hungary, to which South Tyrol (today a part of Italy) belonged at the time. In this world, women were clearly in the minority: 681 women as compared to 2,990 men.5 After the tunnel construction site was opened in 1872, the population of Airolo grew rapidly as well. Airolo was the third largest municipality in the canton after the urban municipalities of Lugano and Bellinzona, the political center of the Canton of Ticino. A newspaper report described the people that had moved to the area: “. . . they are almost all of them from the Piedmont, and most of them are workers, publicans, butchers, bakers, men who run public houses and dives, dealers, and so on, with their families” (Marcacci, 2006: 26). The census of 1880 counted 2,354 men and 1,320 women in Airolo. Of these women and men, 2,113 were of foreign nationality, and as the newspaper stated, they were not only tunnel construction workers but also tradesmen. For one, the large number of incoming people created fear in the established village population, for they were now in the minority. At the same time, however, the rapid population increase brought with it a kind of gold rush fever for all of those who settled at the tunnel construction sites within a short period of time required lodgings and food. They needed entertainment and wanted to celebrate their feasts and festivals. They had clothes that needed washing and mending, and new clothes had to be sewn. Money and letters were sent, accident victims nursed, men imprisoned for criminal offences, and children born, baptized, and taught. Within a few months provisional settlements grew up, diverse private and public services were offered, and there was a mix of buildings of differing sizes and quality. Food and lodging were offered by the construction company, the local residents, and by people that had newly moved to the area (Joris, 2007). The division of labor showed genderspecific patterns that were strongly shaped also by family relationship patterns. For the population of the tunnel construction villages (planned to be provisional) was interconnected both socially and economically, as the majority of the men and women were directly or indirectly involved in the building of the tunnel, whether single or married. They followed the construction sites as families or as groups of relatives. These women and men fulfilled different functions but contributed jointly

314

E. Joris

to securing their livelihoods. In this way, living and working in mutual exchange shaped the complex structure of this micro society. To understand this structure, we need to examine individual stories that were told in the context of family reminiscences. But traces are also found in the local vital statistics and trade tax registers, which provide strong confirmation of the memories handed down.6

19.2.3 A Complex Micro Cosmos: Interactions Between Men and Women in the Tunnel Village Andrea Cavalet of Mel, a municipality in the province of Belluno neighboring Trentino, was the same age as Barbara Luz, who was mentioned above. Andrea had come into contact with mining already as an adolescent. He and his sister, Genoveffa, eight years younger than he, set out on foot on the long journey over the Alps. He found work in Göschenen as a miner, she as a maidservant.7 The widow Domedilla Botto came to Göschenen from Italy and also not alone: Her father and two brothers worked in the tunnel, while she worked for Pierre Bastide, a French dealer and publican who specialized in tunnel construction sites, caring for his household and two children and helping out in the pub in 1876. She was paid in food and lodgings as well as 40 francs a month, and she was allowed to buy shoes and other basic items at cost. With this, she supported also the men in her family who were working on the tunnel construction.8 There are many examples available, and they all show similar migration patterns and gender-specific areas of responsibility (Fig. 19.1). Men and women did not usually migrate alone but rather in groups of related persons, that is, persons who were from the same region or the same village. And

Fig. 19.1 Houses of the tunnel workers

19

Deep Drilling: Tunnel Spaces as Gender Spaces

315

they were often relatives or related by marriage. There were no doubt women who came to the Gotthard by themselves, but most of them accompanied the miners or canteen owners as wives, sisters, or daughters. At the tunnel construction sites they earned their living mainly by working in the area of lodgings/board for the construction workers. As customers they bought goods in the company stores and in private shops, where they also worked as salesgirls or as housemaids in the background. But they also worked as waitresses in the many public houses, and they contributed to the family living also by working, with the active participation of their children, as laundrywomen and seamstresses or by selling vegetables that they had grown or slaughtered small animals such as chickens, rabbits, and pigs. Some women migrants worked as midwives or teachers. And through their hard work, a willingness to take major risks, and great self-initiative, a few women succeeded as independent business women alongside their male counterparts (Joris, 2007). These were not only women who moved in to the area but also local women, who tried to profit as much as possible mainly in the areas of board and lodgings. In Göschenen, for example, local resident Helena Nell gave lodgings to 44 workers, housing them in seven rooms in a total space of 1,184 ft2 (110 m2 ).9 The company behind the engineer Louis Favre, who was the general contractor responsible for the construction of the tunnel, employed several thousand workers and built housing at the south and north portals of the tunnel for only a few hundred persons (Ceschi, 2003). Most of the workers coming to the area were therefore housed in improvised accommodations rented out by private landlords; many lived in desperately overcrowded housing and with appalling filth. There were also some large barracks, where some of the young, single workers went only to sleep. The physician Laurenz Sonderegger, who examined the living and working conditions of the workers on behalf of the Swiss government, reported that there were few or no toilets, that rooms were often no more than wooden sheds, and that the miners often slept two to three to a bed (Kuoni, 2008). Due to these living conditions, for miners that did not settle permanently life outside the tunnel often took place more in the streets or in the provisional restaurants and stores, which almost always had taprooms serving alcoholic beverages. It can be assumed that here there was a gender-specific spatial division: Men drank, played cards; women served and worked behind the bar or in the improvised kitchens. Also the tavern keepers were both local residents and persons who had moved to the area from elsewhere. Despite the gender-specific assignment of the action spaces outside the tunnel, it was not along the lines of the categories of private and public spaces, Instead, interactions between women and men were embedded in daily life that took place largely in public. A German-speaking visitor to the area wrote in a letter of 10 September 1876: In the evening I arrived back in Göschenen in good time, which was chock-full of Italian workers having a nice time making music, singing, or playing the Italian game played with balls [bocce]. For the ball courts are set up wherever possible near the house or in any free space. The working hours are as follows: in 24 hours, 3 units – so that every unit works for 8 constant hours; however, it also takes them an over an hour to go into the tunnel. For the rest of the time the workers are off work. Göschenen used to have about 20 buildings, but now 40 to 50 have been added, with new hotels, (. . .) but you can tell all of the buildings in

316

E. Joris

which mainly Italians live. There is laundry hanging everywhere of every color and shape; there are grocery stores, produce, chickens, everything on the street, very Italian, (. . .) here a group rolling the balls, there a group chatting and laughing, there a group of men carrying hanging lamps on their way to the tunnel, here another group coming out again.10 (freely translated here)

In addition to the miners and the businesses that specialized in tunnel construction sites, there were also engineers, mechanics, and physicians who traveled from one tunnel construction site to another. The engineer mentioned above, Robert Gerwig of Karlsruhe, was well known across Europe as a specialist in tunnels with helixes and loops. Before coming to the Gotthard line, Gerwig had worked at many railway tunnel sites. Ferdinando Giaccone, a physician serving in Airolo, had already cared for injured miners at Fréjus in the Modane during the construction of the first historic penetration of the European Alps, the Mont Cenis Tunnel. These well-educated men were in part also accompanied by their wives, who in contrast to the female relatives of tunnel construction workers, usually did not engage in paid work. In accordance with the norms of the bourgeois gender order, they were assigned to the private sphere of the house or to the rooms and halls of the provisional hotel accommodations. Traces of these women are found almost exclusively in family narratives and in the sparse photographs in existence. From these diverse sources, a richly facetted picture of the historical tunnel villages of Airolo and Göschenen can be constructed. We find a micro cosmos in which the men dominated, but stood in close everyday exchange with women. Even though the number of single young men was far above average, “normality” reigned in the tunnel villages. Women and men, local residents and those from elsewhere, fulfilled various functions and reflected in their positions also the reigning social order, which was characterized by gender hierarchies and differences and dependencies based on posts held, occupations, and origins (Fig. 19.2).

19.2.4 Boundaries: The Perception of the Other The Cavalet siblings from the province of Belluno both married in the Canton of Uri: Andrea Cavalet married a local woman, and Genoveffa married an Italian. The first was not unusual, and the latter was the rule: Although binational marriages did occur during the period of the construction of the tunnel, marriages between local residents or between persons from elsewhere were much more frequent. Altogether about one-fifth of the men from elsewhere that (like Andrea Cavalet) married local women around Göschenen were tunnel construction workers (Scheidegger, 2006). There were also binational marriages between foreign immigrants and local women in Airolo. About one-sixth, or 38 of the total 234 marriages in Airolo from 1872 to 1883 were between foreigners and local women, whereas the men from Airolo almost without exception married women from their own villages. Almost all of the immigrants that married during this period had something to do with the construction of the tunnel and the railway and the great majority of these marriages

19

Deep Drilling: Tunnel Spaces as Gender Spaces

317

Fig. 19.2 Miners and engineers and woman tavern keeper

were between men and women of the same nationality and the same region, such as Trentino or Piedmont (Marcacci, 2006). Although there was a great deal of contact between them, relations between the local community now in the minority and the temporary residents in Göschenen and Airolo were marked first and foremost by mistrust. Greatly mistrusted were the immigrant men, who were attributed with Southern European temperament and unbridled willingness to use violence. Even though brawls and excessive alcohol consumption were widespread among local men, “disorder” was associated only with the “foreigners.” Regional newspapers in Uri and Ticino often reported outbreaks of violence in the tunnel villages, the demand to increase police presence was raised repeatedly, and official rules and regulations for maintaining law and order were issued frequently. These had to do with the ban on carrying weapons and with adhering to closing times and to statutes restricting certain activities on Sunday. Many of the reports reveal the local population’s fear of the immigrants as well as associated fantasies about violent emotional outbursts on the part of Southern Europeans. The images conveyed by these often had sexual connotations. The gendarmes in Göschenen saw the Italian miners, in contrast to the miners from South Tyrol, which still belonged to Austria-Hungary, as having a special affinity towards violence, manifested mainly in willingness to engage in massive brawls and knife fights (Töngi, 2004). They saw this tendency as especially strongly in evidence every four weeks at payday, when the workers used their freshly earned money at the taprooms for wine, schnapps, and prostitutes. An article in the newspaper Urner Wochenblatt on May 28, 1881, stated: “If you visit only three or four

318

E. Joris

saloons, you will be nearly deafened by the melodic, and not, noise of organs; everything possible is done to relieve the workers of the last bit of pay in their pockets; and contributing the necessary to that is a number of fairies, alleged waitresses from all corners of the globe” (Descurtins & Hafen, 2006: 159; freely translated here). In his report to the Swiss government in Bern, the physician, Laurenz Sonderegger, also said that the workers drank and made noise for a short time on payday, but he also emphasized that the majority of the workers were extremely thrifty and sent money home regularly (Jung, 2006). Still, it can be established that the number of violent quarrels increased sharply during the time period of the tunnel construction. Almost all of the miners carried switchblade knives, which were normally used as cutlery or tools, but in conflict situations could be used as weapons, sometimes as lethal weapons. The majority of the perpetrators and the victims were younger, single tunnel workers who spent their free time on the streets or in the taprooms. The local residents did not see their behavior in connection with their living and working conditions; instead, taking an essentialist line of argumentation, they saw the behavior as according with the “nature” of Italian men (Binnenkade, 1999; Töngi, 1999). And despite the fact that most of the knife fights took a harmless course and that there were also brawls among the local men due to hurt pride, the Italians were seen as more threatening. The locals believed that the Italians’ excessive physical desires, shown in their outbreaks of jealousy, also threatened the women. In September 1978, there was in fact a case of homicide due to jealousy, but the perpetrators were local men (Marcacci, 2006). Luigi Martoglio, a miner from the Piedmont, was killed in front of an inn by a blow to the head by a certain Cesare Camponovo, from Pedrinate in Ticino, with the aid of the Luigi brothers and Rinaldo Beffa, the owner of the inn. The case file states that Camponovo murdered the miner to get rid of a rival for the affections of the woman he loved, Luigia Beffa (Marcacci, 2006). The big bone of contention was the prostitution that was seen as connected with the influx of foreigners to the area, even though it was primarily locals that profited from this trade and not the “number of fairies, alleged waitresses from all corners of the globe” (Descurtins & Hafen, 2006: 159). In the context of the tunnel construction, waitresses in the miners’ saloons were almost always suspected of prostitution, and some were charged with immoral conduct. Legal proceedings for pimping were started against male tavern keepers and more rarely against female tavern keepers. In Göschenen in 1879 and 1880 there were sweeping charges against “indecent” pubs. Suspicion of being a brothel was raised against both a pub owned by Ceresa Francesco and run by an Italian, Antonio Peduzzi, and the pub Café dell’ Unione, which was run by a Mrs. Büchel, who had settled in the canton. Due to suspicion of prostitution in these two pubs, six women between the ages of 14–28 were brought in for questioning (Stehrenberg & Nicolodi, 2006). These women were not “from all corners of the globe;” they were Klara Furger from Altdorf, the capital of the Swiss Canton of Uri, and five other women from neighboring cantons. Mrs. Büchel, whose husband was a local resident, was dealt with much more circumspectly in the questioning than was the temporary resident and Italian leaseholder Antonio Peduzzi.

19

Deep Drilling: Tunnel Spaces as Gender Spaces

319

This resistance to foreigners generally and to foreign men in particular was seen most markedly in 1875 when police and a vigilante group of volunteers used force against striking Italian tunnel workers in Göschenen: Four miners were shot dead, and several others were injured. The people of Göschenen wanted to make unmistakably clear to the immigrant workers who it was that kept “order” in the village, even though the protest of the Italian miners was not against the local residents but against the tunnel construction company because of the working conditions (Binnenkade, 1999). The mostly poor local residents did not show solidarity with the also poor immigrants, but instead put themselves in the service of the regional authorities and the tunnel company as maintainers of order.

19.3 Emotional Interpretations Connected with the Gotthard 19.3.1 Persistent Images: Gender-Connotated Barriers Between Inside and Outside The miners advanced to become heroes in the fight against the mountain only later, decades after the opening of the Gotthard rail tunnel. Like the men who built the mountain pass trail in the Middle Ages and the mountain pass road at the start of the 19th century, they stood as brave men who, like soldiers, risked overcoming the Alps despite all obstacles and did not shrink from death. Fifty years after the opening of the tunnel, a bronze plaque was installed at Airolo station in commemoration of those (nameless) miners who died building the tunnel; but entrepreneur and contractor Louis Favre, who died of a heart attack within the tunnel before its completion, went down in Swiss history as a redeemer figure and hero already in the eighteenth century. In the collective memory, however, women are entirely absent in connection with the construction of the tunnel. But they were given a place as symbolic figures for luck and bad luck. Archaic ideas that women in tunnels lead to misfortune have resulted in the fact that until only recently no women were employed for tunnel construction work. The only woman who was welcomed, and ardently worshiped up to today, independently of religious denomination, is Saint Barbara, patron saint of tunnel workers, mining, and miners. Also during the ten year period of the building of the Gotthard tunnel, Holy Mass and traditional celebrations of Saint Barbara’s Day were held each year on December 4th, attended by all of the miners as well as by all men and women in Airolo and Göschenen that were indirectly involved in the building of the tunnel. For the miners, fear of misfortune was a constant companion. In all approximately 200 miners died in accidents during the piercing of the historic Gotthard tunnel (Kuoni, 2008). In addition, there were deaths due to the specific Gotthard tunnel disease/syndrome and also the long term endangerment due to silicosis and infectious diseases of various kinds. As there was no more room in the cemetery at Wassen to bury the many workers that died at the tunnel, Göschenen built a cemetery

320

E. Joris

of its own, making itself an independent municipality. A visitor described the burial of a miner in Göschenen in a letter: As I came nearer, I saw from the lit lanterns and the Holy Cross that was being carried at the head that a burial procession was approaching. Behind the Cross came 6 or 8 musicians blowing the funeral march, then came the red coffin carried by four bearers from the house to the church. There the coffin was placed on a bier and carried to the church graveyard outside the village. The whole crowd, first the men and then the women, followed the procession. Most of them carried candles (. . .) The mortality rate among the workers is said to be rather high, for even a man as young and healthy as he can be cannot endure the tunnel work for more than three years, as the dust is said to be so harmful that it attacks and poisons the lungs.11 (freely translated here)

Under such life-threatening conditions, the fact that archaic ideas long persisted, including the image of woman as the bringer of bad luck on the one hand, and as a saint protecting the miners on the other, is not surprising. There was also a dual image of women regarding women outside the tunnel: mother and whore. The latter was always associated with the pubs and taprooms, which were seen as places of unbridled pleasure with women of sensuality of an oriental tinge. The counter image was the miner’s wife with a child by her side, waiting anxiously for her husband at the tunnel entrance at change of shift, passively hoping that that he will return unhurt from the inside of the mountain, from the world to which women were denied entry. Only as a special exception, during specific celebrations, were women admitted into the tunnel. And so, during a tour on the occasion of achieving the breakthrough of the tunnel in March 1880, an “accident” due to a woman indeed occurred, although it was an accident of the happy sort: One of the visitors was the wife of a miner and in an advanced stage of pregnancy; affected by the great exertion she gave birth to a boy. The local newspaper reported: “Mother and child were transported to the light of day most carefully by the workers.”12 The baby was christened Gottardo (Jung, 2006: 640). Choosing this name for their child, for the affected parents Gotthard and the Gotthard tunnel became a place of highly emotionally charged memory. They would hardly have been aware of the fact that there was a tradition in Switzerland of charging the Gotthard with emotional meaning.

19.3.2 A Historical Inheritance: Myth Associated with the Alps Charging the Alps with mythos, which is still evident today in the metaphor of the Gotthard as the heart of the Alps, goes back to the Enlightenment and Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s glorification of the unspoiled nature of the mountain people (Mäder, 2002). After Switzerland became a modern state, adopting a federal constitution in 1848 which could be accomplished only through a civil war against the majority of the inner Alpine cantons, the emotional associations took on a strongly political accent. The Alps, as a frame of the identity of the young nation, were to heal the rifts between the victors and the losers. This “nationalization of the Alps” (Mathieu, 1998: 23) was an opening, through the course of which local and regional barriers lost significance economically, socially, politically, and culturally. The Alps became

19

Deep Drilling: Tunnel Spaces as Gender Spaces

321

the epitome of Switzerland, and the Gotthard in particular stood for the heart of the nation, as a symbol of the essence of Switzerland, and its freedom hero, Wilhelm Tell, and as an artery, where the great rivers and Rhone have their source and connect Switzerland to the sea. The building of the historic tunnel as a heroic act lent the saga of the overcoming of the Alps a modern and future-oriented version; it was a new interpretation of the medieval legend according to which the obstacles to the north-south connection at the Gotthard could be overcome only with the aid of the devil. But at the same time, it took up the technical achievement at the start of the nineteenth century, when the Gotthard pass bridle-path was turned into a bold and winding modern road for post-stagecoach transport. With this development, the Gotthard was seen at one and the same time as a natural barrier and border to be defended, and as a national integration factor and transnational connector. In this way the Gotthard became the heart of Switzerland and Switzerland as a nation the heart of Europe. This transnational and forward-looking and peace-making function of the Gotthard tunnel found symbolic expression in 1902 in a Swiss poster advertising the railway company, which showed an angelic-looking blonde woman whose figure stretched long connecting all of Europe (Fig. 19.3).

Fig. 19.3 Allegorical figure of a woman across a map of Europe

322

E. Joris

Through the course of the 19th and 20th centuries, the emphasis in Switzerland was on the one aspect or the other, depending on the situation. At the time of the Second World War and the alliance of the Axis powers Germany and Italy, the Gotthard, as the symbol of free Switzerland, had to be defended. More resources and more soldiers were allocated to this task than to protection of the Swiss population, viz., the defenseless women and children in the largely urban midland of Switzerland from Geneva to Basel and Zurich. What Switzerland defended was the mountain and not the tunnel, through which the trains between Italy and Germany thundered unhindered also from 1939 to 1945. At the same time, the soldiers patrolled the Alpine crest as lonely guards of the uninhabited world of glaciers and cliffs. By contrast, today, in a time when no military danger threatens from the north or south, the emphasis is on surmounting the barriers and on the Gotthard as a heart. With the future, the new 35-m (57 km) long Gotthard base tunnel is part of the New Railway Link through the Alps, Switzerland, which is not a member of the European Union, is integrating itself into modern Europe and sees itself as its indispensable partner, as the key to a fast crossing of the Alps and connections north and south under the image of high technology.

19.4 Men and Women and Tunnel Construction Today 19.4.1 Modern Man’s Worlds: The Persistence of Gender Barriers If you encounter a person in a tunnel, you still today do not give a thought to the sex of the person wearing the helmet, it is self-understood that the worker will be a man (Joris et al., 2006). In fact, at the current tunnel construction sites at the Gotthard, women are even fewer in number than were present for the first piercing of the mountain 125 years ago. Involved in planning and also implementation are primarily men. Among miners the idea lives on that women in a tunnel bring bad luck. An Austrian miner at the construction site in the southernmost section of the tunnel in Ticino says: “Fifteen years ago when I started, it was said, ‘Women may not enter the tunnel, they bring bad luck.’ That is the way it was (. . .) I’ve never seen a woman in a tunnel in my life” (Monte, 2006: 247; freely translated here). But as symbolic figures women continue to be welcome. At every tunnel entrance, there are several all along the new Alpine transit route, Saint Barbara watches over and protects the miners. The miners no longer live in barracks or miserably overcrowded accommodations. Today’s workers live in bright housing in prefabricated containers at the building site. A wire netting fence clearly demarcates their living space from the rest of the social environment. They have little contact with the local population; everything is provided at the site itself. There is no need to shop for daily needs in the surrounding villages, even though some of the workers occasionally get together in one of the container rooms to cook and eat. They have often known each other for a long time, for like the tunnel workers of the past, most of them come from the same villages and regions, mostly in Austria but also in Italy, Portugal, and Sweden. Swiss men make up a small minority. After completion of tunnel construction,

19

Deep Drilling: Tunnel Spaces as Gender Spaces

323

miners having the same origins not infrequently move on together to the next tunnel building site. As one Austrian puts it, “Once a tunnel, always a tunnel.” Life in the artificial light of the brightly lit tunnel fascinates the men, and most of all, the pay is comparatively good. They fight against stone, water, and soil and operate the giant tunnel boring machines that eat their way through the mountain. These powerful monsters, which are over 1,300 ft (400 m) long and have a cutter head of over 29 ft (9 m) in diameter, have sweet girls’ names, such as Gabi, Sissy, and Heidi (Joris & Suter, 2006). Is this a new dimension of the symbolic interpretation of the power of women in the woman-less realm of the miners? However, in contrast to the past, today there are real, living women who work also inside the tunnels. There are no women miners, but there are just a few women engineers, such as Mariga Perlongo, who had her presence in the tunnel photographed (Fig. 19.4). Or the engineer Michaela Bazzi, who was one of the first persons at the tunnel construction site; as the person responsible for environmental control, she measures the quality of the soil, air, and water. They are exceptions, however, for among the approximately 500 tunnel construction workers at the construction site in Biasca/Pollegio there is not a single woman, whereas in the areas of administration and housing/catering almost all of the employees are women (Monte, 2006). And so, as in earlier times although fewer in number and less visibly, most of the women engage in gainful employment not in, but in the vicinity of, the tunnel: working as, for example, communications manager of the construction consortium, employees at the information centers in Ticino and Uri, tunnel godmothers who take care of the statues of Saint Barbara. They also act contact persons for miners that have problems, drivers of the trucks in Ticino that remove the rubble, employees responsible for cleaning and laundry at the miners’ container housing,

Fig. 19.4 Mariga Perlongo

324

E. Joris

and employees of the canteens that are mostly managed by men. But one of the canteens is run by Rosa Piraino; she took over the job from her father. Giorgia Bruni got a job at the canteen at the southernmost portal of the tunnel also due to her father: He worked as a miner in the tunnel; she did not like being separated from him, and so she emigrated to Biasca/Pollegio as well.

19.4.2 Mobile Workers Despite similarities, life at the tunnel construction sites today is very different in comparison to the historical tunnel construction sites. Migrating in family groups has become rare; Giorgia Bruni is an exception. Whereas the miners move from one construction site to another, as in the past, and then take up life again in separated container housing at the construction site, the women, girlfriends and wives, sisters and mothers, almost always remain at the place of origin. Modern mobility allows the men to return home for visits at relatively short intervals. Driving private automobiles or as group passengers on charter flights, they make regular trips home despite great distances. Their place of origin and their families are their fixed point of reference; the work inside the tunnels is their always similar but still constantly varying points of reference. When comparing the time of the building of the road tunnel and the second tunneling of the Gotthard in the 1960s and 1970s (Jäggi, 2006), there are many fewer pin-ups on the walls of today’s container housing. Alongside the canteens there are also many fewer bars specifically targeting miners. There also seem to be fewer prostitutes around the tunnel construction sites. Miners and other tunnel employees seeking paid sex seem to prefer to go to establishments in towns at a clear distance from the container settlement. And whereas the image persists of the sexually starved tunnel worker yearning for his girlfriend or wife, it has lost its sharpness (Büchler, 2006). And while that yearning indeed probably exists among the tunnel miners, they no longer have to wait long for leave. Cleverly worked out shift plans allow them leave of five to six days every two to three weeks. When asked how his wife and family deal with the separation, an Austrian driver of the tunnel boring machine says: “Yeah . . . to them it’s normal. In our region 77% work elsewhere. There is nothing where we come from” (Monte, 2006: 246). Separate worlds: the underground world of the men in the tunnel and the world above ground of the women at home, who, whether employed outside the home or not, have sole responsibility for the family’s everyday life. The invisible female-defined hinterland of the tunnel construction workers at the Gotthard is the central gender-specific factor of the Alpine crossing.

Notes 1. This contribution is based primarily on the results of an interdisciplinary research project on the gender dimension of tunnel building at two universities in Switzerland, the Universities of Bern and Zurich. The research project was initiated in 2002 by the Swiss cultural foundation Pro Helvetia in cooperation with the Interdisciplinary Center for Gender Studies at

19

2.

3.

4. 5. 6.

7.

8.

9.

10. 11. 12.

Deep Drilling: Tunnel Spaces as Gender Spaces

325

the University of Bern (Joris et al., 2006). Additional research studies in migration history were conducted in the context of “Cantina Transalpina,” six exhibitions on the social history of the building of tunnels in 2007 in Göschenen, Pollegio, Brig, Kandersteg, and at the Swiss Museum of Transport in Lucerne and the Gotthard Museum at the Gotthard Pass, were directed by Elisabeth Joris and Eva Schumacher. See www.cantina-transalpina.ch. This chapter is based in part on a lecture that I gave on 9 November 2007, at the 30th Conference on the History of Technology at the Iron Library, a foundation of Georg Fischer AG, Schaffhausen (see Joris, 2008). See also Marchal (1992). Swiss artist and sociologist Jean Odermatt has been examining the most various aspects of the Saint Gotthard mountain since 1983 and recently opened a hotel, La Claustra, in a former Second World War military bunker in Berginnern; see Iwan Schumacher’s 2005 film (available on DVD, with English subtitles), Der Wolkensammler. Jean Odermatt – San Gottardo. Maeder, Kruker, and Meier (1992) offer an emphatically ethnographic way of looking at the Saint Gotthard. This outline follows a talk that I gave in the context of a field trip to the St. Gotthard Pass Region in the Swiss Alps on 3 June 2007 organized by Elisabeth Bühler. The field trip was the concluding event of the Symposium on “Sustainable Public Places: Feminist Perspectives on Appropriation, Representations, and Planning of Public Spaces” of the International Geographical Union, Commission on Gender and Geography (IGU), 31 May–3 June University of Zurich. This information was conveyed to me by Barbara Luz’s granddaughter, Lotte Middelmann of Filderstadt, Germany, who wrote this down for her children. From research by Alexandra Binnenkade, prepared by Eva Schumacher for the “Cantina Transalpina” exhibitions in Göschenen in 2007. See Binnenkade (1997, 1995). Alexandra Aschwanden, originally from the Canton of Uri, wrote a novel (Aschwanden, 2007) based on family reminiscences, various documents, and historical records, which although it is a work of fiction, evokes the lives of the ordinary people from the local residents to those that had moved to the area in Göschenen during the construction of the tunnel. All of this information comes from a family chronicle by Walter Cavaletti, Göschenen, grandson of Andrea Cavalet. Eva Schumacher and Susanne Perren prepared the information for use in the “Cantina Transalpina” exhibitions in Göschenen in 2007. From research by Alexandra Binnenkade, prepared by Eva Schumacher for the “Cantina Transalpina” exhibitions in Göschenen in 2007 and from which the present example was taken. See Binnenkade (1997, 1995). From research by Alexandra Binnenkade, prepared by Eva Schumacher for the “Cantina Transalpina” exhibitions in Göschenen in 2007 and from which the present example was taken. See Binnenkade (1997, 1995). Transcript of a letter written by Johann Conrad Corradi, sent to Susanna Perren by André Rudolf for the “Cantina Transalpina” exhibitions in Göschenen in 2007. Transcript of a letter written by Johann Conrad Corradi, sent to Susanna Perren by André Rudolf for the “Cantina Transalpina” exhibitions in Göschenen in 2007. Urner Wochenblatt (1880, 13 March).

References Aschwanden, A. (2007). Maledetto. Stein um Stein, Mensch um Mensch. Altdorf: Gisler. Bieri, S., & Tschannen, P. (2006). Geografien des Tunnels. Sozioökonomische und individuelle Gestaltungsprozesse im Rahmen des Tunnelbaus. In E. Joris, K. Rieder, & B. Ziegler (Eds.), Tiefenbohrungen. Frauen und Männer auf den grossen Tunnelbaustellen des Schweiz 1870–2005 (pp. 224–227). Baden: Hier+Jetzt. Binnenkade, A. (1995). Frauen und Männer im Tunneldorf Göschenen [Men and women in the tunnel village of Göschenen]. Unpublished manuscript, Annotated bibliography produced for the Swiss Museum of Transport.

326

E. Joris

Binnenkade, A. (1997). Leben in Göschenen – Vivere alla Casinotta. Alltag im Eisenbahnerdorf um 1875. In Verkehrshaus der Schweiz (Ed.), Kohle, Strom und Schienen. Die Eisenbahn erobert die Schweiz (pp. 191–201). Zurich: Neue Zürcher Zeitung. Binnenkade, A. (1999). Fremde Ordnung. Konflikte zwischen Italienern und Göschenern während der Bauzeit des Gotthardtunnels. In A. Binnenkade & A. Mattioli (Eds.), Die Innerschweiz im frühen Bundesstaats (1848–1874). Gesellschaftsgeschichtliche Annäherungen (pp. 141–158), Zurich: Chronos. Büchler, B. (2006). Connecting Europe? Die NEAT-Baustellen und ihre Umgebung als Orte sozialer Interaktion. In E. Joris, K. Rieder, & B. Ziegler (Eds.), Tiefenbohrungen. Frauen und Männer auf den grossen Tunnelbaustellen des Schweiz 1870–2005 (pp. 228–233). Baden: Hier+Jetzt. Ceschi, R. (2003). Geschichte des Kantons Tessins. Frauenfeld: Huber. Descurtins, S., & Hafen, F. (2006). Politik und Finanzen statt Soziales. Der Bau des grossen Gotthardtunnels im Spiegel der Urner Presse 1877–1882. In E. Joris, K. Rieder, & B. Ziegler (Eds.), Tiefenbohrungen. Frauen und Männer auf den grossen Tunnelbaustellen des Schweiz 1870–2005 (pp. 148–165). Baden: Hier+Jetzt. Galleria Gottardo. (Ed.). (1997). Il San Gottardo. Lugano: Galleria Gottardo. Gesellschaft für Ingenieurbaukunst. (1966). Historische Alpendurchstiche in der Schweiz. Gotthard, Simplon, Lötschberg. Zurich: Institute for Geotechnical Engineering, Swiss Federal Institute of Technology Zurich. Jäggi, S. (2006). Pin-up-Girls und Mineure. Geschlechterinszenierungen im Reportagen zum Bau des Gotthrd-Strassentunnels 1969–1980. In E. Joris, K. Rieder, & B. Ziegler (Eds.), Tiefenbohrungen. Frauen und Männer auf den grossen Tunnelbaustellen des Schweiz 1870–2005 (pp. 188–205). Baden: Hier+Jetzt. Jeker, R. E. (Ed.). (2002). Die Zukunft beginnt. Gotthard Basistunnel – Der längste Tunnel der Welt. Zurich: Werd. Joris, E. (2007). Die Querung der Alpen. Tunnelbau, Dienstleistungen und Geschlecht. In H.-J. Gilomen, M. Müller, M., & L. Tissot (Eds.), Dienstleistungen. Expansion und Transformation des «dritten Sektors» (15.–20. Jahrhundert) (pp. 125–142). Zurich: Chronos. Joris, E. (2008). Tunnelräume – Geschlechterräume. Die Tunnelbaustelle als lebensweltlicher Ort von Männern, Frauen und Kindern. Ferrum. Nachrichten aus der Eisenbibliothek, 80, 55–64. Joris, E., Rieder, K., & Ziegler, B. (Eds.). (2006). Tiefenbohrungen. Frauen und Männer auf den grossen Tunnelbaustellen des Schweiz 1870–2005. Baden: Hier+Jetzt. Joris, E., & Suter, R. (2006). Zeugnis: Die Vergeschlechtlichung der Bohrmaschine – High-Tech im Infocentro in Pollegio. In E. Joris, K. Rieder, & B. Ziegler (Eds.), Tiefenbohrungen. Frauen und Männer auf den grossen Tunnelbaustellen des Schweiz 1870–2005 (pp. 206–207). Baden: Hier+Jetzt. Jung, J. (2006). Alfred Escher. 1819–1882. Der Aufbruch zur modernen Schweiz. Vol 2. Nordostbahn und schweizerische Eisenbahnpolitik. Gotthardprojekt. Zurich: Verlag Neue Zürcher Zeitung. Kuoni, K. (2008). Der Bau des Gotthard-Eisenbahntunnels (1872–1881). Ferrum, 80, 99–112. Mäder, M. (2002). Essay – Mythos Gotthard. In R. E. Jeker (Ed.), Die Zukunft beginnt. Gotthard Basistunnel – Der längste Tunnel der Welt (pp. 179–197). Zurich: Werd. Maeder, H., Kruker, R., & Meier, V. (1992). Sankt Gotthard. Landschaft Menschen. Zurich: Offizin Regio. Marcacci, M. (2006). Der Umgang mit Fremden am Gotthard-Südportal. Soziale Verhältnisse in Airolo zur Zeit des Gotthardtunnelbaus 1872–1882. In E. Joris, K. Rieder, & B. Ziegler (Eds.), Tiefenbohrungen. Frauen und Männer auf den grossen Tunnelbaustellen des Schweiz 1870–2005 (pp. 23–35). Baden: Hier+Jetzt. Marchal, G. P. (1992). La naissance du mythe de Saint-Gothard ou la longue découverte de l’homo alpinus et de l’ Helvetia mater fluvoriorum. In J.-F. Bergier & S. Guzzi (Eds.), La découverte des Alpes, Series Itinera (Nr. 12) (pp. 35–53). Basel: Schwabe.

19

Deep Drilling: Tunnel Spaces as Gender Spaces

327

Mathieu, J. (1998). Geschichte der Alpen 1500–1900. Umwelt, Entwicklung, Gesellschaft. Vienna: Böhlau. Monte, L. (2006). Die Vergeschlechtlichung des Raums. Arbeit, Freizeit und soziale Kontakte auf der NEAT-Baustelle in Pollegio. In E. Joris, K. Rieder, & B. Ziegler (Eds.), Tiefenbohrungen. Frauen und Männer auf den grossen Tunnelbaustellen des Schweiz 1870–2005 (pp. 244–255). Baden: Hier+Jetzt. Schobinger, M. (Ed.). (2002). Gotthard. Via subalpina. Delémont: éditions d’autre part. Scheidegger, C. (2006). Migration, Heirat und soziale Kontrolle. Binationale Ehen zur Zeit des ersten Gotthardtunnelbaus 1872–1882. In E. Joris, K. Rieder, & B. Ziegler (Eds.), Tiefenbohrungen. Frauen und Männer auf den grossen Tunnelbaustellen des Schweiz 1870–2005 (pp. 36–47). Baden: Hier+Jetzt. Stehrenberg, C., & Nicolodi, S. (2006). Unter Prostitutionsverdacht im Tunneldorf. Rechtliche Massnahmen der Göschener Obrigkeit zur Durchsetzung der bestehenden Machtverhältnisse. In E. Joris, K. Rieder, & B. Ziegler (Eds.), Tiefenbohrungen. Frauen und Männer auf den grossen Tunnelbaustellen des Schweiz 1870–2005 (pp. 48–65). Baden: Hier+Jetzt. Steinmann, N. (2002). Die wichtigsten Kennzahlen des Gotthard Basistunnels. In M. Schobinger (Ed.), Gotthard. Via subalpina (pp. 187–208). Delémont: éditions d’autre part. Töngi, C. (1999). Gewalt und Geschlecht. Alltagskonflikte in Uri im 19. Jahrhundert. In A. Binnenkade & A. Mattioli (Eds.), Die Innerschweiz im frühen Bundesstaats (1848–1874). Gesellschaftsgeschichtliche Annäherungen (pp. 125–157). Zurich: Chronos. Töngi, C. (2004). Um Leib und Leben. Gewalt, Konflikt, Geschlecht im Uri des 19. Jahrhunderts. Zurich: Chronos. Zbinden, P. (2002). Die neue Flachbahn durch die Alpen. In Jeker, R. E. (Ed.), Die Zukunft beginnt. Gotthard Basistunnel – Der längste Tunnel der Welt (pp. 30–33). Zurich: Werd.

Chapter 20

The Megaproject of Mining: A Feminist Critique Kuntala Lahiri-Dutt

20.1 Introduction: Mining as a Megaproject Mining projects are idealized as being large: they are characterized by great size of the physical extent, of capital investments, of production, and of numbers of people involved.1 Such mega mining projects are also characterized by a masculinity, not only an overt visibility of men but also a taken for granted conflation of men, with institutionalized authority expertise and prestige, institutions, laws and structures of governance that favor these entrenched hierarchies, and technologies that pose to be gender-neutral. The masculinity of megaprojects is interpreted as “natural,” to normalize and legitimize the mechanism of power, a process described as the “discursive invisibility of men and masculinity”.2 Size and masculinity work together in mining engineering projects to produce that invisibility that represent power over the weak, the brutalization of nature, and the hegemony of capital and the market.3 Mining as a human endeavor is many thousands of years old; it began during the Middle Stone Age at around 5000 BCE, and gave us Bronze and Iron ages, making human civilization possible. Important milestones in human history were all achieved with minerals providing a major incentive.4 Early miners exploited placers and veins which outcropped at the surface, but as these sources were exhausted, they turned to underground mining. The presence of groundwater posed a barrier in going deeper and deeper into the earth, till the technology of water wheels and steam engines was developed to pump out water from underground mines in Cornwall. Mining formed the basis of the technical developments of what Dibner calls “renaissance engineering” (Dibner, 1981). Columbus, landing in the Americas, noticed that the “natives” were wearing gold ornaments, the Portuguese found in Brazil that the fish-hooks were made of gold. The colonies became the source of raw materials, not necessarily bulky products such as iron ore but provided wealth from valuable

K. Lahiri-Dutt (B) Research School of Pacific and Asian Affairs, Australian National University, Canberra, ACT, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_20,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

329

330

K. Lahiri-Dutt

gold, diamonds and gemstones. According to the historian of mining, T. A. Rickard (1933: 4), this history offers no discontinuity from the time our ancestor: . . .detached a nodule of flint in a chalk bank to this later day when a series of machine. . . dig noisily, and effectively, into a mountain of copper-bearing rock. The scale of the operation has been magnified, but the purpose of it is the same: to exploit the mineral resources of nature for the use of man.

Modern, industrialized mining fuelled and sustained the industrial revolution, and the expansion of European imperialism initiated mining in the settlements and colonies. Mining on an industrialized scale has largely finished in Europe due largely to cheaper imports and the shift of heavy industry to other countries, although the United States, Canada and Australia remain major mineral producers amongst the “western nations.” On the other hand the liberalizing economies of Latin America, Africa and Asia have seen recent entry of mining capital. China and India are the second and third largest coal producers and Chinese mining companies are aggressively acquiring shares in well-established multinationals. Given their population sizes and the need for resources, one can assume that mining will expand in these countries. In many of these countries, modern mining has given rise to unfathomable social and environmental problems (noted by Ballard & Banks, 2003; Bridge, 2004), resulting in extreme forms of resistance from local peoples who have put forth a powerful critique of mining. The transformation of traditional societies in these countries into dependent, less powerful, actors has given rise to a complex debate on whether “mining is good for development.” The connections in this troubled relationship with development theories are not yet clear, the neo-liberal developmentalist discourse that mining brings development to poorer countries is the mainstream view put forth by the World Bank personnel. Graulau (2001: 154) observes that mining in these countries produce a powerful myth of El Dorado Technicum, where technology apparently brings solutions to problems of rural violence, mercury pollution and the environment. Mining engineers see the mines as an organism, speaking in terms of the “life of a mine,” from exploration, development, construction, and mineral processing to the completion or closure of operations. Integral parts in this life cycle of mining are engineering and technology; from finding the ore body, planning and constructing the engineering complex, viz., the mine and all its associated works, digging up the ore from underground, and processing it to produce a marketable mineral product. All stages require the use of a range of technology. Drilling and sampling for prospecting, the assessment of mineral deposits and the collection of minerals by means of panning, sluicing, hydraulicking, open cast, underground/shaft or deep vein operations. Modern mining engineers take their job literally (“ingenero” − “to create”). They are different from the scientists, and believe in reaching a practical solution to practical problems. “Mining engineering” is the practice of applying engineering principles to the development, operation and closure of mines. In this practice, the environment becomes a subject matter of engineering as much as rock mechanics or the practical business of securing the safety of workers and the efficiency of production.5

20

The Megaproject of Mining: A Feminist Critique

331

Lewis Mumford disagreed. He believed that (1934: 77), “The miner’s notion of value, like the financier’s, tends to be a purely abstract and quantitative one.” This is because “The miner works”, not for love or for nourishment, but to “make his pile.” The classic curse of Midas became perhaps the dominant characteristic of the modern machine: “whatever it touched was turned to gold and iron, and the machine was permitted to exist only where gold and iron could serve as foundation.” Mining in his view is seeped with two notions – the economic one that tends to assess, value and measure everything around it in financial terms, and the “machine culture” that represents standardization, uniformity and quantification. For Mumford, neither represent “real” values that can sustain and enhance life. The cycle of mining turns minerals into commodities, controlled by market forces driven by a profit motive that overrules concerns for the nature and the environment, and the engineering project assumes superiority over everything else.6 Although early geographers saw the abundance of minerals as nature’s “endowment” as a blessing for the nations and the basis of its economic wealth, to Lewis Mumford mining and war seemed to be closely related twins: the “curse of war and the curse of mining are almost interchangeable: united in death” (1967: 240). Since the advent of metal arms and armor, warfare has become intertwined with mining. It is said that while mining can presumably exist without war, war can hardly exist without mining (Crombie, 1997: 30). Early mining, Mumford considered, was not “a humane art” but “a form of punishment” (Mumford, 1934: 67). This is the essence, for Mumford, of the “megamachine of mining” a machine that has been founded often on a pathological need for centralized control − “The myth of the machine and the divine kingship rose together” (1967: 168). In a feminist encounter with the megaproject of mining, however, in this paper I move away from the logical corollary to Mumford’s view that western science and technology have acted as tools for the domination of nature as well as women. I reject this dichotomy of hyper-expansionist (HE) future and the sane, humane, ecological (SHE) future (as described by Robertson (1981: 83–84) as being equivalent to the “male system” and the “female system”). The most important reason is that it rests on an essentialist notion of gender, on the belief in universal forms of femininity and masculinity. My argument is neither is the masculinity of mining the natural order of things, nor does it reflect the most desirable and efficient organization of the complex systematic operation of mineral extraction. Rather, mining is and has been discursively, culturally and ideologically constructed as a male domain eliminating women and hiding their productive roles in mining. The objective of this feminist critique is not to state that the ruthless application of technology as it is embodied in big-scale mining particularly since European industrialization, and its focus on economic goals, has been the motor of crisis for women, subjugating them further by causing an erosion of their livelihood bases. The literature (see Braidotti, Charkiewicz, Hausler, & Wieringa, 1994 for a review) on “impacts of mining on women” seem to be arising out of an equation of “nature’s work” with “women’s work” a la Shiva (1989), and links women with nature both materially and spiritually. This representation is one of the problematics that I will investigate in this paper. Large scale projects are unpopular with feminists; the most

332

K. Lahiri-Dutt

striking examples of how large scale projects negatively impact upon women are commonly cited from large dams, but large-scale mining projects could well fall into this genre. Following Faulkner’s (2000) approach of getting “inside the belly of the beast,” I ask, how did the mega project of mining come to be seen so closely associated with masculinity? Like my question, my methodology is also feminist. Such a methodology reverses the research gaze to also analyze the more powerful themselves, those who determine mining investments, large projects, plans and the designs.7 To question the range of symbolic as well as the material dimensions of power and gender means working on, and recognizing the connections between, not only the personal and the professional, but also the politics of institutions and the global systems. To this end, I will also illuminate mining as a masculine work and workplace, “the miner” as the symbolic masculine icon of the working class, explore the gendered impacts of mining, and show how technology in mining interacts differently with men and women. For social scientists, mining has been the quintessential “other” as a human endeavor, competing with farming for land, physically remote and less accessible, and representing a “special” kind of human project in its disregard for preserving the nature. Often mining community studies reflect this “distance” or “remoteness” (see Pattenden’s (2005) description of her study community in Australia). Similarly, “the miner” has become an archetypal “other” of the comfortable lives of the urban middle classes whose secretly admire the heroism of the blackened face working class man. Whereas farming follows a natural rhythm, each harvest being followed by a new germination, mining is associated with “luck,” a matter of chance either for countries in having mineral deposits, or for individuals in striking it (Harvey & Press, 1990: 2). If mining is “the other” of the normal human endeavor, “the miner” is also the other for the normal human being. The naturalization of men in these binary constructions leads to seeing women as the other of mining and the miners. It is easy to think of “mother nature” whose womb is raided by some hard unrefined men in search of personal or corporate profit. Mining also evokes images of pickaxe and shovel, bulldozers and earth movers, board and pillar, longwalls and caterpillars. It suggests sophisticated techniques and processes such as drilling and blasting, cutting and excavating, shafts and pits. Technology plays an important role in extractive industries; mining is entirely dependent on tools and machines which are an integral part of mineral exploration, extraction and processing. The extensive use of technology has also been responsible for attributing the strong masculinity to mining as a human endeavor, and to the jobs and processes therein (Rickard, 1933). I show that mining, with its long history of use of tools, is also an area of work that inscribes gendered meanings onto the bodies of individuals performing it, through an intricate sexually based division of labor. Even where women have entered in small numbers to take advantage of the better pays that are offered by many large mining projects, they tend to remain at the bottom of the company hierarchy. The sexually-based division of labor, seeing certain jobs as more suitable for women’s nimble fingers or more docile nature or lesser risk-taking propensities, even while incorporating women into the workforce tends to push women into the lower status and more insecure forms of jobs in mining. This is not the end: once

20

The Megaproject of Mining: A Feminist Critique

333

the masculinity of the enterprise as a whole is well entrenched and widely accepted within the industry and on the mine site, it gets transmitted onto the communities living around it. Either the woman in mining settlements is rendered invisible and stripped of her productive values at home and in the workplace, or the technocentric and hyper-masculine mining industry combined with patriarchy, portrays her purely as a victim without agency.

20.2 A Feminist Critique In this paper, I attempt to complicate this simplistic picture through a feminist critique of mining as a whole, and similar megaprojects in general.8 A “feminist perspective” can shed new light on mining, as there are analogies between mining and feminist social research: both . . .intervene in and disturb a landscape by probing and digging for a rich lode of ore or layer of stratum that has hitherto lain covered, or unknown, perhaps until now unvalued. Women’s knowledges and contributions, like untapped mineral wealth, had lain unused simply because the society had no use for them. (Gibson-Graham, 1994: 206–207)

Unlike mining, there is, however, no accepted and single feminist method, but a distinctive methodological perspective or framework that fundamentally challenges the often unseen androcentric or masculine biases in the way that knowledge is traditionally constructed. Feminist methodology is eclectic, without a single and standard of methodological correctness or feminist way to see things. It critiques knowledge that claims to be universal and objective, but which is, in reality, knowledge based on men’s lives. For example, the androcentric picture that one receives of mining and the social worlds around mines emerges from the testing by men of hypotheses generated by what men find problematic as subjects of enquiry. Again, feminist do not offer “alternative” research methods but illuminates alternative origins of problematics, explanatory hypotheses and evidence, alternative purposes of enquiry, and a new prescription for the appropriate relationship between the inquirer and her/his subject of inquiry (Harding, 1987: vii). A feminist perspective is at once located within a discipline and outside of it; it builds a knowledge outside of disciplinary frameworks and puts forth feminist criticisms of the discipline, with the goal of transforming these disciplines and the knowledge to which they contribute. (For comments on a most unlikely discipline such as International Relations, see Tickner, 2006: 21). As against this eclectic feminist knowledge, mainstream scientific knowledge is portrayed as universal, value-free and neutral in its relentless pursuit of truth that is supposedly valuable for all. Four methodological perspectives guide much of feminist research: research questions (which research questions get asked and why); the goal of research design that is useful to women and men but less biased and more universal than conventional research; the central question of reflexivity and the subjectivity of the researcher; and a commitment to knowledge as emancipation. Consequently, following Harding’s proposal to use the term, “feminist epistemologies” to imply that women can be both agents of knowledge in

334

K. Lahiri-Dutt

science, I offer a critical view of mining that is written from the point of view not of men but where women are legitimate actors.9 To shift from the universalism inherent in megaprojects, I draw in this paper widely on literature from a range of disciplines and approaches in social science including some development text. The last is also crucial because Mumford’s conceptualization may lead us into the quagmire of “domination” of women through the domination of the environment. This domination is perceived as women are constructed as the “other” of men in order to reconfirm his position as more rational, superior and standard, but also are seen as the natural carers of the nature/environment. This approach has the risk of enhancing the masculinity of mining. Following Harraway (1991) who suggested the elimination of the image of “Mother Nature” altogether, because in the current situation it would imply women’s collective status as victims, I would examine the discourses around mining, the male control of resources, and the normalization mechanisms, such as protective legislation that represents women primarily as mothers and aims to protect their maternal labor from certain areas of work and at certain times of the day, and in the process illegitimize them and make them invisible.

20.3 A Critique of Mining as Work Today’s mining is generally equated with large companies, mostly privately owned, many of them incorporated in the developed world and with the shareholders’ monies operating predominantly in developing countries. This large corporatized form of mining is insignificant as an area of work, employing less than 1% of world’s workers, and this figure tends to decline with mechanization (ILO, 2002). Many more people, however, make a living out of extracting minerals out of the earth’s surface: in 2002 over 20 million people were estimated as depending on mineral resource extraction for their living (CASM, 2003, 2005). These informal modes of mineral extraction practices collectively known as “Artisanal and SmallScale Mining” (ASM) (Hentschel, Hruschka, & Priester, 2002) were noted early by mining engineers for their significant contribution to the world mineral production (see for example Argall, 1978; Carman, 1985; Noestaller, 1987). Yet, in general ASM was a less understood area in mining till social scientists pointed out the relationship between poverty, economic reforms and large-small interlinks (Hilson & Potter, 2005; Lahiri-Dutt, 2007). Graulau (2006: 299) put women’s labor as the core of capital accumulation in ASM communities such as those in Brazilian Amazon: “Women’s labor has been crucial in the expansion of capitalism and the reproduction of its modes of production in the mining frontier.” ASM reflects two important global trends in respect of women’s work: feminization of the workforce and informalization and casualization of women’s work. Feminisation of informal mining means that the percentage of women can reach up to a high of 80% in actual mining jobs such as panning, processing, transportation and related tasks in the field. This proportion varies from country to country

20

The Megaproject of Mining: A Feminist Critique

335

according to location, nature and value of the mineral, processing techniques used, marketing systems, local social milieu, availability of alternative occupations and other factors. However, the dangerous and physically demanding nature of work leads to a gender division of labor in which men undertake the so-called “heavy jobs” and women do the repetitive chores such as panning, carrying and processing. The proportion of women also increases if mining is undertaken illegally, for example such as in the Ghanaian galampsey industry (Hilson, 2001, 2002) or in Mongolian “Ninja” mining of gold (MBDA, 2004). Women are also represented more heavily in lower value industrial minerals, the proportion rising to over 75% in salt mining in India (Lahiri-Dutt, 2007). Even where ASM has traditionally provided livelihood to a large number of people in combination with some shifting cultivation, the numbers of women have been rising (such as observed by Caballero (2006) in the Philippines). In South Asia, like everywhere else there is a rise in the numbers of quarries and decline in alternative occupations (Lahiri-Dutt, 2007). Casualisation in ASM implies the complete domination of the contemporary space of production and social reproduction by more powerful men. Moretti (2006: 5) in his work in Mount Kaindi in Papua New Guinea has shown that the extractive landscape builds up in accordance with “traditional” principles of land ownership; consequently almost all registered mining leases, tributary rights and customary land are held by men and transmitted patrilineally. Even in matrilineal societies such as the Maroons of Suriname, Heemskerk (2000, 2003: 7) noted the apparent autonomy hides gender inequality in relative access of women and men to political power, money, capital assets and contacts with the outside world. Amutabi and Lutta-Mukhebi (2001: 5) explain this disempowered status in terms of lack of land rights. A similar pattern is seen in Latin American ASM communities; women occupy a number of roles as laborers undertaking the most labor-intensive and informal jobs in Bolivia (as palliris). Hinton, Veiga, and Beinhoff (2003: 13) noted that the key factors in determining gender roles and status of women in ASM include: women’s and men’s access to and control of, resources; their ability to attain knowledge of resources, their decision-making capacity or political power; and beliefs or attitudes that support or impede the transformation of gender roles.

20.4 Critique of Representations of “The Miner” De-constructing mining as a work needs to be followed by a careful examination of who is represented as “the miner.” Difficult and unsafe working conditions in early industrialized mines of modern times largely produced this image of a toiling man as the miner. These male miners are seen as men undertaking a dangerous, dirty and risky work, endowing their manual labor with attributes of masculinity. The frontier nature of mining created its own work culture (Burke, 1993, 2006), which was “unashamedly sexist”. The masculine work culture aroused masculinist analysis (Allen, 1981: 4):

336

K. Lahiri-Dutt

. . . mining evokes popular images of hard unrefined men, distinct and separate from other workers, hewing in mysterious dungeons of coal: dirty, strange men, in some ways frightening and for this reason repellent, yet attractive because they are masculine and sensuous . . ..

The masculinist analysis invites powerful visual and metaphorical images: mining . . . is gargantuan, dangerous, heroic and mysterious, involving destruction and penetration of the earth’s surface. . . .Images of mining as human endeavour incorporates the imperatives of physical strength, endurance and filth, all characteristics of masculinised work. (Robinson, 1996: 137)

Mining and miners provide a classical case in which physicality is “one of the main ways in which the power of men becomes ‘naturalized,’ i.e. seen as part of the order of nature” (Connell, 1995: 85). The naturalization of masculinity means that in mining the male miner gets represented as the iconic laborer. Once established, the interests of the male miner assume precedence as whose interests are to be protected over those of women workers (Metcalfe, 1988). The masculinity is enhanced as life in the mine pits is portrayed as a uniquely male world where the sharing of risks contributes to a particular form of male solidarity (Garside, 1971). The strong sense of occupational identity, often extended to entire mining communities, rendered women and their work in the mines invisible. In her work on women in British collieries during the industrial revolution, John (1980) showed that this solidarity was used to exclude women in the name of protecting them from the risky and hard mining jobs. Popular representations in the media further project the iconic status of the male miner. Burke quotes the words of Beatrice Campbell (1984: 97): Miners are men’s love object. . . .It is the nature of the work that produces a tendency among men to see it as essential and elemental, all those images of men down in the abdomen of earth, raiding its womb for the fuel that makes the world go round. The intestinal metaphors foster the cult of this work as dark and dangerous, an exotic oppression . . . it constructs the miner as earth-man and earth-man is true man. And it completed the equation between some idea of elemental work and essential masculinity.

The emergent masculinity of the popular images of the miner is revealed in the corporate machismo ingrained in mining industry, in vivid accounts of the first sightings of a famous ore body, turning discoverers into “cultural heroes” who “wander across usually hostile landscapes” until they find the mineral deposit (Burton, 1997: 28). Another aspect of masculinity is best expressed in the politics of socialism in which miners have historically played a central part with their wives supporting their struggles (one example is Stead’s (1987) work on women’s roles in the 1984– 1985 miners’ strike in Britain). In Kolar Gold Field, Nair (1998: 101, 119) described the working class culture in mining communities where the exigencies of work in a mine and life in a mining camp engendered new social arrangements where the older hierarchies and divisions lost their meanings. A flip side of the naturalization of masculinity of mining is that all women in all mining communities come to be represented as being unproductive and isolated,

20

The Megaproject of Mining: A Feminist Critique

337

unable to resist domestic oppression; and staying at home caring and cleaning for husbands and sons who worked tough shifts and came home dirty. This representation of women is important for us to critique as it helps to form the foundation of the sexually-loaded binary in mining. The linkages and associations between power and masculinity of mining and the masculinity of the male miner are rendered invisible in the process. It is worth exploring the category of “miner’s wife,” the figure that overshadows the feminine one in mines.

20.4.1 Mining Wives Miners’ wife is at times seen as the “pit woman” to (mis)represent the woman miner herself (see the previous critique Lahiri-Dutt & MacIntyre, 2006). Women in mining communities belong to the working class because of their men, the “male contoured social landscape” burgeoning with the tacit as well as overt support from the corporate body (the Anaconda Copper Mining Company in Butte, Montana, see Murphy, 1997). Marxist feminist geographers McDowell and Massey (1984) in their research on the colliery settlements of Durham, England, analyzed this phenomenon as one of gender division of labor creating a spatial division between the home and workplace, the mine. Miners’ wives were famously described as “the hewers of cakes and drawers of tea,” relegated to their place at home while men gathered together in union halls or local pubs (study in Australia). Yet, social life in mining communities is characterized by groupings that cut across pure class, individual or family boundaries (Dennis, Henriques, & Slaughter, 1969: 249). Among men, the formal bureaucratic structure of the union is imposed on the informal social relationships developed in the mines. Within the family, the division of labor constrains the full formation of the family as a unit. Gender segregation in the mining industry leading men to view themselves as industrial proletariat while enjoying the ownership of home. Women’s contributions in building the family and the community were and remain invaluable, but do not constitute their only identity in the mining industry. Nash (1979: 12–13) put women in Bolivian mining communities within the context of home as the wife of a male miner, subjected to the limitations of the house, to the dominance by the man whose needs she must dedicate herself to, and to almost unrestricted childbearing: “Male and female roles are dichotomized in the mining community, and there is still a mystique about women not entering the mine.” On closer look, sociologists have found “anomalies” in this class-based analysis of women (Parpart, 1986: 141–142). While women supported workers’ struggles against capital and even confronted management directly over issues like food and housing, they also adopted an impressive number of strategies to ensure their own position, strategies that pitted gender against gender and even occasionally transcended class lines. A critique of the overrepresentation of the mining wives has been presented by Rhodes, based on her personal experience of living as a mining engineer’s wife in “Company towns.” According to her,

338

K. Lahiri-Dutt

Mining wives have no public profile. Outside the resources sector they are an unidentifiable group, unseen and unheard. . . . (She is) a dependent spouse whose willingness to maintain male privileges for husband and company had been taken for granted for many years.

Rhodes shows how the unpaid labor by wives at home and in the community helps to sustain a flourishing social life around the mines. While her perspective emerged from personal experience, Rhodes’ work fails to query her own class position within the industry’s hierarchy. Robinson (1986) observed that the managers’ wives in the mining town of Soroako are expected to take on a leadership and welfare role in the community through involvement in the Association of Inco Families, an organization in which their position parallels that of their husband in the workforce. Company hierarchies are expected to be reproduced within the social spheres and could act as informal instruments of subjugation of women. Moreover, in developing countries, the relative economic prosperity of mining wives creates a disjuncture between “staff wives” and local women who become “envious of their lifestyle” as showed by Robinson (1986) in a remote island in Indonesia.

20.4.2 Revisionist Views Revisionist efforts have come from feminist historians “uncovering” women’s roles in the American West (Fischer, 1990; Zanjani, 2006) or in Central Appalachia (Tallichet, 2006). Labor historians have attempted to correct the pronounced masculinity of mining as a work and the miner as the worker, and how it manifests both in the industry and in the politics of socialism in which miners have historically played a central part. The rapidly increasing literature by feminists whilst helping to remove women’s invisibility as productive agents in both the mines and in mining communities, has pointed to the problematic of unchanging gender roles at home. In tracing women’s contributions in artisanal mining in preindustrial Europe, Vanja (1993: 102) commented that “strict division of labor for men and women” meant a modern family did not come into existence in mining communities. In my survey of women personnel in a modern colliery in Indonesia, I found that many women truck operators tended to leave the job after around 4 years of service, this resignation largely due to the lack of childcare (Lahiri-Dutt, 2006a, b). Revisionist views show that women have been in the mines with men, as part of the family labor unit or as individual wage labor, from early times in ancient mines, in the modern mines hastening the industrial revolution, and during the contemporary period. Early treatise such as Agricola’s De Re Metallica (1556) portray women breaking and sorting ores, hauling and transporting them, smelting and processing, and sometimes even undertaking the physically demanding job of working the windlasses. However, it is during the advent of capitalist industrial mining that women’s work in mines fully flourished in Europe. Employment records in British collieries from eighteenth and nineteenth centuries do not reveal the full extent of their participation, because as male mineworkers utilized the labor of their female relatives, women working underground as drawers (pulling sledges or tubs along the pit floor from the coal face to the bottom of the shaft) or as pit-brow lasses

20

The Megaproject of Mining: A Feminist Critique

339

would not be usually recorded in colliery accounts (John, 1980: 20). Feminist labor historians Gier and Mercier (2006) have unearthed the hidden history of women miners in the US and Canada. In the coal mines in Belgium, the numbers of women working underground actually grew during the late nineteenth century. Hilden notes (1993: 89) “Not surprisingly, Belgium’s women coal-miners earned some significant portion of the public respect and reverence elsewhere given so readily to male coal-workers.” Women coal mine workers were known as hiercheuse, a proud title connoting the feminine version of mineurs, the male miners. The public attention, however, meant that colliery women needed to conform to the dress codes of decent women, and eventually raised the problematic of whether the mining women were specially endowed (or special categories of) women or not. Following Burke (1993) one could posit mining work as one of the areas where women’s “agency” could be located. However, it is also important that women’s work in mining be placed within the broader characteristics of gender socialization in mining, lest women are treated purely as “labor commodity.”

20.5 Critique of Technology in Mining Technology plays an important role in extractive industries; mining is entirely dependent on tools and machines which are an integral part of mineral exploration, extraction and processing. In mining the use of modern technology has been seen as the key to increasing productivity and safety, and improving working conditions, and is thus at the heart of the way workers engage in with their work in mines. Hacker has shown that such extensive use of machines give rise to a “patriarchal culture of engineering” (1981: 341–342). The extensive use of technology has also been responsible for attributing the strong masculinity to mining as a human endeavor, to the jobs and processes therein. Feminists have pointed out that the use of technology is heavily gendered in terms of both the impact of technology as well as in making visible women’s contributions in science and technology (see Herring, 1999; Rowbotham, 1995). Early socialist feminists demonstrated that technology equated capitalist industrialization and commonly displaced women from production, that new technology enhanced men’s power, and that gender is the crucial determinant of the context in which technologies are imposed (Rowbotham, 1995). Feminists investigating gender in natural resource management also largely supported this view (see Boserup, 1970; Shiva, 1989). However, a more nuanced and complicated view has now been developed; neither “women” nor “technology” is seen as a unitary category and Wajcman (2004) uses the term “technofeminism” to indicate a complex fusion. Technology impacts on women’s labor because a sexual division of labor is embedded in the way men and women do things in a factory or shop floor. This is true of almost all cultures and almost all times. Even in Indus Valley civilization, “men delved and women span” (Sengupta, 1960: 1). In mining, men dug the mineral ores and women carried them and processed them. In many manufacturing

340

K. Lahiri-Dutt

industries, “men and women tend to participate in different spaces, shops or sections of the factory,” and they usually operate or set up different “physical technologies that require skills or knowledge defined as male or female” (Sen, 2008: 107). Sexual division of labor, justified as the “natural” complementarity of the roles of women and men, however, is usually accompanied by “a vertical sexual division of labor” or a stratified division that concentrates women into the bottom strata of various low level positions, discriminatory wages and poor working conditions. In mining there are evidences that technology change, in absolute terms of efficiency and productivity, often worked against the interests of women workers in the industry. Seen as useful in enhancing production and productivity, or as crucial for increasing safety in a most dangerous job, technology has assumed a gender-neutral position. Whilst women as well were an integral part of industrialized mining in Bolivia, participating in labor intensive concentration processes, “their work was lost when machines were installed in the flotation processes for sorting minerals in the sixties” (Nash, 1979: 13–14). In many countries women workers were thrown out as mining became more capitalized. Nakamura (1994: 15–16) has shown that the introduction of new technology destroyed the naya (or “stable”) system of work which had made a place, albeit at the bottom, for women in mining production in pre-capitalist revolution coal mines: “a married couple worked as a unit, with the husband (sakiyama) digging out the ore and the wife (atoyama) assisting him by carrying away the coal.” A technological rationalization accompanied the post World War unprecedented capitalist expansion of coal mining in Japan, and as the industry established new systems of production technology, women were thrown out of work. In India, women and men usually from indigenous communities such as the Santhals and semi-tribals such as Bauris who worked together in early collieries as part of a family labor unit. Again, women kamins carried the coal cut by their male partners, the coolies who were their husbands, brothers and sons (Ray Chaudhury, 1966). Within a generation or two of the flourishing of coal mining from the construction of the Indian Railways in 1850s, colonial administrators began to describe some of these local communities as “traditional coal cutters” (Paterson, 1910). Women also worked the engines together, and were called as “gin girls” (Pramanik, 1993). However, the shallow pukuriya khads (old-style open cuts) began to change around the late 1920s in favor of shaft mining. Changes in technology are associated with other institutional changes such as the protective legislation supported by the ILO in early twentieth century. These bans on women’s night and underground work also played important roles in throwing women out of the mines and in India, for example, as early as in 1947, had significant economic consequences to the miner families (Mukherjee, 1947). From a high of 44% in 1900, women’s proportion in coal mines in India in 2000 fell drastically to less than 6%, turning the gin girls into scavengers (Lahiri-Dutt, 1999).

20

The Megaproject of Mining: A Feminist Critique

341

20.6 Critique of Gender-Selective Impacts It has been emphasized that the introduction of large scale mining affects women disproportionately more than men, and that women are affected both from lack of access to assets and resources, as well as from increased cash flows into local economies and into the hands of men. The gendered impacts often cut across class and race, but those women (and men) beginning from a disadvantaged position are more negatively affected by mining (Griffiths, 2003). Again, the gender-selective impacts have been noted both in better off countries such as Canada, and in less developed countries.10 In his work amongst the indigenous populations of Canada, Hipwell, Mamen, Wietzner, and Whiteman (2002: 11) put these impacts into three broad categories, health and well-being, women’s work and traditional roles, and gender inequalities in the economic benefits from mining activities. My observation in eastern India on gender impacts were related to the depleting subsistence bases with environmental degradation for women were primarily burdened with family’s food security (Ahmad & Lahiri-Dutt, 2007). Positioning the problem in the environmental justice framework Bose (2004: 409) observes: Extensive mining has ushered in myriad problems such as alienation of lands, loss of economic and livelihood opportunities, loss of forest cover accompanied with its diverse impacts, social and cultural changes due to a migrant population coming into the region, degradation in the physical environment due to pollution and contamination of air, dust, and water by the company’s extraction and processing activities. However, even more important are the problems faced by adivasi women.

The contexts may be different but similar issues ring through in other studies. These studies describe the loss of agricultural land and livelihood resources for those people living at subsistence level and the decreased ability of women to work on remaining land due to male absenteeism (Bhanumathi, 2002, 2003). In her early ethnographic work on the political economy of development in a mining town in Indonesia, Robinson (1986: 12) says: The fundamental change in Soroako has been the loss of the village’s most productive agricultural land to make way for the mining project. As a consequence, wage labour for the company has become the principal stable form of livelihood. However, a large proportion of village residents do not enjoy regular employment, and they have been reduced to a semi-proletariat, living by occasional waged work and a variety of activities in the informal sector.

Each of these changes can have distinctively gendered effects. In her later (1988: 64) work, Robinson notes that “in the change from peasant agriculture to wage labor the women have been subject to a decline in their economic independence,” but at the same time . . .women have become more economically dependent on men, changes in cultural forms of the expression of gender have resulted in a decline in some of the restrictions on women’s personal freedom which hitherto prevailed in the community.

342

K. Lahiri-Dutt

Byford (2002) observes that sudden influx of mining revenues within local communities may also marginalize women. A new, monetized, economy that the introduction of a new mine brings in tends to put women either in lower status jobs or renders them less active economically by changing the production systems, relations and spatial orientations (Rothermund, 1994). Women can be marginalized through the introduction of different “mining culture” brought in by a new mining project. Often this external culture leads to internal power redistribution within the community, attributing new notions of authority to men. Women tend to get excluded from negotiations between the community and the mining company. The mining company personnel carry with them false assumptions about the identity of the “head of the family” and consider that the household resource allocation is equal for all members. More often than not, men receive monetary compensation because the land belongs to them. It then becomes difficult for women who have little formal political authority to be able to influence how the mine would shape their lives. The changes often adversely affect women, particularly by devaluing women’s productive work at home, and by undermining their status as decision-makers and resource-users. Physical proximity to the mines leads to the direct experience of noise and vibrations, and the visibility of gigantic machines arouse fear and a sense of insecurity creating a heightened sense of negative impacts among women (LahiriDutt & Mahy, 2007). The entry of a cash-based economy with mining affects women indirectly too; the extra cash being spent on sexual promiscuity, on pubs, karaoke bars and brothels that come up overnight in the most remote places. The lack of direct employment opportunities in the mine for women and resulting dependency on their male relatives and women’s lack of decision-making power at the community level turn women into victims of mining. The impacts of mining on gender literature has given rise to the convincing figure looming in all social impacts literature of “the prostitute,” yet another subject category that is sweepingly used to indicate to the negative effects of mining on women (see Kunanayagam, nd). Women making a living as “sex-workers” around minesites have been interpreted by the civil society groups as equal to the vandalization of nature, “degradation of women” with the degradation of land caused by mining.11 A common and recurring theme from activist literature and posters is the regret over women’s sex work as one of the gendered consequences of mining expansion. For many local people mining development changes the attitudes towards sexuality as well as towards women (Emberson-Bain, 1994). While many societies in Papua New Guinea incorporated long periods of male sexual abstinence, there is evidence that in mining towns this is being eroded. Communities report a growing incidence of alcoholism, rape and other forms of violence against women and an increasing incidence of teenage pregnancy. These gender-selective impacts have given rise to another stereotypical category, the “contract wife.” The contract wife’s marriage ends when the male mine worker disappears after his contract is up (often to a wife back home). Indeed almost all mine sites report of increased male alcoholism, transitory marriages or relationships, increased prostitution, the spread of sexually transmitted infections, sexual harassment against women and domestic violence.

20

The Megaproject of Mining: A Feminist Critique

343

Such representations of women as “victims of mining” are common throughout studies on social impacts of mining. So much has this figure been set in concrete that it is not uncommon to encounter historical research on sex work mining communities. Vermeer’s research on the archaeological evidence of sex work in the 19th century mining frontier in American West is an example. Historical research now has shown us that in all gold rush situations there was a profusion of sex-work (Higgins, 1999). John Gardener’s interesting story is about Australia where he comments that the state’s position on prostitution was largely one of “non-intervention” In the early days of settling “new frontiers” and the gold rushes in the 19th century, prostitution was unofficially tolerated in most places, but was particularly so in mining areas.12 It is important to query the theoretical positions of many of these evidences. One segment of this material is the derivative of highly contested Women, Environment and Development (WED) literature. Broadly, this literature emphasizes the affinity of women with their environments, as exemplified in the work by Dankelman and Davidson (1985): “(t)he indivisible bond existing between women, the environment and development.” Equated largely with ecofeminism, this view is reminiscence of biological determinism and essentialism, and the absence of social, material or historical context. For example, Plumwood (1992) believed: “In the Third World . . . the connection between women’s interests and the health of nature is especially apparent.” Although undoubtedly a gross exaggeration, this view has been wildly popular among many women’s and activist groups, especially through the writings of Shiva as an authentic “Southern’ voice, this view turns all women as an appropriate group to mobilize for conservation.” Shiva (1985) noted, “Women want development that ensures water and food. Men want development that generates cash and contracts.” In mining, this view can be simply translated as “Since men get all cash, women do not want mining development.” Resonance of this genre of work lies in Mies’ (1986) view which equates patriarchy and capitalist accumulation. Sontheimer (1991) pointed out the inherent weaknesses of the WED view through an example; she showed that reports on women working on anti-desertification programs for food conclude that women are committed to nature, but does not notice that women are the poorest and unlike men, work for only food. And although the problematic WED discourse has waned, according to Leach (2008: 82) there is “little evidence of a well-conceptualized gender relations perspective on environmental relations in policy literature.” The difficulty with these analyses is that they homogenized all women as a single category, and romanticized their special closeness to the environment at the cost of exploring the intersection of race, ethnicity and class relations. Such a homogenization of all women into a single category has inherent dangers, just as the creation of unitary categories like the miners’ wives, of depoliticizing the environmental and community politics in mining. They again lead to a dualism between women and men, separate their spheres and spaces of production, and equate women primarily with biological reproduction. Experts have showed that unlike what Ester Boserup (1970) thought, women in many poor countries are not responsible for a separate feminine subsistence sector as opposed to the commercial production sector

344

K. Lahiri-Dutt

(see for example, Stone, Stone, & McNetting, 1995). Adding their voice to the debate, women from poorer countries have criticized such generalizations while appreciating that in their reproductive role women experience a commonality of functions and responsibilities (Agarwal, 1992). In mining, as noted earlier, women perform a great amount of work in the homes and around the mines, bearing the household subsistence duties that result in the gendered nature of negative social effects. Sachs, following Agarwal (1996), put the blame squarely on women’s poor/low ownership of land in context of rural households: “Although women do the majority of work in agriculture at the global level, elder men for the most part, still own the land, control women’s labor, and make agricultural decisions in patriarchal social systems” (1996: 16). In mining, the dominance shapes a narrative that overshadows the gender relations and fails to acknowledge that families often survive because of the labor advantages from women. Recent postcolonial feminist literature has critiqued the view of third world or poor women as victims without agency, and Doezema’s (2000) work has powerfully questioned the conceptual duality within these representations of women as either “decent” and community wives on the one hand, and as “fallen” sex workers or helpless trafficked without their consent.

20.7 Conclusion Gendered social life is produced in three main ways: through the symbolism of size and technology use in mining, the structure of the industry and the identities produced and reproduced. In the megaproject of mining, the dualistic gender metaphors to various perceived dichotomies between women and men play an important role in producing gendered social life. As is now well known, such perceived differences between women and men and the assigning of different roles with different status have little to do with sex differences. However, gendered dualisms are used to organize social and production activities, divided between different groups of humans to build a gender structure within the mining industry. In mining gender becomes a form of socially constructed identity of the individual that may often have little relation with either “the reality” or the perceptions of sex differences (individual gender or gender identities). Modern megamining projects embody a power that functions through normalizing mechanisms that reduce heterogeneity. In post-modern forms of mining, in operations where instead of forming a mining community the Fly In Fly Out (FIFO) systems systematically prevent its formation, power is embodied in and expressed through decentralized and highly sophisticated domination. Clearly, there is more to male dominance in mining than power, and that exploring the links between structure, symbolism and identity would be crucial in building a feminist critique of mining. It becomes clear that masculinity too could not be a singular category, but have as many forms and expressions through male and female, corporate and non-corporate actors as femininity. Following Zwarteveen’s (2006) critique of the profession of irrigation engineering, I conclude that the masculinity of mining is evident in three different but

20

The Megaproject of Mining: A Feminist Critique

345

intricately linked spheres: the first world of the mining project itself, encompassing an operation and the settlement around it, with people living in and around the mines, and where operators and managers manage the operation, maintain the system and resolve conflicts of interests. The second world is the world of thinking about mining and the world where representations of mining realities are produced. Lastly, the third world is the world of international professional mining that produces a global culture and controls the identities in mining. The first world is masculine because women do not own mines, they are providers of labor in low status jobs in and around the mines, and are typically less represented than men’s work. The membership of trade unions tend to be reserved for men, and the participation in consultations and public meetings are often seen as linked with masculinity. The digging of the land is seen as unfeminine and unsuitable for women. Over time, this view of mining as dirty work becomes internalized even by women who are in the industry. The second world, thinking about mining is a man’s world because mining narratives have devalued women’s contributions and have rendered thinking and speaking about women irrelevant. In mines, greater value is often attached to the activities and experiences that are associated with men or with masculinity. Not only are gender relations invisible, the concerns of women are seen as irrelevant by both trade unions and the mining industry. The third world of mining as a heavily male dominated profession is directly perpetuated by the formulation of restrictive laws and measures such as those by the ILO and indirectly through a host of circumstances in which those women who break through the industry are required to “act as men” in order to fully belong to the domain of men. Re-orienting the masculinity of the megaproject of mining would involve not a focus on men or the individuals, but on the institutions, cultures and practices that sustain gender inequality along with other forms of domination.

Notes 1. Although gold rushes began as individual enterprises, only a handful of mining companies at present control the major share of global mining market today. 2. By Zwarteveen (2008), in her work critiquing large-scale water projects. 3. I use the term “mining” in its broadest sense as encompassing the extraction of any naturally occurring mineral substances, usually solid but also liquid or gas – from the earth for utilitarian purposes. For the semantically inclined: “mine” is an excavation made in the earth to extract minerals, whereas “mining” is the activity, occupation, and industry concerned with the extraction of minerals. The word “mine” comes from an old French verb mineor, meaning “to excavate,” to make a passage underground, to undermine. The French word came from the Medieval Latin mina, which means a point, something that projects, and therefore threatens. Thus, mine came to mean an excavation made in warfare, and had a military significance before it acquired an industrial meaning (Rickard, 1933). 4. Hartman, and Mutmansky (2002). 5. Black (1965: 111, 115). 6. Jomo’s (1990: 5) history of the great tin crash leading to the decline Malaysinan and Bolivian tin industry quotes a New Internationalist report describing the visit of a Bolivian miner, Higon Cussi, to London: “His first London visit is to the place where the permanent link between Bolivia’s poverty and our wealth is forged on the floor of the London Metal

346

7. 8. 9.

10.

11.

12.

K. Lahiri-Dutt Exchange. . . Higon is amazed. He can’t see any tin. ‘I imagined that they would show samples – not that they would just do it by talking.’ ” Jomo, analyzing the tin crisis of 1985, described the London Metal Exchange as a “private club whose existence is only to serve its own interests”, where young British men wearing suits can control the lives and livelihoods of millions of poor people toiling in the mines of poorer countries. I borrow heavily from Zwarteveen’s recent (2008) work on men, masculinities and water powers in irrigation engineering. Although examples of individual projects could be drawn, I will try to refrain from citing such individual megaprojects and instead illuminate mining as one of the megaprojects. This is not to say that I stop at revealing women’s roles in mining. This is one of the early feminist ways against which Harding warns us. She observes (1987: 4–5) that the early feminists used three approaches in their research to rectify the androcentrism of traditional analyses. First, they tried to “add women” to existing modes of analyses, “recovering” and reappreciating women’s work. A second concern of feminist research has been to examine women’s contributions to activities in the public world. In mining this would involve seeing women as wage earners. In contemporary “Western” civilization a good amount of literature of this genre of “uncovering” or “recovering” women’s histories in the mines has flourished. A third genre of research focus on women as victims of male dominance, including those that involve institutionalized economic exploitation and political discrimination. In mining literature, this would imply investigating the gender-specific impacts of mining. My effort is to go beyond these and critically reflect on the masculinities of mining. A publication arising out of a gathering of community activists at Lake Laberge, Yukon, in September, 2000, titled Gaining Ground: Women, Mining and the Environment, describe the impacts of the boom and bust – feast and famine – cycle on women. It states the position through the voice of an elder: “We the women, who are keepers of the hearth and home must . . . take an active role in determining the future of the lands and resources we have. Our job is to see to the well-being for the next generations to come.” See for example Robinson’s “Bitter harvest” reprinted in the New Internationalist page http://www.newint.org/issue299/women.html which describes the scratches of the “tiger’s claws” in the new tiger economies of southeast Asia are being felt by local women: “But the colonial attitudes of the company also change social roles. Many incoming men are single and have high incomes. Bars and brothels are as inevitable in the company towns and squatter settlements. . .. Companies actively encourage prostitution around the mining towns and at popular destinations for the miners’ holidays. Migrant workers expect sexual services to be available near where they live.” Available from http://www.agitprop.org.au/lefthistory/1989_gardener_tourism_and_ prostitution.php

References Agarwal, B. (1992). The gender and environment debate: Lessons from India. Feminist Studies, 18(1), 119–158. Agarwal, B. (1996). A field of one’s own: Gender and land rights in South Asia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Agricola Georgius. (1556). De Re Metallica, Translated from the Latin by H. & L. Hoover. New York: Dover. Ahmad, N., & Lahiri-Dutt, K. (2007). Engendering mining communities: Examining the missing gender concerns in coal mining displacement and rehabilitation in India. Gender, Technology and Development, 10(3), 313–339. Allen, V. L. (1981). The militancy of British miners. Shipley: The Moor Press. Amutabi, M., & Lutta-Mukhebi, M. (2001). Gender and mining in Kenya: The case of the Mukibira mines in the Vihiga District. Jenda: A Journal of Culture and African Women’s Studies, 1(2), 1–23.

20

The Megaproject of Mining: A Feminist Critique

347

Argall, G. O., Jr. (1978). Future of small-scale mining- important for the future. New York: Conference UNITAR. Ballard, C., & Banks, G. (2003). Resource wars; anthropology of mining. Annual Review of Anthropology, 32, 287–313. Bhanumathi, K. (2002). The status of women affected by mining in India, In I. McDonald & C. Rowland (Eds.), Tunnel vision: Women, mining and communities (pp. 20–25). Fitzroy: Oxfam Community Aid Abroad. Bhanumathi, K. (2003). Labour and women in mining. Hyderabad and New Delhi: Publication for National Seminar on Women and Mining in India. Black, R. A. L. (1965). Mining and modern engineering (pp. 111, 115). London: University of London: Imperial College of Science and Technology. Bose, S. (2004). Positioning women within the environmental justice framework: A case from the mining sector. Gender, Technology and Development, 8(3), 407–412. Boserup, E. (1970). Women’s role in economic development. New York: St Martin’s Press. Braidotti, R., Charkiewicz, E., Hausler, S., & Wieringa, S. (1994). Women, the environment and sustainable development. London: Zed Books. Bridge, G. (2004). Contested terrain: Mining and the environment. Annual Review of Environmental Resources, 29, 205–259. Burke, G. (1993). Asian women miners: Recovering some history and unpacking some myths. Paper Presented to the Women in Asia Conference, University of Melbourne, 1–3 October. Burke, G. (2006). Women miners: Here and there, then and now. In K. Lahiri-Dutt & M. MacIntyre (Eds.), Women miners in developing countries: Pit women and others (pp. 27–55). Aldershot: Ashgate. Burton, J. (1997). Terra nugax and the discovery paradigm: How Ok Tedi was shaped by the way it was found and how the rise of political process in the North Fly took the company by surprise. In G. Banks & C. Ballard (Eds.), The Ok Tedi settlement: Issues, outcomes and implications. Canberra: The Australian National University. Byford, J. (2002). One day rich: Community perceptions of the impact of the placer dome gold mine, Misima Island, Papua New Guinea. In I. McDonald & C. Rowland (Eds.), Tunnel vision: Women, mining and communities (pp. 30–34). Fitzroy: Oxfam Community Aid Abroad. Caballero, E. (2006). Traditional small-scale miners: Women miners of the Philippines. In K. Lahiri-Dutt & M. MacIntyre (Eds.), Women miners in developing countries: Pit women and others (pp. 145–162). Aldershot, UK: Ashgate. Campbell, B. (1984). Wigan Pier revisited: Poverty and politics in the eighties. London: Virago. Carman, J. (1985). The contribution of small-scale mining to world mineral production. Natural Resources Forum, 9(2), 245–260. CASM. (2003). Information material on artisanal and small-scale mining. Washington, DC: World Bank, Communities and Small Scale Mining. CASM. (2005). The millennium development goals and ASM. Communities and Small scale Mining, World Bank. Retrieved July 4, 2008, from www.casmsite.org Connell, R. W. (1995). Masculinities. Berkeley: University of California Press. Crombie, J. (1997). Mumford on how mining and war corrupted our values: On the social origins of some unsustainable technologies and accounting practices. Philosophy and Technology, 2(2), 27–39. Dankelman, I., & Davidson, J. (1985). Women and environment in the Third World: Alliance for the future. London: Earthscan. Dennis, N., Henriques, F., & Slaughter, C. (1956, reprinted 1969). Coal is our life: An analysis of the Yorkshire mining community. London and New York: Tavistock Publications. Dibner, B. (1981). Heralds of science as represented by two hundred epochal books and pamphlets in the Dibner Library. Washington, DC: Library and Smithsonian Institution. Doezema, J. (2000). Loose women or lost women? The re-emergence of white slavery in contemporary discourses of trafficking in women. Gender Issues, 18(1), 23–50.

348

K. Lahiri-Dutt

Emberson-Bain, A. (1994). De-romancing the stones: gender, environment and mining in the Pacific. In A. E. Bain (Ed.), Sustainable development of malignant growth? Perspectives of Pacific Island women (pp. 49–55). Suva: Marama. Faulkner, W. (2000). The power and the pleasure: A research agenda for ‘making gender stick’ to engineers. Science, Technology and Human Values, 25(1), 88–120. Fischer, C. (1990). Let them speak for themselves: Women in the American West 1849–1900. Hamden, CT: Archon Books. Garside, W. R. (1971). The Durham miners: 1919–1960. Sydney: Allen and Unwin. Gibson-Graham, J. K. (1994). ‘Stuffed if I know!’ Reflections on post-modern feminist social research. Gender, Place and Culture, 1(2), 205–224. Gier, J., & Mercier, L. (Eds.). (2006). Mining women: Gender in the development of a global industry, 1670–2005. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Graulau, J. (2001). Peasant mining production as a development strategy: The case of women in gold mining in the Brazilian Amazon. European Review of Latin American and Caribbean Studies, 71, 71–104. Graulau, J. (2006). Gendered labour in peripheral tropical frontiers: Women, mining and capital accumulation in post-development Amazonia. In K. Lahiri-Dutt & M. MacIntyre (Eds.), Women miners in developing countries: Pit women and others (pp. 289–305). Ashgate: Aldershot. Griffiths, A. R. (2003). Gender, mining and environmental assessment in northern Canada (Unpublished Masters Thesis). York University, Canada. Hacker, S. L. (1981). The culture of engineering: Woman, workplace and machine. Women’s Studies International Quarterly, 4(3), 341–353. Harding, S. (1987). Introduction: Is there a feminist method? In S. Harding (Ed.), Feminism and methodology: Social science issues (pp. 1–15). Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Harraway, D. (1991). Simians, cyborgs and women: The reinvention of nature. London: Free Association Books. Hartman, H. L., & Mutmansky, J. M. (2002). Introductory mining engineering (2nd ed.). New York: Wiley. Harvey, C., & Press, J. (1990). Issues in the history of mining and metallurgy, Business History, 32(3), 1–14. Heemskerk, M. (2000). Gender and gold mining: The case of the Maroons of Suriname. Working Paper on Women in International Development, 269. A. Fergusson (Ed.), Ann Arbor: University of Michigan. Retrieved December 31, 2006, from http://www.isp.msu.edu/ WID/papers/abstracts.html Heemskerk, M. (2003). Self-employment and poverty alleviation: women’s work in artisanal gold mines. Human Organization, Society of Applied Anthropology, Spring issue. Retrieved December 20, 2005, from http://www.findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qa3800/is_200304/ ai_n9202578/print Hentschel, T., Hruschka, F., & Priester, M. (2002). Global report on artisanal and small scale mining. London: MMSD (Mines, Minerals, and Sustainable Development). Herring, S. D. (1999). Women in the history of technology. Paper, Retrieved July 4, 2008, from http://www.uah.edu/colleges/liberal/womensstudies/inventor.html Higgins, K. K. (1999). “Licentious Liberty” in a Brazilian gold-mining region: Slavery, gender and social control in eighteenth century Sabara, Minas Gerais. University Park, FL: The Pennsylvania State University Press. Hilden, P. P. (1993). Women, work and politics, Belgium, 1830–1914. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hilson, G. (2001). A contextual review of the Ghanaian small-scale mining industry, Country Study Commissioned by MMSD (Mines, Minerals and Sustainable Development). Retrieved December 31, 2006, from http://www.iied.org/mmsd Hilson, G. (2002). Small-scale mining and its socioeconomic impact in developing countries, Natural Resources Forum, 26(1), 3–13. Hilson, G., & Potter, C. (2005). Structural adjustment and subsistence industry: artisanal gold mining in Ghana, Development and Change, 36(1), 103–131.

20

The Megaproject of Mining: A Feminist Critique

349

Hinton, J., Veiga, M. M., & Beinhoff, C. (2003). Women and artisanal mining: Gender roles and the road ahead. In G. Hilson (Ed.), The socio-economic impacts of artisanal and small scale mining in developing countries. Lisse: A.A. Balkema and Swets. Hipwell, W., Mamen, K., Wietzner, V., & Whiteman, G. (2002). Aboriginal people and mining in Canada: Consultation, participation and prospects for change. Ottawa: North-South Institute, Working Discussion Paper. International Labour Organization (ILO). (2002). Sectoral activities: Mining. Generva: International Labour Office. John, A. (1980). By the sweat of their brow: Women workers at Victorian coal mines. London: Croom Helm. Jomo, M. (1990). Undermining tin: The decline of Malaysian pre-eminence. Sydney: University of Sydney, Transnational Corporations Research Project. Kunanayagam. R. (nd). Sex workers: Their impact on and interaction with the mining ondustry. Retrieved September 11, 2008, from http://siteresources.worldbank.org/INTOGMC/ Resources/336099-1163605893612/kumanayagamsexworkers.pdf Lahiri-Dutt, K. (1999). From gin girls to scavengers: Women in the Raniganj coalbelt, Economic and Political Weekly, 36(44), 4213–4221. Lahiri-Dutt, K. (2006a). Mining gender at work in the Indian collieries: Identity construction by kamins. In K. Lahiri-Dutt & M. MacIntyre (Eds.), Women miners in developing countries: Pit women and others (pp. 163–181). Ashgate: Aldershot. Lahiri-Dutt, K. (2006b). Gender and livelihood concerns in small mines and quarries in India, Working Paper Australia South Asia Research Centre. Retrieved September 11, 2008, from http://rspas.anu.edu.au/asarc Lahiri-Dutt, K. (2007). Illegal coal mining in eastern India: Rethinking legitimacy and limits of justice. Economic and Political Weekly, 42(49), 57–67. Lahiri-Dutt, K., & MacIntyre, M. (2006). Introduction. In K. Lahiri-Dutt & M. MacIntyre (Eds.), Women miners in developing countries: Pit women and others (pp. 1–12). Ashgate: Aldershot. Lahiri-Dutt, K., & Mahy, P. (2007). Impacts of mining on women and youth in two locations in two locations in East Kalimantan, Indonesia. Retrieved September 11, 2008, from http://empoweringcommunities.anu.edu.au Leach, M. (2008). Earth mother myths and other ecofeminist fables: How a strategic notion rose and fell. In A. Cornwall, E. Harrison, & A. Whitehead (Eds.), Gender myths and feminist fables (pp. 67–84). Malden, MA: Blackwell. McDowell, L., & Massey, D. (1984). Coal mining and the place of women: A case of nineteenth century Britain. In D. Massey & J. Allen (Eds.), Geography Matters! A Reader (pp. 128–147). Cambridge: The Open University. Metcalfe, A. (1988). For freedom and dignity: Historical agency and class structure in the coalfields of New South Wales. Sydney: University of New South Wales. Mies, M. (1986). Patriarchy and accumulation on a world scale. London: Zed Books. Mongolian Business Development Authority (MBDA). (2004). Baseline survey of small-scale mining. Ulaanbaatar. Moretti, D. (2006). The gender of the gold: An ethnographic and historical account of women’s involvement in artisanal and small-scale mining in Mount Kaindi, Papua New Guinea. Oceania, 76(2), 133–149. Mukherjee, R. (1947). The Indian working class. Bombay: Hind Kitab. Mumford, L. (1934). Techniques and civilisation. New York: Harcourt Brace and Company. Mumford, L. (1967). The myth of the machine, Vol 2: The Pentagon of Power. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich.. Murphy, M. (1997). Mining cultures: Men, women and leisure in Butte, 1914–41. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press. Nair, J. (1998). Miners and millhands: Work, culture, and politics in Princely Mysore. London and New Delhi: AltaMira Press. Nakamura, M. (1994). Technology change and female labour: Manufacturing industries of Japan. Tokyo: United Nations University Press.

350

K. Lahiri-Dutt

Nash, J. (1979). We eat the mines and the mines east us: Dependency and exploitation in Bolivian tin mines. New York: Columbia University Press. Noestaller, T. (1987). Small-scale mining: A review of the issues. Washington, DC: World Bank Technical Paper No. 75, Industry and Finance Series. Parpart, J. L. (1986). Class and gender on the copperbelt: Women in Northern Rhodesian copper mining communities, 1926–1964. In C. Robertson & I. Berger (Eds.), Women and class in Africa (pp. 141–160). New York and London: Africana Publishing Company. Paterson, J. C. K. (1910). Bengal District Gazetteers: Burdwan. Calcutta: Bengal Secretariat Book Depot. Pattenden, C. (2005). Shifting sands, transience, mobility and the politics of community in a remote mining town. Unpublished PhD thesis, Department of Anthropology and Sociology, University of Western Australia, Perth. Plumwood, V. (1992). Ecofeminism: An overview and discussion of positions and arguments. Australian Journal of Philosophy, 64, 20–38. Pramanik, P. (1993). Coal miners in private and public sector collieries. New Delhi: Reliance Publishing House. Ray Chaudhury, R. (1966). Gender and labour in India: The Kamins of eastern Coalmines. Calcutta: Minerva. Rickard, T. A. (1933) Man and metals: A history of mining in relation to the development of civilization (Vols. 1 and 2). New York and London: Whittlesey House and McGraw-Hill. Robertson, J. (1981). The future of work: Some thoughts about the roles of men and women in the transition to a SHE future. Women’s Studies International Quarterly, 4(1), 83–94. Robinson, K. (1986). Stepchildren of progress: The political economy of development in an Indonesian mining town. Albany: State University of New York Press. Robinson, K. (1996). Women, mining and development. In R. Howitt, J. Connell, & P. Hirsch (Eds.), Resources, nations and indigenous peoples: Case studies from Australasia, Melanesia and Southeast Asia (pp. 137–149). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rothermund, I. (1994). Women in a coal mining area. Indian Journal of Social Science, 7(3–4), 251–264. Rowbotham, S. (1995). Feminist approaches to technology: Women’s values or a gender lens? In S. Mitter & S. Rowbotham (Eds.), Women encounter technology: Changing patterns of employment in the Third World. London. Retrieved June 20, 2007, from http://www.unu.edu/unupress/unupbooks/uu37we/uu37we00.htm Sachs, C. (1996). Gendered fields: Rural women, agriculture and environment. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Sen, S. (2008). Gender and class: Women in Indian industry, 1890–1990. Modern Asian Studies, 42(1), 75–116. Sengupta, P. (1960). Women workers of India. London: Asia Publishing House. Shiva, V. (1985). Development, ecology and women. In J. Plant (Ed.), Healing the wounds: The promise of ecofeminism (pp. 80–90). London: Green Print. Shiva, V. (1989). Staying alive: Women, ecology and development. Delhi and London: Kali and Zed Books. Sontheimer, S. (Ed.). (1991). Women and the environment: A reader. London: Earthscan.. Stead, J. (1987). Never the same again: Women and the miners’ strike. London: The Women’s Press. Stone, P. M., Stone, G. D., & McNetting, R. (1995). The sexual division of labor in Kofyar agriculture. American Ethnologist, 22(1), 165–186. Tallichet, S. E. (2006). Daughters of the mountain: Women coal miners in Central Appalachia. University Park, FL: The Pennsylvania State University Press. Tickner, A. (2006). Feminism meets international relations: Some methodological issues. In B. A. Ackerly, M. Stern, & J. True (Eds.), Feminist methodologies for international relations (pp. 19–41). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

20

The Megaproject of Mining: A Feminist Critique

351

Vanja, C. (1993). Mining women in early modern European society. In T. Max Safley & L. N. Rosenband (Eds.), The workplace before the factory: artisans and proletarians, 1500–1800 (pp. 100–117). Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press. Wajcman, J. (2004). Technofeminism. London: Polity Press. Yukon Conservation Society. (2000). Gaining ground: Women, mining and the environment. Whitehorse, YT: Yukon Conservation Society and Yukon Status of Women Council. Zanjani, S. (2006). A mine of her own: Women prospectors in the American West, 1850–1950. Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press. Zwarteveen, M. (2006). Wedlock or deadlock? Feminists’ attempts to engage irrigation engineers. Wagaenigen: Wageningen Universitieit. Zwarteveen, M. (2008). Men, masculinities and water powers in irrigation. Water Alternatives, 1(1), 111–130.

Chapter 21

The Richest Hole on Earth? Nature, Labor and the Politics of Metabolism at the Bingham Canyon Copper Mine Jody Emel and Matthew T. Huber

21.1 Introduction Standing at the overlook within the Bingham Canyon Mine, you can see, hear, and feel the breathtaking and awesome magnitude of the largest man-made excavation on earth (Kennecott Copper, 2008b).

So claims the tourism literature enticing visitors to the famous Bingham Canyon copper mine 28 mi (45 km) southwest of Salt Lake City, UT. While Chile claims the Chuquicamata copper mine in the Atacama Desert is bigger, and an independent research verifies this claim (Woolf, 1996). Kennecott Copper still touts their mine as, “the largest man-made [sic] excavation on earth.”1 The pit is indeed massive (Fig. 21.1); what was once a mountain itself is now a huge pit that spans 21/2 mi (4 km) across, 1/2 mi (0.8 km) deep, and growing. Kennecott estimates it will be 500 ft (152.4 m) deeper by 2015 (Kennecott Copper, 2008a). As the second largest producer2 in the US, Bingham Canyon produces 13% of the nation’s copper consumption. For 100 years it has produced more copper than any other mine in the history of the world, 16.4 million tons (Business Wire, 2008). Every year, it produces 272,000 tons of copper, 500,000 ounces of gold, 4 million pounds of silver, 30 million pounds of molybdenum, and about 0.9 million tons of sulfuric acid (ibid). Along with the Great Wall of China, it is allegedly one of the few human-made structures visible from space. In terms of the theme of this volume, engineering earth, this mine represents a quite literal example of the industrial production of the earth itself. Perhaps only the Grand Canyon compares in its visual enormity. In this chapter, we examine what some call “the richest hole on earth” (Arrington & Hansen, 1963) as the product of the labor process or the metabolic exchange between humans and nonhuman nature. The very materiality of such a massive “megaengineering” project necessarily entails profound social and ecological consequences for workers, local communities and the environment. The “awesome magnitude” of Bingham Canyon also ensures that the mine’s past and J. Emel (B) Department of Geography, Clark University, Worcester, MA 01610, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_21,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

353

354

J. Emel and M.T. Huber

Fig. 21.1 Bingham Canyon Mine – “The richest hole on earth.” (Source: Kennecott Cooper)

future development is always a site of politics and contestation with the mining company, workers, environmentalists and other local residents all struggling over the meaning of “the hole” itself. Is it a proud emblem of industrial heritage (Rudd & Davis, 1998)? A ecologically destructive superfund site (Septoff, 2002)? A deindustrialized betrayal of local workers? All these views have been expressed at particular historical moments. Kennecott has had to strategically produce and reproduce narratives of belonging that celebrate Bingham Canyon’s social and ecological contribution to both the immediate region and the greater Salt Lake City area. We argue that the cultural politics of these narratives shift dramatically in light of the historical dynamics of the labor process involved in excavating the earth. Furthermore, we argue that Kennecott underwent a dramatic transition from framing themselves as primarily a source of livelihood for thousands of relatively well paid workers toward positioning the company as environmental stewards promoting an enhanced quality of life for all local residents in the region. The key, we argue, was the shift from a labor process dependent upon pools of “living labor” (wage-workers) toward a process dominated by “dead-labor” (machines).3 The crisis conditions in the copper mining industry during the 1980s hastened this transition toward a massive downsizing of the local labor force in Bingham Canyon (c.f., Bridge, 2000). The lack of living labor in the process of copper extraction forced Kennecott to reframe the image of what kind of role it plays in shaping the local landscape and community. This chapter is divided into three sections. First, we briefly present our socioecological understanding of the labor process as a mutually constitutive exchange between humans and nonhuman nature and explain how the large scale processes of surface open-pit mining can be framed as such. Second, we review the early history

21

The Richest Hole on Earth?

355

of the Bingham Canyon copper mine as the pioneering “Fordist” model of mass industrial production in the mining sector. The copper mine’s permanent imprint on the landscape and dependence upon local pools of living labor framed the mine as a vibrant source of growth and jobs in the region. Third, we explain how crisis conditions in the 1980s forestalled massive layoffs and associated public outcries. This crisis led to the repackaging of Kennecott’s role in the region as an “environmental steward” enhancing local “quality of life.” As Kennecott saved millions on labor costs and revived profitability, we examine several expensive programs undertaken to improve its environmental image. The continued toxicity of the labor process itself, however, raises serious questions as to whether their public image as “environmental stewards” is sustainable from a political, cultural and ecological perspective.

21.2 Mining as a Socioecological Labor Process As Marx ([1867] 1976: 283) famously remarked, “Labour is, first of all, a process between man [sic] and nature.” Although Marx failed to fully integrate the ecological side of the labor process throughout the rest of Capital Vol. I, many geographers and other social theorists have recently undertaken this task in terms of socioecological “metabolism” (Foster, 2000; Heynen, Kaika, & Swyngedouw, 2006; Swyngedouw, 2006). The concept of metabolism highlights the constant and in no way unidirectional exchange between humans, nonhumans, technologies, biophysical processes and inanimate materials that presuppose any labor process. While metabolism is itself a dangerous biological metaphor (Swyngedouw, 2006), its conceptual utility lies in its ability to focus on the middle spaces of exchange that destabilize any pure distinctions between the social and natural world (Latour, 2004; Whatmore, 2002). Moreover, the metabolic labor process is not merely a one-way process of extracting natural “raw material” and consuming it in the production process, but the labor process itself produces specific wastes and materials that have consequences for local communities and the environment. With “megaengineering” projects the socioecological metabolism of the labor process is simply scaled up to a sensational level. Although certainly present in all labor processes, the ecology and materiality of metabolism is perhaps most visible in the landscape of the mining process (Mitchell, 1998) and its concomitant ecological contradictions (Bridge, 2000); even more-so for the dramatic methods of “open pit” surface mining examined in this chapter. The labor process, first confronts a natural material, the mineral, which it must extract. But this is not simply a story of human ingenuity and technical mastery over a passive and inert “nature.” As we will show below it also depends profoundly on the nature of the mineral deposit itself. The quality, depth, and density of the ore desired sets particular conditions on how workers will get at the minerals and what kinds of instruments and machines are appropriate for extraction. The process of extraction creates an incredible amount of “waste rock” (that is, rock that must be separated from the desired mineral) which, although “naturally occurring,” often contains toxic elements that

356

J. Emel and M.T. Huber

leach into local surface and subsurface water bodies and soils and are transported through the atmosphere. Furthermore, the mineral must also go through a large scale energy and pollution intensive process of smelting and refining which itself has dramatic impacts on the local ecology and landscape. It is important, however, to not simply theorize the metabolic labor process as a thermodynamic process with material-energy inputs and waste outputs (FischerKowalski, 2003), but as a site of political and cultural struggle. We are specifically interested in the relations between the historical dynamics of the labor process and the forms through which mining companies project their positive contributions to the local regional ecology and community. While the mining (and smelting and refining) process involves constant exchanges with and impacts on the natural landscapes, another exchange involves what Marx ([1867] 1976: 317) termed “variable capital,” that is, the proportion of a particular capitalist’s expenditure on living labor power. That labor power is a living human being that presents profound challenges for capital in the forms of class struggle for higher wages, benefits, and, especially in the mining industry, worker safety standards. These challenges are internal to the labor process itself, as the continuation of production hinges upon the procurement of living labor power. In turn, the presence of living labor will also dramatically transform the narratives that rationalize and legitimate a mining company’s presence in and contribution to a local community. In the next section, we will present a historical review of Bingham Canyon’s initial relationship to the local community as a primary source of livelihoods. When the proportion devoted to “variable capital” declines and most of capital’s expenditures focus on what Marx (ibid.) termed “constant capital” or the “dead labor” of machines, raw materials, and other instruments of labor, the labor process is undertaken in the absence of living laborers. The lack of living labor internal to the production process dramatically reorganizes the image of a mining company’s relation to the local community and ecology. Suddenly the mining company cannot be legitimated so easily as a source of economic growth through widely accessible jobs, but must construct alternative narratives of belonging to the local community and ecology. In the third section below, we will show how Kennecott Copper has focused both on its “efficient” use of raw materials, energy, and minimization of wastes internal to the labor process, and engaged in a variety of cleanup, charity, and development programs that portray the company as enhancing the quality of life external to the labor process throughout the region.

21.3 “The Henry Ford of Copper Mining:” Industrial Livelihoods in Bingham Canyon Although seen as economically “insane” to extract in a mining region devoted to more lucrative minerals like gold and silver, copper was first discovered near Bingham in 1860 (Van Leer, 1996). Throughout most of the rest of the 19th century, Bingham was wrapped up in Utah’s “silver boom” and it was not until the 1890s

21

The Richest Hole on Earth?

357

that it became clear that massive, but low-grade copper deposits existed in the region (Arrington & Hansen, 1963: 13). No matter how massive the deposits were, however, their low grade quality, no more than 2% copper content, traditionally made them uneconomical to mine. The 19th century copper industry was characterized by selectively mining, using hand-drilling and hand-picking methods on only the highest grade deposits: 20–30% copper content (Arrington & Hansen, 1963: 8; Bridge, 2000: 247). In this sense, the quality of the ore presented specific barriers to profitable extraction, but also an opportunity. Just after the turn of the 19th century, people in the Bingham Canyon region started exploring different methods to extract these low- grade porphyry copper deposits, characterized by the fine distribution of copper in tiny specks throughout the ore (Parsons, 1957). The innovator who stands out was Daniel C. Jackling, who some referred to as, “the Henry Ford of copper mining” (Arrington & Hansen, 1963: 67). Jackling believed the same large scale production methods being used in factories throughout the US could be employed to extract low grade ore and channel it through massive concentrating and smelting facilities on site (Mellinger, 1995: 92). Of course, such a large scale project does not emerge from pure innovation alone. The early experiments of Jackling’s Utah Copper Company (formed in 1903) managed to attract the attention of Wall Street investors interested in the expansion of the copper market for electric wire. In 1905 the famous Guggenheim family underwrote a $3 million issue of 6% convertible bonds, and purchased 232,000 shares of the Utah Copper Company at $20/share (Arrington & Hansen, 1963). Jackling had secured the capital to carry out his vision of “the mass production of minerals” (ibid. 8). The real transformation of the labor process was the transition from the “caving” system of underground mining to the “opencut” system. As traditional underground mining development was underway, Jackling was informed that the vaunted copper deposit was only about 70 ft (21.3 m) below the surface of the mine area (Arrington & Hansen, 1963: 52). In other words, if they could simply strip the 70 ft (21.3 m) of unprofitable overburden from the surface of the earth it would probably be much cheaper than the traditional underground method. By 1907 all underground operations were abandoned, because the strip mining method was discovered as far more “satisfactory and economical” (Arrington & Hansen, 1963: 53). With the Guggenheim’s financial backing, the Utah Copper company invested in massive steam powered shovels that simply removed the ore from the surface of the earth and dumped it into adjacent railway cars. The unwanted surface ore would go to disposal areas, while the exposed ore bodies would be transported to the local mill for processing. Jackling had literally devised an assembly line style network of mass mineral production from the steam shovels, to the railways, to the concentrating and smelting mills, and then back onto the railways to go to market. He estimated the cost of producing copper through such methods would be 6 cents per pound in a context where copper was fetching 14–18 cents a pound on the market (Arave, 2003). By 1908 the mine had 11 steam shovels (some of which were 100 ton machines), 21 steam locomotives, and 145 stripping dumping cars (Arave, 2003). By the end of 1907 shovels had stripped 700,000 cubic yds (535,500 cubic m)

358

J. Emel and M.T. Huber

of overburden, revealing six-acres of economical ore; by 1909 they had stripped 2,232,000 cubic yards (1.707,480 cubic m) of overburden (Arrington & Hansen, 1963: 53). In the subsequent 100 years (Benson, 2007), nearly 6 billion tons of rock have been removed from the earth creating from what was once an 8,000 ft (2,438 m) elevation mountain, “the largest man-made excavation on earth” (Foy, 2003). This is not only a story of industrial ingenuity, but it represents a constant exchange with nature and the local ecology. The obvious natural basis of the Bingham Canyon copper mine is, of course, the massive scale of the deposit itself. In 1910 the exposed ore yielded a copper content of 1.54%, that is, they mined a total of 4.3 million tons of ore, removed 5.8 million tons of waste rock, to get at a mere 42,251 tons of copper (Arrington & Hansen, 1963: 90). The copper content of the deposit has definitely declined over the years, creating more waste rock, but not by much. Today, Kennecott Copper claims to extract copper at a rate of 0.6% for every 2,000 pounds of ore yields 12 pounds of copper (Benson, 2007). It seems that the more earth stripped and the further down the canyon reaches, the more the deposit keeps giving. It was Jackling’s mass production methods that made the strip mining of less than 2% copper profitable, but this came with unaccounted for and large scale ecological costs that were ensured by the low grade nature of the deposit itself. The necessary “waste rock” that came alongside large scale open-cut mining had to go somewhere, and the general response was to simply dump it into “disposal areas” and “tailings piles” (Arrington & Hansen, 1963: 73). Since the rock itself contained various toxic elements like lead, zinc and arsenic, these massive mountains of waste rock became toxic nodes in the flows of local surface and groundwater (Kemp, 2002). As water leaches through the waste dumps the various local streams and aquifers became contaminated (ibid). By 1929 (before operations were severely curtailed during the Great Depression), the Bingham Canyon copper mine was removing nearly 20 million tons of waste rock every year (Arrington & Hansen, 1963: 90). Demand in WWII shot up and Bingham Canyon provided a staggering 33% of the copper needed (Arrington & Hansen, 1963: 8), but this required Kennecott to remove 41 million tons of waste rock in 1943. As Bingham Canyon transformed itself into the US and the world’s copper supplier during the material-intensive postwar boom, in 1961 it removed 71.1 million pounds of waste rock (Arrington & Hansen, 1963: 90) (Fig. 21.2). By its very nature, the labor process of open pit mining creates unbelievable levels of waste. As we alluded to above, megaengineering projects with such dramatic effects on the local landscape and ecology must not only keep attuned to machines, copper prices, and profit levels, but also must construct narratives of belonging that rationalize its ongoing and highly visible existence in the local region. Ironically, the volume of ore processed through the mechanization process, also required large armies of living labor to lay railroad track and do pick and shovel work around the steam shovels (Peck, 1993: 163). For most of the 20th century, and especially after WWII, Bingham Canyon represented a growing source of livelihood and jobs in the local region.

21

The Richest Hole on Earth?

359

Fig. 21.2 Tailings piles – burying the landscape. (Source: Steven I. Dutch)

Capital-labor relations at Bingham Canyon did not get off to a good start. The ensuing large scale development at Bingham led to a mass influx of workers from a variety of countries ranging from Japan, to Croatia, Italy, and Greece (Mellinger, 1995: 94). Instead of pooling from the many local skilled Swedish miners, Jackling sent off Italian, Greek and Japanese “padrones” to travel to their home countries and recruit hundreds of immigrant unskilled manual workers (Peck, 1993: 163). Working conditions were notoriously dangerous and a mine-shaft collapse in 1905 accompanied by a lackluster rescue effort went a long way toward mobilizing the disparate and sometimes divided workers to organize for better safety standards and higher wages (Mellinger, 1995: 99). Yet, Jackling’s “uncompromising anti-union policies” and his employment of labor agents recruiting strikebreakers were, for the most part, brutally successful (Arrington & Hansen, 1963: 54). Even in 1912, the year of the greatest strike in Bingham Canyon history (Mellinger, 1995: 106–128), Jackling mobilized armed deputies to protect an influx of Mexican, Italian and Greek strikebreakers who were put to work allowing the Utah Copper Company to resume full production (Peck, 1993: 174). The tension between strikers and strikebreakers was always on a precipice of violence. On October 25, a Greek strike breaker was ambushed and killed by thirty Cretan strikers (ibid.). Jackling even considered calling in the Utah National Guard to protect his new workers (Mellinger, 1995: 116). In any case, armed force was mobilized to oust the striking workers from their nearby shack housing developments to make living quarters for the strikebreakers (ibid: 118). A marginal wage increase offered by Jackling brought the strike to an end after a mere two months (Mellinger, 1995: 119).

360

J. Emel and M.T. Huber

Although strikes were few, capital-labor relations at Bingham were tense and conflict -ridden for most of the next three decades (Jensen, 1950). In 1915 Joe Hill, the famous member of the International Workers of the World (aka “the Wobblies”), was executed just 50 miles east in the Silver Mines of Park City, UT further deepening the class tensions in the mines across the region and throughout the country (Dubofsky, 2000: 178–181). After the depression, it took Jackling’s retirement in 1942 for the Utah Copper Company (now called Kennecott) to create an Industrial Relations Department which began to institute programs meant to enhance labormanagement relations such as a job training program and safety education. Finally, in 1946 the International Union of Mine, Mill and Smelter workers was granted collective bargaining rights (Peck, 1993: 175). In a classic example of the Fordist regime of accumulation (c.f., Aglietta, 1979), a “class accord” was reached were mass production fed off a virtuous growth cycle between rising production growth, rising job opportunities and rising material consumption. While employment stagnated around 3,700 workers between 1923 and 1940, it started rising precipitously after WWII to 4,225 in 1947, then 5,247 in 1950 and 7,586 in 1960 (Arrington & Hansen, 1963: 94). From 1945 through the early 1980s, Kennecott became the “pattern setting” industry leader in terms of labor relations noted for their generous contracts and proactive management philosophy (Rosenblum, 1998: 68). The labor process at Bingham Canyon left an amazing imprint on the landscape and created massive piles of waste and ecological degradation in its wake, but as long as Kennecott was seen as a local source of livelihood for thousands of workers these aesthetic and ecological impacts were not problematized from a political perspective. Kennecott could rationalize its political contribution to the local region in terms of providing a relatively well-paid mining “way of life” for expanding numbers of people. Indeed, Kennecott began to (re)envision its place in the local region in explicitly political terms. As Kennecott’s vice-president put it in 1962, “Today’s modern mining enterprise has become a ‘permanent citizen,’ as compared to mining at the start of this century when the exhaustion of easily accessible high grade ore set the stage for the ‘Ghost Town’ ” (cited, Arrington & Hansen, 1963: 82). On the 100th anniversary of the Bingham Canyon Mine in 2003, Kennecott President summed up this sentiment, “Throughout its long history, Kennecott Utah Copper has employed more people, fed more families and, through its taxes, educated more children than any other business in the state” (Anderton, 2003).4

21.4 Dead Labor: Downsizing, Quality of Life, and Environmental Stewardship For capital, the worker is not a condition of production, only work is. If it can make machines do it, or even water, air, so much the better. Karl Marx, The Grundrisse ([1857] 1973: 498).

The era of Kennecott’s local paternalism fashioned through the making of local livelihoods began to break asunder during the 1980s. After “boom” times

21

The Richest Hole on Earth?

361

for copper producers in the 1970s, collapsing prices, increasing production costs, and global competition from countries like Chile and Zambia, all combined to force dramatic restructuring at Bingham Canyon and throughout the US copper industry (Crowson, 1992; Ohuallacháin & Matthews, 1994; Rosenblum, 1998). As copper prices declined from $1.30/lb in 1980 to 65 cents in 1985 (Hamilton, 1988), Kennecott reported losses of $74 million in 1981 and $189 million in 1982 (Associated Press, 1983). Most dramatically, in 1985, Kennecott shut down the entire Bingham Canyon operations firing 2,000 workers and announcing a $400 million “modernization” plan to improve efficiency and lower costs (Hamilton, 1988). In 1986, 2,000 workers were forced to accept a 23% reduction in their compensation package in order to return to work (Mims, 1986). During the volatile decade, Kennecott was also subjected to a tailspin of mergers and takeovers, bought out by Standard Oil (Ohio) in 1981, BP Minerals in 1987, and its current parent company, Rio Tinto in 1989. Overall, the decade inflicted a terrible toll on the local working population. Employing 7,000 workers in 1980, Kennecott cut to 4,000 by 1984 and 2,300 in 1988 (Hamilton, 1988). In the nearby copper state of Arizona, the situation was equally dire, downsizing their living labor force from 38,000 to 15,000 workers. In the words of Democratic congressman Morris Udall, “they closed down every mine in Southern Arizona” (Hamilton, 1988). By breaking the union and violently resisting the Arizona strikes in the early 1980s, Rosenblum (1998) argues that capital-labor relations were not only remade in the copper industry, but throughout the United States. As Bridge (2000) reveals, the combination of increasing production cost, the declining life of a copper mine and declining profitability necessitate strategies to intensify production in ways that have specific ecological costs. As mentioned above, the large scale excavation of waste rock (including arsenic, lead, cadmium and other toxic heavy metals bound up in the labor process of low-grade ore “mass” copper production) has left a long legacy of groundwater pollution in the Salt Lake City Area. This waste rock, literally left in piles, has for years led to a massive groundwater pollution plume that extends for 70 mi2 (180 km2 ) (Davidson, 1997). The waste rock continues to mount on an enormous scale. Growing by 152,000 tons every single day, the last 100 years of mining in Bingham Canyon have created tailings piles that stretch for 5,700 acres (2548 ha) at a height of 200 ft (60.9 m) tall (Gorrell, 1995). Figure 21.2 reveals the enormity of the piles and the way in which they bury the original landscape (originally framed by green mountains, but now covered in light brown rock). Since a pile over 400 ft (122 m) tall is considered seismically unstable, the constant spatial expansion of these tailings piles becomes necessary to the continued operation of the mine. In 1995 Kennecott declared it would have to shut down if it could not expand its tailings piles into a 1,055 acre (471.5 ha) wetland area; promising to “offset” the wetland destruction with a 2,500 acre (1117.5 ha) “nature reserve” elsewhere (Gorrell, 1995). In 1995, a landmark settlement between Kennecott and the state environmental quality commission forced the company to devote $9 million (and a $28 million line of credit) to cleaning up the 7,000 acre feet of contaminated groundwater (Woolf, 1995). In 2007 a further consent decree from the EPA and state environmental

362

J. Emel and M.T. Huber

regulators required that the company spend an additional $20 million (Fattah, 2007). Apart from these costs, Kennecot claims it has spent $400 million since the early 1990s on extensive groundwater cleanup operations (Fattah, 2007). It has also spent millions on land reclamation projects meant to restore degraded landscapes with plants able to contain tailings dust that might be swept up in high winds (Gorrell, 2004). It also recently completed a self-financed “reverse osmosis” water treatment plant taking contaminated groundwater that Kennecott itself was responsible for and purifying it to provide 3,500 acre-feet of water per year serving 4,300 homes (Deans, 2006). In addition to substantive cleanup operations, Kennecott has engaged in a number of activities meant to enhance the local “quality of life.” Bingham Canyon now positions itself as a veritable tourist attraction, pulling in 169,945 visitors in 2007 (Deseret Morning News, 2008). Its “green” visitor center building is certified by the Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design (LEED) (Deseret Morning News, 2007). At the center, Kennecott promotes a modernist vision of technological mastery over nature built upon the ecologically sensitive and economically efficient extraction of a mineral vital to modern ways of life (Rudd & Davis, 1998). Kennecott promotes a multifaceted mission to improve the “quality of life” not only around the mine, but also in the surrounding community. It donates all the proceeds from tourism to 95 local charities (Deseret Morning News, 2008). Moreover, its long history in the region developing the mine and acquiring territory for tailings, transportation, and buffers has led to an offshoot corporation, Kennecott Land, whose 93,000 acres (41,571 ha) represents “the largest metropolitan landholding by a single owner in the United States” (Smeath, 2005). Kennecott Land has plans to develop large areas around the mine into new-urbanism style walkable and public-transit friendly communities; the first 14,000 home development is called “Daybreak” (Santini, 2006). Given the extensive cutbacks in living labor and the billions of dollars spent over the years in modernizing the mine’s smelting and concentrating facilities (Keahey, 1994), the labor process as become much more dominated by the “dead labor” of machines (c.f., Kirsch & Mitchell, 2004). These changes in the basic labor process at Bingham Canyon have forced Kennecott to reframe its position in the community as one of environmental steward. Its promotional DVD available in its visitor center claims, “Kennecott believes it is important to balance the need for metals with an environmentally sound approach to mining.” It boasts of planting 150,000 trees in the local area and “constantly restoring natural habitats” for local deer, elk and bird populations. It claims its smelter is, “the cleanest and most energy efficient of its kind in the world, captures 99.9% of the sulfur given off during the smelting process; considerably cleaner than the government requires.” More than anything, as it claims on its front webpage, it frames its contribution in terms of, “improving quality of life. . .in more ways than one.” As the DVD puts it, Kennnecott claims to “improve the quality of life for Utah residents and visitors.” We want to suggest that this discursive shift from livelihood to quality of life is reflective of the shifts in the labor process from living to dead labor. Insofar as the labor process no longer requires the social reproduction of living wage workers, Kennecott must frame its

21

The Richest Hole on Earth?

363

contribution in terms of improving everyone’s lives external to the labor process itself. Indeed, perhaps Kennecott’s rhetoric is sincere. As stated above, they have spent $400 million on environmental cleanup operations. This action is notable in a regional context where cleanup costs are all too often shifted onto the taxpayer through public cleanup operations (Da Rosa, Lyon, & Hocker, 1997). On the other hand, the amount Kennecott has spent on environmental remediation is absolutely dwarfed by the cost savings they have made in terms of labor costs. From one estimation, since they cut back from 7,000 workers in 1980 to 2,200 by 1989, they have saved $200 million per year in labor savings (Gorrell, 1995). Thus, overall the cutbacks have saved them near a total of $3.8 billion dollars over nearly two decades. Naturally, these cost savings, have contributed to enormous profits at Kennecott. In 2004 Kennecott reported $311 million of profits, but, in the 3 years since buoyed by high copper prices and strong demand, Kennecott has reported record profits of $1 billion in 2005 and $1.6 billion in 2007 (Fahys, 2008; Oberbeck, 2006). Moreover, there is another question: despite the cleanup and all the trees planted, is Kennecott now really a positive “environmental steward?” Although improving, Kennecott still consistently ranks among the highest polluters by the EPA’s Toxics Release Inventory (TRI). Releasing 110 million tons of toxic releases in 2004 (Fahys, 2006). Hard rock metal miners (including copper, gold and silver) are the top TRI polluters in the US because of the heavy metals present in the waste rock. Companies have tried to argue that this rock is “natural” but the fact remains that if the material hadn’t been ground up, the tiny particles of vast surface area would not be exposing lead, cadmium, nickel, mercury and other heavy metals to water and air (Barrick Goldstrike Mines, Inc. v. Whitman, 2003). The fact is that the metabolism of the labor process itself, viz., the necessary production of tons and tons of waste rock requires the constant and enormous production of wastes; wastes that inevitably will circulate into the surrounding natural ecosystem. Recently, wildlife groups have blamed Kennecott for elevated selenium levels in the nearby Great Salt Lake (Fahys, 2008). Wildlife groups argue that selenium levels have led to deformities and lower fertility in the area’s bird population. What is clear is that regardless of Kennecott’s claims of “environmental stewardship,” the ecological metabolism of the labor process will remain as a constant site of political contestation and struggle. And given that Kennecott recently announced the extension of the life of the mine until 2036 (Bloomberg News, 2008), we can be sure that such struggles will be fought out for years to come.

21.5 Conclusion We believe the large scale nature of the labor process in “megaengineering” projects creates a broader “politics of metabolism.” It is through this politics that the project itself, by its aesthetic, social and ecological impact, becomes a kind of political subject that needs to frame narratives of belonging. We also believe that a

364

J. Emel and M.T. Huber

historical perspective reveals that these narratives shift along with changes in the labor process. The reliance on living labor created much tension and conflict in the first three-and-a-half decades of Bingham Canyon (approximately from 1908 to 1942), which was eventually reconciled with more stable labor-capital relations from 1942 to 1980. The crisis of profitability in the 1980s induced a dramatic downsizing of living labor power at Bingham Canyon and, in turn, created a sort of legitimation crisis for the mine itself. Kennecott has now attempted to shift its local contribution from livelihoods to “quality of life” and “environmentalism.” Yet, this shift is not complete nor stable and is shot through with conflict and contestation over the ecological metabolism of the mine– battles over water, wildlife, TRI and the constant spatial expansion of waste tailings piles. In short, the labor process at Bingham Canyon necessitates the systematic production of waste that lead to unforeseen consequences for living people and ecosystems in the area. In order for Kennecott to craft a convincing public image as “environmental steward,” and to achieve the similar kinds of political peace it had during the postwar growth era, it will have to confront the ecology of the labor process itself. While this study focuses on the politics of metabolism of the mine, the geography of political and economic forces and relations does not end at the “richest hole on earth.” In order to unpack the global geography behind such “megaengineering” projects, we need to also undertake research that is not only in situ. Indeed, the aesthetic enormity of such projects tends to narrowly focus the researchers gaze toward to project and the place. But as we have implied throughout, Bingham Canyon is not only a story of workers and waste rock, but of financial capital (Guggenheim money) and global mining capital (now Rio Tinto). Moreover, mining in the American West is not only about a local politics of belonging, but also a wider politics of scale situated in Washington, DC on important social and environmental regulations that affect the entire mining industry (e.g., the 1872 Mining Act, see Huber and Emel 2010). Perhaps, future research on mega-engineering projects needs to look beyond the project itself.

Notes 1. Women worked in the mines, mills and smelters at Bingham Canyon during World War II as they do today. For more on women in the copper mines and communities of the western US see Finn (1998) and Kingsolver (1998). 2. The Freeport mine in Morenci, AZ is the first. 3. As we will show below the labor process dependent upon living labor was also dominated by machines, but it is the presence of living labor that makes the difference. 4. This is actually a remarkable statement coming in 2003 (given the incredible layoffs described in the next section, but only reveals the historical legacy of Bingham Canyon as a source of livelihood. This narrative has shifted in recent years, but it certainly has not been extinguished.

References Aglietta, M. (1979). A theory of capitalist regulation: The US experience. London: NLB. Anderton, D. (2003, June 4). Copper anniversary. Deseret Morning News, p. D10.

21

The Richest Hole on Earth?

365

Arave, L. (2003, December 31). Utah pit once was a mountain. Deseret Morning News. Arrington, L. J., & Hansen, G. B. (1963). The richest hole on earth: A history of the Bingham Canyon copper mine. Logan, UT: Utah State University Press. Associated Press. (1983, August 30). Kennecott seeks support for $400 million modernization plan. Benson, L. (2007, April 8). The biggest, richest hole on the Earth. Deseret Morning News. Bloomberg News. (2008, May 17). Rio Tinto Group to expand capacity at Bingham mine. Bloomberg News. Bridge, G. (2000). The social regulation of resource access and environmental impact: production, nature and contradiction in the US copper industry. Geoforum, 31, 237–256. Business Wire. (2008, May 16). Rio Tinto announces a resource increase of 628 Million Tonnes at Kennecott Utah Copper. Business Wire. Crowson, P. (1992). Copper. In M. J. Peck, H. H. Landsberg, & J. E. Tilton (Eds.), Competitiveness in metals: The impact of public policy. London: Mining Journal Books. Da Rosa, C. D., Lyon, J. S., & Hocker, P. M. (1997). Golden dreams, poisoned streams: How reckless mining pollutes America’s Waters, and how we can stop it. Washington, DC: Mineral Policy Center. Davidson, L. (1997s, September 16). Pollution report slams Kennecott over groundwater. Deseret Morning News, p. B7. Deans, T. (2006, June 8). Purified Kennecott water flows into system. Salt Lake City Tribune. Deseret Morning News. (2007, October 9). Kennecott center earns environmental award. Deseret Morning News. Deseret Morning News. (2008, January 13). Kennecott gives to 95 charities. Deseret Morning News. Dubofsky, M. (2000). We shall be all: A history of the industrial workers of the world. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press. Fahys, J. (2006, April 13). Utah toxics output less, still among worse. Salt Lake City Tribune. Fahys, J. (2008, August 14). Kennecott, wildlife advocates at odds over Great Salt Lake water quality. Salt Lake City Tribune. Fattah, G. (2007, July 10). Utah, U.S. bill Kennecott. Deseret Morning News. Finn, J. L. (1998). Tracing the veins: Of copper, culture and community from Butte to Chuquicamata. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Fischer-Kowalski, M. (2003). On the history of industrial metabolism. In D. Bourg & S. Erkman (Eds.), Perspectives on industrial ecology (pp. 35–45). Sheffield: Greenleaf Press. Foster, J. B. (2000). Marx’s ecology: Materialism and nature. New York: Monthly Review Press. Foy, P. (2003, June 4). Kennecott Utah marks century of mining. Associated Press. Gorrell, M. (1995, April 26). Kennecott future tied to tailings: Kennecott unveils plans for expansion. Salt Lake City Tribune, p. D1. Gorrell, M. (2004, December 4). Kennecott keeps working to contain dust: Reclamation efforts to establish a vegetative cover have fared better in some areas than others. Salt Lake City Tribune, p. B9. Hamilton, M. M. (1988, January 17). U.S. copper industry is lesson in survival: Producers doing well after taking economic beating. Washington Post. Heynen, N., Kaika, M., & Swyngedouw, E. (Eds.). (2006). In the nature of cities: Urban political ecology and the politics of metabolism. London: Routledge. Huber, M. T., & Emel, J. (2010). Fixed minerals, scalar politics: The weight of scale in conflicts over ‘the 1872 Mining Act’ in the United States. Environmental Planning A, 41(2), 371–388. Jensen, V. H. (1950). Heritage of conflict: Labor relations in the nonferrous metals industry up to 1930. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Keahey, J. (1994, May 3). Kennecott to cut costs with modern copper plant. Journal of Commerce, 6B. Kemp, D. (2002, May 24). Utah ranks 2nd for pollutions. Deseret Morning News.

366

J. Emel and M.T. Huber

Kennecott Copper. (2008a). Amazing facts. Retrieved September 16, 2008, from http://www.kennecott.com/?id=MjAwMDEzMQ==. Kennecott Copper. (2008b). Visitor center. Retrieved September 16, 2008, from http://www.kennecott.com/?id=MjAwMDA5Mg== Kingsolver, B. (1998). Holding the line: Women in the Great Arizona mine strike of 1983. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press. Kirsch, S., & Mitchell, D. (2004). The nature of things: Dead labor, nonhuman actors, and the persistence of Marxism. Antipode, 36(4), 687–705. Latour, B. (2004). Politics of nature: How to bring the sciences into democracy. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Marx, K. ([1857] 1973). Grundrisse: Foundations of the critique of political economy. New York: Penguin. Marx, K. ([1867] 1976). Capital Vol. I. B. Fowkes (trans.). New York: International. Mellinger, P. J. (1995). Race and labor in western copper: The figure for equality, 1896–1918. Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona Press. Mims, B. (1986, July 9). Copper workers approve contract offer 3-1. Associated Press. Mitchell, D. (1998). Writing the western: New western history’s encounter with landscape. Ecuneme, 5(1), 7–29. Oberbeck, S. (2006, February 13). Glittering like gold: Kennecott Utah Copper earned $311 M in 2005 as prices soared: Copper prices are expected to fall. Salt Lake City Tribune, p. B10. Ohuallacháin, B., & Matthews, R. A. (1994). Economic restructuring in primary industries: Transaction costs and corporate vertical integration in the Arizona copper industry, 1980–1991. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 84(3), 399–417. Parsons, A. B. (1957). The porphyry coppers in 1956. New York: American Institute of Mining, Metallurgical, and Petroleum Engineers. Peck, G. (1993). Padrones and protest: “Old” radicals and “new” immigrants in Bingham, Utah, 1905–1912. Western Historical Quarterly, 24(2), 157–178. Rosenblum, J. D. (1998). Copper crucible: How the Arizona miner’s strike of 1983 recast labor management relations in America. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Rudd, M. A., & Davis, J. A. (1998). Industrial heritage tourism at the Bingham Canyon copper mine. Journal of Travel Research, 36(3), 85–89. Santini, J. (2006, March 11). Kennecott may be digging in deeper. Salt Lake City Tribune. Septoff, A. (2002, June 5). Letter to the editor: Mining is contaminating. Deseret Morning News. Smeath, D. (2005, December 18). Kennecott’s vision. Deseret Morning News. Swyngedouw, E. (2006). Metabolic urbanization: the making of cyborg cities. In N. Heynen, M. Kaika, & E. Swyngedouw (Eds.), In the nature of cities: Urban political ecology and the politics of urban metabolism (pp. 21–40). London: Routledge. Van Leer, T. (1996, January 7). “Insanity” of copper created many fortunes. Deseret Morning News. Whatmore, S. (2002). Hybrid geographies: Natures, cultures, spaces. London: Sage. Woolf, J. (1995, August 22). Judge OKs Kennecott cleanup pact. Salt Lake City Tribune, p. B1. Woolf, J. (1996, May 28). A Whole lotta hole: Brace yourself Utah, Chile may have a bigger copper pit. Salt Lake Tribune.

Chapter 22

When Boom Goes Bust: Ruins, Crisis and Security in Megaengineering Diamond Mining in Angola Filipe Calvão

The concept of progress must be grounded in the idea of catastrophe. That things are ‘status quo’ is the catastrophe. —Walter Benjamin

22.1 Introduction This chapter takes on diamond mining projects in the Angolan diamond-producing region of Lunda to consider how megaengineering spaces of extraction mediate the social significance of a commodity, in complex relations with state agents, security forces, diggers, miners, local dealers, and global corporations. Under what conditions does a megaengineering project, its technological features and residential architecture, influence the broader meaning of diamonds as extracted commodities? How do recent projects resonate with pre-existing built environments, such as local villages and aging colonial neighborhoods? More broadly, in the shared economy of a global diamond market, how do mining sites stand in relation to postcolonial subjects, the state and corporations at large? To answer these questions, I will consider how socially ambitious and technologically savvy Angolan corporate mines impact, and are in turn shaped by, emerging understandings of value creation and expenditure. Amidst talk of global market disaster, the social, legal, and cultural relevance of diamond mining sites is examined against a genealogy of political, economic and violent conflicts over sovereignty in the region.

F. Calvão (B) Department of Anthropology, University of Chicago, Chicago, IL 60637, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_22,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

367

368

F. Calvão

22.2 Contextualizing Mining Conflicting dynamics of continuity and rupture make up the space of corporate governance in the region as mines are confronted daily with the challenges of engineering new meaning onto historical ruins and of transforming seemingly immutable landscapes. In many ways, this challenge intertwines different realms of mining activity: the geological template of diamond extraction works as a heuristic for the social economy of this commodity. Rough stones, as is well-known, are produced over millions of years of underground combustion. In the long-durée of mineral formation, massive volcanoes catapult the diamonds-in-formation towards the earth’s surface, as the explosive heat transforms the mineral into its above ground incarnation. Along with a larger assortment of industrial grade stones, a finite supply of rare gemstone diamonds ventures from its underground deposits. Rivers and streams, working their powers of erosion, beckon the stones, polish them and perfect them, becoming diamond hotbeds for diggers and alluvial mines. Suspended halfway in this journey, diamonds are also found in underground chimneys, a natural formation known as the kimberlite pipe, carved by the ascending lava. Despite extensive electro-magnetic surveys and thorough topographic mappings, kimberlite pipes are still black holes when it comes to predicting the quality and quantity of diamonds found therein. In an uncertain ration, diamonds are mixed in the tons of ore and gravel which are extracted daily from mining pits. This geological uncertainty is only resolved years after the start of production, when the hopes pinned to an initial sampling proved themselves felicitous. As such, it finds a parallel tendency in the historical ethos of diamond digging, contradictorily populated by hopes of instant gratification and compromised aspirations, and the certainty of wealth and the troubles to obtain it. The geological labor of diamond mining replicates, to a degree, the very sociality of mineral extraction and capitalist speculation. Potential corporate foreclosures, miners’ lay-offs, and the unheard-of commodity value depreciation add to the industry’s inherent uncertainty. Prior to late 2008, diamond extraction could hardly keep pace with an all-time high in world demand, but only a few months later the turmoil in financial markets spelled doubts over the economic solvency and prospects of diamond mining corporations in Angola, much like in the rest of the world. This chapter begins by questioning the contemporary significance of Lunda’s industrial-mining complex and examining the historical relics of its colonial landscape and diamonds’ trajectory. Much like the patronizing role assumed by colonial era companies, today’s mining corporations take on a state-like presence in Lunda. Catering towards populations that work for, surrounded by, or were simply engulfed by mining concessions, corporate authorities become a primary institutional interface through which one accesses consumer goods and services, as well as education and medical care. How do megaengineering sites, their workforces, and the populations they attend to, grapple with uncertainty and potential foreclosure? What follows is part of on-going ethnographic research conducted in mines and trading centers representative of Angola’s social economy of diamonds.1 Early in

22

Megaengineering Diamond Mining in Angola

369

2009, the price of rough diamonds plunged around 60% in world markets, with a similar, though not as sharp, decline in consumption. With the first cases of corporate bankruptcy being reported in smaller mining projects at early stages of exploration, multinational capital investments threaten to pull out from Angola. Clouds of uncertainty linger over larger mines on the threshold of profitability, and questions arise as to what could occupy their space, much like the ephemeral landscapes of mining pits or deviated river courses. How much of this global downturn actually adds a new practical lexicon to the region’s economy and, if so, what can it tell us about mining corporations more generally? And how is meaning engineered in mining projects, including the more daring ventures of kimberlite exploration, when the calculated ground of endless conspicuous consumption suddenly retreats? In regards to the concerns of this paper, the social history of Angolan diamonds in the Lunda region coalesces into three geographical imaginings – the colonialcorporate regime, the lawless spaces of fortune seekers, and a quasi-sovereign state of corporate mining. Though linked to the historical ruptures of colonialism, civil war, and neoliberal economics, these three spatial imaginings share a common thread of uncertainty and crisis. In time and space, they emphasize a dialectic of law and disorder, the making of the frontier and the implication that it is made to be transgressed. This dialectic is further complicated by the fact that the mining compound itself and the mega-industrial extractive structures, rather than its surroundings, have become the site of economic and, consequently, social instability. The corporate mine, in any event, remains attentive to illicit circuits of commodity extraction and circulation inasmuch as it regulates social interactions between miners and local populations. The role of security writ large is a fundamental feature in diamond mining, and Angola is no exception. If the control over means of coercion is taken to define the value of mineral resources in Angola as elsewhere (Ferguson, 2006; Mbembe, 2001), the privatized exercise of security and enclave regimes of extraction substantiate the violent status of resource extraction in Africa and augur new forms of political organization and social control (Welker, 2009). In other words, the consolidation of diamond mining along corporate-concession lines does not seem to assuage the violence that accompanied this industry throughout colonial rule. Nor does it mitigate the infamous diamonds-for-arms exchanges that took place throughout the civil war. Rather, mining corporations may be seen as reinscribing this tradition of violence of mineral extraction by way of (i) rigorous security and surveillance regimes, (ii) disruptive transformations of small scale, local diamond based economies, and (iii) its unprecedented capacity to reshape the physical landscape. To be sure, mining companies’ unequal investment in such acts of physical and symbolic violence does not derive exclusively from the need to patrol massive land concessions and scour for illegal diggers along mine borders. Rather, it is possible that we view security regimes as another stage in the production of diamonds, complementing and further embedding the processes of extraction and selection in that they enhance the value of the commodity.

370

F. Calvão

The corporate concession and a new wave of kimberlite mines have remained committed to this security regime. Although a recent presence in the region, this mining complex has reshuffled an earlier arrangement of diamond digging and small scale diamond dealers, the region’s trademark since the first window of peace and multiparty elections in Angola in the 1990s, with disrupting effects in terms of existing political and social allegiances. The broader impact of corporate mines, and how they affected the social relations that get inscribed through the spatial ordering of diamonds’ extraction, was only recently put to its final test when larger mines were forced to halt production in the wake of the current crisis.2 In contrast, throughout the history of alluvial mining in Angola, diamond production was never threatened with such an extreme breakdown. Not even during the most violent episodes of war in Lunda, where governmental forces clashed with rebel-UNITA during the 1980s and 1990s, did artisanal diamond production decline. Indeed, this period was marked by a finely tuned détente, enabling the conflicting parties’ to maintain autonomous diamond fields. The profit march was so blatant, in fact, that new capital-intensive mining projects surfaced in the area during the course of the military conflict and the Angolan state subcontracted security companies held legal jurisdiction over private militarized mining enclaves (Dietrich & Cillieres, 2000; Hodges, 2001). This explosive combination of violence, militarized presence, and occluded exploration contributed to an ill-defined “neoliberal” model of governance. Moreover, it served as the cultural diacritic of diamond mining in Angola as well as in other extractive spaces of capitalism at the margins of economic centers (Apter, 2005; Ferguson, 2006; Mbembe, 2006; Reno, 1999; Smillie, 2005; Watts, 2001).3 But the swiftness with which most mines executed lay-off plans and outsourcing strategies threatens the temporality and descriptive power of such categories as “post-war” or “neo-liberal” mining. In addition, the current narrative of “crisis” may explain the status of these mines not only in light of international financial downturn and speculation, but also from the perspective of those who have been socially and economically marginalized by the advent of massive corporate mining complexes. In the region’s social economy of diamonds, “crisis” is nothing new. The downturn of global capital has affixed the terms of crisis to an already tenuous balance of economies, for which mining corporations are often held responsible.4 In any case, individuals associated with mines and mining communities deploy the authorized vocabulary of international financial crisis to make sense of the political and economic restructuring of social life wrought by the current restraints. In teasing out the moral and practical motivations that animate the actors in these diamond communities, one can unveil the ideological ground on which mining corporations operate. All in all, a metapragmatic account of the current era is inextricably tied to the expanding dynamics of megaengineering mines and its security regimes. But these days, a depressed mining environment and folk theories of the workings of capitalism have come to disrupt the foundations of mining – at a time when kimberlite projects have replaced colonial regimes in terms of being the dominant engineer of space and place in the Lunda region. The current crisis, in fact, has come to dislodge the symbolic and historical foothold of the corporation in the area, a theme to which I move next.

22

Megaengineering Diamond Mining in Angola

371

22.3 Ghosts of Mining Towns: A Genealogy of Angolan Diamond Corporate Extraction A “diamond mining frontier,” as it has been called (de Boeck, 2000, 2001), accurately depicts the historical status of the Lunda region in Angola. Early in the 20th century, colonial authorities placed most of the territory under concession of a prospective diamond company.5 The colony’s diamantiferous production, however, was confined to the mineral-rich northeastern Lunda region (Fig. 22.1). As the predecessor to the contemporary megamining sites, extractive industries soon became integrated onto the colonial landscape, part and parcel of intercolonial cooperation. In 1917, with the formal constitution of Diamang, a colonial company of mixed

Fig. 22.1 Location map of Angola with map of major cities and mining centers in northeastern Lunda region. (Cartography by Dick Gilbreath)

372

F. Calvão

Portuguese and Belgian capital, the colonial authorities engaged the exercise of territorial sovereignty in order to further diamond extraction projects. The military expeditions of the 1920s to Lunda (Pélissier, 1986: 388–397) granted the means for stable production sites: colonial rule and territorial sovereignty were intertwined around diamond’s extraction. They constituted, as it were, two faces of the same coin. As early as the 1930s approximately 6,000 men, recruited locally, were necessary to guarantee diamond extraction levels. These figures grew later in the colonial period, reaching more than 25,000 direct workers in the 1950s (Cunha, 1959; Sá, 1996). From 1926 until independence, Diamang’s diamond monopoly was formally extricated from the colonial project by means of a “unique protection-zone” (ZUP in the Portuguese acronym). Diamang filled in for the colonial mission; it was responsible for extracting diamonds, and administering the populations inhabiting this territory. For example, the company organized medical campaigns in the region and provided the only health care system available (Varanda, 2007), as well as sponsored decades of intense ethnological surveys of “Lunda-Chokwe culture” (Porto, 1999). Diamang’s security forces worked with and in support of the colonial regime; when Angolan anti-colonial movements were eyeing Lunda as their eastern front in the 1960s, colonial police did not hesitate in reaching out for the services of diamond security.6 Despite Diamang’s social prominence, dissenting corporate managers complained that colonial mining was, for the most part, handed over to the neighboring Belgian corporation, Forminière (Leal, 1959: 52–54). Also later in the 1940s diamond exportation was processed through the neighboring colonial power. The colonial company Diamang, it would seem, was a state within the state, endangering sovereignty despite colonial rule. Historians have suggested, and rightly so, that the colonial company should in fact be regarded as a “kind of state within a state” (Clarence-Smith, 1979: 177) in what could be read as a fundamental rupture with the history of mining in southern Africa. Like a state, the colonial company would be a “total institution” where at the heart it exercises dominion over border transgressions and diamond extraction.7 In line with colonial guidelines, corporate authorities imposed strict restrictions on movement into and within the region; they deployed an unyielding corporate-mining police infrastructure and purged “secret” mining towns from the public eye.8 These mining towns, where European and migrant workers resided, were, in practical, if not official, terms, closed to the “native population.” In this colonial frontier, the creation of enclosed compounds, hostels and mining towns emerged as attempted guarantees of order and security within a mining complex.9 As small scale alluvial digging gave way to more labor intensive and technologically driven regimes of mining, settlements stood out as the urban and residential counterparts to the forms of social control required in diamond compounds. In Diamang’s laboratory of corporate-colonial rule, techniques of mining surveillance and built environment were assembled and deployed in order to preserve commodity security and the organization and discipline of contracted pools of migrant and local populations. In the protected boundaries of the company, autonomous forms of digging led by small groups of men were strictly forbidden.10 Despite

22

Megaengineering Diamond Mining in Angola

373

this obstacle to labor, mines and their vicinities became focal points of local and regional migration, made more attractive by the corporate policies of food and goods’ distribution. Not surprisingly, the balance of power between corporate and colonial authorities was often fraught with discord.11 But Angolan independence in 1975 further disturbed the existing equilibrium. The post-independence successor to colonial Diamang, soon-to be called Endiama, retained the existing archive of topographic surveys. But was forced to abandon most mining operations outside of Lunda’s semi-urban centers. As civil war in the region increased during the 1980s over disputed diamond fields, Endiama was incapable of holding on to Diamang’s logistical and mining structure and patrimonial liquidation soon ensued. In the aftermath of intermittent peace and trading deregulations, Lunda’s stones materialized into a conundrum of high security, risky speculation and lurid accounts of blood, violence, and big fortunes (de Boeck, 2000). In the eyes of consumption politics, Angolan diamonds became metonyms of a postcolonial “standardized nightmare,” the prop of elegance and binding love gone awry. Despite the war and at the height of “blood” diamonds, about 100,000 diggers jumped the border from neighboring DRC, motivating a United Nations ban on “conflict diamonds” in 1998, and eventually speeding up the formal peace agreements in 2002. In the process, Endiama began granting concessions for alluvial mining and, more vigorously over the last few years, for the more complex, long lasting, and technically intricate kimberlite mines. Maludi uniquely encapsulates this historical trajectory, from the colonial foundation, the mid-1990s free-for-all profiteering, to the recent corporate resurgence in alluvial mining. This area is situated 20 mi (32.1 km) from the historical heart of colonial mining, near Nzagi. Maludi was, and still is, a significant source of rare and high quality alluvial diamonds. In local discourse, the town retains its status as the fantastical site where fortunes are made. Since diamond operations restarted in its riverbeds in 2007, after years of industrial abandonment, Maludi has demonstrated a steady flow of diamond extraction and production, ostensibly rescuing the mine from the sense of industrial decay that had already enveloped the site. Under license from Endiama, production increased to such an extent and future endeavors appeared so promising that corporate authorities created a new residential camp closer to the mine’s rediscovered riverbeds. Literally excavating the ruins of colonial mines, deposits of gravel thought to be depleted and thus abandoned are also now being processed thanks to new treatment techniques in alluvial mining (Fig. 22.2). Next to the new compound, Maludi’s old colonial village sits like a ghostly shadow (Fig. 22.3). Its carefully planned residential settlements, dating back to the 1920s, had previously housed pools of contracted labor. Today, its built environment manifests the archetypal frontier phantom-city of exhausted gold rushes, with vacant warehouses, schools, theaters or sports arenas. Notably, the buildings have not been repurposed or appropriated by residents of the nearby village. This village, also bearing the name Maludi, stands beside the rusting colonial outpost. Starting in 1992 the village’s population swelled with the arrival of diggers and fortune seekers, with estimates ranging from 3,000 to 15,000 people. Once official extractive operations resumed, this diamond hub was closed down by the coordinated efforts

374

Fig. 22.2 Alluvial mining pit in a deviated river course

Fig. 22.3 Maludi’s diamond “comptoir,” established during the 1950s diamond rush

F. Calvão

22

Megaengineering Diamond Mining in Angola

375

of state police and the mining company. In this village, vacant houses and closed shops attest to a sudden cut with its recent past. Calonda, built in the late 1950s, shares its colonial origins with Maludi. Calonda was planned to house the qualified workforce and expatriate personnel of the nearby alluvial mining sites along the Tchikapa River. In today’s mines, these positions have been inverted; the administrative staff and migrant workers are housed in a secluded compound outside the mining town and the urban core of Calonda was left for former colonial Diamang’s employees, local mine workers, and emerging local elites who either benefited from Diamang’s patrimonial liquidation or diamond trading revenue. Calonda was designed as part of a corporatecolonial settlement plan meant to be self-sufficient, producing cattle and generating their own electricity, for example, not unlike contemporary kimberlite mines (Fig. 22.4). Similarly, thousands of diggers (garimpeiros) and small scale traders swarmed into Calonda during the 1990s. However, contrary to Maludi’s state of explicit ruin, Calonda still stands in neatly organized rows of single family chalets with a spirit of suburbia, albeit a suburb in decay, that is surprising, but not unique on the mining frontier.12 The town’s swimming pool, once the proud symbol of European alterity, lies abandoned on the Lunda plateau, northeast Angola, likely to be engulfed soon by the surrounding ravines, as one day the village will too. Nearby this quiet town, competing mines extract tons of earth every day in their search for rough diamonds.13 Several times during the day, until not so long ago, an old American school bus transported miners back and forth between Calonda and the mines. The

Fig. 22.4 Calonda Diamang’s model of colonial architecture, common in the region’s urban centers for the purpose of housing mining personnel

376

F. Calvão

sleepy town is in for an abrupt awakening, as plans have been recently announced to explore an underground system of kimberlite pipes, spread along the surrounding Tchikapa valley and containing an estimated deposit of 23 million carats.14

22.4 Kimberlite Projects and the Labor of Extracting Value As it has become clear, Angolan diamonds sit contentiously between the history of colonial extraction and the ever-shifting division of labor. Historically, diamond mines in Lunda were established around the Cuango river’s mineral-rich diamond fields, on the western border of Lunda, along the Tchikapa river, which cuts through the Angolan province and heads north towards the Democratic Republic of Congo, and around the matrix of rivers, streams and water basins between the towns of Lucapa and Nzagi (see Fig. 22.1). Today, kimberlite mines have come to replace the traditional technology of alluvial mining. In non-technical terms, kimberlite mining attempts to retrace the process through which diamonds trickled down into riverbeds, or to be more accurate, through which they exploded to the surface, as detailed earlier. Once exploratory studies are completed and a mining concession is secured, construction crews set to work, transforming a once covert location amidst tall grasses, hut villages, and countless water streams into the center of an engineering project, vast in terms of physical terrain and its sheer social impact. For the most part, the Angolan “outback” is considered a destitute and isolated region. Established mining projects, however, have private airstrips, fleets of hundreds of trucks, and fully sustained towns within their confines. The existing kimberlite mines in Angola lodge and feed thousands of workers, who, in turn, work in shifts around the clock, in a logistical infrastructure that seems only ripe for looser economic times. At Catoca, the largest kimberlite mine in Angola, upstream of the Tchikapa river near Saurimo, belt conveyors and massive trucks connect the ore extraction sites to the mine’s treatment plants. Annually, the built-in ore-treatment capacity can reach 8 million tons per year. Beyond the corporate figures, a mine’s lived environment is vividly permeated by its own version of the workings of capitalist ventures. In it, washing plants, the famously secretive “lavaria” or diamond treatment center, features prominently. The lavaria is the heart of production in a diamond company, suitably referred to as “The Factory” in some mines. In an alluvial context, the lavaria is historically the site where mechanically pumped water, carried from nearby rivers, washes the ore. In kimberlite mines the process is similar, though the machinery is better equipped to grind and disintegrate sedimentary rock, as the apparatus is intended to last many years. According to geological estimates, the underground deposits in kimberlite pipes may withstand decades of extraction. This return, of course, demands enormous investment despite the uncertainty of diamond reservoirs. With megaindustrial treatment plants under construction before there is any guarantee of success, mining authorities seemingly exorcise the risk of a dry mine shaft.

22

Megaengineering Diamond Mining in Angola

377

In both alluvial and kimberlite mining, diamonds are stripped off of their impurities and differentiated from dirt in washing and treatment plants, which is then mechanically and chemically sorted, x-ray scanned, and manually separated. According to emic accounts, when detached from nature in the sorting area, diamonds reveal their cached wealth. In this space of “commodity laundering” the diamond is transformed from ore to commodity. Simultaneously the site of pettytheft and the most secured area within a concession, the lavaria houses the diamonds until they are transported from the mine. Treatment plants set the touchstone for defining diamonds’ value in a larger and local social economy. In ethnographic terms, the lavaria consistently reappears in gossip, hearsay, and rumors as an evocative entryway into the complex relationship between law and the state, corporate governance, and everyday lived experience. First, state forces are frequently denied access to this section of the mine, except in cases of a public crime. In such cases, the status of the rentier state hovers as an ambiguous marker of authority, constricted to the formal limits of concession territory. This becomes relevant at a time when the postcolonial state fetishizes its rule of law and authority (Comaroff & Comaroff, 2006) over the symbolic surplus value of diamonds and the command over its redeployment in different arenas of Angola’s social and political life.15 Second, the washing section offers some of the highest-paying and most soughtout positions at a mine, excepting administrative and managerial positions. Local residents, those who are literate and have some degree of technical skill, are usually recruited to operate machinery or manage the plant’s electrical and hydraulic systems. In nearby communities, workers frequently claim to work in this space, hence indexing a particular status within the “wealth-snatching” diamond economy. Conversely, miners use this position as leverage for raising grievances and negotiating with corporate management. Finally, washing plants feature recurrently in vocal accounts of “feitiço” and “wanga,” metonyms with an “occult economy” (Comaroff & Comaroff, 1999) of zombie-miners who transform into snakes in order to “swallow kamanga [diamond], swell and fly away.” If the corporate enclave and associated forms of security have become iconic predicaments of the postcolonial mining frontier, in this part of Angola the mining projects have met unforeseen forces of their own. In telling these stories of secrecy, greed and wealth, workers and residents replicate the very qualities of the mining compound they seek to contest.16 Whether reinforcing or at odds with the ideology of security, local cosmologies, and the demands of labor, the lavaria seemingly encapsulates the means of value production while creating meaning in a context of unsettling transformations. It comes as no surprise, therefore, that electronic surveillance systems, designed to control the “near-sacred diamond-sorting chamber” (Carstens, 2001: 11), have become the latest approach to dealing with these objects, easily concealed and literally embodied. It is precisely over the regulation of a surplus value from diamonds, in the symbolic features that affect broader political and economic processes (Munn, 1986; Weiss, 1996) that one can locate the contest over the legitimacy, value, and meaning of these industrial structures. Indeed, the security of the lavaria is an index for the

378

F. Calvão

stability of the mine at large. That was the case at one particular mine, where a group of security and technical personnel celebrated, over champagne, the installation of a new camera surveillance system, joining the high-tech x-ray system already in place. The celebration was clouded by a number of troubling events. First and foremost, the system would prove rather useless at the moment; the washing plant operated only sporadically due to limited fuel supplies and an austerity budget. The remnants of champagne, moreover, were a living testament to the mine’s hardships; they were the last bottles left on commissary shelves after beer supplies ran dry. In turn, this brought out the unscripted movements of the law, particularly legible in moments of uncertainty and debacle. Social networks and heretofore hidden social allegiances surfaced to provide alcohol at the mine, displacing the symbolic relevance of diamonds. Not only that, but in the weeks prior to the final installation of the closed-circuit video system, a number of snakes, featured prominently in local accounts of Tchokwe cosmologies, were spotted in the sorting chamber. Lingering at the celebration, these snakes attend to the unresolved tensions vis-à-vis the ritualized ceremonies that usually take place at these sites, conducted by local figures under request and sponsorship of the corporation. Under different circumstances, a goat would be slaughtered; the spilling of its blood is said to increase production. When such rituals are not fulfilled, a glaring failure in light of past events as noticed by the security personnel at this particular celebration, this lack of attention becomes the catch-all cause for tragedy on the mine: the accidental death of an employee or the inability to reach production quotas.

22.5 Conclusion A boom of mineral resource extraction and the fetishized attributes of diamond and oil added to new corporate-state synergies in the postcolonial nation of Angola. When the first strikes of early 2009 threatened to disrupt the status quo of diamond mining, and despite Endiama’s announcement of having “100 mines open to investors,” the economy of signs and practices propitiated by diamonds had already dramatically shifted.17 This chapter proposed to render this shift visible in the social, historical, and material conditions of diamonds’ extraction. Diamond mining and trading, wherein one could situate competing narratives over the future of the nation-state and the expectations of its postcolonial subjects, is a dynamic field, not immune to local and global changes. Contributing to a vast literature on mineral resources, corporate responsibility, and the social construction of mining production (Ballard & Banks, 2003; Ferguson, 1999; Moodie & Ndatshe, 1994; Nash, 1979; Taussig, 1980; Welker, 2009), this chapter aimed to reveal how large industrial diamond mines in Angola become complex social worlds that envelop, inasmuch as they counteract notions of culture and social pragmatism, namely in terms of its workforce, the circulation of knowledge, and the way ever-changing landscapes are inhabited. Moreover, it adds to an understanding of contemporary spaces of extraction and global commodity circulation in examining the often-overlooked site of production (Ferguson & Gupta, 2002; Foster, 2006; Smith & Mantz, 2006).

22

Megaengineering Diamond Mining in Angola

379

Here we may tap into an important assumption about contemporary mining in Angola, namely the possibility of dialogical constructions of corporate authority and the social world lying outside the compound. Over a period of fifty years, the colonial diamond company produced and maintained an archive of photographic, sound, ethnological, and geomorphological records of the region. The “museumification” of an indigenous ethno-linguistic identity converged in constituting this corporate archive. In today’s mining communities, a popular version of this archive has disseminated a specific rendering of the culture’s most salient features, including the symbolic violence of its witchcraft idioms. As such, one could approach the exercise of “security” as a corporate narrative within this living archive, in its most crude projections of fear (Taussig, 1987). It remains to be seen in what ways the colonial company’s coding of “tradition” shaped colonial policies for the region, labor recruitment policies, or an emphasis on security and, conversely, the degree to which the reification of local cultures backlash in terms of managing Lunda’s regime of space. To the extent that this corporate archive has shaped possibilities for understanding native cultures, highlighting some practices and tendencies while erasing others, the realm of possibilities it generates can be seen as an act of social engineering reminiscent of the massive remolding of local landscapes. Similarly, the apparent burst of occult forces and labor strikes onto the public domain of the private corporation raises the stakes of corporate accountability to a different level, while stating the dialectical character with which the terms of this crisis are affixed to local life. In other words, the productive value of “security,” the practice of law, and corporate techniques of control in diamond mines are cultural constructs of the new rituals of corporate-state ideology, interlocked with local fields of meaning, symbolic and historical. Security and social control are not distinct from geological exploration and the physical aspects of megaengineering. Rather, the security regime is a prime vehicle for imposing social cognition of the transformations enacted upon physical space. Megaengineering mines, therefore, are at a standstill between the living ruins of colonial mining and the future aspirations of the postcolony; at once, these industrial extraction sites open the scars of old mining concessions while setting the conditions for writing Angola’s own rendering of the postcolonial predicament.

Notes 1. Fieldwork was made possible by funding provided by the International Dissertation Research Fellowship (SSRC IDRF). I would like to acknowledge Fundação para a Ciência e Tecnologia (FCT MCT) for their support in the early stages of this research. My appreciation is extended to Ali Feser for invaluable comments, Stanley Brunn for making this article a reality, and all the friends in Angola, local authorities, and mining corporations who contributed to this research. 2. It should be noted that I do not take the notion of spatial extraction as the analytic object of this article. Instead, I am more interested in how ideologies and practices of the corporation are constituted by, and make sense of, the range of social relations within a diamond community, particularly through the spatial ordering of diamonds’ extraction (Lefebvre, 1991). 3. Although “neoliberalism” gained descriptive value in recent anthropological literature, questions remain to its analytical, conceptual, or empirical purview. Much like the reality it

380

4.

5.

6. 7.

8. 9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14. 15.

16.

F. Calvão purports to reference, the episteme of neoliberalism is a slippery terrain. It can designate a set of techniques of governance, forms of state privatization, speculative capital flows, lawlessness and deregulation. Without fully adhering to its analytical purchase, I take Ferguson’s (2006) recent contribution at its political economy face-value: contemporary mineral resource extraction in Africa has become the expression of a diffuse “model” of a type of neoliberalism. In a tentative interpretation of corporate presence in the region I follow here the vocal opposition of local populations to these companies and secondly, the widely circulated reputation of these mining projects as constituting enclave regimes of extraction enforced by a rigid security apparatus. Keeping only small fringes of the coastal territory under direct colonial rule (Gouveia, Monçada, Monteiro, & Neto, 1993; Sá, 1996). Yonah Seleti (1990) suggests the initial territory attributed to DIAMANG amounted to 81% of the territory (cf Seleti in Konczacki et al., 1990: 46). Arquivo Histórico Ultramarino, Lisboa, Gabinete de Negócios Políticos: MU/GM/GNP/ 059/PT 10. A Goffmanian “total institution” seems unproductive for understanding this regime and is used freely here for the purpose of illustrating the scope of corporate presence in the region. In his seminal work, Moodie and Ndatshe (1994: 16, 27, 88) is explicit in his critique of the Goffmanian theory of self and definition of “total institution.” Peter Carstens’ study of diamond extraction in the company town of Kleinzee is more ambiguous in his critique (2001: 190). Although titled “A total institution,” James (1992: 112) makes the point that compounds could “serve the interests of organized African workers.” However, the 1987 western Transvaal strike, his case at hand, does not support his general argument. I formulate this hypothesis after consulting PIDE/DGS maps in colonial archives. The location of certain mining towns were often not made explicit in cartographic depictions. Not without reason, historiography of Southern Africa mining has placed a great deal of attention to this topic. There are distinctions to be made between gold and diamond mines (Moodie & Ndatshe, 1994: 23), as well as important regional and national distinctions in regard to diamond mines’ policies (see Hart, 2001: 161–164 for a description of the restrictive security measures imposed in the Namibian “diamond coast”). According to former colonial bureaucrats, serving the colonial administration outside the main urban centers in the region, diamond digging was later permitted in parts of Lunda’s outback country given the potential backlashes, amidst diggers, of a repressive security presence. The main colonial outpost in the region, for example, was deliberately placed far from extractive sites in order to avoid the restrictions imposed by the privately run Diamonds Security Services (Sá, 1996: 56). The responsibility over the “pass” system, moreover, ultimately belonged to the company’s security service. From northern Canada to the semidesert region of Namaqualand, in South Africa, the possibility of “utopian oasis” has draped its mining residents in some form of “suburban quality” (Carstens, 2001: 7, 221). Back in 2000, these were Southern Era’s Camafuca, ITM’s Calonda and DiamondWorks’ Yetwene location (Dietrich, 2000). More recently, the Camuazanza mine began production. The advent of kimberlite mining and changes in corporate management give a provisional character to alluvial mines operating in the area. The Camafuca mine is on the early stages of exploration. These figures come from Partnership Africa Canada’s 2007 Diamond Industry Annual Review (Blore, 2007). Interestingly, this legally framed notion of internal border ends up fetishizing the means put into controlling them (Das & Poole, 2004; Spyer, 1998). National police, for example, routinely announces new campaigns for controlling illegal migration along the borders of Lunda often broadcasted in national television, as in the aptly named 2009 “Operation Crisis,” a spectacle of law-making. In some communities, miners are also said to possess powerful “feitiços,” material and semiotic heirs to the world of witchcraft, and a commonly evoked discursive link with the

22

Megaengineering Diamond Mining in Angola

381

supernatural world. As part of a larger research project, I attempt to discern the terms under which the template of Wanga (Chokwe referential field of “occult” forces), feitiços and other immaterial forces can be productively mapped onto the space of corporate governance. 17. Henrique Almeida, 28 January 2009, Reuters. (http://uk.reuters.com/article/UK_SMALLCAP SRPT/idUKLS56043320090128?pageNumber=2&virtualBrandChannel=0). Last accessed 20 July 2009.

References Apter, A. (2005). The Pan-African nation: Oil and the spectacle of culture in Nigeria. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ballard, C., & Banks, G. (2003). Resource wars: The anthropology of mining. Annual Review of Anthropology, 32, 287–313. Blore, S. (Ed.). (2007). Diamond industry annual review, Angola report. Partnership Africa Canada. Ottawa: Canada. Retrieved July 20, 2009, from http://www.pacweb.org/ Documents/annual-reviews-diamonds/Angola-AR2007-eng.pdf Carstens, P. (2001). In the company of diamonds. De Beers, Kleinzee, and the control of a town. Athens, OH: Ohio University Press. Clarence-Smith, W. G. (1979). The myth of uneconomic imperialism: The Portuguese in Angola, 1836–1926. Journal of Southern African Studies, 5(2), 165–180. Comaroff, J., & Comaroff, J. (2006). Law and disorder in the postcolony. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Comaroff, J., & Comaroff, J. L. (1999). Occult economies and the violence of abstraction: Notes from the South African Postcolony. American Ethnologist, 26(2), 279–303. Cunha Leal, F. (1959). Coisas do tempo presente. Novas coisas da companhia de diamantes de Angola (Diamang). Lisboa (author’s edition). Das, V., & Poole, D. (2004). State and its margins: Comparative ethnographies. In D. Veena & D. Poole (Eds.), Anthropology in the margins of the state (pp. 3–33). Santa Fe: School of American Research Press. de Boeck, F. (2000). Borderland breccia: The mutant hero in the historical imagination of a CentralAfrican diamond frontier. Journal of Colonialism and Colonial History, 1, 2, Winter. de Boeck, F. (2001). Garimpeiro worlds: Digging, dying & ‘hunting’ for diamonds in Angola. Review of African Political Economy, 28(90), 548–562. Dietrich, C., & Cillieres, J. (Eds.). (2000). Angola s war economy: The role of oil and diamonds. Pretoria: Institute for Security Studies. Ferguson, J. (1999). Expectations of modernity. myths and meanings of urban life on the Zambian copperbelt. Berkeley: University of California Press. Ferguson, J. (2006). Global shadows: Africa in the neoliberal world order. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Ferguson, J., & Gupta, A. (2002). Spatializing states: Toward an ethnography of neoliberal governmentality. American Ethnologist, 29(4), 981–1002. Foster, R. J. (2006). Tracking globalization. Commodities and value in motion. In C. Tilley (Ed.), Handbook of material culture (pp. 285–302). London: Sage. Gouveia, J., Monçada, P., Monteiro, J., & Neto, M. (1993). Riquezas Minerais de Angola. Lisboa: ICE. Hart, M. (2001). Diamond, A journey to the heart of an obsession. New York: Walker & Company. Hodges, T. (2001). Angola. From Afro-Stalinism to petro-diamond capitalism. Lysaker, Norway: Norway International African Institute. James, W. G. (1992). Our precious metal: African labour in South Africa’s Gold Industry, 1970– 1990. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Lefebvre, H. (1991). The production of space. D. Nicholson-Smith (trans.). Oxford: Blackwell. Mbembe, A. (2001). On the postcolony. Berkeley: University of California Press.

382

F. Calvão

Mbembe, A. (2006). Politics as a form of expenditure. In J. Comaroff & J. L. Comaroff (Eds.), Law and disorder in the postcolony (pp. 299–335). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Moodie, D., & Ndatshe, V. (1994). Going for gold: Men, mines and migration. Berkeley: University of California Press. Munn, N. (1986). The fame of Gawa: A symbolic study of value transformation in a Massim (Papua New Guinea) society. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nash, J. (1979). We eat the mines and the mines eat us. Dependency and exploration in Bolivian tin mines. New York: Columbia University Press. Pélissier, R. (1986). História das Campanhas de Angola. Resistência e Revoltas, Vol. II (1845– 1941). Lisboa: Editorial Estampa. Porto, N. (1999), Angola a preto e branco. Fotografia e ciência no museu do dundo, 1940–1970. Coimbra: Museu Antropológico da Universidade de Coimbra Sá, V. (1996). A Lunda. . .Os diamantes. . .A Endiama. Luanda: Ed. Endiama. Seleti, Y. (1990). The development of dependent capitalism in Portuguese Africa. In Z. Konczacki, et al. (Eds.), Studies in the economic history of Southern Africa (pp. 30–74). London: Frank Cass. Smillie, I. (2005). Criminality and the global diamond trade: A methodological case study. In W. Schendel & I. Abraham (Eds.), Illicit flows and criminal things (pp. 177–200). Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Smith, J. H., & Mantz, J. W. (2006). Do cellular phones dream of civil war? The mystification of production and the consequences of technology fetishism in eastern Congo. In M. Kirsch (Ed.), Inclusion and exclusion in the global arena (pp. 71–93). New York: Routledge. Spyer, P. (1998). Border fetishisms: Material objects in unstable places. New York: Routledge. Taussig, M. (1980). The devil and the commodity fetishism in South America. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Taussig, M. (1987). Shamanism, colonialism and the wild man: A study in terror and healing. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Varanda, J. (2007). A Bem da Nação: Medical Science in a diamond company in twentieth-century colonial Angola. London: Centre for the history of medicine, University College of London. Ph.D thesis. Watts, M. (2001). Petro-violence: Community, extraction, and political ecology of a mythic community. In N. Peluso & M. Watts (Eds.), Violent environments (pp. 189–212). Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Weiss, B. (1996). The making and unmaking of the Haya Lived World. Durham: Duke University Press.

Chapter 23

Ecclesial Opposition to Nonferrous Metals Mining in Guatemala and the Philippines: Neoliberalism Encounters the Church of the Poor William N. Holden and R. Daniel Jacobson

23.1 Introduction In recent years, as a result of the prevailing neoliberal development paradigm and the influence of the World Bank, many countries in the developing world have liberalized their mining laws to attract investment into their economies (Bury, 2005). In both Guatemala and the Philippines, governments have revised mining laws in an attempt to encourage more investment. This chapter discusses the opposition of the Roman Catholic Church to the neoliberal policies enacted by the governments of those countries to encourage the extraction of nonferrous metals by multinational corporations. The chapter begins with a discussion of the countries’ mineral resources (and efforts of the respective governments to encourage mining), and then discusses the ecclesial opposition to mining in the two countries; the chapter concludes with a discussion of how neoliberalism is encountering the church of the poor. This research finds its home within the discipline of geography, as one of human geography’s core areas is the relationship between people and their environment, and conflicts about mining are conflicts about different understandings of human-nature relationships (Bednarz, 2006).

23.2 Guatemala and the Philippines: Developing Countries with Mineral Resources Guatemala is well endowed with nonferrous metals (metals other than iron) such as copper, gold, lead, nickel, silver, and zinc (United States Geological Survey, 1998). With the exception of some geological mapping carried out by the Metal Mining Agency of Japan during the 1970s, Guatemala remained largely unexplored from 1960 until 1996 due to the civil war (Guatemalan Peace, 1997). However, in 1997, the first year after the peace accord, the government of Guatemala acted to W.N. Holden (B) Department of Geography, University of Calgary, Calgary, AB T2N 1N4, Canada e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_23,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

383

384

W.N. Holden and R.D. Jacobson

attract mining foreign direct investment when it passed Legislative Decree 48–97, the “Mining Law,” which: reduced the royalty payable to the government from six percent to one percent, simplified mine site access by project proponents, abolished all limits on foreign ownership of mines, and granted mining operations duty-free imports (United States Geological Survey, 1998). This mining law liberalization has led to interest from the nonferrous metals mining industry (United States Geological Survey, 2004). Goldcorp’s Marlin Mine (gold and sliver), in the Department of San Marcos, and Skye Resources Fenix Project (nickel and cobalt) in the Department of Izabal, are the two most prominent nonferrous metals mining projects currently under way in Guatemala (Fig. 23.1). The Philippines is also well endowed with nonferrous metals (Table 23.1) (United States Geological Survey, 1997). In the early 1990s, the Asian Development Bank became critical of the investment climate in the Philippines and called for a

Fig. 23.1 Map of Guatemala, showing the location of Marlin Mine (gold and sliver) and Fenix project (nickel and cobalt)

23

Neoliberalism Encounters the Church of the Poor

385

liberalization of its mining laws (Rovillos, Ramo, & Corpus, 2003). The government began to heed this advice and in 1995, implemented the Mining Act of 1995, which contained several generous incentives to encourage mining such as: a four year income tax holiday; tax and duty-free capital equipment imports; value-added tax exemptions; income tax deductions where operations are posting losses; accelerated depreciation; and guarantees of the right of repatriation of the entire profits of the investment as well as freedom from expropriation (United States Geological Survey, 1995). The Mining Act became popular with the mining industry; the number of foreign mining companies represented in the country increased by four hundred per cent between 1994 and 1996 (United States Geological Survey, 1996). The United States Geological Survey went so far as to call the Mining Act of 1995 “one of the most modern in Southeast Asia” (United States Geological Survey, 1997: x1). By the early years of the 20th Century the government of the Philippines was bent upon a development strategy led by mineral resource extraction. Figure 23.2 displays the locations of major mining projects in the Philippines. Table 23.1 Mine location information for the Philippines Map #

Mineral type

Project name

Project proponent

Province

1

Copper Copper Gold

4

Gold

Teresa Gold Project

5 6

Gold Gold

Gambang Gold Project Camp 3 Gold Project

7 8

Gold Gold

9 10

Copper and Gold Gold

11 12

Copper Gold

13 14 15

Chromite Platinum Nickel Chromium

16

Gold

Acupan SSM Operations Far South East Gold Project Didipio Copper Gold Project Nuevo Viscaya Gold Project Padcal Copper Project Itogon-Suyoc Gold Project Acoje Chromite – Platinum Project Dinapigue Nickel Project Masinloc Chromite Project Bataan Gold Project

Cordillera Exploration Corp. Wolfland Resources Lepanto Consolidated Mining Lepanto Consolidated Mining Corp. Oxiana Philippines Northern Luzon Mining Corp. Benguet Corp. Lepanto Consolidated Mining Corp. Climax-Arimco Corp.

Abra

2 3

Conner Copper-Gold Project Tabuk Copper Project Victoria Gold Project

17 18

Gold Gold

Kalinga Benguet Benguet Benguet Benguet Benguet Benguet

Nueva Viscaya Orophilippine Ventures Nueva Viscaya Philex Mining Corp. Benguet Itogon Suyoc Mines Pangasinan Crau Minerals

Zambales

Platinum Group Benguet Corp.

Isabela Zambales

Bataan Balanga Bataan Mineral Exploration Corp. Lobo Gold Project Mindoro Resources Batangas Del Gallego Gold Project Phelps Dodge Camarines Exploration Corp. Norte

386

W.N. Holden and R.D. Jacobson Table 23.1 (continued)

Map #

Mineral type

Project name

Project proponent

19

Gold

Paracale Gold Project

20

Gold

Labo Gold Project

21

Hixbar Project

23

Copper, Gold, Silver Copper, Gold, Silver, Zinc Nickel

Rapu Rapu Polymetallic Project Mindoro Nickel Project

Johnson Mining Corp. Camarines Norte Indophil Resources Camarines Norte Lafayette Mining Albay Corp. Lafayette Philippines Albay

24

Gold

Masbate Gold Project

25 26 27

Gold Copper Gold

Leyte Gold Project Toledo Copper Project Negros Gold project

28 29

Nickel Nickel

30

Chromium

31 32

Gold Nickel

33

Gold

34

Nickel

35

Nickel

36

Chromium

37

Nickel

38

Nickel

39

Copper

40

Copper Gold

41

Nickel

42

Gold

43

Nickel

44

Gold

22

Aglubang Mining Corp. Filminera Resources Corp. PNOC- EDC Alakdor Corp. PNOC- EDC

Province

Mindoro Oriental Masbate

Leyte Cebu Negros Oriental Palawan Nickel Project Rio Tuba Mining Corp. Palawan HPAL Nickel Processing Coral Bay Nickel Palawan Project Mining Corp. Homonhon Chromite Heritage Resources Eastern Samar Project Mining Corp. Leyte Gold Project Indophil Resources Leyte Sigbanog Nickel Project Hinatuan Mining Corp. Surigao Del Norte Southern Leyte Gold Orophilippine Ventures Southern Project Leyte Hinatuan Nickel project Hinatuan Mining Corp. Surigao Del Norte Nonoc Iron Fines Project Pacific Nickel Phils. Surigao Del Norte Omasdang Chromite CRAU Mineral Surigao Del Project Resources Corp. Norte Nonoc Nickel Processing Nonoc Processing Surigao Del Project Norte Case Mining Corp. Surigao Del Adlay-CadianaoNorte Tandwana (ACT) Project Boyongan Copper Project Silangan Mindanao Surigao Del Mining Corp. Norte Surigao Copper Gold Coolabah Mining Surigao Del Project Corp. Norte Cagdianao Nickel Project Cagdianao Nickel Surigao Del Mining Corp. Norte Agatha Gold Project Mindoro Resources Agusan Del Norte Taganito Nickel Project Taganito Mining Corp. Surigao Del Norte Mabuhay Gold Project All-Acacia Resources Agusan Del Norte

23

Neoliberalism Encounters the Church of the Poor

387

Table 23.1 (continued) Map #

Mineral type

Project name

Project proponent

45

Gold

Banahaw Gold Project

46

Copper, Gold

47

Gold

48

Copper

King King Copper Gold Project Diwalwal Direct State Development Project Tagpura Copper Project

49

Gold

Batoto Gold Project

50

Gold

Manat Gold Project

51

Copper

Amacan Copper Project

52

Copper Gold

53

Nickel

Batong Buhay Copper Gold Project Pujada Nickel Project

54

Gold

Bayugan Gold Project

55

Gold

Canatuan Gold Project

56

Gold

Alicia Gold Project

57

Copper and Gold Gold

Tampakan Project

Philsaga Mining Corp. Agusan Del Sur Benguet Corp. Compostela Valley Natural Resources Compostela Development Corp. Valley Philco Mining Compostela Valley Philco Mining Compostela Valley Indophil Resources Compostela Valley North Davao Mining Compostela Valley Natural Resources Compostela Development Corp. Valley Asiaticus Mining Davao Oriental Zamboanga Minerals Zamboanga Corp. Del Norte TVI Pacific Zamboanga Del Norte PNOC- EDC Zamboanga Sibugay Sagittarius Mines South Incorporated Cotabato Tribal Mining Corp/ South Philco Mining Cotabato

58

T’boli Gold Project

Province

23.3 Ecclesial Opposition to Mining In both Guatemala and the Philippines, the Roman Catholic Church has engaged in rigorous opposition to mining. In Guatemala, Bishop Alvaro Ramazzini, Bishop of the Diocese of San Marcos and President of the Episcopal Conference of Guatemala, has been an outspoken critic of the Marlin Mine (Witte, 2005). Bishop Gabriel Penate, Bishop of the Apostolic Vicariate of Izabal (the ecclesial jurisdiction where the Fenix Project is situated) is strongly opposed to mining (Penate, 2007, interview). Archbishop Rodolfo Cardinal Quezada Toruno, the country’s highest ranking church leader has also gone on record opposing mining (Witte, 2005). It is worth stressing that these ecclesial opponents of mining are not just a few select individuals, the Guatemalan church, as an institution is opposed to mining. According to Bishop Ramazzini, “The church as a whole in Guatemala is opposed to mining. The opposition to mining is not confined to selected members of the church, or to selected locations within the country” (Ramazzini, 2007, interview). In the

388

W.N. Holden and R.D. Jacobson

Major Mine Project Locations

1 2

- Mine Location 1 Mine Reference (Information in Table 23.1)

3 5 6 7 12

4

9

8

14

10

11

30 32

31

13

15

34

18 19

16 17

35

33

20

37 21 23

38 41

39 42

22

24

36 40

43 44 45

25 27

26

28 29 55

54 56

100 km 58

57

Source: Mines and Geosciences Bureau (2004, 2006)

48 49

47

46 50

52 51 53

Fig. 23.2 Map showing the location of major mines in the Philippines

Philippines, the Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines (CBCP), the official organization of the Catholic hierarchy in the Philippines, has twice, in 1998 and in 2006, gone on record declaring its opposition to mining in pastoral letters and called for the repeal of the Mining Act of 1995 (Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines, 1998, 2006) (Table 23.2).

23

Neoliberalism Encounters the Church of the Poor

389

Table 23.2 Ecclesial actions against mining in the Philippines Date

Action

April 1997

Bishop Zacharias Jimenez, the Bishop of the Diocese of Pagadian, wrote to the shareholders of the British mining company Rio Tinto Zinc asking them to ensure that Rio Tinto Zinc refrained from engaging in mining in the Diocese of Pagadian.1 Bishop Jimenez followed up his letter to the shareholders of Rio Tinto Zinc with a letter to the Catholic Bishops of England and Wales asking for their assistance in preventing Rio Tinto Zinc from establishing a mine in the Diocese of Pagadian.1 Priests from the Provinces of North Cotabato and South Cotabato participated in a three day long picket to block the Australian mining company Western Mining Corporation from having access to an exploration site in South Cotabato.2 The bishops of the Dioceses of Dipolog, Iligan, Ozamiz, Pagadian, and the Prelature of Marawi, collectively wrote President Ramos articulating their opposition to mining in the Zamboanga Peninsula on the island of Mindanao; the bishops also called for a repeal of the Mining Act of 1995.1 Bishop Nereo Odchimar, the Bishop of the Diocese of Tandag, issued a pastoral letter opposing mining in the Diocese of Tandag.3 An archbishop, three bishops, four priests, and a nun, joined 16 other leading civil society representatives at a meeting in Dapitan, in the Province of Zamboanga del Norte, and signed the Dapitan Initiative calling for: the repeal of the Mining Act, the cancellation of all Mineral Production Sharing Agreements and Financial Technical Assistance Agreements, and a moratorium on the issuance of large-scale mining permits for one hundred years.4 Bishop Warlito Cajandig, the Bishop of the Apostolic Vicariate of Calapan, signed a position chapter objecting to the reinstatement of Crew Minerals’ Mineral Production Agreement on the island of Mindoro.5 Bishop Jose Manguiran, the Bishop of the Diocese of Dipolog, called for the cancellation of the Mineral Production Sharing Agreement held by the Canadian mining company Toronto Ventures Incorporated in the Municipality of Siocon, in the Province of Zamboanga del Norte.6 The Diocese of Kidapawan issued a statement objecting to a December 2004 Supreme Court case that upheld the Financial Technical Assistance Agreement provisions of the Mining Act.7 Bishop Carlito Cenzon, Bishop of the Apostolic Vicariate of Baguio, called for the repeal of the Mining Act.8 Northern Luzon Bishops called on local communities to oppose government attempts to revitalize large-scale mining.9 Bishop Reynaldo Evangelista, of the Diocese of Boac, endorsed the “Marinduque Declaration” demanding the rejection of all pending mining applications on the island of Marinduque.10 All four of the dioceses on the island of Negros (the Dioceses of Bacolod, Dumaguete, Kabankalan, and San Carlos) and the Archdiocese from the neighboring island of Panay (the Archdiocese of Jaro), launched an anti-mining campaign in Bacolod City on the island of Negros.11

May 1997

May 1997

October 1997

June 2002 October 2002

March 2004

October 2004

January 2005

February 2005 May 2005 January 2006

February 2006

390

W.N. Holden and R.D. Jacobson Table 23.2 (continued)

Date

Action

March 2006

Bishop Leonardo Medroso of the Diocese of Borongan, on the island of Samar, asked Environment Secretary Angelo Reyes to cancel the mining permit issued to Heritage Resources and Mining Corporation, a mining company engaged in chromite extraction on Homonhon Island in the Province of Eastern Samar.12 The Archdiocese of Zamboanga, on the island of Mindanao, articulated its objection to a mining firm operated by Filipino and Taiwanese firms.13 The Bishops of the Dioceses of Digos, Kidapawan, and Marbel, on the island of Mindanao, announced the implementation of a “bigger and wider” campaign for the stoppage of the ongoing exploration activities of Sagittarius Mines Inc, an Australian-backed mining company, on the island of Mindanao.14 Bishop Lucilo Quiambao, the Auxiliary Bishop of the Diocese of Legazpi, issued a pastoral statement condemning the November 2005 cyanide spills at the Rapu-Rapu Polymetallic Project in the Province of Albay. In the statement, Bishop Quiambao stated that mining will only aggravate the poverty of the people.15 The Bishops of the Dioceses of Legazpi, Virac, Masbate, Daet, and Sorsogon, together with the Bishop of the Prelature of Libmanan and the Archbishop of the Archdiocese of Caceres, jointly issued a statement to convey their strong opposition to the continued presence, and operations, of the Rapu-Rapu Polymetallic Project in the Province of Albay.16 Archbishop Antonio Ledesma, of the Archdiocese of Cagayan de Oro, stated that he wished to see all mining operations in the Municipality of Tubay, in the Province of Agusan del Norte, closed.17 Bishop Ramon Villena, of the Diocese of Bayombong, issued a pastoral letter declaring mining to be a threat to indigenous rights, and the environment. Bishop Villena also stated that mining will deprive the people of their land and livelihood.18 Bishop Reynaldo Evangelista, of the Diocese of Boac, and Bishop Edgardo Juanich, of the Apostolic Vicariate of Taytay, signed the “Boac Declaration 2006,” opposing mining and calling for a repeal of the Mining Act.19 Bishop De Dios M. Pueblos, of the Diocese of Butuan, Bishop Nereo Odchimar, of the Diocese of Tandag, and Archbishop Antonio Ledesma, of the Archdiocese of Cagayan de Oro, issued a statement opposing mining as it displaces indigenous peoples and peasants, thus depriving them of their life and land.20 Bishop Warlito Cajandig, of the Apostolic Vicariate of Calapan coauthored a letter, with the Governor of Oriental Mindoro, to the Secretary of the Department of the Environment and Natural Resources, articulating their strong and categorical opposition to the Mindoro Nickel Project.21 Bishop Pedro Arigo, of the Apostolic Vicariate of Puerto Princesa, issued a pastoral statement calling for a ban on new mining operations on the island of Palawan.22

March 2006

April 2006

June 2006

August 2006

August 2006

September 2006

October 2006

October 2006

October 2006

October 2006

23

Neoliberalism Encounters the Church of the Poor

391

Table 23.2 (continued) Date

Action

April 2007

Bishop Jesus Dosado, of the Diocese of Ozamiz, Bishop Emmanuel Cabajar, of the Diocese of Pagadian, Bishop Jose Manguiran, of the Diocese of Dipolog, Bishop Elentio de los Reyes Galido, of the Diocese of Iligan, and Bishop Edwin de la Pena, of the Prelature of Marawi, wrote to the Roman Catholic Church in Canada regarding the behavior of TVI Pacific, a mining company based in Calgary, Alberta, at its Canatuan Gold Project in Zamboanga del Norte.23 Bishop Deogracias Iniguez, of the Diocese of Kalookan, Bishop Jose Manguiran, of the Diocese of Dipolog, Bishop Nereo Odchimar, of the Diocese of Tandag, Bishop Dinualdo Gutierrez, of the Diocese of Marbel, Bishop Ramon Villena, of the Diocese of Bayombong, Bishop Jose Talaoc, of the Diocese of Romblon, and Bishop Warlito Cajandig, of the Apostolic Vicariate of Calapan, issued a statement relating the issue of the environment and the anti-mining agenda to the critical challenge of political engagement in the May 2007 election.24 Bishop Pedro Arigo, of the Apostolic Vicariate of Puerto Princesa, reiterated his earlier call that mining not be allowed on the island of Palawan and called on the nation’s leadership to spare the country’s last frontier from mining.25 Bishop Dinualdo Gutierrez, of the Diocese of Marbel (and Chair of the Episcopal Commission on Social Action, Justice and Peace), attended the Parliament of the United Kingdom and discussed the evils that destructive mining have on the environment and people.26 Bishop Dinualdo Gutierrez, of the Diocese of Marbel stated that the operations of Sagittarius Mines Incorporated at the Tampakan Project would destroy the environment and result in human rights abuses and that he was not surprised that the New Peoples Army had attached the Tampakan Project on New Year’s Day 2008.27 Bishop Reynaldo Evangelista, Bishop of the Diocese of Boac, expressed apprehension over the reported influx of mining companies into the Philippines.28 Bishop Sergio Utleg, Bishop of the Diocese of Laoag (and Chair of the Episcopal Commission on Indigenous Peoples), articulated a lack of optimism regarding the promised benefits from large-scale mining.29 Bishop Pedro Arigo, of the Apostolic Vicariate of Puerto Princesa, led a protest rally of over 1,000 people in Brooke’s Point, Palawan to oppose mining on the island of Palawan.30 Archbishop Jose Palma, of the Archdiocese of Palo, Bishop Crispin Varquez, of the Diocese of Borongan, Bishop Isabelo Abarquez, of the Diocese of Calbayog, Bishop Emmanuel Trance, of the Diocese of Catarman, and Bishop Filomeno Bactol, of the Diocese of Naval, jointly issued a pastoral letter attributing the sever flooding on the islands of Leyte and Samar to irresponsible logging and mining. The bishops noted that over the last 100 years, responsible mining has been non-existent in the Philippines while the results of responsible mining are visible, leaving permanent scars.31

May 2007

September 2007

September 2007

January 2008

January 2008

January 2008

February 2008

February 2008

392

W.N. Holden and R.D. Jacobson Table 23.2 (continued)

Date

Action

March 2008

Bishop Sergio Utleg, Bishop of the Diocese of Laoag (and Chair of the Episcopal Commission on Indigenous Peoples), stated that, notwithstanding the lapse of ten years since the issuance of the first CBCP pastoral letter concerning mining, the government has been unwavering in implementing development aggression and that the government has adhered to business interests over the welfare of the people.32

1 Nally

(2005, interview), 2 “Philippine Protests” (1997), 3 Diocese of Tandag (2002), 4 Lalata (2002), 5 Mines and Communities (2004), 6 Holden (2005), 7 Diocese of Kidapawan (2005), 8 Cadalig (2005), 9 Asia News (2005), 10 Espada (2006), 11 Ombion (2006), 12 Gabieta (2006), 13 Garcia (2006), 14 Estabillo (2006), 15−22 Justice Peace Integrity of Creation CommissionAssociation of Major Religious Superiors of the Philippines (2007), 23 DIOPIM Committee on Mining Issues (2007), 24 Diocese of Kalookan (2007), 25 Acuna (2007), 26 Barrientos (2007), 27 Espejo (2008), 28 CBCP News (2008a), 29 CBCP News (2008b), 30 CBCP News (2008c), 31 Cabuenas (2008), 32 Lagarde (2008)

23.3.1 The Church of the Poor: Vatican II, Medellin, and Liberation Theology Throughout much of history, the church was aligned with the rich and powerful of society and, with a few notable exceptions, showed little, if any, concern about the poor and marginalized. The church traditionally justified this disregard for temporal matters by using an approach known as “distinction of planes,” which argued that there were two planes of existence: the sacred plane (the concern of the church) and the secular plane (the concern of secular society) (Smith, 1975). Any potential destabilizing influences emerging from a discussion of Jesus’ love for the poor in the scriptures were blunted by making it abundantly clear that any poverty being referred to was spiritual poverty but not material poverty (Nangle, 2004). Then, during the second Vatican Council (1962–1965), the church began a major shift away from a purely spiritual understanding of salvation, towards a more concrete sense of God’s action in history and man’s corresponding responsibility to work for social justice (Smith, 1975). One of the most important (and influential) encyclicals to come from Vatican II was Pope Paul VI’s Populorum Progressio (“On the Development of Peoples”), which “analyzed the situation of the haves and havenots in the world and called for serious attention to the growing gap between the two” (Nangle, 2004: 54). The Latin American church responded rapidly to Vatican II. When Vatican II described the role of the church as service to the world, Latin American theologians placed this within the context of their world of “underdevelopment, poverty and oppression” and they quickly came to see this as a “green light for social involvement” (Foroohar, 1986: 39). It was in this context that the Confederacion Episcopal Latina America (Latin American Episcopal Confederation or CELAM)

23

Neoliberalism Encounters the Church of the Poor

393

met in Medellin, Colombia in August of 1968 and condemned the injustices inherent in Latin American society and firmly placed the moral weight of the church on the side of those seeking reforms to benefit the poor (Smith, 1975). One of the most important organizers of the Medellin conference was the Peruvian priest Gustavo Gutierrez. In July of 1968 (one month before Medellin) Gutierrez presented a paper in Chimbote, Peru entitled Hacia una Teologia de la Liberacion (Towards a Theology of Liberation). In this chapter, Gutierrez “presented liberation theology as a theological rationale for doing pastoral work among the poor, and as a way of telling the poor that God loves them” (Berryman, 1997: 12). With the presentation of this chapter, with the publication of Gutierrez’s 1971 book A Theology of Liberation, and with publication of works by other writers (such as Leonardo Boff) the concept of liberation theology began to emerge. Liberation theology is “an interpretation of Christian faith out of the experience of the poor” (Berryman, 1987: 4).1 At the core of liberation theology is the concept of the preferential option for the poor; Gutierrez referred to the preferential option for the poor as liberation theology’s “central theme” (Gutierrez, 1988: xxv). The poor are to be considered first and the poor must be afforded a choice about what happens to them; they must be allowed to be “the protagonists of their own liberation” (Gutierrez, 1988: 67). As a result of Vatican II, the Medellin conference of 1968, and the emergence of liberation theology, the Roman Catholic Church in much of Latin America transformed itself into an institution that contains a substantial progressive sector engaged in activism on behalf of the poor. By no means did the entirety (or even majority) of the church constitute the progressive sector but those who did enter it “played a role out of proportion to its numbers, particularly since they were in more direct contact with poor sectors of the population” (Berryman, 1987: 21).

23.3.2 The Progressive Church in Guatemala The changes being called for at Vatican II began to have an impact in Guatemala during the 1960s; capacity building courses set up by the Maryknoll missionaries “provided experiences to priests and nuns that transformed them into revolutionaries with a profound appreciation of class relations” (Kearney, 1986: 6). “By the end of the 1960s, the church had made its mark nationally as an institution committed to the social development of rural peasants and disadvantaged populations” (Recovery of Historical Memory Project, 1999: 204). Then, by the early the 1970s, a strong sense of social awareness was taking shape inside the church and missionaries, transformed by their relationships with peasant communities facing poverty on a daily basis, offered support for cooperative programs organized by Mayan communities seeking to escape poverty (Anderson, 2003). As the decade began to draw to an end, there was “no question that a sector of the Catholic Church, inspired by liberation theology, played a crucial role in the cresting revolutionary movement in the late seventies” (Recovery of Historical Memory Project, 1999: 225). Today, the church remains one of the most outspoken voices against government oppression (Smith, 2006).

394

W.N. Holden and R.D. Jacobson

23.3.3 The Progressive Church in the Philippines Given the common colonial heritage of Latin America and the Philippines, it did not take long for the developments occurring in the former to become influential in the latter (Gaspar, 1994). The “writings of Latin American theologians of liberation” circulated among members of the Church in the Philippines and provided “support for eradicating unjust social structures” (Youngblood, 1990: 66). By 1972 (the year President Marcos declared martial law) mimeographed copies of Gutierrez’s Theology of Liberation were being circulated among members of the church (Jones, 1989). Some Filipino priests even traveled to Latin America and interviewed theologians such as Gutierrez (Kinne, 1990). Eventually, as a result of the 1991 Second Plenary Council of the Philippines (PCP II), the Church, as a whole, decided that its direction “should be towards becoming a church of the Poor” (Second Plenary Council of the Philippines, 1992). Today, the Catholic bishops have consistently spoken out in favor of the disadvantaged in a series of pastoral letters and every diocese has established a social action center to implement projects aimed towards social justice (Gaspar, 2004).

23.4 Ecclesial Opposition to Mining in Guatemala and the Philippines 23.4.1 The Environmental Effects of Mining Consistent with longstanding Judeo-Christian concepts of “stewardship” and “the integrity of creation,” the church, at its highest levels, has taken a view that it is the responsibility of the Church, and all Christians, to protect nature. As the Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace (2004: 287) wrote, “The Magisterium underscores human responsibility for the preservation of a sound and healthy environment for all.” This has given rise to the church’s immediate objection to mining: its potential to inflict environmental degradation. Mining is seen as a hazardous activity, accompanied by acute environmental impacts (Veiga, Scoble, & McAllister, 2001). Nonferrous metals are often found in sulphide ore deposits that can give off acid mine drainage once the rocks are broken and exposed to air and water (Bridge, 2000). Heavy metals, such as aluminum, copper, and manganese can then be mobilized as a result of acid mine drainage; all of these metals can have serious repercussions on human health (Cidu, Biagini, Fanfani, La Ruffa, & Marras, 2001). Perhaps the most serious aspect of acid mine drainage is its autocatalytic nature; once started, it is impossible to stop and will require water treatment in perpetuity. There are mines in Spain, closed over 4,500 years ago, which are still emitting acid mine drainage today (Le Blanc, Morales, Borrego, & Elbaz-Poulichet, 2000). Toxic chemical spills have also occurred while transporting hazardous chemicals, such as cyanide and mercury, to and from mines (Ingelson, Urzua, & Holden, 2006). In the state of Montana, in the United States,

23

Neoliberalism Encounters the Church of the Poor

395

citizen concerns about cyanide leaks from mining operations led to a citizen initiative outlawing the use of cyanide leaching (Holden, Jacobson, & Moran, 2007). Even if no acid mine drainage occurs, or chemicals are spilled, mining operations can cause major disruptions in groundwater regimes and the drying up of springs adjacent to, and even several kilometers away from, the mine (National Research Council, 1999). Members of the Guatemalan church echoed all of the preceding concerns about the environmental effects of mining. Vinicio Lopez, an engineer employed by the Pastoral Commission for Peace and Ecology of the Diocese of San Marco, pointed out that the ore deposits at the Marlin Mine are sulphide ore deposits and there are indications of acid mine drainage occurring in areas near the mine (Lopez, 2007, interview). Consistent with these observations of acid mine drainage, Flaviano Bianchini, a visiting Italian scientist, found that a river near the mine had elevated levels of aluminum, copper, and manganese (Lopez, 2007, interview). Both Bishop Ramazzini and Fernando Bermudez, the Director of the Human Rights Desk for the Diocese of San Marcos, stated they were worried about cyanide being spilled at the Marlin Mine (Bermudez, 2007, interview; Ramazzini, 2007, interview). Vinicio Lopez also articulated a concern about the amount of water used at the mine; according to Lopez, the mining company is using 250,000 liters an hour while a campesino family uses 60 liters a day (Lopez, 2007, interview; Witte, 2005). In the words of Fernando Bermudez, “We can live without gold, but we cannot live without water” (Bermudez, 2007, interview). Similarly, members of the church in the Philippines also articulated their concerns about the environmental effects of mining. According to Bishop Dinualdo Gutierrez of the Diocese of Marbel, “we must think of generations yet to come” (Gutierrez, 2005, interview). Father Lauro Mozo, from St. Peter and St. Paul Parish in the Diocese of Surigao, was of the view that “if the mines go ahead, there will be nothing left but pollution” (Mozo, 2004, interview). Members of the Philippine Church also adopt a position that mining violates the integrity of creation through its environmental effects. Bishop Gutierrez is of the view that “all things are interconnected” and that “what happens to one thing will affect the rest of things in the web of life” (Gutierrez, 2005, interview). According to Father Peter Geremia, in the Diocese of Kidapawan, “Nature is what is good, and the benefits of it must be considered” (Geremia, 2005, interview).

23.4.1.1 The Impact of Mining’s Environmental Effects on the Poor Intimately related to the church’s concern about mining’s environmental effects is the concern of the church that mining may lead to environmental degradation, which will deprive the poor of their livelihoods. The majority of the rural poor in both countries are engaged in subsistence activities (David, 2003; Smith, 2006). Should there be a mining related environmental disruption, such as acid mine drainage, a cyanide spill, or a drawing down of the water table, the poor will be thrust from subsistence into destitution (Figs. 23.3 and 23.4).

396

W.N. Holden and R.D. Jacobson

Fig. 23.3 Extreme poverty in Guatemala. (Data source: Gobierno de Guatemala, 2006)

In Guatemala, in the Diocese of San Marcos, Vinicio Lopez pointed out that most of the people are engaged in subsistence agriculture and he is worried about the heavy use of water by the Marlin Mine leading to a reduction of agricultural output (Lopez, 2007, interview). Father Daniel Vogt, a Priest at the Immaculate Conception Cathedral in Puerto Barrios, expressed a concern that the Fenix Project could adversely affect communities by depriving them of farmland, or by depriving them of water necessary for their subsistence agricultural activities (Vogt, 2007, interview). In the Philippines, the CBCP emphasized the importance of protecting access to the resources needed by the poor in its January 2006 pastoral letter when it declared, “We believe that the Mining Act destroys life. The right to life of people is inseparable from their right to sources of food and livelihood. Allowing the interests of big mining corporations to prevail over people’s right to these sources amounts to violating their right to life” (Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines, 2006: 1). Bishop Gutierrez specifically pointed out how the Tampakan project could lead to a “water crisis” on the island of Mindanao by disrupting the water supply of the area in the vicinity of the mine (Estabillo, 2006). This is an important

23

Neoliberalism Encounters the Church of the Poor

397

Fig. 23.4 Poverty in the Philippines. (Source: NSCB, 2005)

concern in the Philippines as many parts of the archipelago are vulnerable to El Nino induced drought (Fig. 23.5) (Bankoff, 1999). During an El Nino event, many parts of the Philippines can experience drastic decreases in precipitation. When this occurs, groundwater resources become essential for agricultural activities. If, however, groundwater is unavailable, due to mine pit dewatering, agriculture, the source of income for 70 percent of the rural poor, could be faced with a serious challenge (David, 2003).

398

W.N. Holden and R.D. Jacobson

Fig. 23.5 Vulnerability of the Philippines to El Nino Induced Drought

23

Neoliberalism Encounters the Church of the Poor

399

A concern of the church with the consequences of environmental degradation upon peoples’ livelihoods is a new concern of the progressive church. With the notable, and important, exception of Leonardo Boff (Boff, 1997), the progressive church has not always had an interest in ecology and the environment; rather, the main focus of it has been upon how societal relations affect the poor. In recent years, however, this has begun to change as members of the progressive church have begun to take into account what may be called “the ecology of the poor,” which is a discussion of how a worsening of the environment, upon which many poor people rely, can further impoverish them (Baltodano, 2002; Brackley & Schubeck, 2002).

23.4.1.2 Mining as a Threat to Ethnodiversity The church, at its highest levels, has made the protection of indigenous peoples, and their cultures, a high priority (Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace, 2004). In both Guatemala, and the Philippines, the church has objected to mining because of the threat it poses to the cultures of the indigenous inhabitants of both countries. In Guatemala it is estimated that the indigenous population comprises roughly 55 percent of the country’s total population (Thorp, Caumartin, & Gray-Molina, 2006). Collectively referred to as “Mayans,” there are approximately twenty-one different ethno-linguistic groups in the country, with some of the more prominent Mayan groups being the Mam (in the Department of San Marcos), and the Q’eqchi (in the Departments of Alta Verapaz and Izabal) (Dictaan-Bang-oa & Medrana, 2004). An important concern of the church in Guatemala is the effect that mining may have upon these indigenous peoples, particularly if they are displaced from their lands by mining. Vinicio Lopez expressed his concern that the government’s promotion of mining could deprive the Mam-Mayans of their land, change cultural relationships, and change social relationships (Lopez, 2007, interview). Mining could lead to a destruction of Mayan culture by changing conduct patterns, and by exposing young people to the influences of other cultures (Lopez, 2007, interview). In addition to having concerns about the possibility of mining displacing indigenous peoples, members of the church adopt a view that mining is proceeding without the consent of the indigenous communities near the mines. When the government signed the 1996 peace accord with the URNG it agreed to be bound by the provisions of the Convention 169 of the International Labor Organization (ILO-169), which states that indigenous peoples must be consulted about, and must consent to, any development that could affect them or the lands upon which they live (Witte, 2005). According to Fernando Bermudez, Legislative Decree 48–97 has violated ILO-169 because it contains no provisions requiring that indigenous communities affected by mining must consent before it proceeds (Bermudez, 2007, interview). Bishop Ramazzini is of the view that it is absolutely necessary to have community consultation before any mining projects proceed and that it is essential for people affected by mining projects to have a choice about whether or not projects go ahead, not just a choice about how projects should be implemented (Ramazzini, 2007, interview).

400

W.N. Holden and R.D. Jacobson

In the Philippines, indigenous peoples are those peoples who have a historical continuity with the pre-Islamic and pre-Hispanic society of that country (Holden, 2005). These peoples constitute approximately 15–20 per cent of the population and approximately two-thirds of whom live on the island of Mindanao, where they are referred to as “Lumads,” while the remaining one-third of them live in the Cordillera of the island of Luzon, where they are referred to as “Igorots” (Holden, 2005). These peoples live primarily in rural areas and in engage in subsistence agriculture and fishing (Holden, 2005). In the Philippines, half of all areas identified in mining applications are in areas inhabited by indigenous peoples (Holden, 2005). As in Guatemala, a serious concern about the welfare of indigenous peoples in the Philippines is the concept of displacement. Anthropologists have long maintained that ancestral lands are essential for tribal survival in the archipelago (Eder, 1987). The encroachment of mining on to ancestral lands often results in displacement, in the words of Sister Susan Bolanio, of the Oblates of Notre Dame, “once indigenous peoples are displaced, their lives will be destroyed; they will have to create a new community and their culture will become extinct” (Bolanio, 2005, interview). Members of the church have also adopted a view that mining is proceeding without the consent of the indigenous communities near the mines (Manguiran, 2005, interview). The Philippines, unlike Guatemala, has not ratified ILO-169; however, in 1997, the Philippine Congress passed the Indigenous Peoples Rights Act (IPRA), which requires the free, prior, and informed, consent of all members of an indigenous cultural community to be acquired as a precondition for the utilization of natural resources on their lands (Holden & Ingelson, 2007). IPRA, as a piece of legislation, does a good job of ensuring indigenous people their rights; the problem lies not with the law, but with the government’s reluctance to enforce the law (Holden & Ingelson, 2007). According to Anthony Badilla, the Program Coordinator of the Apostolic Vicariate of Puerto Princesa, “IPRA is a landmark piece of legislation. It is, however, poorly implemented because indigenous people are not a high priority of the government. The National Commission on Indigenous people does a poor job as it lacks the necessary resources to implement programs” (Badilla, 2005, interview). Just as the church advocates on behalf of the environment, and acts to protect biodiversity, it acts on behalf of indigenous peoples and acts to protect ethnodiversity. The church has consistently demonstrated a commitment to defend indigenous peoples, and to defend indigenous cultures, because they are among the poorest members of society (Baltodano, 2002). Gutierrez (1988: xxii) discussed “a commitment of the church to races that have for centuries been neglected and mistreated.” Boff (1997: 191) wrote that: “To enhance the dignity of all and protect and promote it, starting with the lives of original peoples and of those who are most threatened, as the liberation church seeks to do with its liberation theology, is an expression of spirituality.” The church is also committed to serve the Mayans, Igorots, and Lumads without engaging in a process of proselytization to convert them to Catholicism. “In order to arrive at the truth of the Christian faith, one must begin with the freedom of

23

Neoliberalism Encounters the Church of the Poor

401

the religious act” (Gutierrez, 1995: 141). The missionary work of the church puts the church “at the service of other people within the context of the local culture” and the church “renounces the mechanisms of domination and appreciates the uniqueness of each cultural expression” (Boff, 2005: 39–41). 23.4.1.3 Mining Security Forces A controversial aspect of mining in the developing world is the use of armed security forces at mining project; this has come to be seen as problematic because “human rights abuses by police or security forces acting in the interests of the company may occur” (Mining, Minerals, and Sustainable Development, 2002: 206). In both Guatemala, and the Philippines, the church has been highly critical of the use of security forces by mining project proponents. Guatemala is still attempting to recover from its civil war, which began in 1960 when a group of left-leaning army officers reacted against a 1954 coup d’ etat, organized by the United States that removed the democratically elected President Jacobo Arbenz from power (Recovery of Historical Memory Project, 1999). In 1982, the four different left wing rebel groups2 merged into the National Revolutionary Union of Guatemala (Unidad Revolucionaria Nacional Guatemalteca or URNG) (Recovery of Historical Memory Project, 1999). Fearful of a replication of the success of the Sandinistas in Nicaragua, the Guatemalan elite felt threatened and the military reacted to the insurgency with “unprecedented violence” (Anderson, 2003: 14). In areas of the country where the army suspected the local population of supporting the URNG, scorched earth tactics were implemented that led to the deaths of almost 200,000 people (Remijnse, 2001). At the Marlin Mine, there is a contingent of armed security guards, who are believed to be former soldiers (Compliance Advisor Ombudsman, 2005). Many Guatemalans are afraid of a possible return to the violent past and the paramilitary nature of these mining security forces reminds many of the civil war (Remijnse, 2001). To the church, the use of security forces by mining companies is a denial of a preferential option for the poor. To both Fernando Bermudez and Vinicio Lopez, security forces are there to intimidate local communities into ceasing their opposition to the Marlin Mine (Bermudez, 2007, interview; Lopez, 2007, interview). In the view of Bishop Penate, “the security forces are there to protect the mine, while there is no one to protect the poor” (Penate, 2007, interview). Similarly, in the Philippines, there has been a militarization of areas where mining projects are located. Several insurgencies in various parts of the country confront the Philippine government (Holden & Jacobson, 2007). The most diffuse of these groups is the New Peoples Army (NPA), the armed wing of the Communist Party of the Philippines (CPP), which has been engaged in guerrilla warfare against the state since 1969 (Holden & Jacobson, 2007). To provide security for mining projects, the Armed Forces of the Philippines (AFP) will conduct security operations in the vicinity of the project in advance of its development and, in the words of Major Onting

402

W.N. Holden and R.D. Jacobson

Alon (the Civic Affairs Officer of the Sixth Infantry Division), “is there to secure” (Alon, 2005, interview). As in Guatemala, members of the church viewed the militarization of mining areas as being another dimension of the denial of a preferential option for the poor. If there is a heavy AFP presence in the vicinity of a mining project, the people potentially affected by the project will be intimidated into being quiet; the AFP presence will deter people from being able to express their dislike of the mine and thus it will deny them of a choice over whether or not the mine will be located in the area. According to Bishop De Dios M. Pueblos, the Bishop of the Diocese of Butuan, “The military are simply there to intimidate people” (De Dios M. Pueblos, 2005, interview).

23.4.1.4 Mining and Corruption In view of the potential for adverse environmental effects inherent in mining, it is imperative that mining be subject to a through regulatory framework (National Research Council, 1999). In developed countries, with well-developed legal institutions, mining companies will be subjected to strict regulations that govern their activities; in Guatemala and the Philippines, the high corruption inherent in those countries may allow these companies to behave as they see fit. Guatemala has been described by Sundberg (2002: 78) as a country “fraught with violence, corruption, racism, and a deepening mistrust of political institutions and judicial solutions.” To members of the church, these high levels of corruption are a serious problem in that they serve as a further factor that denies the poor a preferential option (Vogt, 2007, interview). In an atmosphere of high corruption the concerns of the poor will not be listened to and the government will be beholden to those capable of paying the largest bribes. According to Fernando Bermudez, “The state does not think about capturing money to help the poor; it thinks about helping those who control the state” (Bermudez, 2007, interview). With respect to the Philippines, there is a substantial body of literature documenting the extent of corruption (Linantud, 2005). Filipino society has been described as “a society in which nepotism, bribery, gift-giving and exchange of favors are the rule not the exception” (Kirk, 2005: 3). This society is governed by a “thoroughly corrupt ruling class far more concerned about their intertwining networks of family and friends rather than the needs of a people in distress” (Kirk, 2005: 20). This corruption is so pervasive many in the church view it is being an impediment to the implementation of responsible mining in the Philippines. Father Romeo Catedral, the Social Action Director of the Diocese of Marbel, opined a view that “the Mining Act is problematic given the poor governance in the Philippines” (Catedral, 2005, interview). Corruption becomes a salient issue whenever consent is required as a precondition of mining from indigenous communities, pursuant to the auspices of IPRA, or from local government units, within the aegis of the Local Government Code, A common Filipino euphemism for a bribe is to call it a “standard operating procedure” (SOP). When Justina Yu was mayor of San Isidro, in the Province of Davao Oriental, on the island of Mindanao (from 1992 to 2001), she received

23

Neoliberalism Encounters the Church of the Poor

403

three visits from engineers employed by mining companies (Yu, 2005, interview). During each of these visits, the engineers promised her “an SOP for every kilogram extracted” in exchange for her consenting to the mine (Yu, 2005, interview). Such anecdotal evidence of mining related corruption caused Father Romeo Catedral to find it inappropriate that the local governments in the vicinity of the Tampakan property provided their consent “in a closed door meeting on mining company property” (Catedral, 2005, interview). The importance of the preferential option for the poor is evident in the church’s concerns about attempting to implement mining in an atmosphere of corruption. If mining companies are able to use bribes in order to acquire consent for mining operations, the poor will not be considered first. If mining companies are able to take control of governments by bribing them, those local government units will become responsive to the mining companies, not to their constituents; this will cause the poor to lose a choice over what happens to them.

23.4.1.5 Mining and Weak Civil Liberties Intimately linked to corruption are the low levels of civil liberties prevailing in both countries. Philip Alston, the United Nations Special Rapporteur on extrajudicial executions, stated that “environmental activists” are among those “most frequently assassinated” in Guatemala (Alston, 2007: 15). After Flaviano Bianchini completed his analysis of water contamination in the river near the Marlin Mine he began to receive death threats and returned to Italy (Lopez, 2007, interview). Guatemala is a country with a low level of civil liberties and this facilitates a climate of repression that can be used to stifle opposition to mining projects (Witte, 2005). Alston also reported on a wave of killings in the Philippines that has “eliminated civil society leaders, including human rights defenders, trade unionists, and land reform advocates, as well as many others on the left of the political spectrum” (Alston, 2007: 6). Father Lauro Mozo reported “it is common for those who engage in anti-mining campaigns to be accused of being NPA supporters” (Mozo, 2004, interview). These concerns appear valid when one considers that in May of 2005, in the Diocese of Butuan, the AFP charged Sister Mary Donaug, of the order of the Religious of the Good Shepard, with rebellion for her social activism on behalf of the poor (De Dios M. Pueblos, 2005, interview). To members of the church, these low levels of civil liberties are a serious problem in that they serve as a further factor that deny the poor a preferential option; an atmosphere of repression acts as a further factor preventing the concerns of the poor from being heard.

23.4.1.6 Mining as Inauthentic Human Development The penultimate objection of the church in Guatemala, and the Philippines, to mining is that it is inconsistent with the call of Populorum Progressio for “authentic human development,” and, consequently, serves a role as a source of illusory, or “inauthentic,” development.

404

W.N. Holden and R.D. Jacobson

Advocates of mining in Guatemala, such as the World Bank, tout it as a source of jobs and economic activity that can benefit communities adjacent to mining projects and act as a vehicle for accelerating the development of the countries where the mines are located (World Bank and International Finance Corporation, 2002). The church is skeptical of this as, in 2006, the Marlin Mine’s labor force of 1,132 workers constituted only 1.5 percent of all jobs in the vicinity of the mine and there is no assurance that all of these jobs will go to the local population (Asociacion de Desarrollo Integral San Miguelense, 2007). According to Bishop Ramazzini, “a few people have received jobs from mining but very few jobs have been created as a result of this mine” (Ramazzini, 2007, interview). Bishop Penate, stated, “Mining will create very few jobs for people in the community.” Mining is also a problematic source of employment in that, sooner or later, the ore deposit will be exhausted and then the mine will close. The Marlin Mine, for example, is only expected to produce gold and silver until 2015 (Goldcorp, 2007). To Fernando Bermudez, the employment generated by the Marlin Mine is only a short-term impact because, when the ore deposit is exhausted, this work will be taken away from them (Bermudez, 2007, interview). Advocates of mining in the Philippines similarly emphasize the ability of mining to create jobs (Neri, 2005). The church is skeptical of this and there are indications that this skepticism is well founded. In 2000, less than two percent of the Philippine population was employed by the mining industry (Balisacan, 2003). An example of mining’s low potential for employment creation comes from the Taganito nickel laterite mine, out of a work force of 350 persons, only 110 are full time employees and the remaining 240 workers are hired only on a casual basis and are paid approximately US$1.50 per day (Tauli-Corpuz & Alcantara, 2004: 101). Bishop Juan De Dios M. Pueblos stated, “the benefits mining companies provide do not last long as the minerals will eventually be depleted” (De Dios M. Pueblos, 2005, interview). 23.4.1.7 Alternatives to Mining To members of the church in both Guatemala and the Philippines, the priority of their respective governments should be upon improving the conditions of the poor, as opposed to encouraging mining investment. In Guatemala, Bishop Ramazzini is of the view that the government should be exploring alternative methods of achieving development such as: ecotourism, reforming property rights, helping the poor in rural areas, improving tax collection, and establishing a long-term rural development plan (Ramazzini, 2007, interview). Similarly, in the Philippines, the church is of the view that the government should be exploring alternative methods of achieving development. In the opinion of Father Peter Geremia, the government should not be promoting mining by foreign corporations; instead, it should be promoting “alternative education, alternative agriculture, alternative living, and alternative culture” (Geremia, 2005, interview). In short, members of the government should be trying to make the Philippines a better place instead of relying upon foreign mining companies to do it for them (Geremia, 2005, interview).

23

Neoliberalism Encounters the Church of the Poor

405

23.5 Discussion: Neoliberalism Meets the Church of the Poor The opposition of the church, in Guatemala and the Philippines, to mining on the grounds that it may degrade the environment upon which the poor depend for their livelihoods, and thus make them even poorer, is an example of how, in the developing world, environmental issues are livelihood issues (Bryant & Bailey, 1997). Indeed, in the developing world, environmental issues may not only be issues of livelihood, they are often issues of altered power relations in society (Bryant & Bailey, 1997). When environmental change occurs, some may be made poorer as a result of the environmental change; those who are made poorer may become less able to resist the increased power of those who have become wealthy and they may end up even more dependent upon those who have become wealthy for their livelihood (Bryant & Bailey, 1997). In Guatemala, large numbers of people are leaving rural communities for Guatemala City where they work long hours in harsh working conditions in the maquila industry, producing textiles (Anderson, 2003). Should mining displace more people from areas where mining projects are located, there will be even more people seeking work in the maquiladoras and this will serve to put downward pressure on wages in these industries. In the Philippines, large numbers of displaced people from rural areas have gravitated to export processing zones on the islands of Cebu and Luzon where they too work long hours in harsh working conditions (Nadeau, 2002). Should mining displace more people from areas where mining projects are located, there will be even more people seeking work in the export processing zones and this will serve to put downward pressure on wages in them. In both countries, the poor and marginalized will suffer doubly from mining: first, from their displacement by mining, and secondly by being thrust into low wage employment where they must increasingly compete with each other for whatever employment opportunities are available. Concomitantly, the rich and powerful will benefit doubly from mining: first, from the actual development of the mines themselves, and secondly from the reduction of wages in the maquiladoras and export processing zones. Ultimately, perhaps the most important aspect of the opposition of the church to mining in Guatemala, and the Philippines, is how it is a demonstration of the opposition of the church to neoliberalism. Neoliberalism can be defined as “a theory of political economic practices, which proposes that human well-being can best be advanced by the maximization of entrepreneurial freedoms within an institutional framework characterized by private property rights, individual liberty, free markets, and free trade” (Harvey, 2006: 145). Attracting foreign direct investment from mining companies has been an integral component of neoliberal policies advocated by the World Bank (Bury, 2005). Just as members of the church objected to mining, in particular, they have objected to neoliberalism, in general. As the Twenty First Century unfolds, the progressive church may become a formidable opponent of neoliberalism in the developing world, home to 70 percent of all Christians (Boff, 2005). “The power of neoliberalism has brought a feeling of powerless, weakness, and despair among the poor as the possibilities of social change have not been realized. Now, more

406

W.N. Holden and R.D. Jacobson

than ever, the option for the poor must be grasped” (De Oliveira Ribeiro, 1999: 311). “Liberation theology remains important as one of the few counter-ideologies that questions the supremacy of neoliberalism” (Lampe, 1999: 335). There is a near universal consensus among liberationists that “the misery and oppression, which provided the impetus for its development, not only remain; in fact they have worsened” (Kater, 2001: 748). In “an unjust world that remains far from the promise of the kingdom of God, the methodological, epistemological, and ethical principles on which liberation theology rested will continue to be relevant” (Tombs, 2001: 56). Today, in the developing world, “virtually all moral theologians stress the importance of the widespread social and economic exclusion generated by the ‘new economy’ with its neoliberal adjustment programs over the last 20 years” (Brackley & Schubeck, 2002: 126).

23.6 Conclusion This chapter examines the opposition of the church in Guatemala and the Philippines to neoliberal policies enacted to encourage mining. The church is concerned that mining’s environmental effects may disrupt the resources that the poor depend upon for their subsistence. The church is further concerned with the potential threat that mining poses to the indigenous cultures of these nations, the low capacity of both states to regulate mining, and the intimidating effect of mining security forces. The church does not view mining as a source of authentic human development that will provide a long-term solution to the problems faced by the poor. A crucial component of the opposition of the church to mining is its role as a “church of the poor”; it is heavily influenced by its progressive sectors that hold a preferential option for the poor and are committed to serving the poorest members of society. Berryman (1997: 15) may have been prophetic in writing: “The legacy of the progressive church may yet be picked up by a younger generation that has come of age in the world of globalization, and shares a passion for justice.”

Notes 1. Liberation theologians emphasize passages from the Bible such as Matthew 25:31 to 25:46. A classic example of a Bible verse emphasized by liberationists is Matthew 25:40, which states: “The King will reply,  I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’ ” 2. The Guerrilla Army of the Poor (Ejercito Guerrillero de los Pobres), the Rebel Army Forces (Fuerzas Armadas Rebeldes), the Revolutionary Organization of the People in Arms (Organizacion Revolucionaria del Pueblo en Armas), and the Guatemalan Workers Party (Partido Guatemalteco de Trabajo).

References Acuna, M. (2007). Bishop Arigo appeals “Save Palawan from Mining.” CBCP Monitor, 11(19), 1. Alon, O. (2004–2007). Civic Affairs Officer, Armed Forces of the Philippines, Sixth Infantry Division, Cotabato City, Philippines, personal interview.

23

Neoliberalism Encounters the Church of the Poor

407

Alston, P. (2007). Civil and political rights, including the questions of disappearances and summary executions: Report of the special rapporteur on extrajudicial, summary, or arbitrary executions. New York: United Nations. Anderson, K. (2003). Weaving relationships: Canada-Guatemala solidarity. Waterloo, ON: Wilfred Laurier Press. Asia News (2005). Bishops call on the faithful to oppose mining. Retrieved July 1, 2008, from http://www.asianews.it/view.php?l=en&art=3293 Asociacion de Desarrollo Integral San Miguelense. (2007). Los Impactos Negativos de la Mina Marlin en Territorialidad Mam y Sipakapense. Asociacion de Desarrollo Integral San Miguelense. San Marcos, CA: San Miguel Ixahuacan. Badilla, A. A. (2004–2007). Program Coordinator, Apostolate Vicariate of Puerto Princesa. Puerto Princesa City, Philippines, personal interview. Balisacan, A. M. (2003). Poverty and inequality. In A. M. Balisacan & H. Hill (Eds.), The Philippine economy: Development, policies, and challenges (pp. 311–341). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Baltodano, S. (2002). Pastoral care in Latin America. American Journal of Pastoral Counseling, 5(3/4), 191–224. Bankoff, G. (1999). A history of poverty: the politics of natural disasters in the Philippines, 1985–95. The Pacific Review, 12(3), 381–420. Barrientos, p. (2007). Philippine Bishop speaks before London parliament on mining. CBCP Monitor, 11(19), 1. Bednarz, R. S. (2006). Environmental research and education in US geography. Journal of Geography in Higher Education, 30(2), 237–250. Bermudez (2004–2007). Fernando Director, Human Rights Desk, Diocese of San Marcos. San Marcos, Guatemala, personal interview. Berryman, P. (1987). Liberation theology: Essential facts about the revolutionary movement in Latin America and beyond. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press. Berryman, P. (1997). Church and revolution: Reflections on liberation theology. NACLA Report on the Americas, 30(5), 10–15. Boff, L. (1997). Cry of the Earth, cry of the poor. Maryknoll, New York: Orbis Books. Boff, L. (2005). Global civilization: Challenges to society and Christianity. London: Equinox Publishing. Bolanio, S. O. (2004–2007). Sister. Oblantes of Notre Dame, Personal interview, Davao City, Philippines, personal interview. Brackley, D., & Schubeck, T. L. (2002). Moral theology in Latin America. Theological Studies, 63, 123–160. Bridge, G. (2000). The social regulation of resource access and environmental impact: production, nature, and contradictions in the US copper industry. Geoforum, 31, 237–256. Bryant, R. L., & Bailey, S. (1997). Third world political ecology. London: Routledge. Bury, J. (2005). Mining mountains: Neoliberalism, land tenure, livelihoods, and the new Peruvian mining industry in Cajamarca. Environment and Planning A, 37, 221–239. Cabuenas, C. G. (2008). Samar, Leyte Bishops appeal for environment protection. Philippine Daily Inquirer. Retrieved July 1, 2008, from http://newsinfo.inquirer.net/breakingnews/ regions/view/20080229-121978/Samar-Leyte-bishops-appeal-for-environment-protection Cadalig, J. (2005). “Church leaders push for repeal of Mining Act.” Sun Star Retrieved July 1, 2008, from http://www.sunstar.com.ph/static/bag/2005/02/13/news/church.leaders. push.for.repeal.of.mining.act.html Catedral, R. (2004–2007). Father. Director, Social Action Center, Diocese of Marbel Koronadal City, Philippines, personal interview. Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines (1998). A statement of concern on the Mining Act of 1995. Manila: Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines. Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines. (2006). Statement on mining issues and concerns. Manila: Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines.

408

W.N. Holden and R.D. Jacobson

CBCP News (2008a). Bishop apprehensive over influx of mining firms. CBCP News. Retrieved July 1, 2008, from http://www.cbcpnews.com/?q=node/526 CBCP News (2008b). Mining won’t bring local progress. CBCP News. Retrieved July 1, 2008, from http://www.cbcpnews.com/?q=node/560 Cidu, R., Biagini, C., Fanfani, L., La Ruffa, G., & Marras, I. (2001). Mine closure at Monteponi (Italy): Effect of the cessation of dewatering on the quality of shallow groundwater. Applied Geochemistry, 16, 489–502. Compliance Advisor Ombudsman. (2005). Assessment of a complaint submitted to CAO in relation to the Marlin Mining project in Guatemala. Washington: Office of the Compliance Advisor/Ombudsman, International Finance Corporation/Multilateral Investment Guarantee Agency. David, C. C. (2003). Agricultuer. In A. M. Balisacan & H. Hill (Eds.), The Philippine economy: Development, policies, and challenges (pp. 175–218). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pueblos, De Dios M., & Bishop, M. (2004–2007). Diocese of Butuan. Butuan City, Philippines, personal interview. De Oliveira Ribeiro, C. (1999). Has liberation theology died? Reflections on the relationship between community life and the globalization of the economic system. The Ecumenical Review, 51(3), 304–314. Dictaan-Bang-oa, E, & Medrana, J. G. L. (2004). The Guatemala Peace Agreements of 1996: A Case Study. In C. K. Roy, V. Tauli-Corpuz, & A. Romero-Medina (Eds.), The Guatemala peace agreements of 1996: A case study in beyond the silencing of the guns (pp. 106–126). Baguio City, Philippines: Tebtebba Foundation. Diocese of Kalookan (2007). Pastoral statement on 2007 elections and environmental agenda. Manila: Diocese of Kalookan. Diocese of Kidapawan (2005). Petition in support of the motion for reconsideration on the reversal of the Supreme Court decision allowing foreign mining companies to exploit our natural resources. Kidapawan: Diocese of Kidapawan. Diocese of Tandag (2002). Pastoral statement on mining. Tandag: Diocese of Tandag. DIOPIM Committee on Mining Issues (2007). Letter to the Catholic Church in Canada. Dipolog City, Philippines: DIOPIM Committee on Mining Issues. Eder, J. F. (1987). On the road to tribal extinction: Depopulation, deculturation, and adaptive well being among the Batak of the Philippines. Berkeley: University of California Press. Esepejo, E. (2008). Bishop: We don’t condone violent means to settle differences. Sun Star Davao. Retrieved July 1, 2008, from http://www.sunstar.com.ph/static/gen/2008/01/14/feat/bishop. we.dont.condone.violent.means.tosettle.differences.html Espada, D. (2006). Marinduque declared as mining free. Bulatlat, 6(8). Retrieved July 1, 2008, from http://www.bulatlat.com/news/6-8/6-8-free.htm Estabillo, A. V. (2006). 3 Bishops Unite vs. Mining Firm. Mindanews. Retrieved July 1, 2008, from http://www.mindanews.com/2006/04/19nws-bishops.htm. Foroohar, M. (1986). Liberation theology: The response of Latin American Catholics to socioeconomic problems. Latin American Perspectives, 13(3), 37–57. Gabieta, J. A. (2006). Samar clergy want chromite mining permit cancelled Philippine Daily Inquirer. Retrieved July 1, 2008, from http://news.inq7.net/regions/index.php? index=1&story_id=68350 Garcia, B. (2006). Zambo priest receives “gift” containing bullets. Retrieved July 1, 2008, from http://www.mindanews.com/2006/03/15nws-zambo.htm Gaspar, K. M. (1994). Readings on contemporary Mindanao Church realities. Quezon City: Claretian. Gaspar, K. M. (2004). To be poor and obscure: The spiritual sojourn of a Mindanawon. Manila: Center for Spirituality. Geremia, P. (2004–2007). Father. Priest, Diocese of Kidapawan. Kidapawan City, Philippines, personal interview. Gobierno de Guatemala (2006). Mapas de Pobreza en Guatemala al 2002. Guatemala City: Gobierno de Guatemala.

23

Neoliberalism Encounters the Church of the Poor

409

Goldcorp (2007). Goldcorp Website. Retrieved July 1, 2008, from http://www.goldcorp.com/ operations/marlin/. Guatemalan Peace. (1997). Mining Journal, 328(8410), 3. Gutierrez, D. D. (2004–2007). Bishop, Diocese of Marbel. Chair, Episcopal Commission on Social Action, Justice, and Peace. General Santos City, Philippines, personal interview. Gutierrez, G. (1988). A theology of liberation (15th anniversary Ed.). Maryknoll, New York: Orbis Books. Gutierrez, G. (1995). Las Casas: In search of the poor of Jesus Christ. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock. Harvey, D. (2006). Neoliberalism as creative destruction. Geografiska Annaler B, 88(2), 145–158. Holden, W. N. (2005). Indigenous peoples and nonferrous metals mining in the Philippines. The Pacific Review, 18(3), 417–438. Holden, W. N., & Jacobson, R. D. (2007). Mining Amid armed conflict: Nonferrous metals mining in the Philippines. The Canadian Geographer, 51(4), 475–500. Holden, W. N., & Ingelson, A. (2007). Disconnect between Philippine mining investment policy and indigenous peoples’ rights. Journal of Energy & Natural Resources Law, 25(4), 375–391. Holden, W. N., Jacobson, R. D., & Moran, K. (2007). Civil society opposition to nonferrous metals mining in Montana. Voluntas, 18(3), 266–292. Ingelson, A., Urzua, A., & Holden, W. N. (2006). Mine operator liability for the spill of an independent contractor in Peru. Journal of Energy and Natural Resources Law, 24(1), 53–65. Jones, G. R. (1989). Red revolution: Inside the Philippine Guerrilla movement. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Justice Peace Integrity of Creation Commission-Association of Major Religious Superiors of the Philippines (2007). The Church’s perspective on mining in the Philippines. Quezon City: Justice Peace Integrity of Creation Commission-Association of Major Religious Superiors of the Philippines. Kater, J. L. (2001). Whatever happened to liberation theology? New directions for theological reflection in Latin America. Anglican Theological Review, 30(4), 735–773. Kearney, M. (1986). Religion, ideology, and revolution in Latin America. Latin American Perspectives, 13(3), 3–12. Kinne, W. (1990). The splintered staff: Structural deadlock in the Mindanao Church. Quezon City: Claretian Publications. Kirk, D. (2005). Philippines in crisis: US power versus local revolt. Manila: Anvil. Lagarde, R. (2008). Church concern on mining ignored. CBCP Monitor, 8(7), 1. Lalata (2002). The Dapitan declaration. Tanawan, 5(1), 10–11. Lampe, A. (1999). The globalization of poverty. Exchange, 28(4), 332–340. Le Blanc, M., Morales, J., Borrego, J., & Elbaz-Poulichet, F. (2000). 4,500 Year-Old mining pollution in South Western Spain: Long-term implications for modern mining pollution. Economic Geology, 95, 655–662. Linantud, J. L. (2005). The 2004 Philippine elections: Political change in an illiberal democracy. Contemporary Southeast Asia, 27(1), 80–101. Lopez, V. (2004–2007). Engineer, Pastoral Commission for Peace and Ecology, Diocese of San Marco. San Marcos, Guatemala, personal interview. Mapping Philippine Vulnerability to Environmental Disasters (2005). Manila Observatory. Retrieved July 1, 2008, from http://www.observatory.ph/vm/maps.html. Manguiran, J. R. (2004–2007). Bishop, Diocese of Dipolog. Dipolog, Philippines, personal interview. Mines and Communities (2004). Position paper on the revocation of the notice of cancellation of Aglubang MPSA by the office of the President. http://www. minesandcommunities.org/Country/philippines12.htm Mines and Geosciences Bureau, Department of Environment and Natural Resources. (2004). Briefing kit on the Philippine minerals sector. Quezon City: Mines and Geosciences Bureau. Mines and Geosciences Bureau, Department of Environment and Natural Resources. (2006). Priority mineral development projects of the Philippines. Quezon City: Mines and Geosciences Bureau.

410

W.N. Holden and R.D. Jacobson

Mining, Minerals, and Sustainable Development. (2002). Breaking new ground. London: Earthscan Press. Mozo, L. (2004–2007). Father. Priest, St. Peter and St. Paul Parish, Diocese of Surigao. Surigao City, Philippines, personal interview. Nadeau, K. M. (2002). Liberation theology in the Philippines: Faith in a revolution. Westport, CT: Praeger. Nally, F. Father (2005). Columban Priest, interview, London, England, 11 November 2005. Nangle, J. (2004). Birth of a Church. Maryknoll, New York: Orbis Books. National Research Council. (1999). Hardrock mining on federal lands. Washington, DC: National Academy Press. National Statistical Coordination Board (2010). Poverty statistics. Retrieved July 1, 2008, from Online http://www.nscb.gov.ph/poverty/default.asp Neri, R. L. (2005). Importance of the mining sector to the Philippine economy. Manila: National Economic Development Authority. Ombion, K.G. (2006). Negros folk gear for war with mining companies. Bulatlat. Retrieved July 1, 2008, from http://www.bulatlat.com/news/6-3/6-3-negros.htm Penate, G. (2004–2007). Bishop, Apostolic Vicariate of Izabal, Personal interview, Puerto Barrios, Guatemala, personal interview. Philippine Protests (1997). Mining Journal, 328(8429), 392. Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace. (2004). Compendium of the social doctrine of the church. Vatican City: Vatican Publishing House. Ramazzini, A. (2004–2007). Bishop, Diocese of San Marcos, President, Episcopal Conference of Guatemala. Guatemala City, personal interview. Recovery of Historical Memory Project. (1999). Guatemala: Never Again! Maryknoll, New York: Orbis Books. Remijnse, S. (2001). Remembering civil patrols in Joyabaj, Guatemala. Bulletin of Latin American Research, 20(4), 454–469. Rovillos, R. D., Ramo, S. B., & Corpus, C. (2003). Philippines: When the “isles of gold” turn to isles of dissent. In M. Colchester, A. L. Tamyo, R. Rovillos, & E. Caruso (Eds.), Extracting promises: Indigenous peoples, extractive industries, and the World Bank (pp. 200–237). Baguio City: Tebtebba Foundation. Second Plenary Council of the Philippines. (1992). Acts and decrees of the second plenary council of the Philippines. Manila: Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines. Smith, B. H. (1975). Religion and social change: Classical theories and new formulations in the context of recent developments in Latin America. Latin American Research Review, 10(2), 3–34. Smith, J. S. (2006). The highlands of contemporary Guatemala. Focus on Geography, 49(1), 16–26. Sundberg, J. (2002). Conservation as a site for democratization in Latin America: Exploring the contradictions in Guatemala. Canadian Journal of Latin American and Caribbean Studies, 37(53), 73–103. Tauli-Corpuz, V., & Alcantara, E. R. (2004). Engaging the UN Special Rapporteur on indigenous people: Opportunities and challenges. Baguio: Tebtebba Foundation. Thorp, R., Caumartin, C., & Gray-Molina, G. (2006). Inequality, ethnicity, political mobilization and political violence in Latin America: The cases of Bolivia, Guatemala, and Peru. Bulletin of Latin American Research, 25(4), 453–480. Tombs, D. (2001). Latin American liberation theology faces the future. In S. E. Porter, M. A. Haynes, & D. Tombs (Eds.), Faith in the millennium (pp. 32–58). Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. United States Geological Survey. (1995). Minerals yearbook. Reston, VA: United States Geological Survey. United States Geological Survey. (1996). Minerals yearbook. Reston, VA: United States Geological Survey.

23

Neoliberalism Encounters the Church of the Poor

411

United States Geological Survey. (1997). Minerals yearbook. Reston, VA: United States Geological Survey. United States Geological Survey. (1998). Minerals yearbook. Reston, VA: United States Geological Survey. United States Geological Survey. (2004). Minerals yearbook. Reston, VA: United States Geological Survey. Veiga, M. M., Scoble, M., & McAllister, M. L. (2001). Mining with communities. Natural Resources Forum, 25, 191–202. Vogt, Father D. (2004–2007). Priest, Immaculate Conception Cathedral, Puerto Barrios, Guatemala. El Estor, Guatemala, personal interview. Witte, B. (2005). Multinational Gold Rush in Guatemala. NACLA Report on the Americas, 39(1), 8–11. World Bank and International Finance Corporation. (2002). Large mines and local communities forging partnerships, building sustainability. Washington, DC: World Bank and International Finance Corporation. Youngblood, R. L. (1990). Marcos against the church: Economic development and political repression in the Philippines. Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press. Yu, J. M. (2004–2007). Executive Director, Kalumonan Development Center. San Isidro, Philippines, personal interview.

Chapter 24

Character and Scale of Environmental Disturbances Resulting from Mining in the Kursk Magnetic Anomaly Alina Nekrich

24.1 Introduction In the early 21st century the geoecological situation in the region of the Kursk Magnetic Anomaly (KMA) reached a threatening state. According to the scale used by the Russia’s Ministry on Emergency Situations, the KMA zone is currently classified as a fourth-ranked area of ecological disaster. It means that sustainable steps are necessary in order to improve the current environmental situation. According to available statistics, more than 40% of lands in the KMA are disturbed at present. The quality of underground and surface waters near large-scale mining facilities is close to critical. The drinking water shortage amounts to 6,000 m3 /day. More than 1,300 km2 (498 mi2 ) of the KMA area are affected by irregularities in water balance. The zone of soil degradation in the KMA region exceeds 1,250 km2 (478 mi2 ). Soil erosion has also reached a significant scale (more than 30% of the total area of the KMA) resulting in the annual fall in fertility of up to 1 ton/ha. What is especially important is that the health of the able-bodied population is affected by the ecological situation brought on by the region’s iron ore mining. The region of the Kursk Magnetic Anomaly is 850 km (528 mi) long and 200 km (124 mi) wide; it is located in 9 administrative rayons (districts) of the Russian Federation. There are 18 existing and more than 200 explored iron ore deposits in the KMA. It contains 60% of Russia’s iron ore reserves and 20% of the entire world. Exports are mostly to European countries (Czech Republic, Poland, and Slovakia); their combined total was 16 million tons. One million tons were sent to Romania in the first ten months of 2008, the same amount to Italy. Thus, the KMA zone can be considered as being fundamental to the Russian Federation’ economy and security, especially in terms of minerals and raw materials.

A. Nekrich (B) Institute of Geography, Russian Academy of Sciences, Staromonetniy per. 29, 119017 Moscow, Russia e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_24,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

413

414

A. Nekrich

Taking into consideration the fact that Russia’s economic policy emphasizes the mining industry playing a significant role in meeting the material needs of population, it is expected that the volume of extraction and processing of mineral raw materials will increase. At the same time there is the threat of further environmental degradation in the KMA region. Improving the ecological situation in the region could be realized by implementing urgent measures aimed at preventing furher environmental degradation. However, environmental protection actions do not improve the ecological situation automatically because of the lack of understanding of the complexities involved in the degradation of the environment. Obviously, the development of approaches and methodology to assess the human-caused impacts in the areas of concentration of the mining complex facilities is becoming a major concern in Russia. The government is concerned about the ecological situations in areas where there are megaengineering complexes. Russian researchers, in particular those who are working in environmental and engineering spheres, are entrusted with developing a methodology that aims to decrease the human-caused impacts in areas of these large and complex operations.

24.2 The Theoretical Basis for a Complex Geoecological Assesment of the KMA The iron ore industry stimulates economic development in Russia thanks to the operations of large mining complex in the European part of the country. These are definitely examples of megaengineering complexes. The entire mining and smelting complex I discuss in this chapter is concentrated within the confines of the KMA region. It includes extraction facilities, concentration facilities (crushing-and-sorting plants and concentrating mills), and processing facilities. In addition, metallurgical lime, granulated and fine-dispersed chalk, sand for construction, moulding and glass production purposes, and suspensions for pellet processing before iron making are also produced in the region. Many of the local industrial plants also contribute to the environmental pollution in the KMA region. The KMA mining complex is based on the largest and workable Lebedinskoye, Korobkovskoye, and Gostishchevskoye iron ore deposits in Russia. The Lebedinskoye deposit is located in the Starooskol’skiy rayon (district) of the Belgorodskaya oblast’ (province). The extraction of ferruginous quartzites at the Lebedinskoye deposit is currently taking place at a high level. The Gubkin thermal power plant, the Oskol’skiy electrometallurgical integrated works, the Oskol’skiy cement plant, and the Lebedinskiy mining complex are also related to this deposit. The iron ore is extracted using opencast methods as the ore body occurs near the earth’s surface (Fig. 24.1). Such mining methods lead to the disturbance of surrounding lands, the inundation and deformation of rock layers, and radio-geochemical pollution of the air, soil, and water. There is also much dust pollution caused by the accumulation of heavy metals in the soils.

24

Environmental Disturbances Resulting from Mining in the KMA

415

Fig. 24.1 The Lebedinskoye iron ore deposit

The Korobkovskoye deposit is situated in the Gubkinskiy rayon (district). This deposit forms a common ore field with the Lebedinskoye deposit. It was on this deposit that the underground mine «Gubkin» and the first integrated underground mining works «KMA-ruda» were constructed. This deposit was developed using underground mining methods. In terms of economic parameters, underground mining is less profitable than opencast methods. It should be noted that the prices for the production of the «KMA-ruda» exceed those of the Lebedinskiy mining complex by 22–25%. The development of the Korobkovskoye deposit entails operating in areas of subsurface voids, groundwater shortage, deformation of rocks, sagging, and cones of depression. The Gostishchevskoye iron ore deposit is situated in the Yakovlevskiy rayon (district). Beginning in 2010 this deposit will be developed using hydraulic borehole mining methods. This technique of extraction is done by first drilling a hole into the surface and injecting a working substance into the hold to force materials out. The working substance destroys the main iron ore body and crushes the iron ore into a pulp which is delivered to the surface through a tube. The method is cheaper than the traditional methods of extraction and does not cause ecological disasters. Nevertheless, the development in the Gostishchevskoye deposit contributes to the disturbance of underground hydrogeological conditions. Developing the existing and prospective iron deposits in KMA have major negative impacts on the environment. The nature of the damage depends on the techniques and methods used. The Russian government and managers of industrial enterprises pay special attention to territories with unfavorable environmental conditions and support research into studies that examine the ecological situations in areas such as the KMA region.

416

A. Nekrich

The Russian Academy of Sciences (Institute of Geography), applied science centers (Scientific Research Institute of the KMA, Eco-Resource, Kursk-Geology, etc.), and environmentally-oriented private research companies (Russian innovative fuelenergy complex, industrial safety consulting groups, etc.) are among the leading Russia’s institutions carrying out research in the region on the impact of the mining complex. The activity of these institutions is aimed at developing a system of methods and algorithms that measure the human-caused impacts. The methods considered can be divided into the two major categories: (1) those that assess the human-caused impacts on various components of natural landscapes (air, water, soil, biota, and parent rock, and (2) those that assess each component of the ecosystem affects the population. The methods assessing human-caused influences are described in the scientific works of leading Russian researchers: S. A. Malyshev and M. M. Yakovchuk (2004), A. B. Miroshnikov (2001), N. V. Sorokovikona (1992), B. A. Simkin, B. T. Bebchuk, and A. V. Khokhryakov (1989). These studies yield significant scientific and practical results used in the course of solving of problems related to the maintenance of environmental safety while also studying the atmosphere, land, surface and subsurface waters. The scientific and practical studies by B. A. Ivanov (1989), and A. V. Khokhryakov (1988) are specifically devoted to solving the basic problems of environmental safety in territories deal with mining. They consider in detail the different forms of environmental disturbances as they are related to the pollution caused by mining. These methods are presented in the works of Russian scholars N. A. Solntsev (1984), M. A. Glazovskaya (1988), V. M. Kotlyakov, K. S. Losev, and I. A. Suetova (1995). Many environmental problems are connected with the interaction of «populationfacilities-nature». The theoretical and methodological bases of such interrelationships, the algorithm, and the typology and methods used in a complex assessment of each ecosystem component are considered in detail in the work by A. M. Grin and N. N. Klyuyev (1988), L. I. Mukhina and T. G. Runova (1980), and B. I. Kochurov (1997). Special attention in these works is paid to the geoecological analysis of geographical systems. Russian scientist V. I. Papichev (2005) developed a methodology for use in studying a complex engineering-ecological assessment that also measured the impacts of a mining complex on the environment. Another noted Russian researcher A. V. Khokhryakov (1988) suggested that the mining complex should be regarded as an integrated natural and human-related system. In practice, there are various methods and approaches that one can use. However, in studies done to prevent environmental risk in areas and where the entire mining operation and smelting cycle are concentrated, a complex comprehensive analysis is most efficient and useful. Research into the human-caused impacts on mining territories represents a new step in the sphere of studying and analyzing mining’s impact on the environment. This study contributes to this on-going research in two ways: (1) the development of an algorithm that assesses the complex geoecological assessment at specific local administrative units and (2) the use of an algorithm to assess the impact of Russia’s largest iron ore mining region on surrounding territory.

24

Environmental Disturbances Resulting from Mining in the KMA

417

24.3 Methodology As noted above, a wide range of research methodologies exist that one can use to focus on ecological situations. But, most of them do not have a complex character. The proposed methodology emphasizes the analysis of the interactions between all landscape components and the impacts of these on the population. The basic approach utilizes GIS (geographical information systems) in the analysis (Fig. 24.2). A GIS analysis uses the following methods: comparative-geographical, statistical, cartographical, and geoinformation. The first stage involves selecting the scale of analysis. The most appropriate scale for this research is 1:200,000. This scale ensures a visibility of these assessments, matches the quality of initial information, and is suitable for the research at a level of such administrative units as the Starooskol’skiy, Gubkinskiy and Yakovlevskiy rayons (districts). The introduction of criteria directly or indirectly relates to the geoecological and medical-ecological conditions of territories that are studied in the second stage. In order to assess the impact of mining on the territory and population, representative criteria and parameters are chosen and are classified using the 5-point scale adopted by the Russia’s Ministry on Emergency Situations. The choice of criteria and parameters is determined by current geoecological and medical-ecological conditions of areas analyzed. Negative natural factors are emphasized, such as karst, suffosion, erosion, deflation, landslide processes, occurrence of gullies and rocks subject to washout. Air pollution, soil degradation, the pollution of surface and underground waters, and deforestation are also included. In addition, specific diseases associated with the population in the KMA region are considered (Nekrich, 2006). As mentioned above, the data characterizing the ecological situation are classified using the 5-points scale: satisfactory, stress-like, critical, crisis-like, and catastrophic (Table 24.1).

Fig. 24.2 The algorithm used to assess the complex geoecological assessment of areas at the level of administrative units

3. Air pollution Pollution caused by enterprises of the mining complex (tenfold exceeding of norms for SO2 , CO, NOx , CHx , Pb, Cr, Zn)

2. Soil pollution Chemical pollution of soils with heavy metals (value of the aggregate index Zc), Indicator of chemical pollution: – for substances of the 1st –2nd degree of risk – for substances of the 3rd –4th degree of risk in 1–2 times

2–5

0.1–2.0 1.1–5.0

<1.0

<20 <50 0.5–1.0

<10 <10 < 0.5 16.1–24.0

1.0–3.9

<1.0

< 16.0

11–20

– 20–40 5–10

Stress-like

<10

– < 20 <5

Natural features Karst and suffosion processes (occurrences per 100 km2 ) Percentage of eroded lands (%) Deflation processes (mean annual amount of blown soils, ton/ha)

Human-Caused Impacts 1. Water pollution Wastewater amount (% of mean regional values) Water pollution (a) water pollution index (b) indicator of chemical pollution: – for substances of the 1st–2nd degree of risk – for substances of the 3rd–4th degree of risk Changes of aquifer level (m)

Satisfactory

Criteria

5–10

2.1–3.0 5.1–10.0

24.1–33

21–35 50–100 1.1–2.0

4.0–6.0

21–30

5–10 40–60 10–20

Critical

10–50

3.1–5.0 10.1–20.0

33.1–128.0

36–80 100–500 2.1–5.0

6.1–10.0

–

10–15 60–80 20–50

Crisis-like

50–100

>5.0 > 20.0

> 128.0

80 500 > 5.0

– more than 10.0

>15 >80 >50

Catastrophic

Categories of ecological disaster areas according to the scale of Russia’s ministry on emergency situations

Table 24.1 Criteria and parameters used in the complex assessment of human-caused impacts on the areas of iron ore extraction

418 A. Nekrich

<5 <10 <5 <10

no increase

no increase

Air pollution index

4. Deformation of rocks Deposit depletion (%)

5. Fragmentation of land cover Degree of projective cover (%) Amount of woodland (%)

Medical-ecological features 1. Medical-demographic rates Mortality: (a) total mortality

(b) perinatal mortality (c) infantile mortality (<1 year) (d) child mortality Life expectancy: (a) men – birth statistics

–up to 15 years old – 35 – 65

Satisfactory

Criteria

cause-and-effect relation

(c) <1.2 (d) <1.2

(a) and (b) cause-and-effect relation

5–20 10–25

10–30

6–15

Stress-like

3.9 2.0 1.8

2.8

c) 1.3–1.5 d) 1.3–1.5

(a) and (b) cause-and-effect relation

20–40 25–50

30–50

16–50

Critical

3.4 2.5 2.0

3.2

1.6–2.0 1.6–2.0 1.6–2.0

2.1–2.5

40–50 50–80

50–70

51–100

Crisis-like

4.0 3.0 2.3

3.6

2.0 2.0 2.0

more than 2.5

more than 50 more than 90

more than 70

more than 100

Catastrophic

Categories of ecological disaster areas according to the scale of Russia’s ministry on emergency situations

Table 24.1 (continued)

24 Environmental Disturbances Resulting from Mining in the KMA 419

3. Medical-genetic and immunological indexes (increase) Congenital malformation rate

2. Occupational morbidity (for people working in the mining industry) Class and nosological appearance of ecologically conditioned diseases

(b) Women – birth statistics – <15 years – < 35 – up to 65

Criteria

indexes are close to background value

no increase

Satisfactory

up to 1.2

cause-and-effect relation

Stress-like

1.3–1.5

2.1–2.5

2.0 2.0 2.0 1.5

Critical

1.6–2.0

2.6–3.5

2.6 2.5 2.5 1.8

Crisis-like

> than 2.0

> than 3.5

3.5 2.9 2.6 1.9

Catastrophic

Categories of ecological disaster areas according to the scale of Russia’s ministry on emergency situations

Table 24.1 (continued)

420 A. Nekrich

24

Environmental Disturbances Resulting from Mining in the KMA

421

A satisfactory situation in the region exists when the landscape features are not modified due to direct or indirect human-induced factors, that is, the state of the environment is not hazardous to the health. A stress-like situations are observed when insignificant spatial and temporal changes in landscapes occur, including changes affecting the resource-reproducing properties or the structure of the landscapes. Negative changes of some components of the landscapes lead to the degradation of an insignificant part of natural resources. Critical situations are associated with significant levels of environmental pollution, essential changes in landscapes features, a major threat to the natural resource base (including the gene pool), unique natural features in the region, and the health of the population. In these situations the human-caused impacts exceed the normal levelss. A crisislike situation is characterized by significant changes in landscapes, the complete depletion of natural resources, and the deterioration of the health of the population. Catastrophic situations correspond to a very high degree with environmental degradation. The major attribute of this stage is the threat to life itself and a reduction of the gene pool. Table 24.1 lists some significant natural features of the KMS region and human-caused impacts on the environment and population. In general, this information allows one not only to assess the ecological situation, but also to identify the character and scale of environmental disturbances. The third stage involves the gathering of information. Statistical data are derived from current publications of the State Committee on the Environment Conservation of the Belgorodskaya oblast’ (province), the Committee on Land Resources and Land Management of the Belgorodskaya oblast’ (province), the State Statistical Board of the Belgorodskaya oblast’ (province), and Russia’s Federal State Statistics Service (Goskomstat). Digital Globe results, provided by the Google Earth software are also used for the compilation of interactive maps. Field studies (sampling of water, soils, air, etc.) were additional and valuable sources of information. The entire information about geoecological and medical-ecological conditions is mapped by using the ARC/INFO software, the program ArcView GIS (ESRI Inc.). The complex geoecological assessment of territories requires spatial data processing and the creation of integrated maps (land use, ecological situation, human-caused pressures, etc.). The final stage of the algorithm involves data processing and data extraction from the maps which are compiled. In the course of this stage, the integrated base is created; it contains all initial quantitative and qualitative information and also provides for the input of new data. For example, the overlay of the land use map on the map of physical landscapes allows one to obtain information about humancaused impacts on the land itself as well as ecological problems.

24.4 Assessment of the Ecological Situation The geoecological assessment consists of the following consecutive stages. The order is determined by the availability of information about the natural and economic state of the land, information about mining activities, and the methods used.

422

A. Nekrich

First, interpretations of satellite images and the processing of the statistical information about land use were performed. Linear features (watercourses, railways, and highways), natural lands (protected areas, pastures), arable lands, built-up areas, the objects of the mining complex were clearly identified in the images. These areas can be classified as spaces with different functions (agricultural, natural, mining, residential, etc.). All these groups or areas are rated in terms of their human impacts. This classification of the areas allows to assess the intensity of these impacts. Because the resolution of the images is not sufficiently high, some objects are identified and included with other elements of landscapes. That is, indirect attributes revealing the presence or absence of objects are identified through the attributes of other objects or phenomena by directly interpreting their distinctive features (tones, colors, forms, sizes, locations, shadows, and specific patterns). The identification of indirect attributes also requires the processing of statistical and scientific textual information about the environmental condition and economic status of the territory. The information allows us to prepare integrated maps. They contain thematic layers or cartographical images of present-day land use and natural-landscape differences in the territories. For example, the compilation of maps of environmental problems of areas is carried out through the integration of the maps of natural features, land use, human caused impacts, and negative problems (Fig. 24.3). These maps allow us to assess the lands unsuitable for agricultural use and help to identify the specific ecological features and conditions.

Fig. 24.3 The ecological situation in the Starooskol’skiy and Gubkinskiy rayons (districts)

24

Environmental Disturbances Resulting from Mining in the KMA

423

The steps used in identifying the geoecological problems within the territories affected by mining activities and the determination of the spatial range of these problems can be accomplished through the digital cartographic syntheses of separate areas with various ecological problems. In practice, the compilation of maps displaying the ecological situations requires a consideration of significant (both natural and human-related) factors and regions where the environmental problems occur. Quantitative parameters also should be taken into account. Combinations of environmental problems can be classified using the following ranks: satisfactory, stress-like, critical, crisis-like, and catastrophic. This ranking allows us to identify the parameters of the environmental disturbances shown in Table 24.1. The scales and intensities of the environmental disturbances and the determination of ecological problems caused by different mining methods (opencast, underground, and hydraulic borehole) are shown in Table 24.2. The parameters specified in Table 24.1 are correlated with the data represented in Table 24.2. The correlations create the basis for the ecological maps of KMA areas show in Fig. 24.3.

24.5 Results The areas of mining operations in the areas of the Lebedinskoye and Korobkovskoye and adjoining territories are associated with a “high” degree of human-caused impacts. The impacts on lands in the area of planned development of the Gostishchevskoye iron-ore deposit are usually classified as both “above average” and “low.” The lands with the “maximum” and “very high” degrees of impacts (6.7 and 10.3% of the rayon area respectively) refer to the sites of opencast and underground mining. The adjoining lands (more than 74% of the area) are involved in agricultural use are characterized as having a “high” degree of humancaused impacts. The lands with the “above average” degree of impacts (35.4%) are associated with projected mining areas. The dominance of areas with the “high” degree of impacts are related to the intensive plowing of lands on slope surfaces. The areas of both the Lebedinskoye and Korobkovskoye deposits are characterized by a “high” degree of human-caused impacts (arable lands, disturbed lands, mining sites in the KMA complex, and transportation routes). The arable lands are located on slopes, terraces above the floodplain which are also subject to deflation as are sites near industrial complexes. Such arable sites results in soil degradation (erosion, chemical pollution) (Nekrich, 2007). Most lands within the area of the Gostishchevskoye deposit are characterized by “average” and “low” degrees of human impacts (cultivated hayfields, natural pastures and meadows, perennial plantations). The ecological situation in the Starooskol’skiy and Gubkinskiy rayons (districts) can be classified as transition from stress-like (37%) to a satisfactory quality of the environment (27%). The areas of mining are in zones with catastrophic (15%) and crisis-like (9%) ecological situations.

Satisfactory

Stress-like

Critical

Crisis-like

Catastrophic

Intensity of environmental disturbances

Rock dewatering, rock mass disturbance, formation of subsurface voids, rock deformation, landslides, mineral depletion, formation of gullies, occurrence of cones of depression, karst, suffosion, dewatering of soils, ground removal, humus decay, soil erosion, chemical pollution, changes of water level, projective cover fragmentation Rock dewatering, occurrence of cones of depression, formation of gullies, karst, suffosion, dewatering of soils, ground removal, humus decay, soil erosion, changes of water level, partial projective cover fragmentation Mineral depletion, formation of gullies, occurrence of cones of depression, karst, suffosion, dewatering of soils, ground removal, humus decay, soil erosion, chemical pollution, changes of water level, projective cover fragmentation Karst, piping, dewatering of soils, ground removal, humus decay, soil erosion, chemical pollution, changes of water level, projective cover fragmentation Dewatering of soils, ground removal, humus decay, soil erosion, chemical pollution, changes of water level, projective cover fragmentation

Activating of negative environmental processes

Combination of ecological situations leading to:

air Pollution, water and soil pollution

Air pollution, chemical pollution

Industrial pollution, chemical pollution

Air pollution, industrial pollution, pollution by drilling and blasting operations, chemical pollution

Air pollution, bacterial pollution, industrial pollution, pollution by drilling and blasting operations, toxic pollution, chemical pollution

Health hazard

Table 24.2 Assessment of the ecological situation in the areas of iron ore mining

424 A. Nekrich

24

Environmental Disturbances Resulting from Mining in the KMA

425

The ecological situation in the Yakovlevskiy rayon (district) can also be classified as stress-like (39%) due to domination of arable lands in the structure of land use. The critical zone (24%) covers arable lands and territories which also include significant concentrations of settlements and transportation routes. The basic problems in this district are water quality degradation and air pollution.

24.6 Conclusions The algorithm used to measure the complex geoecological assessment of territories is significant for others studying sites for mining development. The main objectives of this algorithm are to present the current geoecological situation and to prevent environmental risks. The GIS-based research carried out allows us to coordinate the works of experts from various environmental institutions and to assess objectively the scales of negative processes. In addition, the results presented could be useful to measure the stages of development aimed at environmental improvement. They could also contribute to solving environmental problems, that is, how to increase the volumes of iron ore extraction and raw materials processing while at the same time mitigating the contradictions between economic factors, the health of the population, and environmental conditions. The results also allow us to select the optimum mining technologies to develop the KMA region, to help improve the medical-demographic situation, and to favor investments aimed at the environment protection in the region. The information presented in the study can also be used to realize the objectives of federal target programs oriented to the implementation of environmentally safe technologies in the regions of mining activities.

References Glazovskaya, M. A. (1988). Geohimia prirodnih resursov i tehnodennih landshavtov SSSR. Moscow: Nauka. Grin, A. M., & Klyuyev, N. N. (1988). Ustoichivost, izmenchivost, vremennaya organizatsia geosistem. In V. M. Kotlaykov (Ed.), Vremennaya organizatsia geosistem. Moscow: IGRAN. Ivanov, B. A. (1989). Inzhenernaya ekologia. Moscow. Khokhryakov, A. V. (1988). Metodologia otsenki ekologicheskogo vozdeystvia gornorudnogo proizvodstva na osnove situatsionnogo plana, Gorny zhurnal, 5, 68–73. Kochurov, B. I. (1997). Geografia ekologicheskih situatsy. Moscow. Kotlyakov, V. M., Losev, K. S., & Suetova, I. A. (1995). Vlozhenie energii v territoriu kak ekologichesky indicator. Izvestia Rossiyskoy Academii nauk, ceria Geographia, 3, 70–75. Malyshev, S. A., & Yakovchuk, M. M. (2004). Razrabotka kriteriev ogranichenia tekhnogennoy nagruzki predelami sokhranenia sposobnosti prirodnih geosistem k samovosstanovleniu v Starooskol’sko-Gubkinskom rayone. Izdatelsky dom BelGU. Miroshnikov, A. B. (2001). Geoekologicheskoe obosnovanie upravlenia prirodoohrannoy deyatelnost’u. Abstract. Mukhina, L. I., & Runova, T. G. (1980). Sistema pokazateley dlya izuchenia i otsenki vozdeystvia cheloveka na prirodu. In V. M. Kotlaykov (Ed.), Vremennaya organizatsia geosistem. Moscow: IGRAN.

426

A. Nekrich

Nekrich, A. S. (2006). Narushenia prirodnoy sredi v mestakh razrabotki zhelezorudnih mestorozhdeniy v Belgorodskoy oblasti. Izvestia Rossiyskoy Academii nauk, ceria Geographia, 6, 81–88. Nekrich, A. S. (2007). Otsenka ekologo-khozaystvennogo sostoyania territorii Starooskolskogo, Gubkinskogo i Yakovlevskogo rayonov Belgorodskoy oblasti. Problemi Regionalnoy Ekologii, 4, 30–36. Papichev, V. I. (2005). Otsenka vozdeystvia gornogo proizvodstva na prirodnie resursi regiona. Gorny zhurna, 4, 94–96. Simkin, B. A., Bebchuk, B. T., & Khokhryakov, A. V. (1989). Otsenka posledstviy tekhnogennogo vozdeystvia gornorudnogo proizvodstva na prirodnuyu sredu. Gorny zhurnal, 3, 52–54. Solntsev, N. A. (1984). Problemi ustoychivosti landshavtov. Vestnik MGU, 5, 14–19. Sorokovikona, N. V. (1992).Voprosi metodiki opredelenia khozaystvennoy nagruski na prirodu dlya tseley ekologicheskogo normirovania. In N. V. Sorokovikona (Ed.), Ekologicheskoe normirovanie: problemi i metodi. Moscow.

Part IV

Energy and Industrial Projects

Chapter 25

Engineering and Re-engineering Earth: Industrialized Harvesting of Ireland’s Peatlands and its Aftermath1 Proinnsias Breathnach

25.1 Introduction Such has been the transformation of the planet Earth by human activity over the last 200 years that Wood (2009), quoting scientist Paul Crutzen, has suggested that geologists should henceforth refer to these two centuries as the “anthropocene” period. In that time, according to Wood, humans have reshaped about half of the Earth’s surface. While some of this reshaping has been unintended, for the most part it has constituted deliberate engineering, that is, the application of science, technology and know-how to achieve particular ends. The result has been the transformation of the earth, identified by Kates (1987) as one of the key strands of the analysis of human/environment relations, and one of the core concerns of geography as an academic discipline. “Earth” being a concept with many meanings, here we use it to refer to the surface of our planet, which provides the environment for human habitation, and that thin layer of earth’s crust underneath the surface from which humans derive most of the resources which sustain their civilization. The term “earth engineering,” therefore, describes both the restructuring of the earth and the extraction of its resources in order to facilitate human occupation and subsistence. While much of the earth engineering which has occurred to date consists of small and localized incremental alterations, as human technology has advanced so has the scale of earth-engineering interventions, leading to a rising frequency in the incidence of the megaengineering projects which are the focus of the current volume. This chapter focuses on one such project, that is, the large scale mechanized harvesting of peat from Irish bogs, a project which has been ongoing for more than seven decades and is likely to continue for at least two more. In its areal impact, this project represents the most extensive episode of planned earth engineering in Ireland since the transformation of the island’s agricultural landscape associated with the P. Breathnach (B) Department of Geography & National Institute for Regional and Spatial Analysis, National University of Ireland, Maynooth, Co. Kildare, Ireland e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_25,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

429

430

P. Breathnach

commercialization of farming in the 17th and 18th centuries (Aalen, Whelan, & Stout, 1997). This is a fascinating story in terms of the development and utilization of appropriate technologies, the extent of landscape transformation involved, and the social and economic impacts of this transformation on the areas affected. The remainder of the chapter outlines the physical/environmental and historical background to the launching of the peat harvesting project in the 1930s, provides a descriptive account of the development of mechanized peat harvesting and processing, and analyzes the socioeconomic impact of this development in the areas affected. It concludes with an assessment of the likely uses to which the residual peatlands will be put following the cessation of peat extraction, representing a second exercise in earth engineering which, in terms of the complex issues involved, may prove to be even more challenging than the first.

25.2 The Physical Resource: Ireland’s Peatlands Peat develops from the accumulation of dead vegetation that fails to fully decompose due to the anaerobic conditions brought about by constant soil waterlogging. Such conditions can arise either in areas of high constant precipitation or on the margins of water bodies such as lakes. High levels of rainfall in Ireland’s upland areas and along the western seaboard create pervasive conditions for peat formation, resulting in the creation of so-called “blanket bogs” (Fig. 25.1) which cover the landscape over extensive areas (Feehan & O’Donovan, 1996). Such bogs are to be found over 7% of Ireland’s land area. Blanket bogs are typically 2–3 m (6.5–9.8 ft) in depth, but deeper localized pockets provide accumulations of peat suitable for extraction for fuel. Manual harvesting of such pockets has been an important fuel source for local households for several centuries. Extensive peatland development also occurred in Ireland’s central lowlands from the gradual in-filling of lakes which were a widespread consequence of the deposition of glacial material during the most recent episode of glaciation which concluded some 10,000 years ago. A particular feature of such bogs is the tendency, once the original lakes have been completely in-filled by vegetation, for further layers of sphagnum moss to accumulate on the surface which thereby becomes raised up relative to the surrounding countryside. The resulting so-called “raised” bogs (Fig. 25.1), which also cover some 7% of Ireland’s land area, have a typical depth of between 6–7 m (19.7–22 ft) usually divided between a bottom layer of reed-based peat, a middle layer of woody peat derived mainly from trees, and an upper layer of moss peat.

25.3 Origins of Mechanized Peat Harvesting Harvesting of peat has been a routine feature of the domestic economy of rural households for many centuries in those areas with access to suitable nearby bogs. However, utilization of peatlands increased enormously with the rapid growth of

25

Industrialized Harvesting of Ireland’s Peatlands and its Aftermath

431

Fig. 25.1 Peatland regions and Bord na Móna bog works

the rural population in the early 19th century, leading to widespread colonization of marginal land by landless families. While this pressure was subsequently relieved by the effects of famine and emigration, today it is reckoned that almost one-half of the original total area of virgin peatland has been lost or significantly disturbed through domestic harvesting down through the centuries (Renou-Wilson, 2009).

432

P. Breathnach

Despite this extensity of impact, by the turn of the 20th century the great bulk of the potential fuel resource which Ireland’s peatlands represented remained untouched, due principally to the sheer size of the resource and the difficulty of gaining access to the largest and deepest bogs where the bulk of the resource was locked up. Grandiose schemes for tapping this resource had been proposed from time to time, and in the early 20th century some experimental work on developing mechanized methods of bog drainage and peat harvesting were carried out. However, the first steps towards fostering large scale development of Ireland’s peatlands was taken by the Fianna Fáil government which had been elected in 1932 (ten years after the establishment of what was to become the Republic of Ireland) on a platform of making the state as economically self-sufficient as possible. In 1934 the Turf Development Board (TDB), a state-owned company with a remit of progressing peat harvesting, was established by the new government. The following year a TDB delegation embarked on a fact-finding tour of mechanized peat harvesting works in Germany and the Soviet Union, following which it was decided to pursue large scale harvesting by the TDB itself for the purpose of feeding electricity generating stations which would be built alongside the bogs. In order to facilitate this objective, the TDB was given compulsory purchase powers to acquire suitable tracts of peatland. The first such acquisitions were made in 1936 and were subsequently brought into production using a combination of machinery developed by the TDB itself and imported from Germany. In 1939 the TDB purchased a privately-owned factory in County Kildare which made molded briquettes, suitable for home consumption, from compacted peat. The trajectory of the Board’s subsequent evolution was profoundly affected by the outbreak, in 1939, of the Second World War, which ruled out further imports of equipment but which, at the same time, had the effect of transforming public perceptions of the value of Ireland’s peatlands. As a non-participant in the war with virtually no native reserves of coal, Ireland faced a major problem of energy supply, and the government sought to at least partially fill this gap through launching a major national campaign to expand peat production. While most of this effort took the form of small-scale local efforts, it also included an ambitious venture on the part of the Turf Development Board which sought to bring 10,000 hectares (25,000 acres) of peatland into production in northwest County Kildare, just west of Dublin. Relying on manual harvesting, this project required the recruitment of 4,000 migrant workers who were housed in 14 residential camps distributed throughout the area. The project went into full production in 1943 and yielded some 600,000 tons of peat before it was closed down in 1947.

25.4 The Establishment of Bord na Móna The growing prestige of the Turf Development Board was recognized in 1946 when, following the submission to the government of an ambitious plan to further expand the development of the peatlands, the Board was reconstituted as Bord na Móna (“The Peat Board”), a commercial state company with a stronger statutory basis and

25

Industrialized Harvesting of Ireland’s Peatlands and its Aftermath

433

Fig. 25.2 Activities associated with the development of Bord na Móna peatlands

more clearly defined mandate than the TDB. Bord na Móna immediately embarked on a major development program which involved bringing into production 21 new bogs in nine of the Republic of Ireland’s 26 counties as well as expanding the output from the company’s existing bogs in order to raise annual production from 150,000 tons in 1946 to one million tons by 1950. Production of briquettes was expanded and a plant to process moss peat for horticultural use established (Fig. 25.2).

434

P. Breathnach

25.5 Workers’ Hostels A key feature of the early development of peat production by both the Turf Development Board and Bord na Móna was the extensive utilization of hostels to accommodate the large numbers of mainly seasonal workers required for this work (peat harvesting being confined to a summer weather window extending from mid-April to mid-September). The need to construct these hostels reflected the low population density in the peatland areas and hence the absence of alternative accommodation options. These hostels had the appearance of military encampments, with rows of accommodation units interspersed with communal washing, catering and recreational facilities (Fig. 25.3). The Turf Development Board had begun constructing these before the war, but their deployment was greatly accelerated by the initiation of the wartime peatland development project in County Kildare, which involved the rapid recruitment of some 4,000 migrant workers. By 1945, 80% of the Board’s total workforce of 5,100 was resident in hostels, giving an average head-count per hostel of some 300. The TDB was faced with a steep learning curve in dealing with the logistical, catering, sanitary, health, moral, social and recreational needs of an entirely male labor force assembled virtually overnight, but one with which it appears to have come to terms admirably. A sample of the records of 210 residents in hostels in the East Midlands in the period 1944–1956 found that they were mostly unmarried and in their late twenties and were sourced from all over Ireland, divided equally

Fig. 25.3 1940s hostel for temporary bog workers (Source: Bord na Móna)

25

Industrialized Harvesting of Ireland’s Peatlands and its Aftermath

435

between rural and urban areas (Curry, 1987). While the combination of this demographic profile and the hostels’ spartan living conditions could have occasioned an element of social tension, there is no evidence of this having been a significant problem. The long (48 h) and arduous working week and the good summer weather undoubtedly helped in this respect, while morale was also boosted by the organization of sporting competitions of various kinds between the hostels and considerable investment in other forms of recreational activity. The ending of the war and the subsequent opening up of alternative fuel sources led to a scaling back of peat harvesting and a substantial reduction in the numbers of workers accommodated in hostels, from 4200 in 1945 to 2800 in 1947. Bord na Móna continued to establish hostels to serve newly-developed bogs up to 1956, but gradually their use was wound down. This can partly be attributed to the increasing use of local farmers for seasonal summer work, but mainly to changes in Bord na Móna’s mode of operation which required a much higher proportion of permanent, year-round, workers for whom hostel accommodation was not an acceptable option.

25.6 The Development of Mechanized Harvesting The late 1940s saw Bord na Móna implementing the mechanization program initially planned prior to the outbreak of the Second World War. In line with the linear nature of much technological innovation, this program initially focused on developing mechanized methods for producing sod peat, similar in form to that traditionally produced by manual means, although different in constitution, as the peat was first macerated (i.e. intermixed) in order to create a uniform quality before being extruded by the harvesting machinery. While sod peat remained the dominant form of peat extraction until 1959, over time Bord na Móna moved gradually to an alternative extraction method involving the harvesting of milled peat. In this method, tractor-drawn rotating drums fitted with pins strip a thin (1.5 cm or 0.6 in) layer of peat in the form of a fibrous powder from the bog floor (Fig. 25.4). This is then gathered into long ridges alongside which narrow-gauge railways are laid to convey the peat to its end-use destinations (Fig. 25.5). This harvesting method has proved to be much more cost-effective than the sod peat alternative, while also delivering peat in a form which burns more efficiently in electric power stations. The growing demand for peat briquettes as a form of domestic fuel was a secondary reason for expanding milled peat production, which now accounts for almost all Bord na Móna production for fuel purposes. Because of the long lead-in time involved in the preparation of virgin bogs for production, Bord na Móna’s peat output grew quite slowly in its early years, and by 1950 was only two-thirds greater than the 1946 level. However, thereafter output accelerated rapidly, growing ten-fold between 1950 and 1960. This growth was further facilitated by the launching of a second development program in 1950 which aimed to raise output to 4 million tons annually (a target which was eventually reached in 1968) from a 1950 level of just 250,000 tons.

436

P. Breathnach

Fig. 25.4 Peat milling machine. Spiked drums strip 1.5 cm (0.6 inches) of peat from bog surface (Source: Bord na Móna)

Fig. 25.5 Peat harvesting. Milled peat is collected in progressively larger piles prior to loading onto trains. (Source: Author)

25.7 The Bord na Móna Housing Schemes With the expansion of its harvest area and output, and the growing use of mechanized production methods, the nature of Bord na Móna’s workforce changed profoundly. There was now a much greater need for more technically-skilled workers to operate and maintain machinery and equipment, including its extensive railway system, eventually reaching over 1,100 km (700 mi) in length (Fig. 25.6). In addition, while in the beginning the company imported most of its equipment, over time it increasingly developed and built its own machines, designed to cope with

25

Industrialized Harvesting of Ireland’s Peatlands and its Aftermath

437

Fig. 25.6 Peat train. Peat trains, running on temporary tracks, transport peat from bogs to power stations or briquette factories (Source: Author)

the distinctive characteristics of Irish peatlands. These innovations added considerably to the company’s need for skilled engineering workers. In order to be able to recruit, retain and develop such skilled workers, Bord na Móna would have to hire them on a permanent basis and provide them with superior accommodation than what was available in the hostels. Furthermore, from the beginning, the company adopted a decentralized operational structure, with each of its production centers (of which there were 25 by 1970) having its own managerial, accounting and engineering team. This meant that the demand for good-quality housing was spatially very dispersed. This housing demand was the background to Bord na Móna’s decision to construct, in the early 1950s, eight company-owned housing developments adjoining its peat works; these ranged in size from eight to 156 houses, amounting in total to 574 units. The company policy was to attach the housing developments to existing villages, provided a suitable building site was available which was within 5 km (3 mi) of the main railhead of the relevant bog works. In fact, seven of the eight developments met these criteria, the exception being Coill Dubh in County Kildare, which was constructed in a greenfield site and was (at 156 units) the largest of the eight developments (Fig. 25.7). These houses provided a standard of accommodation that, at the time, was unusual in rural Ireland, with electricity, hot and cold running water, three bedrooms and an indoor toilet. They were built and maintained by Bord na Móna to a high standard, with a distinctive architecture and facing onto communal greens without individual front gardens.

438

P. Breathnach

Fig. 25.7 Bord na Móna housing development under construction, early 1950s. Note peat bog in background. (Source: Bord na Móna)

The installation of these housing developments in very remote rural areas had a range of socioeconomic impacts which have been documented by Curry (1987). Whereas local dwellers had become accustomed to the seasonal comings and goings of the temporary hostel denizens, they now had to come to grips with a new corps of permanent residents who, in terms of social and occupational makeup, were almost as exotic and alien as the houses in which they lived. They were outsiders; they were industrial workers in permanent and generally well-paid jobs; they lived in strange looking houses with facilities which few locals enjoyed; and, despite their dispersed origins, they quickly formed into tightly-knit communities. The new residents clearly brought many benefits to the areas in which they settled. Their spending power was a boon to local providers of commercial services; they added greatly to the viability of public services which tends to be fragile in rural areas; and they represented an infusion of communal energy and social capital into their host communities. At the same time, they also had the effect of upsetting established social arrangements and threatening existing power structures. Some larger farmers resented the development of local bogs by Bord na Móna as it provided alternative employment opportunities for poorly-paid farm workers, while those who controlled local sporting and community organizations also saw their positions as coming under threat. However, for the most part these upsets comprised a single shock to local social systems and, over time, the Bord na Móna houses and their occupants melded into, and generally strengthened, the local communities into which they were implanted.

25

Industrialized Harvesting of Ireland’s Peatlands and its Aftermath

439

25.8 Power from Peat From the outset, the main purpose of Bord na Móna’s program of bog development was to provide fuel for electricity generation which, at the time, was the monopoly responsibility of another state-owned company, the Electricity Supply Board (ESB). The first two ESB power stations to use peat supplied by Bord na Móna commenced production in 1950 and 1952 and were designed to burn sod peat. All subsequent peat-fired power stations were designed to consume milled peat, the first being built in 1957, with four more following in the late 1950s and early 1960s. All of these were located in the Midlands raised bog region with the exception of one station serving an extensive tract of upland basin peat in County Mayo in western Ireland (Fig. 25.2). By 1963, peat accounted for 40% of Ireland’s total electricity production. Most of the peat-fired power stations, being located away from substantial rivers, required the construction of water cooling towers which became key landmarks in the extremely flat Midlands region (Fig. 25.8).

Fig. 25.8 Rhode peat-fired power station c.1960 (Source: Bord na Móna)

25.9 Local Economic Impacts Mechanized peat harvesting and associated processing activities had a major economic impact on the districts where these activities were introduced. These districts were characterized by a very heavy dependency on agriculture and, given that farms were generally small and the land was of poor quality, average farm incomes – and, therefore, incomes in general – were relatively low. One can appreciate, therefore, what the introduction of two major industrial employers (Bord na Móna and the

440

P. Breathnach

ESB) meant to the areas in question. This impact was particularly significant in the 1950s, for two main reasons. Firstly, while by the end of that decade Bord na Móna’s total workforce was much the same as when the company was established in 1946, there had been (as we have seen) a profound change in the nature of that workforce in the interim, in that the seasonal, unskilled and migrant labor which had been the mainstay of the organization in the 1940s, had been replaced by a permanent and resident workforce with higher skill levels and incomes which were much more likely to be spent locally. Even the seasonal workers who still made up one-fifth of the total workforce were now drawn mainly from the local farming community. Furthermore, the construction of peat-fired power stations created a substantial amount of additional highly-skilled jobs. The second reason why the local economic impact of Bord na Móna and the ESB was particularly significant in the 1950s was because this was a decade of national economic stagnation during which total employment fell by 14% and emigration reached extremely high levels (420,000 net in the decade after 1951 when the total population was just under three millions). In the case of County Offaly, where Bord na Móna had its biggest presence (Fig. 25.2), between 1951 and 1961 employment in peat production and electricity generation grew by 37% to 2,084, which amounted to almost one-fifth of all non-agricultural employment in the county. This greatly helped to stabilize non-agricultural employment, which fell by just 3% over the decade compared with 8% nationally. These figures were reflected in population change, in that Count Offaly’s population fell by just 2% compared with figure of 7% for the country at large outside of Dublin, the national capital. A very significant feature of the employment provided by both Bord na Móna and the ESB was that it was almost entirely male employment (well over 90% in both cases). However, the consequent lack of employment opportunities for women was not a social concern at a time when men were generally much better paid than women and the tradition was that women (at least when married) did not work outside the home, particularly in rural areas. Thus, for the majority of people, the well paid male industrial worker was the ideal anchor around which to build a family unit. As it happened, some spin-off activities from the development of the peatlands did have the effect of generating significant levels of female employment. For example, in 1962, a mushroom-growing enterprise was established in west County Kildare using peat mould sourced from Bord na Móna as its growing medium. By 1987, this enterprise employed 400 people, over half of whom were women (Curry, 1987).

25.10 Evolution of Bord na Móna Activities While 80% of Bord na Móna’s fuel peat production goes to electricity generation, a further 20% is used in the production of peat briquettes, demand for which has remained strong. Output of the original peat briquette factory in County Kildare was expanded in the late 1940s and additional briquette factories were built at Counties Offaly and Westmeath in 1958 (Fig. 25.9). In addition, two bogs with a particularly

25

Industrialized Harvesting of Ireland’s Peatlands and its Aftermath

441

Fig. 25.9 Derrinlough peat briquette factor c.1960. (Source: Bord na Móna)

deep cover of sphagnum peat were developed for the production of moss peat, leading to a growth in output from 24,000 cubic meters (850,000 cubic feet) in 1946 to over one million cubic meters (35 million cubic feet) – most of it exported – in 1973. Bord na Móna’s activities received a further major boost from the oil price increases of the 1970s, which substantially enhanced peat’s competitiveness as a fuel and placed a new premium on the desirability of exploiting indigenous fuel resources. A third development program was launched in 1974, under which a further 36,000 ha (90,000 acres) of peatland were acquired with the aim of adding a further 2.8 million tons per annum to production capacity. With the output from existing bogs beginning to decline, overall production did not increase accordingly but, at an average of 4.74 million tons per annum in the decade 1975–1984, was still 30% higher than in the previous decade. In order to absorb this extra output, a new briquette factory was opened in County Tipperary in 1982 and additional capacity was installed in some of the existing power stations. However, despite this increase in output, peat’s contribution to total electricity production, which had already fallen from its peak of 40% in 1963 to 32% in 1975, fell further to 27% in 1985 and 16% in 1995. This reflects the fact that growth in the use of peat for power generation was not keeping pace with the overall growth of the economy and the parallel expansion in demand for electricity. The late 1980s ushered in a major change in the way Bord na Móna’s production was organized. With oil prices falling, there was growing pressure to reduce production costs and increase productivity, leading to a decision to reorganize peat harvesting around semi-autonomous production teams who were paid entirely on

442

P. Breathnach

the basis of the amount of peat harvested. This reorganization had the desired effect, in that peak annual employment, which had hovered between 6,000 and 7,000 since the 1950s, fell to less than 3,000 by 1995 without any significant loss of production. However, the local impact of such a dramatic fall in employment was greatly cushioned by the commencement, in the early 1990s, of the prolonged phase of national economic growth which led to Ireland being referred to as the “Celtic Tiger” (Breathnach, 1998). While most of this growth was urban-focused, rapid growth in automobile ownership allowed the associated employment opportunities to become increasingly accessible to rural dwellers (Walsh, Foley, Kavanagh, & McElwain, 2005). Over the last 20 years, all seven of the peat-fired power stations built in the 1950s/1960s were closed, the victims of advancing age abetted, in some cases, by the exhaustion of local peat supplies. Only two of these have been replaced by new units built on adjacent sites. In addition, a third new station near Edenderry in County Offaly commenced production in 2001. The three new stations have maintained existing levels of peat consumption; however, with overall levels of Bord na Móna production showing indications of long-term decline (annual output of milled peat averaged 3.44 million tons in the five-year period 2004–2008 compared with 4.15 million tons in 1991–1995), there has been a corresponding cutback in briquette production (involving the closure of two of the four briquette factories) from a peak of over 500,000 tons in 1987 to just over 200,000 tons per annum in recent years.

25.11 Future Prospects for Peat Production Bord na Móna expects to be able to maintain production at current levels from its existing bogs until 2030 without the need to open up new tracts of peatland for development. However, whether such an extension into new areas will actually occur is open to question. Under current circumstances, the generation of power from peat is, at best, on the margins of viability and, essentially, is a function of government policy relating to the use of indigenous fuel resources in the interests of energy security. However, the contribution which peat now makes to the national energy supply has fallen to quite a low level, due to the massive overall growth in energy consumption which accompanied the “Celtic Tiger” era. While peat still accounts for around 10% of national electricity consumption, its share of the economy’s total energy requirement has fallen below 5% in recent years. Given that any new bogs which might be brought into production would inevitably be relatively small and less suited to large scale harvesting, it would require a substantial secular upward shift in the price of oil to justify the exploitation of such bogs. In any case, opposition on environmental grounds to the further development of Irish bogs for peat production has grown enormously in recent years. With most areas of existing peatland already having been altered substantially through human intervention, there is particular concern that the few remaining areas of intact virgin bog (amounting to as little as 12% of the original raised bog area) should be

25

Industrialized Harvesting of Ireland’s Peatlands and its Aftermath

443

preserved in their current state in the interest of maintaining ecosystems and biodiversity (Feehan & O’Donovan, 1996; Irish Peatlands Conservation Council, 2009). In addition, large scale harvesting of peatland is a significant direct source of pollution, in that the stripping away of surface vegetation and the exposure of bare peat surfaces which this entails leads to air- and water-borne transportation of peat grains into local watercourses thereby causing, inter alia, acidification of lakes and siltation of the spawning beds of salmonids (Renou-Wilson, 2009). Bord na Móna has sought to respond to criticisms of its environmental impacts by projecting itself as a green and environment-friendly company. It has recently adopted the phrase “A new contract with nature” as a motto to guide a proposed transformation of the company over the next two decades in pursuit of environmental sustainability. This change will involve, inter alia, Bord na Móna becoming a major producer of renewable energy and Ireland’s leading waste recovery firm. Somewhat ironically, the company has developed in recent years a significant new business based on the use of peat itself as a pollution control agent (arising from its ability to absorb odors and oil and to filter and break down solids in fluid effluents).

25.12 Utilization of Cutaway Peatland Bord na Móna will not have to face the issue of whether it should further extend peatland harvesting for quite some time and, according to the company’s website, it has no current plans to acquire additional peatland for production purposes. In the meantime, a much more immediate question relates to what should be done with the growing area of exhausted peatland in the company’s possession. Of Bord na Móna’s total landholding of some 85,000 ha (210,000 acres), almost one-half will be exhausted of harvestable peat by 2020, with the bulk of the remainder due for expiry within a further ten years. The company has been both conducting and sponsoring research for many years into the possible alternative uses to which this “cutaway” peatland can be put. Indeed, rehabilitating this vast tract of land will comprise an exercise in earth engineering which, in terms of complexity, may surpass the initial development of the land in question for peat production. To quote Feehan and O’Donovan (1996, 474), the conversion of Bord na Móna’s cutaway bogs “will be one of the great reclamation ventures of Europe, on a scale comparable to that of the English fenlands or the polders of Holland.” A wide range of possible options for the re-utilization of this cutaway peatland has been identified (Feehan & O’Donovan, 1996; McNally, 1981; Renou, Egan, & Wilson, 2006) and includes the following: grassland, horticultural uses, including vegetables and berries, mainstream forestry (including softwoods and hardwoods), short-rotation forestry and other biomass options, semi-natural wetlands/wilderness (including the restoration/regeneration of peatland environments) and recreational amenities, heritage parks, and wind farms. The actual pattern of use from among these options will be set within parameters determined by the interaction between two sets of controlling factors. The first of

444

P. Breathnach

these is the physical characteristics of the cutaway bogs, including the depth of remaining peat, the composition of this peat (especially degree of humification), the nature of the underlying soils (especially their alkalinity/acidity), and the drainage requirements of particular tracts of cutaway bog (that is, whether they are freedraining or require pumped drainage). These characteristics can give rise to a wide range of configurations, even within quite small tracts of peatland. The second set of factors refers to the relative costs and benefits of the different alternative uses to which the cutaway peat can technically be put, factors which are also quite variable, not just spatially, but also over time. Thus, for example, the viability of converting cutaway bog to grassland would have been much greater during the productivist heyday of the EU’s Common Agricultural Policy in the 1970s than it is in the depressed conditions in which Irish agriculture finds itself in 2009. Conversely, population growth and overspill from Dublin into the East Midlands, combined with rising living standards and levels of car ownership, means that there is now likely to be much greater demand for the recreational and heritage qualities of the peatlands than would have been the case in the 1970s. As recently as 2001 it was projected that, of the 40,000 ha (100,000 acres) of cutaway bog expected to become available by 2020, one-half would be devoted to conventional forestry, and 10% to grassland, with the remaining 40% (mainly areas of deep peat which otherwise would require continuous pumped drainage) reverting to wetlands/wilderness (Spatial Planning Unit, 2001). However, since then the grassland option, as we have seen, has largely lost its attractiveness while Bord na Móna’s recently-stated commitment to the development of renewable energy resources has pushed the biomass and windfarm options to the forefront of its priorities. The company already operates a small windfarm on its cutaway bog in County Mayo and has recently announced plans for the installation of 500 MW of windfarm capacity (considerably in excess of the 370 MW capacity of the existing peat-fired power stations) in three locations in Counties Mayo, Offaly and Tipperary. Bord na Móna is also currently conducting trials in the production on cutaway bog of biomass suitable for energy generation and is making arrangements for the burning of biomass material in the Edenderry power station which the company itself now owns and operates. Ultimately, however, it appears as though the principal land use to which the cutaway bogs will be put will be conventional forestry, which could take up to one-half of the total available area. Over the last 100 years, by far the main source of peatland alteration in Ireland has been afforestation, almost entirely driven by state-sponsored measures to increase the country’s level of forest cover, which at the time of independence in 1922 was as low as just one per cent of the national land area (Teagasc, 2009). The Irish government’s afforestation policy has been mainly effected through a state-owned company similar in format to Bord na Móna, and, while in recent decades the emphasis has shifted to promoting afforestation on privately-owned land, almost two-thirds of Ireland’s forests (which now account for over 10% of the total area) are today in state ownership.

25

Industrialized Harvesting of Ireland’s Peatlands and its Aftermath

445

Hitherto, most afforestation has been concentrated in upland blanket bog, over one-quarter of which is now under trees, and has consisted largely of coniferous softwoods such as spruce and larch, which grow rapidly in Ireland and generate a quick financial return. Thus far, only 2% of the raised bog area has been given over to afforestation, but this can be expected to rise rapidly as cutaway becomes available. In addition, a more diverse forest cover incorporating traditional hardwoods such as oak and elm is facilitated on the lowlands, although the extent of hardwood utilization will be restricted by economic considerations (their long maturation period) and the acidic constitution of a high proportion of cutaway peatland.

25.13 Conclusion Gilbert White (1961) pointed, many years ago, to the dilemmas which arise where multiple options are available for the use of certain resources, and where choices have to be made between these options. In such situations, White argued, the actual pattern of use may be determined as much by administrative and political considerations, and the need to resolve conflicts between “thorny and sometimes incompatible” (p. 23) special interest groups as by questions of economic efficiency. Andrews’s (1982) account of the decision-making processes involved in initially embarking on the megaengineering project which the harvesting of the midland raised bogs entailed certainly bears this out. However, the range of options and the range of interest groups involved in making these decisions in the 1930s were both much narrower than those which pertain to the use of the vast tracts of cutaway bog which are the landscape legacy of this project. Bord na Móna has anticipated the problems it may face in this respect and, in pursuit of what it terms the “wise management” of its cutaway bogs, has committed itself to building contacts with other interest groups, such as the National Parks and Wildlife Service, BirdWatch Ireland and local communities. These, it is hoped, will contribute to “the enhancement of the national biodiversity resource” and “the enrichment of our local heritage” (Bord na Móna, 2009). To an extent, Bord na Móna’s task regarding the management of cutaway development is simplified by the fact that it is sole owner of the resource in question. However, should the current political trend towards the privatization of state-owned assets be brought to bear in this case, then the complexity surrounding how best the resource should be used and managed would increase enormously.

Note 1. Much of the factual material cited has been derived from various publications issued by organizations referred to in the text and from their websites. In most cases, the sources of specific items have not been given, but may be obtained on request from the author.

446

P. Breathnach

References Aalen, F. H. A., Whelan, K., & Stout, M. (Eds.). (1997). Atlas of the Irish rural landscape. Cork: Cork University Press. Andrews, C. S. (1982). Man of no property. Cork: Mercier Press. Bord na Móna. (2009). Annual report 2008/2009. Newbridge, County Kildare: Bord na Móna. Breathnach, P. (1998). Exploring the ‘Celtic Tiger’ phenomenon: Causes and consequences of Ireland’s economic miracle. European Urban and Regional Studies, 5(4), 305–316. Curry, M. (1987). The socio-economic impact of Bord na Móna in the East Midlands region. National University of Ireland Maynooth. Department of Geography, Occasional Paper No. 7. Feehan, J., & O’Donovan, G. (1996). The bogs of Ireland: an introduction to the natural, cultural and industrial heritage of Irish peatlands. Dublin: The Environmental Institute, University College Dublin. Irish Peatlands Conservation Council. (2009). Ireland’s peatland conservation action plan 2020. Lullymore, County Kildare: Irish Peatlands Conservation Council. Kates, R. W. (1987). The human environment: The road not taken, the road still beckoning. Annals, Association of American Geographers, 77(4), 525–534. McNally, G. (1981). Designating the future use/uses of cutaway bog. Paper presented at Irish Peatland Conservation Council Conference, Port Laoise, September 12. Renou-Wilson, F. (2009). Facts about Irish peatlands. Retrieved November 23, 2009, from http://www.ucd.ie/bogland/Peatlandsquestions.html Renou, F., Egan, T., & Wilson, D. (2006). Tomorrow’s landscapes: studies in the after-uses of industrial cutaway peatlands in Ireland. Suo (Journal of the Finnish Peatland Society), 57(4), 97–107. Spatial Planning Unit. (2001). Extensive and intensive rural land uses. Dublin: Government of Ireland. Department of the Environment & Local Government. Teagasc. (2009). A brief overview of forestry in Ireland. Retrieved November 22, 2009, from http://www.teagasc.ie/forestry/technical_info/forestry_history.asp Walsh, J., Foley, R., Kavanagh, A., & McElwain, A. (2005). Origins, destinations and catchments: Mapping travel to work in Ireland in 2002. Journal of the Statistical & Social Inquiry Society of Ireland, 35, 1–37. White, G. F. (1961). The choice of use in resource management. Natural Resources Journal, 1, 23–40. Wood, G. (2009). Re-engineering the earth. The Atlantic, July/August. Retrieved November 23, 2009, from http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200907/climate-engineering

Chapter 26

Energy-Hungry Europe: Development Projects in South-Central Europe Anton Gosar

26.1 Introduction At dusk on Thursday, 12 June 2008, a Dessault Falcon 900 landed on the 3300 m (10,826 ft) long airstrip of Ljubljana’s Jože Puˇcnik airport. The white slick business jet stopped on the tarmac, in front of the new terminal, and a red carpet was rolled out. Representatives of the government and of the business elite were aligned at the far end of the carpet: the prime minister, two state secretaries (ministers), three general managers of energy distribution companies and others. All were eager to meet the passenger. Aleksej Borisoviˇc Miller. Aleksej Borisoviˇc Miller came to visit a nation-state which in early 2008 directed EU’s politics. His visit took place just two days prior to a summit of Russian and European business leaders at Dauville, France. The topic of the meeting focused on Europe’s energy future. There, at Dauville, Aleksej Borisoviˇc Miller shocked colleagues and the business world as he predicted that in a year or two from now the barrel of crude oil would cost $US 250 (in June 2008, $US 142). He should know it best! Miller is the president of the world’s biggest gas distribution company: Russia’s Gazprom. Would Europe really freeze in winters, board overcrowded trains, shred their luxury cars, and bike distances? The doctor of economic sciences, one of three Russians who have made it, according to Newsweek, to “world’s super elites” responds: “No. Gazprom will give you shelter” (Frelih, 2008)! This forty-plus year old Russian Jewish businessmen, with a chronic liver disease, is one of rare managers who has not been alienated the former communist regime or their institutions of power, like the KGB, the military and alike. If illness becomes a too heavy burden and if intimate living gets priority, Miller’s press secretary Sergey Kuprijatov takes over and explains the details. According to him, Gazprom was on the brink of collapse as the “wild privatization”, so often identiˇ fied in transitional economies, threatened to dismantle the firm. Viktor Cernomirdin (former prime minister), as well as his and Boris Jelcin’s Družba “family” were A. Gosar (B) Department of Geography, University of Primorska, Koper/Capodistria, Slovenia e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_26,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

447

448

A. Gosar

expected to become wealthy from the sale of the country’s natural resources. This has stopped as in 2001 Miller, Vladimir Putin’s former St. Petersburg city council colleague and protégé (similar to Dmitrij Medvedjev), was named Gazprom’s president. Critics were saying that Putin was unfair to Remu Vjahirjev, the former Gazprom’s general manager and that Miller, the Baltic pipe-line boss, was too young for such a responsible post. But Miller proved differently! In 3 years he has put Gazprom on the path of success. At first he bought back the formerly sold “silver ware”. Transactions took place between Roman Abramoviˇc’s (second richest Russian) giant Sibneft and the concurrent gas producer Purgaz as their shares of Gazprom were re-installed. Recently, Miller signed delivery agreements with Kazakhstanis and Central Asian’s gas producers. Then, in 2008 Gazprom was the third largest enterprise in the world! Miller’s aims even higher. By 2015 Gazprom should become world’s leading firm, with a market value of 980 billion US Dolars (Frelih, 2008). Miller is (still) not ranked among the ten richest Russians, which speaks in a way for him and for his business. The Slovenian prime-minister Janez Janša made efforts to greet Miller in a similarly friendly manner as he greeted George W. Bush as he led the U.S. delegation at the EU – U.S. summit in Slovenia just one week prior to Miller’s visit. Stepping out of the plane and later, confronting media, Miller acted shy, contrary to the public appearance of his countrymen Vagit Alekperov, two years ago. Alekperov, crude oil giant Lukoil’s president, made a visit in 2006, devoted to gain control of Slovenia’s and Western Balkan’s Petrol businesses.1 The idea was left without a decision being made. Miller’s negotiating methods proved to be more successful, as during his recent visit, a pre-agreement with the Slovenian government was signed. The agreed upon subject was the Gazprom’s and Italian ENI’s natural gas pipeline project, called The South Stream, crisscrossing Slovenia from east to west. The interested parties are eager to bring new and rich energy resources from geographically diverse areas by 2013. Slovenia joined with 6 countries (Hungary, Romania, Serbia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina and Austria) which showed an interest in the northern branch of the South Stream pipeline which would bring natural gas to the shores of the northern Mediterranean Sea and the Alps. The southern branch of The South Stream would direct natural gas to the Eastern and Western Balkans (Bulgaria, Macedonia, Montenegro, Albania and Greece) and, underwater, to Southern Italy. The question is whether there is any substance to Miller prediction and comforting words in regard to Gazprom becoming Europe’s major energy shelter. Or is his view of the world similar to the view of another Russian, Professor Igor Panarin, member of the Russian Academia of Science whose relevant study on U.S. disintegration is regarded as a joke. In early March 2009 the barrel of crude oil (159 l) was sold for $US 43! And the Russian gas deliveries in winter 2009 experienced a dramatic collapse in reliability. The economic crisis in the last quarter of the year 2008 dramatically changed conditions on world’s energy market and in many sectors of the economy. Gazprom’s projects seem to have been heavily impacted. Oil and gas managerial practices and even nation-state issues have come into existence. But, one fact remains, viz., Europe and the world are still oil and gas thirsty/hungry!

26

Development Projects in South-Central Europe

449

26.2 Energy Hungry Europe EU’s 2007 Crude oil consumption was about two-thirds that of the U.S. (Table 26.1). In both regions unimaginable quantities of this energy resource are consumed every day: in Europe almost 15 thousand billion barrels and in the U.S. more than 20 thousand billion barrels a day. Comparing the consumption to the resident population of both regions, Europe is better off as just about 30 barrels are consumed per day (4.770 l), whereas the daily consumption of the U.S. residents is nearly at 68 barrels (10.812 l) per day per resident. According to figures released by Eurogas, an international energy study group, the gas consumption in the 27 EU member states increased by 1.9% in 2008 over 2007, reaching 50,010 billion m3 a year. Eurogas’ reports that the largest rise in gas demand in the EU was in Spain, with an increase of 17.7% compared to the year before leading to a total demand of 34.7 bcm. Spain was followed by Portugal,

Table 26.1 Oil and gas consumption of EU members Rank

Country

Crude oil (000 Natural gas bbl/day) (mil cu m)

Population (000)

Oil/p/day

Gas/p/year

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29

Germany France United Kingdom Italy Spain Netherlands Belgium Poland Greece Sweden Portugal Austria Romania Finland Czech Republic Ireland Denmark Hungary Bulgaria Slovakia Luxembourg Cyprus Lithuania Slovenia Latvia Estonia Malta EU United States

2,456 1,950 1,763 1,702 1,611 984 628 524 441 354 301 289 238 228 207 201 191 163 110 83 61 58 57 54 35 30 19 14,738 20,680

82,218 64,473 61,004 59,619 46,063 16,472 10,666 38,116 11,125 9,254 10,599 8,340 21,538 5,312 10,403 4,339 5,482 10,036 7,640 5,401 484 778 3,358 2,026 2,266 1,341 408 498,761 305,953

29.87 30.25 28.90 28.55 34.97 59,74 58.88 13.75 39.64 38.25 28.40 34.65 11.05 42.92 19.90 46.32 34.84 16.24 14.40 15.37 126.03 74.55 16.97 26.65 15.45 22.37 46.57 29.55 67.59

1185.14 662.14 1,493.34 1,423.87 747.45 2,818.12 1,630.41 429.74 365.75 108.71 387.96 1,011.51 793.48 862.39 828.80 1,148.65 830.90 1,331.21 732.98 1,150.90 2,745.87 0.00 1,024.42 545.41 90.26 1,103.65 0.00 1,002.68 2,133.99

97,440 42,690 91,100 84,890 34,430 46,420 17,390 16,380 4,069 1,006 4,112 8,436 17,090 4,581 8,622 4,984 4,555 13,360 5,600 6,216 1,329 0 3,440 1,105 2,040 1,480 0 500,100 652,900

450

A. Gosar

Italy and Greece in seeing increases in demand. The total number of gas customers in Europe rose to 103.5 million customers across the region – a 1.5% rise from the previous year. The UK remains the EU’s largest single gas market, consuming 95.1 bcm, followed by Germany (88.7 bcm) and Italy (84.2 bcm) (Energy Business Review, 2009). Europe major consumption is related to the North Sea Fields, whereas Germany and Italy have to a large extent bound their gas deliveries to agreements with Russia and Algeria. Germany’s and in particular Central European gas supply from Russia was affected heavily in January 2009 as for 27 days gas deliveries were blocked due to the Ukraine-Russia dispute. The disagreement was related to the Ukrainian debts, gas prices, transit fees and other technical issues. The dispute resulted in 18 European countries reporting major declines or cut-offs of their gas supplies from Russia transported through Ukraine.

Fig. 26.1 Major recipients of Russian gas

26

Development Projects in South-Central Europe

451

Gazprom’s and Naftohaz Ukrainy’s dispute over natural gas supplies, prices and debts have a long standing tradition. The Russia-Ukraine disputes involve politicians of both countries and, in the recent dispute in 2009, the European Union as well. The first serious dispute started in March 2005 over the prices for natural gas and transit prices. This dispute culminated on 1 January 2006 with Russia cutting of gas supplies to Ukraine. The situation calmed after 4 days when supply was restored and a preliminary agreement between Russia and Ukraine was achieved. Another gas dispute arose in October 2007 over gas debts and culminated again in the gas supplies being reduced in March 2008. During the last months of 2008 relations between Gazprom and Naftohas Ukrainy again became tense. These resulted in the EU’s longest gas delivery crisis. These disagreements brought about second thoughts in regard to the deliveries of gas from Russia as new gas pipeline routes and NLG terminals renewed interest among politicians and professionals in Europe’s energy sector (Fig. 26.1).

26.3 Major Transnational Energy Distribution Projects in East Central Europe 26.3.1 Crude Oil The Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan pipeline (BTC) is a 1,768 km (1,099 mi) long crude oil pipeline from the Azeri-Chirag-Guneshli oil field in the Caspian Sea to the Mediterranean Sea. It connects Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan; Tbilisi, the capital of Georgia; and Ceyhan, a port on the south-eastern Mediterranean coast of Turkey. It is the second longest oil pipeline in the world after the 3,892 km (2418 mi) long Druzhba pipeline or Friendship pipeline or Comecon pipeline (Russia – East Central Europe) built in 1963. The inauguration of the Baku – Tbilisi – Ceyhan oil pipeline was celebrated on 25 May 2005. This fact was not related to projects which were planned to support the energy-hungry Europe, but it could be perceived as the forerunner of trends and developments. British Petroleum (BP) spent $US 4 billion on the BTC Northern Caucasus project and was able to transport unhindered (until 2008) the landlocked Caspian oil to western markets by avoiding Russian territory. The EU and the U.S. supported this expensive project in order to reduce dependence on Russian-controlled pipelines and because it would help to bolster the economies of Azerbaijan, Georgia and NATO’s Turkey, all western allies. Bechtel was the main contractor for engineering, procurement and construction. But, a recent paper by O’Lear argues, “that . . . such projects, embodying . . . a unique form of governance, involving state and international actors entangled in postcolonial and neocolonial agendas, have the potential to change not only the places through which they are routed, but also the meaning . . . of the state” (O’Lear, 2008). The predicted Georgia self-confidence erupted in spring 2008 as a military move was made to align the self-proclaimed autonomous provinces of South Ossetia and Abchasia with Tbilisi’s central power.

452

A. Gosar

In the aftermath of the Georgia-Russia’s conflict over Georgia’s provinces South Ossetia and Abchasia in the summer of 2008, Russia’s troops controlled for a while (23 days) part of the Baku – Tbilisi – Ceyhan pipeline, thus showing that European and western energy projects in the Caucasus, without Moscow’s approval, could end up badly. The route of the pipeline is at present less than 100 km (62 mi) from the borders of the above named provinces which, in August 2008, declared independence and state sovereignty. Sergej Bagapš and Edvard Kokojti, presidents of the newly proclaimed nation-states received initial support and international recognition from Russia and Nicaragua. The Volta pipeline Constanza – Trieste, gained the attention of the international public in 2004. Volta is designed to provide energy resources, viz., crude oil from the Kazakh fields via Russia, the Black Sea, Romania, Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia and Italy (Juri, 2007). But, among all energy pipeline projects, both the devotion of project developers and support among the nation-states of southeast Europe, has lost favor. Instead, other strong investors, including Russians and Italians, are promoting their own projects. Serbia is also now ready to start construction of a 400 km (258 mi) cross-country pipeline together with the Russian Lukoil.

26.3.2 Natural Gas Natural gas pipelines from Russian Siberia to Europe have, compared to the crudeoil pipelines, a shorter history. The 2009 dependency on Russian gas in Europe is as follows: Finland 100%, Slovakia, 100%, Bulgaria 100%; The Czech Republic 81%, Greece: 76%, Turkey 68%, Hungary 64%, Austria 62%, Slovenian 58%, Romania 54%, Poland 51%; Italy 28%, France 24%, United Kingdom 16%. The oldest gas pipe-line linking Russia and Germany is the 4.196 km (2607 mi) long Yamal–Europe pipeline. The name relates to the Yamal peninsula where deliveries should have started from in the second phase of the project. The planning of the Yamal-Europe pipeline began in 1992. Intergovernmental agreements between Russia, Belarus and Poland were signed in 1993. Two years later Wingas, the joint venture of Gazprom and BASF, started building the pipeline. The first gas was delivered to Germany through the Belarus-Polish corridor in less than four years, as the pipeline reached its rated annual capacity of about 33 billion m3 of natural gas. Since 2005 there have been plans to build the second leg of the pipeline from the Yamal Peninsula. On 1 November 2007, the Russian Ministry of Industry and Energy, Viktor Khristenko, said that Russia has dropped the idea of building the second leg of a pipeline, preferring instead the construction of the North Stream pipeline. The North Stream is the second gas delivery project on which the EU and Russia have agreed (in 2004). The former German chancellor, Gerhard Schroeder, being president of the North Stream’s shareholders committee, and Russia’s president Vladimir Putin are promoters of this EON (Ruhrgas), Wingas (BASF) and Gazprom project. Promotion activities extended in 2008 to neighboring countries rich on gas. President Putin was successful in Kazakhstan as was Chancellor Schroeder in his

26

Development Projects in South-Central Europe

453

February 2009 visit to Iran. The European project Nabucco, which originally was aimed to distribute gas from the Caspian fields, including Iran, is far from execution. The joint Siberian and Kazakh, and possibly Iranian gas, should use the North Stream pipes already laid on the ground of the Gulf of Finland and in the Baltic Sea between St. Petersburg and Greifswald in Germany. Nord Stream will be 1,220 km (758 mi) long and will consist of two parallel lines. The first one, with a transmission capacity of around 27.5 billion m3 a year is due for completion in 2011. The second line is due to be completed in 2012, doubling the annual capacity to around 55 billion m3 , which is enough to supply more than 25 million households in Europe. Gazprom started construction of the Russian onshore section of the pipeline in early 2006. The environmental impact assessment procedure started in November of the same year. Some Baltic states, which fear of threats to their natural environment, are in the process to bringing the pipeline issue to international courts. In spring 2007 the Finnish authorities requested the consortium to survey a more southern route of the pipeline because of sensitive environmental and geological conditions. Based on this request, Nord Stream AG filled an application to carry out the survey in Estonian waters. Taking into account the sovereignty in its territorial waters, and that the results of drilling work on the continental shelf would give information about Estonia’s natural resources and their potential use, the Government of Estonia rejected the seabed survey application. Because of the disputed territory between Denmark and Poland, Nord Stream AG decided to reroute the pipeline to run north of Bornholm instead of the southern route. However, in 2008 Danish authorities suggested n alternative route to the east and south of Bornholm because of shipping safety. Based on this request Nord Stream AG presented a new optimized route (so called S-Route) south of Bornholm. In 2008, the company submitted application documents to the Swedish government for the pipeline construction in the Swedish Exclusive Economic Zone. The Swedish government rejected the consortium’s application which it had found insufficient on which to make a decision. A new application to the Swedish authorities was submitted at the end of 2008. In August 2008, Nord Stream AG hired former Finnish Prime Minister Paavo Lipponen as a consultant to help speed up the application process in Finland and to serve as a link between Nord Stream and Finnish authorities. This issue raised concerns about the number of politicians being paid by Nord Stream, as Gerhard Schröder is already heading the shareholder’s committee. In December 2008 Royce Royce was awarded a contract to supply gas turbines and at the beginning of 2009 Boskalis Westminster was awarded a seabed dredging contract. South Stream is a project which was initiated as a counterpart to the North Stream (Russia – Germany). What is unique about Miller’s 2007 project is his confidence that the project will be short in execution and that benefits of the natural gas pipeline could bring put into economic profits by the beginning of the next decade. South Stream would partly replace the planned extension of the Blue Stream, the 2005 envisioned pipeline from Turkey through Bulgaria and Serbia to Hungary and Austria. South Stream is definitely dashing hopes of Gazprom joining the Nabucco

454

A. Gosar

Pipeline project. When asked about Nabucco Gazprom, Miller said: “Nabucco – isn’t that an opera? . . . With a tragic ending?!” (Szabo, 2008). The South Stream would have two branches. The northern branch project envisions basic pipelines to be constructed through Bulgaria, Serbia, Hungary and Slovenia with the major objective to reach Austrian and Italian customers. The southern branch is aimed to support the needs of Greece and southern Italy. The total capacity of the South Stream pipeline would be 31 billion m3 of gas per year. The project was announced in June 2007 in Rome, when Italian energy company ENI and Gazprom signed a memorandum of understanding. Later in the year Gazprom and ENI signed an agreement about establishing a joint project company for the commissioning of the marketing and technical feasibility studies of the project. In 2008 the pipeline project was registered in Switzerland as the joint venture South Stream AG, which was equally owned by the two companies. The agreement on Bulgaria’s participation was made final in 2008; the agreement with Serbia was signed in 2006, even before announcement of the South Stream project was made. Gazprom and Serbian state-owned gas company Srbijagas agreed to create a joint company to build the Serbian section of the pipeline and a large gas storage facility near Banatski Dvor. In a similar way Russia and Hungary agreed in 2008 to set up an equally-owned joint company to build and operate the Hungarian section of the pipeline. A couple of months earlier Russia and Greece signed an intergovernmental agreement on cooperation in the construction and operation of the Greek section of the South Stream. In order to sign a final agreement with Slovenia, which would enable deliveries of Russian natural gas via the northern section of The South Stream to the Italian border, Miller visited in February 2009 Ljubljana again. He was less successful than during his previous visit in June 2008, described above. The newly installed Slovenian government learned from the Ukrainian-Russia’s dispute and asked for changes in the pre-agreement made in 2008 in regards to Slovenian participation in the joint venture between Russia’s Gazprom and Slovenia’s Geoplin. The overall the length of the South Stream pipeline would exceed 2,100 km (1,304 mi); the 900 km (559 mi) long offshore section would start from the Beregovaya compressor station on the Russia’s Black Sea coast and would run to Bulgaria’s Varna. The shortest route would run along the continental shelves of Russia, Ukraine, Romania and Bulgaria. But because of the recent gas disputes with Ukraine, Russia is considering a route through Turkey’s EEZ (Exclusive Economic Zone) in the Black Sea. There are speculations that Ukraine will permit the construction of South Stream in exchange for a Russian permit to build the White Stream offshore gas pipeline from Georgia to Ukraine. According to the UNCLOS (United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea), the delineation of the course for the laying of such pipelines on the continental shelf is subject to the consent of the coastal state. There are no reports on activities in this regard. From its initial point Varna, the southern route would cross Greece and the Ionian Sea and would join the Italian pipeline system near Bari. The northern pipeline will run through Bulgaria, Serbia and Hungary to join the Austria’s pipe line system near Vienna. The section to support northern Italy’s energy needs would be

26

Development Projects in South-Central Europe

455

diverted in Hungary through Slovenia (Trieste). There are also plans that Bosnia and Herzegovina and Croatia would benefit from two shorter sections of the pipeline, starting at the Hungarian border. The BiH section would end up at the Adriatic Sea in the Port of Ploˇce; the section through Croatia would be aimed at the Port of Rijeka. This is also an alternative route for the support of the North Italian market, via the Adriatic Sea. The feasibility study will be prepared by SAIPEM, a subsidiary of ENI, and it is expected to be completed by 2009. The former Italian Prime Minister Romano Prodi got in 2008 an offer from Gazprom to become chairman of South Stream AG. This move was compared with the appointment of the former Chancellor of Germany Gerhard Schröder. According to the Prodi’s spokeman “Prodi was extremely flattered, but reiterated that he wants to take some time off to ponder after leaving Italian politics.” The aim of the Nabucco pipeline would in quantity of transporting natural gas be to the South Stream similar, but the length of the pipe-line would be over 3,300 km (2,050 mi). The Caspian, Central Asian and Iranian gas should be transported across territories of Azerbaijan/Armenia, Georgia, Turkey, Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, Croatia and Slovenia into Austria and Italy and, further on, to the Central and Western European gas markets (Dodevska, 2008a, 2008b; Stana, 2008). The routes envisioned have often changed in last six years due to political situation in the area. The EU’s initial idea is stumbling at the moment. At the First Bled Forum in 2006, a Slovenian government and businessmen meeting place (where Russia was missing), the project was highly praised by European politicians and businessmen, but the miscommunication of participating politicians from the Caucasus and the Caspian region showed what a difficult task this could become. Later, Russia’s Prime Minister Dmitry Medvedev has commented that there is no contradiction between South Stream and the Nabucco pipeline by stating that “South Stream will have no negative impact on Nabucco, just as Nabucco will have no negative effect on South Stream”. Five companies (OMV of Austria, MOL of Hungary, Bulgargaz of Bulgaria, Transgaz of Romania and BOTAS¸ of Turkey) have in 2002 signed a protocol of intention to construct the Nabucco pipeline. More than a year later, the European Commission awarded a grant in the amount of 50% of the estimated total eligible costs of the feasibility study including market analysis, technical, economic and financial studies. There was not much activity on this topic for almost five years. In 2008 the German RWE became a shareholder of the consortium and the first contract to supply gas from Azerbaijan through the Nabucco pipeline to Bulgaria was signed. But in early 2009 Prime Minister of Turkey Recep Tayyip Erdo˘gan stated that Turkey may withdraw from the Nabucco project if the country’s talks of EU accession remains blocked. At the Nabucco Summit in early 2009 (Budapest) the financial construction for Nabucco/European Investment Bank (EIB) and the European Bank for Reconstruction and Development (EBRD) was approved. The European Commission proposed C250 million Euros as a part of its Economic Recovery Plan. At the same time the President of Azerbaijan Ilham Aliyev said that Azerbaijan is planning to at least double its gas production in the coming five years to supply the pipeline (Fig. 26.2).

456

A. Gosar

Fig. 26.2 Supply of energy resources from Russia and the Caspian Sea area

26.3.3 LNG Also other energy related projects “threaten” to some extend to have their final destination in the area of the Northern Adriatic. The idea to place huge LNG (Liquid National Gas) storage tanks into the shallow waters of the Venice Bay and on Mediterranean shores there has been met with strong opposition by the civil society. Despite protests, the LNG storage at Italian Rovigo (Isola di Porto Levante)

26

Development Projects in South-Central Europe

457

is already operational and, it seems, that the approval for the construction will be granted for the localities on the outskirts of Trieste (Dolina) in Italy and on the Island of Krk in Croatia (Omišalj) as well. In the case of Rovigo the LNG facility is already profitably handled by ExxonMobil (45%); Qatar Petroleum (45%) and Edison gas (10%). Since neighbors are going to benefit from the LNG facilities, the Slovenian port of Koper has in March 2008 carefully proposed the construction of a LNG storage facility on their premises too. LNG energy source is definitely growing on its global importance. To existing sources of gas, like Siberia, the Caspian Sea, Algeria and Libya, the Near and Middle East and other geographical regions, the very distant countries, like Indonesia, and remote areas, like the Arctic Circle, could within the LNG context play an important role for Europe – and Italy, member of the G8, in particular (Juri, 2007). In all mentioned localities in the Northern Adriatic, in addition to the container like reservoirs (size: 240 × 100 m), which would store about 160.000 m3 of LNG, re-gasification plants and pipelines towards the existing gas distribution net should be constructed as well (Marn, 2006).

26.3.4 Nuclear Power In addition to gas, Europe and South-Central Europe are increasingly looking forward to the nuclear power as an energy source. According to the Eurobarometer (2008), citizens of 13 out of 27 members would support nuclear energy. Among them, Slovenia too (51%)! Heavy anti-nuclear civic associations (less than 20% of nation-state citizen support the nuclear energy production) are to be found in some Mediterranean member states (Greece, Malta and Cyprus) and Austria. In 2007, Italy announced the construction of three nuclear facilities, their first. In 2006, Slovenia has made steps towards an increase of nuclear power from its Westinghouse facility in Krško. By 2012 it should double the electricity production from the named source (Plut, 2007). Within the same time frame Croatia is planning to construct its own facility near Erdut, on the Danube River, less than 100 km away from Belgrade, Serbia. Similar plans, regarding energy, Serbia has recently announced. No specific localities or time frames have been mentioned (Fig. 26.3).

26.4 Conclusion Along with global warming, hunger and health related issues, political agendas of nation-states today include different market related issues, in particular of the energy sector. Nation-states are increasingly worried about the dependency on traditional (energy, minerals and food) resources and are in the process to stimulate change. Changes are short term and long term planned. The short term planning is sticking with the traditional type of energy and other deliverable components of the market, including CO2 emission sources. Nuclear energy has again become appreciated. Increasingly the potentials of natural gas (in different forms) instead

458

A. Gosar

Fig. 26.3 EU Slovenia’s pipelines – existing and proposed

of crude oil come into foreground. The reliability of geographically sole source is put under question. Delivery from different localities is appreciated due to many reasons. Dependency in political or other ways should therewith be eliminated. On the other hand, the long term visionary planning is focused on renewable (energy) resources, including solar energy, wind power and thermal energy. This, in addition to the already heavily used resources of the floating waters (rivers and tides)! The increase and implementation of the traditional forms of energy and the introduction of the new ways of energy production is often opposed by the civil society, putting either threat into the foreground of the discussion. Russia’s and Central-Asia’s vast resources are increasingly tackled by the Europeans. Being aware of their potentials, Russian mega-distributors of oil and gas, like Gazprom and Lukoil, are promoting their views of energy supply forms, often concurrent to Central Asian or Middle East deliveries. In South-Central Europe the promotion of pipe-lines (“The Southern Stream”, “Volta”, “Nabucco”. . .), linking Siberia’s and Central Asian treasures with the heavily populated and energy hungry Italian and Central European urban cores, are in their initial phase. Despite it, the crisscrossing of the Balkan Peninsula towards a major distribution center in the Northern Adriatic (Trieste/Koper) and the Alps has more or less become a fact. Nation-states, like Slovenia, are in a way forced to follow rules set in Brussels. But, not enough, Europe’s need for the diversity of the energy delivery source has made the Northern Adriatic also a target for the Liquid Natural Gas (LNG) terminals. The Northern Adriatic, the Venetian and the Trieste Bays are namely, geographically the most northerly located bays of the Mediterranean Sea. A Persian Gulf landscape scenario is therewith envisioned (Nared et al., 2007).

26

Development Projects in South-Central Europe

459

Slovenia, being a good pupil of the EU, is following Austrian and Italian giant energy distributors ENI and OMV. It comes to foreground that energy resource management in Europe is, to a large extend politically motivated. Fear (of being cut-off from and/or of not enjoying substantial power resources) is engineering the continent. In South-Central Europe energy terminals of continental dimensions, which would enable delivery from diverse sources, are planned. Global relationship in regard to energy (and other market oriented goods) is repeated/copied on the regional scale, in the Western Balkans. Internal nation-state development policies are subject of centralized decision making (EU) and are only to some extent a result of internal needs and hopes. Slovenia is “enjoying” the benefits and worries of the federation and has, to some extent, already gained the ability to handle regional and national development on their own. Leading the politics of the EU in early 2008 has provided politicians and businessmen of the small European nation state with additional self-esteem.

Note 1. Petrol is Slovenia’s largest gas and oil distributing enterprise. The firm’s branches are also found in Croatia, Serbia and Bosnia and Herzegovina.

References Dodevska, M. (2008a). Energetika: Priprave na pogovore o Južnem toku. Delo (12. 06. 2008), 12. Dodevska, M. (2008b). Aktualno: Slovenija bi s plinovodom Južni tok dobila pomembno strateško vlogo. Delo (07. 07. 2008), 4–5. Energy Business Review. (2009). Retrieved March 6, 2009, from http://www.energy-businessreview.com/article_news.asp?guid=6CBFDF2E-4FC-4BF Eurobarometer. (2008). EU citizens’ support of nuclear energy (Eurobarometer #297). Delo (28. 06. 2008), 6.Fischer Weltalmanach (2007). Zahlen, Daten, Fakten. Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, Frankfurt am Main. Frelih, P. (2008). Aleksej Miller: Prvi cˇ lovek Gazproma, ki naj bi Južni tok speljal cˇ ez Slovenijo (portret tedna). Delo (14. 06. 2008), 3. Juri, L. (2007). The Northern Adriatic in the vortex of global and local energy interests. In International scientific meeting spacial restructuring of Slovenia and neighbouring states: Advantages for border regions, Koper, 30th November–2nd December 2007. Koper: Univerza na Primorskem, Znanstveno-raziskovalno središˇce.. Marn, U. (2006). Protest na morju. Deset razlogov za udeležbo na demonstracijah proti gradnji plinskih terminalov v Tržaškem zalivu (Vol. 26, pp. 24–25). Ljubljana: Mladina. Nared, J., Perko, D., Ravbar, M., Horvat, A., Hren, M., Juvanˇciˇc, L. (Eds.) (2007). Veliki razvojni projekti in skladni regionalni razvoj. Ljubljana: Založba ZRC, ZRC SAZU. O’Lear, S. (2008). Oil Frontiers @ Local Perceptions of Export Pipelines: The Case of Baku – Tbilisi – Ceyhan in Azerbaijan and Georgia. International Political Geography Colloquium: Spaces of Politics – Concept and Scales. Reims. Plut, D. (2007). Sonaravna ocena nacionalnih razvojnih projektov Slovenije (2007–2023). In J. Nared et al. (Eds.), Veliki razvojni projekti in skladni regionalni razvoj. Ljubljana: Založba ZRC, ZRC SAZU.

460

A. Gosar

Russia – Ukraine Gas Dispute. Retrieved February 18, 2009, from http://en.wikipedia.org/ wiki/Russia%E2%80%93Ukraine_gas_disputes Stana, A. (2008). Kolumna: “Vroˇca” prihodnost zemeljskega plina. Delo (16. 06. 2008), 40. Szabo, J. (2008). Južni potok tudi cˇ ez Madžarsko. Delo (27. 2. 2008), 8. Retrieved March 17, 2007, from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_by_GDP_(PPP)_per_capita Volta Pipeline; Retrieved February 18, 2009, from http://www.oildompublishing.com/PGJ/ pgjarchive/August06/pipelineconstreport.pdf

Chapter 27

The Next Generation of Energy Landscapes Martin J. Pasqualetti

27.1 Introduction Our move through the history of energy use has produced imprints we at first did not see or chose by circumstance to ignore. Awareness of such imprints was at the outset stunted by the eagerness of our need and the vastness of our planet. The changes we now deem obvious, ubiquitous and increasingly troubling accumulated over many years from numerous disconnected and smaller efforts. Such was the case as the forests of Europe where leveled for firewood, where Appalachia was turned inside out for its coal, and where the open rangelands of Texas were replaced with a dense forest of wooden oil drilling derricks. Today, energy projects are omnipresent and the trend over time is toward larger scale disruptions. With growth in both energy demand and the technological capability to meet it, the scale of our disruptive capability has reached scales unimaginable even 50 years ago. A single strip mine in Wyoming can yield 80 million tons each year, China’s Three Gorges Dam generates ten times the electricity of Hoover Dam, and entire mountaintops are being removed in West Virginia to access the coal beneath. In each case, the Earth’s surface is being reformed in ways that generations only two removed from our own would have considered a fantasy. Yet, despite the startling scale of present energy development, the trend toward bigger is not over. Today, we are on the threshold of a new era of energy development, one that will create landscapes that will be different both in scale and in form from those of the past. These will emerge by extending and expanding past practices, but also from the introduction of new ones that will be even larger. Along with growth in the size and intensity of proposed energy megaprojects will come increased controversy. Not only will they increase the threat to natural environments but they will place new burdens on those with a stake in each location.

M.J. Pasqualetti (B) School of Geographical Sciences and Urban Planning, Arizona State University, Tempe, AZ 85287, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_27,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

461

462

M.J. Pasqualetti

Energy projects of the immediate future will come in many forms and locations, but four I believe will be receiving more attention in North America. Two promise more oil for our cars and two would generate more electricity for our cities. The impacts on energy markets and economic development, if expectations for all four are met, will be transformative. The decision to move forward with any of these resources in a meaningful way will be on the scale of a megaproject.

27.2 Familiar But Different The expected source of the “new” oil will be oil shale and oil sand, while the source of the “new” electricity will be solar energy and wind power. These four energy resources are in some ways familiar, but in many ways they differ from conventional supply sources. One of the differences will be spatial. Extracting oil from sands or shale, for example, will be a far more concentrated undertaking than pumping it from millions of wells sprinkled over millions of square miles of land and water. Instead, the new oil would be extracted from two comparatively small parcels of land. The oil sands of interest are found in the cold and lightly populated northeast quadrant of Alberta (Fig. 27.1). The oil shale is concentrated in popular western Colorado (Fig. 27.2). As a consequence of such geographically smaller areas, an unusual burden will be placed on other resources in the vicinity including water, land, air, infrastructure, and socioeconomic stability. As for electricity from wind and directly from the sun, development will be more dispersed than is common practice with conventional fuels such as the fossil fuels, uranium, and hydropower. In each case today, electricity is generated at large centralized power plants. If either wind or solar electricity is to become a significant contributor in the near future, it will be generated from a dispersed network of decentralized smaller power plants. Likewise, the impacts from these activities will also be dispersed. Another way to visualize this difference is to imagine spokes on a wheel converging at a hub. In the case of oil sands and oil shale, everything needed to squeeze product from its host material comes inward toward the hub. Once the massive extraction process is complete, the oil is transported outward by pipelines and roads toward markets. In such a scenario, most impacts, especially those affecting the land, are concentrated in the same area as the resource, and judging by all experience of oil development, they will be substantial and long-lasting. The solar resources (which include wind), on the other hand, are by nature dilute and dispersed, and so too will be the impacts associated with their development, especially when compared with their fossil counterparts. Their impacts will, also, be of a different sort, mostly aesthetic and temporary. In addition to these advantages, there will be no use of water, they will produce no air pollution, the impacts will be mostly aesthetic, and unwanted changes to the environment will be largely reversible.

27

The Next Generation of Energy Landscapes

463

Fig. 27.1 The oil sands of Alberta, Canada. The three areas – Athabasca, Cold Lake, and Peace River – comprise the largest oil-sand deposits in the world. The amounts of recoverable oil in the deposits place Canada second only to Saudi Arabia in reserves. (Cartography by Barbara TrapidoLurie, School of Geographical Sciences and Urban Planning, Arizona State University)

Thought of another way, developing these new sources of oil and electricity are akin to mirrors on the past and windows on the future. Those that produce oil beckon investment because they promise continuation of profitable and familiar practices, a rearward vision. Those that produce electricity, on the other hand, entice because they offer a departure from the unpleasant experience of the past.

464

M.J. Pasqualetti

Fig. 27.2 Colorado oil shale prospective area bureau of land management areas of critical environmental concern. (Source: http://www.oilshalefacts.org/maps/areas-of-critical.pdf)

27.3 A Western Emphasis Much like the most recent history of human settlement in Canada and the U.S., energy development is concentrating in the west. Such a regional emphasis presents both challenges and opportunities. Many of the challenges attached to oil shale and

27

The Next Generation of Energy Landscapes

465

oil sand are west of the 100th meridian; where they are found is either semi-arid or arid in character. Both oil shale and oil sand development require prodigious amounts of water, and there is increasing competition for what exists in the Colorado River and the Athabasca River. In addition, the aridity of the Western Slope of Colorado makes the landscape easier to damage and harder to reclaim. Alberta is similarly burdened, not just by its low rainfall, but also by its cold climate. At least two other siting considerations add further resistance to the processing of oil from the oil shale and oil sands of western North America. First, population growth and rising economic expectations are driving greater demands for energy resources in both countries. Second, non-energy land uses of substantial commercial value, especially those areas for recreation and as sites for second homes, are incompatible with energy extraction activities. Despite the overlapping demands on natural resources in northeastern Alberta and the tri-state area of Colorado, Wyoming, and Utah, these areas are as yet lightly populated, especially when compared to the major urban centers where the bulk of demand is concentrated. Were the oil shale and oil sands developed at least to the level of several million barrels per day, it would require an extensive and expanded network of pipelines to deliver the product to refineries. Existing pipelines from the Alberta oil sands already convey product to Edmonton and then to the Chicago area. Other long pipelines would be needed were production to increase, including ones to Canada’s Pacific coast. Product out of the region carries “virtual” water embodied within. For oil shale, the task would have similar components but would in most ways be larger and more troublesome, for no commercial oil shale is being produced currently and water is even less plentiful than it is in Alberta. Construction of oil delivery networks would essentially begin fresh. As for the other two resources, wind and solar energy, much of their potential is likewise in the western states, although other conditions are substantially different. In the case of solar, it is not concentrated in any subregion. For this reason, if no other, impacts of development will be diluted. Second, the commodity they would produce requires transmission lines above the ground rather than pipelines below. Third, solar photovoltaics and wind require no cooling water or auxiliary energy supply for their extraction or processing. Fourth, development of neither would degrade existing visibility. Such principal factors are important to the more detailed consideration of each of the four resources that follows.

27.4 Oil Shale and Oil Sands For several decades the U.S. has been unable to satisfy its oil demand from domestic reserves. This shortfall has led to increased competition for the remaining supplies on the world market. In response, the price of oil has gone up, availability has become more problematic, political stability among trading partners more critical, trade imbalances more intense, and the search for new reserves more desperate. If new supplies were available they would help offset reliance on imports while increasing the stability of supply, thus reducing transfer of wealth abroad and

466

M.J. Pasqualetti

decreasing political tensions between the U.S. and supplying countries. If we are willing to pay the price, we do not have to look far. The two largest reserves are nearby: the oil sands of Canada and the oil shale of the U.S. Together, these two resources hold at least 3 trillion barrels, triple the amount of oil ever consumed. In the case of the oil sands, there are estimated 350 billion barrels of oil that are recoverable using present surface and underground techniques. This amount is about 14 times the proven reserves of conventional oil in the U.S., and 35 times the most optimistic estimates of the oil reserves within the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR). With such resources at hand, developing them is attracting serious interest, especially in the U.S. whose oil consumption now tops 20 million barrels a day, two-thirds of which are imported. But there is much yet to learn before we throw all our weight and wealth into a wholehearted program of exploitation. Fortunately, we might be able to share our experiences, because understanding either of these resources informs us about the other. For example, both resources are concentrated in fairly small areas of North America. Developing either would require massive challenges to the existing infrastructure. They would, for example, require quick and extensive increases in the need for housing, provision of consumer and industry services, road construction, pipeline placement, and the generation and distribution of electricity necessary to service the growing needs of every aspect of the projects (Pasqualetti, 2009). Communities in both areas have already recognized these challenges and the similarities between the two types of resources, going so far as to share their experiences. Indeed, the Mayor of Fort McMurray, the center of oil sand development in Alberta, has served as a consultant to the City of Vernal, Utah, one of the larger communities near the oil shale. To recover this oil means thinking big. It requires about 2 million tons of oil sand to produce one million barrels of synthetic crude oil, (equivalent to about 285,223 tons of coal) and engaging in this activity has already reshaped 420 km2 (152.5 mi2 ) of territory in the oil sand areas north of Fort McMurray, including the removal of more than 50 km2 (19.1 mi2 ) of boreal forest (Woynillowicz & Severson-Baker, 2006) (Fig. 27.3). Another obvious impact comes from the accumulation of wasteproducts from hydrotreating, primarily waste sulfur stripped from the oil during processing. Presently, it is compressed into yellow blocks and stored on site as a massive sulfur mountain (Fig. 27.4). Further development will broaden these changes. Approximately 3,224 oil sand scattered lease agreements are in place totaling 49,973 km2 (19,145 mi2 ), an area greater than that of Vancouver Island (Woynillowicz, Holroyd, & Dyer, 2007). The total impact of oil sand development on the ecological balance of northeastern Alberta could be devastating, an impact that can be masked by government policy. Those now in place, for example, do not call for re-establishing the land to “original condition” but only to “equivalent land capability.” This can result in land being returned not to forest but to pasture. A second off-site impact will concern water quality and quantity on-site and in both directions (up- and down-stream), all of which further extends the impacts of oil sand development. Transporting and processing the mined bitumen uses large

27

The Next Generation of Energy Landscapes

467

Fig. 27.3 Syncrude upgrader operations north of Fort McMurray, Alberta. (Photograph by the author, June 2006)

Fig. 27.4 Blocks of sulfur produced during processing, stored at a Syncrude upgrader site north of Fort McMurray, Alberta. No use has yet been found for this a by-product of the upgrading process. (Photograph by the author, June 2006)

volumes of water, in the amount of 2.0–4.5 m3 of water (net figures) for each cubic meter of synthetic crude produced, with additional water needed to upgrade the bitumen into lighter crude synthetic oil, whether done on-site or elsewhere (Griffiths, Taylor, & Woynillowicz, 2006). The Athabasca River is the key source for this water. The more water needed for oil sands development, the more pressure exerted on upstream supplies and downstream quality. Already, this river is precariously oversubscribed by oil sand operations. In 2006 approved oil sands mining operations held licenses to divert 359 million m3 from the river, or more than twice the

468

M.J. Pasqualetti

volume of water required to meet the annual municipal needs of the City of Calgary (Griffiths et al., 2006). Such demand constitutes a considerable impact from oil sand development, especially if growth proceeds as planned. In addition to the rising concern for the water used in processing, another concern is waste water disposal. Producers currently send most of it to tailings ponds for recycling in ore processing. These tailing ponds already cover an area in excess of 50 km2 (19.1 mi2 ), creating what is easily the largest visible landscape signature. The ponds tempt migrating water fowl, sometimes with deadly results.1 Downstream, concerns abound about the sustainability of the largest freshwater delta in North America, where the Athabasca River enters Lake Athabasca. While many of the impacts of oil sand development are on-site and easy to observe, others are not. For example, the various methods of in-situ (underground) recovery require massive volumes of hydrogen to upgrade its highly viscosity bitumen; production and upgrading will require 1,500 ft3 (42 m3 ) per barrel produced in-situ, compared to the 750 ft3 (21 m3 ) per barrel of bitumen needed for the product from surface mining (ACR, 2004; Reguly, 2005). One source for this hydrogen could be natural gas in the Mackenzie River delta, where conditions are even colder and more fragile than near Fort McMurray. If this gas resource is tapped to help with the oil sand extraction, it will require construction of a pipeline hundreds of miles across the Arctic and expand the impacts of the oil sand. Another impact will be the emission of greenhouse gases. Using oil from oil sands in place of light crude increases the emission an 80 kg extra for every 400 kg normally emitted, or about 20% more CO2 per unit of energy. With the anticipated rise in production to 3 million barrels per day by 2020, this increase will produce a growth from 30 million tons in 2004 to 95 million tons of CO2 in 2020 (Asgarpour, 2004). The oil sands are already responsible for the fastest rise in greenhouse gas emissions in Canada. While the oil sand operations continue, almost 2,000 km (1,243 mi) to the south of Fort McMurray are the oil shale resources of the Green River Formation of Western Colorado and neighboring portions of Wyoming and Utah. This resource is even larger than the oil sands (Bunger, Crawford, & Johnson, 2004). The primary reservoir rock, the Green River Formation, holds an estimated 3.1 trillion barrels of oil, 800 billion of it recoverable (IEE, 2009) That makes the oil shale reserves 2–3 times those of the oil sands. As with the Alberta oil sands, there is a strong temptation to exploit this resource for reasons of national security, economic growth, and corporate avarice. But one might ask: Is this development such a good idea? How would oil be extracted from the rock without despoiling the environment of the area? Some analysts state that we cannot afford to overlook the potential of oil shale as a source for increased domestic production. Others declare the environmental price is too high because it will require an energy megaproject on a scale that will rival, and probably exceed, the efforts in Alberta. In anticipation of what the future might hold for oil shale development, already opposition to the idea is mounting, just as the price of oil increases. If it were to recover price levels reached in the summer of 2008, economics may so favor oil shale development that development of the Green River Formation might be closer

27

The Next Generation of Energy Landscapes

469

than it at present appears. Even under the most favorable economic conditions, however, oil shale development, just on the scale of the oil sands activities in Alberta, will likely be many years off. Whenever oil shale development begins, even with great economic incentives, it will be more difficult to wrest oil from the shale than it is to coax it from the sands of Alberta. Nonetheless, there are several similarities between the two options. Developers of both resources, for example, can use surface and underground removal techniques. Surface operations for oil shale processing have two immediate and inherent drawbacks. Given that the oil shale expands upon heating, the volume of the waste material produced from surface mining would exceed the volume of material withdrawn, requiring large adjacent sites for waste disposal. Such sites would have to be so large as to stretch political acceptability. The second drawback is that one of the most promising recovery techniques, called “retorting”, needs about 1–3 barrels of water for each barrel of oil. For an industry producing 2.5 MMBbl/d, that equates to between 105 and 315 million gallons of water daily (DOE, 2009). In contrast to northeast Alberta, such a volume would be hard to find in the area of the Green River Formation for the simple reason that it is a drier region. It is also part of the Colorado River system, probably the most litigated and over-subscribed watershed in North America. Already, court battles are common among the various Upper and Lower Basin states over how this water should be divided, a particularly sensitive topic that is recently even more touchy given that the entire region is in the midst of a decade-long drought. Wherever water is used in the process of recovering oil from the oil shale, whether for extraction, processing, or waste disposal, it will remain perhaps the most serious concern related to the future contribution of oil shale to the national economy. Regardless of how the oil is processed, production of oil shale (like that of oil sands) releases much more carbon dioxide than conventional oil. The lead paragraph of a recent article in Rocky Mountain News reports that “Oil shale projects in the western U.S. by Exxon Mobil Corp. and other producers would spew as much carbon dioxide as all the factories and vehicles in Taiwan or Brazil. . .” (Carroll, 2009). About 80–90% of emissions come from the heating that is necessary to pull the oil from the rock. With the temptation to develop oil shale strong, the potential socioeconomic consequences loom large. The RAND Corporation estimates that with a “national production level of 3 million barrels per day, direct economic benefits in the $20 billion per year range are possible, with roughly half going to federal, state, and local governments. Also, production at this level would likely cause oil prices to fall by 3–5%, saving American oil users roughly $15 to $20 billion annually” (RAND, 2005). Production levels of 3 million barrels per day from the oil shale would create hundreds of thousands of new jobs, mostly in western Colorado and adjoining Wyoming and Utah. The early stages would likely be similar to that experienced in Alberta when the oil sand production levels accelerated. The impacts there were considerable, as they would be if oil shale developments gained similar traction, despite its location just a three hour drive west of Denver.

470

M.J. Pasqualetti

Some sense of the regional costs of oil shale recovery may be approximated by examining the recent boom of coal-bed methane recovery, starting with the impact on population. Population increases of over 20% have occurred over the past 7 years in the small towns of Parachute and Rifle, which are the communities closest to the oil shale deposits (Fig. 27.5). Much like the tidal wave of workers that moved to Fort

Fig. 27.5 Parachute, CO, situated along Interstate 70, looking north across the major oil shale fields of North America. Rifle is representative of the small towns in the area that will be susceptible to rapid growth. It had a population in July 2007 of 8,807, an increase since 2000 of 23.6%, largely as the result of the increased development of coal-bed methane and the resurgent interest in the prospect of oil shale development. (Photograph by author. August 2008)

Fig. 27.6 Forest clearing and residential developments are part of the housing boom at Fort McMurray, Alberta. (Photograph by the author, June 2009) (For more on Fort McMurray, see Krim, 2003.)

27

The Next Generation of Energy Landscapes

471

Fig. 27.7 The need for housing is already evident in the area near Parachute, CO as a result of ongoing development of coal-bed methane and the resurgent interest in oil shale. (Photograph by author. August 2008)

McMurray (Fig. 27.6) to extract and process oil sands, large-scale development of oil shale is expected to stimulate rampant growth not supportable by existing workforce or enterprises (Fig. 27.7). For Colorado, a new infusion of jobs from oil shale development would recall conditions three decades ago when federal incentives last created serious excitement over oil shale. In that case, the build-up was rapid and expansive, the bust a local economic collapse of the 1980, something no one wants to experience again (Clifford, 2002).

27.5 Wind and the Sun Wind and solar power are to electrical energy as oil sand and oil shale are to conventional fuels. That is, both pair hold the hopes of the future, great promise of new supplies, and tangible excitement in energy boardrooms and the halls of government. Additional supplies of nearby oil could reduce reliance on distance imports, while allowing for continued use of traditional modes of transportation, even if they carry substantial environmental baggage in every phase from development and processing to distribution and use. New supplies of electricity from wind and the sun would avoid the air, water, and land impacts that come from the use of coal, uranium, and natural gas. Plus, because wind and solar energy are more diffuse, the impacts of their exploitation would be more diffuse as well. This is not to suggest that wind and solar power development would produce no impacts, just that these impacts would be less in total and less in any single area. Developed at a scale

472

M.J. Pasqualetti

being envisioned for major contributions to our supply of electricity, meaningful deployment of either one will be considered as megaprojects. Unlike oil sands and oil shale, concentrated as they are in just two small areas, wind and solar power are, relatively speaking, everywhere. At present, however, developments of both tend this ubiquity by concentrating turbines and solar arrays in large groupings. Although these do not disturb air, land and water on the scale and intensity of the oil resources we have been discussing, they are being erected by the hundreds, in dozens of countries. Collectively, they are megaprojects, and even individually some of the larger ones, especially some proposed, rise to the same status. From a spatial perspective, the characteristic of both wind and solar is that they are diffuse resources. This results in projects spread over areas as least as large as fossil-fuel power plants. For wind, the other important characteristic is that it is site specific, so that a wind resource must be developed exactly on the site where sufficient wind is available; it cannot be moved to a more convenient location. This implies built-in potential for direct conflicts with whatever may exist already in the same place. A third salient consideration is that no matter how the wind turbines are designed, painted, erected, or spaced to make them less obtrusive or annoying, they cannot be made invisible. Consequently, controversy over their deployment should have been anticipated. One of the bestknown examples of such controversy is found near Palm Springs, California (Pasqualetti, 2001, 2002). Two others, less familiar, include the proposal for the Isle of Lewis, in the U.K. and another planned for La Venta, in the state of Oaxaca, Mexico. The Isle of Lewis proposal was for the largest wind installation in Europe and one of the largest in the world. Lewis Wind Power applied to the Scottish Executive in about 2003 under Section 36 of the Electricity Act 1989 to construct a wind farm on the Isle of Lewis with an installed capacity of 651.6 MW, plus associated infrastructure (Lewis Wind Farm, 2009). Proponents of the scheme claimed it would have generated 7% of Scotland’s energy, enough to meet the average needs of one million people. After vociferous opposition, the Scottish government denied the request (BBC, 2008). In so doing, they affirmed democratic principles, but dealt a serious setback to renewable energy. The severity of that setback was limited, however, by the isolation of the site in stark contrast to the much smaller 170 MW project in the U.S. called Cape Wind. It proposed a location between Cape Cod and Nantucket Island (Whitcomb & Williams, 2007). Unlike the summer sun and sand on crowded Cape Cod, the Isle of Lewis offers a barren, windswept, rainy, peat-covered landscape with few people. In both places, nevertheless, opposition to wind is rooted in objections over the negative effect of visual aesthetics. At Cape Cod, opposition to the wind turbines is predicated on their aesthetic intrusion to those enjoying leisure activities. On Lewis, the wind turbines were resisted on several grounds ranging from the removal of peat to hazards to birds. The chief objection, however, was that they would be visible to anyone on the island, and that they would degrade one of the finest megalithic cultural sites in the Europe called the Callanish Standing Stones

27

The Next Generation of Energy Landscapes

473

Fig. 27.8 The Callanish standing stones

(Fig. 27.8), thought to have been erected between 2500 and 3000 BC (Gray, 2009; Ittmann, 2005). The Lewis project would have installed about 180 of the largest wind turbines in the world, in addition to over 200 pylons and conductors, all of which were illustrated in a computer visualization project during the period of public comment (Stephenson-Halliday, 2009). The 3.8 MW turbines would have a total height of 140 m (460 ft) with a rotor diameter of 107 m (358 ft). Each wind turbine would require a buried, reinforced-concrete foundation typically 22 × 22 m, up to 2 m thick (72 × 72 ft, 3–6 ft thick), with a 2 m (6 ft) high column in the middle for the tower. The wind turbines would be arranged in 9 groups. Each foundation would have adjacent a prepared area called the “hardstanding” for the installation cranes to use. Although the primary issue on the Isle of Lewis was degraded visual aesthetics, other factors were involved. For example, occupants of the Isle are fundamentalist Presbyterians whose lives on Lewis have persisted largely unchanged for centuries. The wind project, they worried, would interfere with that steadfast isolation and jeopardize their way of life. Perceived and actual environmental changes continue to disrupt plans for greater development of wind power. Lifestyle change is the common denominator, and this is true whether it is on a remote and cold island in the north Atlantic or in the warm and humid Pacific lowlands of Mexico. In much the same manner as has transpired on the Isle of Lewis, the local residents in the region in the state of Oaxaca are now resisting plans for massive wind development in a region known as La Ventosa (“windy”) (Fig. 27.9). In Oaxaca wind development is not speculative, it has already begun, and over 5,000 ha (12,355 acres) of land are already reserved

474

M.J. Pasqualetti

Fig. 27.9 A protest poster declaring “If we plant these today, what will we plan tomorrow?” (Source: Protests in Juchitán against Wind Turbines)

in the municipalities of Juchitán de Zaragoza, Union Hidalgo, El Espinal and San Dionisio del Mar, a number expected to rise an additional 3,000 ha (7,413 acres) in the coming months (Preneal, 2009). There is one large investment involved. In the next three years. . .companies will invest $3 billion in Oaxaca in the Isthmus of Tehuantepec Wind Tunnel in the following way: 78% will be invested in purchasing wind turbines, 14% in the electrical system, 6% in civil work and 2% in other spending. (Zenteno Eduardo, 2009)

The scale is that of an energy megaproject. The Isthmus of Tehuantepec is a natural funnel that accelerates the wind southward at 15–22 mph and always done so. Yet, it has only been recently that commercial projects have been tendered and constructed; wind energy accounts for less than 2% of electricity production in Mexico. But this status will change soon. Mexico’s Energy Secretary Georgina Kessel is planning on a series of wind projects that by 2012 should generate 2,500 MW of electricity and perhaps up to 5,000 MW. Most of that capacity is intended for the Isthmus. The Spanish company Iberdrola Renovables recently won a contract for La Venta III, a 102.85 MW wind farm, which will be Mexico’s first wind generation independent power producer project. It includes a 20-year contract to supply energy to the Mexican Electricity Commission (CFE). It is under construction and slated to come on stream in November 2010. The 21 turbines will be smaller than those proposed on the Isle of Lewis. Instead of 3.8 MW turbines, those intended for Oaxaca will by 850 kW. Instead of 140 m (459 ft) in height, they will be 44 m (144 ft). And instead of a completely new energy-generating scheme, they will be added to those of the earlier developments, La Venta I and La Venta II. Iberdrola was the company that installed the 98 turbines that make up the 83 MW La Venta II project, commissioned in January 2009.

27

The Next Generation of Energy Landscapes

475

In January 2009 President Felipe Calderon announced another large project for the same vicinity that will cover 2,533 ha (6,180 acres), a $550 million enterprise. It will be rated at 250 MW, with 157 turbines, 25 of which are already operating. The rest should be on line by the end of 2009, making the project the largest of its kind in Latin America. In all, there are 20 projects already in operation or in tender for operation by 2012, with the total generating capacity to be reached by then of 2,579 MW, roughly equivalent to all the wind generating capacity in California, which has been developing its wind potential since the mid-1980s (Table 27.1). If the current turbine size is maintained throughout this initial program of installation, over 3,000 turbines will poke out of the landscape, changing it from strictly agrarian to a predominately industrial. The development of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec will rise to the status of an energy megaproject. Some of the same geographical characteristics of the Isthmus that make it ideal of wind power today have made it appealing for other projects as well. That is, the Isthmus is the lowest and shortest route between the Gulf of Mexico and the Pacific Ocean. So convenient is the Isthmus that it for centuries it has been important for transportation, commerce, human movement, and settlement. This long history of occupation has helped facilitate a close association of the people with the land (O’Connor & Kroefges, 2008). The attractive areas for wind farms are located near appropriately-named La Venta, within the larger municipality of Juchitán. The city itself was founded in 1486 and has a long history of political disquiet. There was a revolt there in 1834, interrupted by the Mexican-American War in 1847. In 1866 the people of Juchitán defeated the French. Porfirio Diaz, later a dictator of Mexico, populated his army mostly with citizens from Juchitán. In 1910 other members of the town organized in support of the revolutionaries Villa and Zapata. More recently, Juchitán is the seat of COCEI, an influential popular movement that matured in the 1970s combining socialists, peasants, students and indigenous groups. In 1980 it became famous for electing a left-wing, pro-socialist municipal government, the first Mexican community to do so in the 20th century. In February 2001 Juchitán received the caravan of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation. Today the city is home to about 75,000 citizens, mostly Zapotecs and Huaves. Table 27.1 The total of installed and announced wind development projects in coastal Oaxaca by 2012. The total capacity is comparable to that installed in California by Jan 31, 2009, over a period of 35 years

Capacidad total

MW

Autoabastecimiento CFE (Instalado) CFE (IPP en licitación) CFE (Oaxaca I, II, III y IV) TOTAL

1,986.95 85.50 101.00 405.60 2,579.00

Source: Fernando Mimiaga, Corredor Eólico del Istmo de Tehuantepec: Proyecto de Gran Visión Ejemplo En México y América Latina. 26 y 27 de marzo de 2009, Huatulco, Oax. http://www.windexpo.org/conferencias/Sesion7/Fernando_ Mimiaga.pdf. Accessed June 3, 2009

476

M.J. Pasqualetti

The tendency for citizen activism in the area has evolved into clashes that have become increasingly common between locals and the federal government over national plans to develop wind megaprojects. Among the claims is that local residents are receiving a meager amount to lease the land to the wind developers, especially when compared to condition in the U.S. In the U.S. each turbine returns to the land owner between $3000 and $5000 per year. In Oaxaca the amount is more like $125 per ha/year for a single turbine (Sanchez, 2007). Others estimates of the compensation have been $98–$117 per ha (Karen Trejo, 2008). An official from the CFE claims that the payment is more like 6,000 pesos (about $450) per year (Fernando Mimiaga Director, Dirección de Energía Sustentable Proyectos Estratégicos, personal communication, June 7, 2009, Juchitán, Oaxaca). The alleged inequity from the modest development is already in place and is one of the principal reasons for the formation of opposition organizations such as the Gruppo Solidario de la Venta (Girón Carrasco, 2007). Disgruntled locals believe they are not being treated fairly, a sentiment that would seem destined to grow as wind development spreads and intensifies according to plan. Already, there are questions. One of the present questions is why local communities are not benefitting from projects that are being constructed on community held lands. As the National Wind Watch phrases the impasse: The growing resistance to wind farm construction in southern Oaxaca. . .is based on local landowners’ negative negotiating experiences with the CFE, discomfort with the broad freedoms seemingly granted to multinational corporations and an increasing concern about the possible environmental consequences of the wind farms themselves. . .. (Sanchez, 2007)

Such views have taken on tangible form, including barricading of roads leading to the wind sites, and protesters holding anti-wind banners. There have been incidents of rock throwing, accompanied by some minor injuries. A local leftist farm group known as the Assembly in Defense of Land has complained about the treatment received by the local, saying: “They promise progress and jobs, and talk about millions in investment in clean energy from the winds that blow through our region, but the investments will only benefit businessmen, all the technology will be imported. . .and the power won’t be for local inhabitants.” The group is calling on supporters to “defend the land we inherited from our ancestors” (Stevenson, 2009). They have put out the call for everyone to say: “No to the wind energy megaproject in the isthmus that desecrates our lands and cultural heritage” (Assembly in Defense of Land and Territory, 2008). In an attempt to grasp at any possible legitimate objection to the wind developments, local opposition has also complained about the potential harm of the turbines to birds. Being the narrowest stretch in Mexico, the region is heavily used by migrating birds. There have been some plans suggested that would have the operators brake the spinning turbines when large flocks of bird approached, although nothing along these lines has been finalized. Despite objections, internet articles, worries about birds, and protests, nothing has yet threatened the expansion of the wind projects. On the contrary, the projects

27

The Next Generation of Energy Landscapes

477

are proceeding without delay, while the developers, along with the CFE, claim that anti-wind protests have been minor, misguided, and inconsequential (Fernando Mimiaga Director, Dirección de Energía Sustentable Proyectos Estratégicos, personal communication, June 7, 2009, Juchitán, Oaxaca). Yet, for those in the wind industry who follow such resistance, even if the negative reactions around La Venta area include relatively small numbers, they can, as has been demonstrated by the successful campaign against the Isle of Lewis proposal, pose significant obstacles to further wind megaprojects. Regardless of the outcome from public concern over wind projects, to some they will only ever be a partial solution to our alternative energy needs. They point to an array of other alternatives that are available, particularly various solar options, as the eventual dominant alternative energy form. Ultimately, most futurists look to a time when our lives are powered by direct use of the sun, both to provide hot water and to make electricity (Jha, 2009). There are many ways to collect solar energy for our use, but whatever form a solar revolution may take, the early years will likely stress megaprojects. It is an inevitable development. While, logically, solar energy should evolve into a dominantly distributed deployment, the earliest stages will be in the form of large-scale projects that fit most amenably into the existing large centralized model of most utility companies. The amount of land that such centralized solar plants will take is one of the most common complaints about the resource. Yet, proponents like to drive home the huge potential contribution from solar energy by pointing out that even at present conversion efficiencies, photovoltaic cells covering less than 10% of Arizona could supply all the electrical needs of the U.S. Of course, such a claim, while technically accurate, ignores a host of practical matters such as distribution. It does, however, provide a sense of how much solar energy is available. Much of southwestern U.S. and northwestern Mexico receive in excess of 7 kWh/m2 /day, values that are equaled or exceeded across most of the low-latitude deserts on the planet. These can be tempting values to solar energy developers. The U.S. Department of Energy estimates that about 8,000,000 MW could be developed just on land that has no primary use today. In 2002 Congress asked the Department of Energy to fill a goal of 1,000 MW of solar thermal in the southwestern U.S. In June 2004, the Western’s Governor’s Association resolved to diversify their energy resources by developing 30,000 MW of “clean” energy in the West. According to the ensuing report of the Solar Energy Task Force, as much as 8,000 megawatts of capacity could be installed with a combination of distributed solar electricity systems and central concentrating solar power (CSP) plants, while another 2,000 MW (thermal) of solar hot water would be realistically available (WGA, 2006). Such scaled projects would be ideal for local economic development. For example, installation of each 1,000 MW of Concentrating Solar Power generating facilities would create 7,000 new jobs.2 Were several of such projects erected, they would require large tracts of land. For example, for the 8,000,000 MW of potential identified in Arizona, Nevada,

478

M.J. Pasqualetti

California, and New Mexico, deployment would require a land area of about 157,990 km2 (61,000 mi2 ). This area, which is one and one half the size of Pennsylvania, includes only land for which there is no primary use today, largely federally owned. Of course, not all of the area involved in such proposed projects should be considered part of near-term projects, but it will not take long for such number to be reached. The California deserts offer a convenient and useful measure of the growing interest in large-scale solar projects, including the growing land requirements that would ensue. As of March 2009, 71 solar thermal projects were received by the Bureau of Land Management in California. They would cover an area of 258,372 ha (638,452 acres) (BLM, 2009). These projects, were they all constructed as proposed, would produce a total generating capacity of about 48,000 MW. This is in addition to about 350 MW already built and operating in California (Fig. 27.10),3 a capacity that is about one-third that of a typical nuclear reactor.4 In addition, 800 MW of photovoltaics (PV) have been announced, a capacity that is expected to greatly increase once costs for electricity generated by PVs is more competitive with other solar options. When people think of solar power as the “ultimate” renewable energy resource, they often do not anticipate public opposition to its deployment. They see solar as being unlimited, absent of both greenhouses gas and long-term wastes, needing no cooling water and producing no noise. Nevertheless, all is not calm on the solar

Fig. 27.10 SEGS (Solar Energy Generating Plant) at Kramer junction, west of Barstow, California. These installations are concentrating solar power facilities, using parabolic trough with single-axis tracking. They occupy a low-priority patch of land. Source: Wikipedia Commons. http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/44/Solarplant-050406-04.jpg

27

The Next Generation of Energy Landscapes

479

front. As one example of this resistance, for years Home Owners’ Associations have stymied the installation of roof-top solar equipment on aesthetic grounds. But it is not just objections from private citizens that are confounding solar energy developers. Most recently, U.S. Senators have been building barriers too. Most notable in this regard is the action by the senior Senator from California, Diane Feinstein. Sen. Feinstein seeks to block solar power from 500,000 acres (202,350 ha) of the Mojave Desert because such development, she says, threatens desert species and is contrary to the intent of those who had donated the land for purposes of conversation. She is proposing the area as a national monument, which would block future development (Freking, 2009). It is significant to note that she is not attempting to block an individual solar proposal, but a large number of them. This example illustrates why a future with solar power must be considered in terms of any megaproject; while solar developments may be scalable from small size to thousands of megawatts, the feasibility of meaningful solar energy assumes megaprojects; the success or failure of each project, at any scale, will influence the future of a solar energy future.

27.6 Discussion The 6.5 billion people on our planet collectively require about 18 terawatt hours of energy per year, a number that will continue to grow along with the increasing demand from burgeoning economies in China, India, Brazil, and elsewhere. Improvements in energy efficiency so far have helpfully retarded the rate of growth, especially in the OECD countries. Inevitably, however, we will run short of opportunities for meaningful improvements in energy efficiency and we must prepare new approaches to satisfy our energy needs. Because the demand for energy is rising so quickly, many governments and intergovernmental agencies are looking to megaprojects to rescue us from our own appetite. For energy liquids, some are looking to the oil sands of Alberta and the oil shale of the Intermountain West, despite the environmental havoc such developments are sure to bring. For electricity, hopes are centering on wind and especially solar as a way to skirt the more egregious drawbacks that large fossil projects produce on existing land use and ways of life. How can we reconcile our need for energy and the problems energy provision produces? How can we supply the energy we need in a form we need but in a manner that does not produce irreversible harm to the physical and social environment in which we live? Will there continue to be an expansion in the scale of energy megaprojects such as has transpired over the past 100 years? Coal mining, for example, has moved from shallow pits to mountain top removal. Will the future bring more of the same, or will the trend for larger and larger solutions abate? Have we gone as far as we should go? I argue, and it is an admittedly self-evident declaration, that the world cannot simultaneously support the continued rise of population and the lock-step growth of energy supply to support it, at least not at the same pace and in the same forms as in the past. Such a scenario is clearly not sustainable. Put another way, for reasons

480

M.J. Pasqualetti

of sheer logic, energy megaprojects must be considered a dying model if we are to slip relatively unscathed into the future. We need to hold ourselves back from traveling on the same path. Such change of habit will not be easy and it will perhaps not happen quickly as it should, but there are two changes that would ameliorate the costs to our planet and to ourselves. First, as I have argued elsewhere in some detail, we must accept that megaprojects, like oil sand development in Alberta, cannot be considered a suitable answer to our energy needs (Pasqualetti, 2009). The costs – to air, land, and water are too high – whether we are considering the natural environment or its residents. Nor, for even more compelling reasons, should we be looking to oil shale development in the Intermountain West for our salvation. Caution over these particular resources, moreover, should be extended to other energy megaprojects that struggle to pass a “sustainability test”. That means that we must wean ourselves from coal, oil, uranium, and even natural gas (especially coal-bed methane). Megaprojects involving these resources have unacceptable environmental impacts and unaccountable social costs that are largely irreversible and hazardous, and that at best defy the elemental principles of sustainability. Taking steps toward further large-scale development of these types of energy development will move us in the wrong direction. Second, we should accelerate development of wind and solar power. In the early stages, as we have seen, developments are likely to be large, but this is not necessarily bad. Moreover, they need not always be so, especially for solar power, which is a naturally distributed asset. While the use of solar energy, in all its many forms, is unlikely to become the entire near-term solution, the more we strive for its widespread deployment, the more sensible and surefooted our future energy supply will appear. From a long look at history, we find that the farther we go in our development of energy, the larger the projects have become. There are several reasons for this trend, many of them financial and geopolitical. But it is not the spatial scale of the energy projects that is the inherent problem, but the resource and the processes we employ to make them available for our use. Were we to choose the path toward gentle resources such as the sun and wind over paths toward more intense resource such as coal and uranium, we would be moving in the right direction. And we would neither poison ourselves nor risk global instability in the process. That is the choice before us as we begin moving toward the next generation of energy megaprojects.

Notes 1. Noise mimicking the report of guns deters birds from landing on the water. 2. Based on the University of Nevada, Las Vegas Center for Business and Economic Research study on the potential impact of constructing and operating solar power generation facilities in Nevada. http://www.nrel.gov/docs/fy04osti/35037.pdf. Accessed May 27, 2009. 3. Prior to the Renewable Portfolio Standards in 2002, 13 solar thermal power projects were planned in California, with 11 of those filing applications with the Energy Commission. Nine projects (Solar Energy Generating Station – SEGS I to IX), totaling 354 MW, were built. SEGS III to IX are owned by NextEra Energy Resources (formerly FPL Energy) and SEGS I and II

27

The Next Generation of Energy Landscapes

481

are owned by Cogentrix Solar Services – a wholly owned subsidiary of Cogentrix Energy LLC (Charlotte, NC), which purchased former owner Sunray Energy Inc. in early 2009. 4. A note of clarification is useful here as to the number of solar proposals that have been submitted. There is no master list, but it is well over 100. The Bureau of Land Management lists 71 applications that have been submitted to BLM. The California Energy Commission lists other solar proposals that have filed for an Application for Certification (AFC). Many of the BLM applications have not submitted an AFC to the CEC. The CEC has jurisdiction only over solar thermal projects greater than 50 MW. There are many BLM applications that are photovoltaic that CEC has no jurisdiction over. There are also some AFCs with the CEC that are on private land where BLM has no jurisdiction. Therefore, there are many applications that CEC will not have listed that BLM does, and some applications the CEC has listed that BLM does not.

References ACR [Alberta Chamber of Resources]. (2004). Oil sands technology roadmap: Unlocking the potential. Edmonton, AB: Alberta Chamber of Resources. [www.acr-alberta.com/ OSTR_report.pdf]. Asgarpour, S. (2004). Opportunities and challenges of oil sands development. Paper presented at the Fort McMurray Oil Sands Conference, 9 September, National Energy Board, Fort McMurray. Assembly in Defense of Land and Territory. (2008). From a letter from the posted by Asamblea en Defensa de la Tierra y el Territorio (Assembly in Defense of Land and Territory). Retrieved June 2, 2009, from http://www.anarkismo.net/article/9779 BBC News America. (2008). Massive Wind Farm ‘turned down’. Retrieved May 26, 2009, from http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/scotland/highlands_and_islands/7208991.stm BLM (U.S. Bureau of Land Management). (2009). The BLM Perspective: The Bureau of Land Management’s Solar Programmatic Environmental Impact Statement and Renewable Energy Applications Status. Retrieved May 31, 2009, from http://www.energy.ca.gov/ 33by2020/documents/2009-03-17_meeting/presentations/BLM_The_BLM_Perspective.pdf Bunger, J. W., Crawford, P. M., & Johnson, H. R. (2004). Is oil shale America’s answer to peak oil challenge? Oil and Gas Journal, August 9, 2004. Retrieved May 25, 2009, from http://www.fossil.energy.gov/programs/reserves/publications/Pubs-NPR/40010-373.pdf Carroll, J. (2009) Oil shale operations would emit tons of CO2 . Retrieved May 25, 2009, from http://www.rockymountainnews.com/drmn/energy/article/0,2777,DRMN_23914_5726152,00. html Clifford, H. (2002). Colorado oil shale gets a second look. High Country News, March 4, 2002. Retrieved June 18, 2009, from http://www.hcn.org/issues/221/11056 DOE (U.S. Department of Energy). (2009). Office of Petroleum Reserves – Strategic Unconventional Fuels. Fact Sheet: Oil Shale Water Resources. Retrieved May 27, 2009, from http://www.fossil.energy.gov/programs/reserves/npr/Oil_Shale_Water_Requirements.pdf Freking, Kevin. Feinstein Seeks To Block Solar Power From California Desert Land, The Huffington Post. March 21, 2009. Retrieved May 31, 2009, from http://www.huffingtonpost. com/2009/03/21/feinstein-seeks-to-block-_n_177646.html Girón Carrasco, A. (2007). Carta del grupo solidario la venta a Dr. Rodolfo Stavenhagen. Retrieved June 3, 2009, from http://oaxacalibre.org/oaxlibre/index.php?option=com_ content&task=view&id=502&Itemid=64 Gray, F. Wind farm threat looms over ancient Lewis stones. Retrieved May 26 b2009, from http://business.scotsman.com/alternativeenergysources/Wind-farm-threat-looms-over. 5142997.jp Accessed May 20, 2009. Griffiths, M., Taylor, A., & Woynillowicz, D. (2006). Troubled water, troubling trends: Technology and policy options to reduce water use in oil and oil sands development in Alberta. Drayton Valley, Alta: Pembina Institute. Retrieved February 25, 2009, from http://pubs.pembina.org/reports/TroubledW_Full.pdf

482

M.J. Pasqualetti

IEE (Institute for Energy Research). (2009). Retrieved May 25, 2009, from http://www. instituteforenergyresearch.org/energy-overview/oil-shale/ Ittmann, N. (2005). Urgent Petition to Save Isle of Lewis from Massive Windfarm Development. Retrieved May 26, 2009, from http://www.gopetition.com/online/7650.html Jha, A. (2009). Concentrated solar power could generate ‘quarter of world’s energy’, The Guardian, May 26, 2009. Retrieved May 31,2009, from http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/ 2009/may/26/solarpower-renewableenergy Karen Trejo (2008). Wind parks take over indigenous lands. Latinamerica Press. Retrieved July 15, 2010, from http://www.lapress.org/articles.asp?art=5683 Krim, A. (2003). Fort McMurray: Future city of the far north. Geographical Review, 93(2), 258–266. Lewis Wind Farm. (2009). Retrieved May 26, 2009, from http://www.lewiswind.com/ O’Connor, L., & Kroefges, P. C. (2008). The land remembers: landscape terms and place names in Lowland Chontal of Oaxaca, Mexico. Language Sciences, 30, 291–315. Pasqualetti, M. J. (2001). Wind energy landscapes: Society and technology in the California desert. Society and Natural Resources, 14(8), 689–699. Pasqualetti, M. J. (2002). Accommodating wind power in a hostile landscape. In M. J. Pasqualetti, et al. (Eds.), Wind power in view: Energy landscapes in a crowded world (pp. 153–171). San Diego Academic Press. Pasqualetti, M. J. (2009). The Alberta oil sands from both sides of the border. Geographical Review, 99(2), 248–267. Preneal. Retrieved June 4, 2009, from http://www.preneal.es/contenido.asp?seccion=1 &subseccion=8 RAND Corporation. (2005). Gauging the Prospects of a U. S. Oil Shale Industry. Retrieved May 26, 2009, from http://www.rand.org/pubs/research_briefs/RB9143/index1.html Reguly, E. (2005). Oil Sands Mother Lode Could Doom Gas Reserves. Globe and Mail [Toronto], 28 May. Retrieved January 21 (2009), from http://cawthra-bush.org/ NEW_URBAN_DEVELOPMENT/G&M_May_28-05_Oil_sands_mother_lode_could_doom_ gas_reserves.html Sanchez, S. (2007). Grassroots Resistance: Contesting Wind Mill construction in Oaxaca, National Wind Watch, November 8, 2007. Retrieved June 2, 2009, from http://www. wind-watch.org/news/2007/11/08/grassroots-resistance-contesting-wind-mill-construction-inoaxaca/ Stephenson-Halliday. (2009). Retrieved May 26, 2009, from http://www.stephenson-halliday. com/portfolio/energy5.html Stevenson, M. (2009). Mexico Fires up $550 Million Wind Farm. Retrieved May 28, 2009, from http://www.usatoday.com/money/industries/energy/2009-01-22-laventosa_N.htm WGA (Western Governors’ Association). (2006). Clean Energy, a Strong Economy, and a Healthy Environment. Retrieved June 21, 2009, from http://www.westgov.org/ wga/meetings/am2006/CDEAC06.pdf Whitcomb, R., & Williams, W. (2007). Cape wind: Money, celebrity, energy, class, politics, and the battle for our energy future. Cambridge, MA: Public Affairs Woynillowicz, D., & Severson-Baker, C. (2006). Down to the Last Drop: The Athabasca River and Oil Sands. Oil Sands Issue Paper No. 1. Calgary, Alberta: Pembina Institute. Retrieved May 20, 2009, from http://pubs.pembina.org/reports/LastDrop_Mar1606c.pdf Woynillowicz, D., Holroyd, P., & Dyer, S. (2007). Haste Makes Waste: The Need for a New Oil Sands Tenure Regime. Oil Sands Fever Series. Calgary, Alberta: Pembina Institute. Retrieved June 10, 2008, from http://pubs.pembina.org/reports/OS_Fact_SP_100_op.pdf Zenteno, E. (President of the Mexican Wind Energy Association). (2009). Retrieved June 5, 2009, from http://www.latinamericapress.org/articles.asp?art=5683. Accessed

Chapter 28

The Repercussions of Being Addicted to Oil: Geospatial Modeling of Supply Shocks Laurie Schintler, Rajendra Kulkarni, Tom Buckley, Emily Sciarillo, and Sean Gorman

28.1 Introduction Energy security is a growing concern for many nations around the world. According to the CIA Factbook, over 50% of the world’s oil reserves are in the hands of five nations: Saudi Arabia, Canada, Iran, Iraq and Kuwait. Natural gas is also highly concentrated, with Russia in control of the largest reserve. Political instability, attacks against energy infrastructure, attacks against transportation vessels, natural disasters and military aggressiveness in energy supplying countries can have profound global and local economic repercussions. Russia’s invasion of Georgia in 2008, as an example, wreaked havoc on oil prices and posed an economic threat to much of Europe and other parts of the world that depend on oil and natural gas from that region. Georgia is a key transshipment node in the movement of Caspian crude oil and natural gas to markets in Europe and beyond. The 1,109 mi (1,785 km) British Petroleum Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan (BTC) pipeline, one of the largest in the world, runs straight through Georgia and carries upwards of 1 million barrels of oil a day. The Russian attack on Georgia is a clear illustration of how geopolitical tensions can upset the energy market through a shock to oil prices and ultimately threaten regional economies. While there is a substantial and growing body of literature focused on the geopolitical nature of energy and the effect of supply shocks on oil prices, very little of this research addresses the geographic implications of supply disruptions resulting from terrorisms, military aggression or violence The massive infrastructure created to extract oil, refine oil, move oil, and convert it into energy is one of the largest in human history. Further this infrastructure has profoundly impacted the earth not only environmentally, but also as a source of conflict and often adverse economic impacts across a global society. Specifically, there is a lack of research that attempts to measure the extent to which nations are at risk of being adversely affected by supply disruptions and how L. Schintler (B) School of Public Policy, George Mason University, Fairfax, VA 22030, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_28,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

483

484

L. Schintler et al.

the effects vary geographically. While there are a handful of studies that do develop indices for measuring the oil dependence and vulnerability of a nation to supply disruptions, the application of these measures has been confined to limited geographies such as nations in South Asia (Center for Energy Economies, The University of Texas at Austin, 2008), APEC member countries (Asia Pacific Energy Research Center, 2007) and the OECD (Alhajji & Williams, 2003). This paper builds on this literature and develops a set of comprehensive measures of energy security, with a particular focus on the measurement of risk to nations of terrorism and other forms of violence in energy-producing countries, along critical transshipment points or against infrastructure. Since the discovery of oil a valuable national commodity the infrastructure it is dependent on has been a target of both nation state and rogue actors as well as impacted by natural disasters. The results of these actions have often had very adverse impacts on society, economically, and the earth, environmentally. The indices developed in this paper are applied to 63 nations in the world and will specifically focus on societal economic impacts. Following this Introduction, Section 28.2 provides an overview of the literature that looks at the effects of geopolitical events or terrorism on the energy market and the geographic dimensions of the problem. In Section 28.3, we describe the indices that are used in this paper to measure the geospatial risk of a supply shock and the results of the analysis. The paper ends with some conclusions and policy recommendations.

28.2 The Geopolitics of Oil: An Overview of the Literature Economic research into oil price shocks is primarily concerned with the question: how much do these shocks affect the performance of the macroeconomy? On the one hand James Hamilton has made a well established argument for the tendency of oil price shocks to precede recessions and slowdowns in the US economy (Hamilton, 1983). On the other hand, individuals have argued that it is not clear that oil price shocks are such a significant precursor to recessions (Barsky & Kilian, 2002; Blanchard & Gali, 2007). One of the problems with asking the question “do oil price shocks cause recessions?” is figuring out the direction of causation, that is, are oil prices exogenous to macroeconomic conditions to begin with? Of the many ways to talk about the absolute and relative levels of oil prices, one is to describe the conditions of the supply and demand for oil a-spatially. Economists have found that the elasticity of demand for oil with respect to its price is historically low (from 0.1—Short Run—to 0.3—Long Run), and has been decreasing according to recent data (Hamilton 2008). Increasingly, consumers of oil are becoming less responsive to changes in price. Changes in the supply of oil, therefore, have a greater effect on the price of oil than on the quantity produced (Lippi & Nobili, 2008). The importance of this point can be understood with respect to the volatility of oil supply. The ability and cost of supplying oil is subject to natural disasters, wars and political forces, including terrorism. With a decreasing elasticity of demand for

28

The Repercussions of Being Addicted to Oil

485

oil, one should expect to see the volatility of oil supply situations play out more dramatically in the price of crude oil. Of course, the supply and kind of oil varies across countries and space, meaning that the cost of extracting and refining oil varies across nations. However, in general, the final price of oil is a global one. So whether it costs 3 times as much to extract oil in the US as it does in Saudi Arabia, oil is generally sold for the same price around the globe. Political particularities, such as the longtime US subsidy of gasoline, will of course vary from country to country. But in general, if it costs $10 per barrel in Saudi Arabia and $20 in the US, and the maximum price at which oil is demanded is $15, then oil production will not take place in the US. On the other hand, should a terrorist incident in Saudi Arabia raise the price of production to $12 then a profit can still be had and one can assume that production will continue in Saudi Arabia. The implications of this point are that, should terrorism increase the cost of supplying to producers in one particular area, the effects on the global price of oil are dependent on the costs which that area faces in production relative to global demand and other suppliers’ costs. Much of the world’s supply of crude oil comes from nations rather than singular private suppliers. Take, for example, ExxonMobil, which accounted for only about 3% of global oil production in 2007. The OPEC-10 countries (Algeria, Indonesia, Iran, Kuwait, Libya, Nigeria, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, United Arab Emirates, and Venezuela) were responsible for 37.5% of the world’s output in 2007. Of these countries, Saudi Arabia’s output accounted for about one-third. Given their quasimonopolist position in the market, it is instructive to understand them as setting their price with respect to demand elasticity. Hamilton estimates that, given estimates for demand elasticity, we might expect Saudi Arabia to markup the price of its crude oil 1.86 times the cost of extracting it (Hamilton, 2008). The production decisions of the other OPEC countries seem to be largely political, with some historically producing above and some below their agreed quotas. As one author puts it, Producers within importing countries have an incentive to undermine international negotiations. Whilst there is an incentive for both consumers and the cartel to negotiate international supply agreements, there remains the incentive for producers to break their agreements subsequently, causing mistrust and potential conflict. (Newbery, 1981)

As an exercise in understanding the mechanisms by which oil prices are determined, Hamilton asks the question: what caused the high oil prices in the summer of 2008? He concludes that high oil prices were cause by Commodity price speculation, strong world demand, time delays or geological limitations on increasing production, OPEC monopoly pricing, and increasingly important contribution of the scarcity rent. (Hamilton, 2008)

It is not any one of these things which cause high oil prices, but their interaction. Take, for example, the case of speculators bidding up the price of oil futures. The speculators’ ability to turn a profit depends on the price elasticity of demand for oil, as well as on the inability of producers to radically increase production. What’s

486

L. Schintler et al.

more, countries like Saudi Arabia may have found that as speculation happens, they can increase their revenue by cutting back on supply. The colossal investment made by oil producing nations in infrastructure—extraction, refining and transportation— provides the economic mechanisms to control supply of oil to the market and allowing strong influence on global oil pricing. It is well known that oil-producing countries often act as political entities, limiting and allowing the production of oil for both political and monopolistic reasons. Research into the strategic behavior of countries and oil groups such as OPEC with respect to the price of oil is well-developed, although the behavior of these groups is obviously determined by demand and supply conditions. That is, any one of the political entities which produces oil not only determines the price of oil, but may react to it. Even OPEC decisions, which are widely understood as independent of the price of oil, are quite possibly determined by it (Barsky & Kilian, 2002: 125). In general, major shocks in oil prices are not always related to exogenous political events (Barsky & Kilian, 2002: 125). For example, the price increase between March 1999 and November 2000 was not accompanied by military conflicts. Furthermore, oil prices fell after November 2000 as international conflicts increased. Some argue that this time period saw exogenous political events in the form of OPEC market engineering—where OPEC uses the collective infrastructure of their member to control supply to market providing de facto control of prices. However, Barsky and Kilian (2002) argue that OPEC decisions are not in fact exogenous and do respond to market conditions. As political events, other have hypothesized that terrorist attacks are not responsive to market conditions. It is conceivable to imagine that they are exogenous to oil prices and market conditions and that their effect on prices can be considered isolated from other factors. In an unpublished paper, one pair of authors attempts to use terrorist attacks as an instrumental variable because of the conceivability of their being exogenous (Chen, Graham, & Oswald, 2008). While this paper does not concern itself with a largely econometric debate, the conclusion is that . . .terrorist incidents, when combined with a lagged level of oil prices, can explain approximately one quarter of the variation in the price of petroleum. (Chen et al., 2008: 15)

Given the importance of terrorist events in determining the increasingly volatile price of oil, how might we approach the problem of identifying exactly how a terrorist attack relates to the final price of oil? Chen and Graham look at the effect that a terrorist attack has on the costs to producers. Yet another approach is to ask if the market speculates about the effect of terrorist events on the price of oil. In the latter question, speculation is difficult to disentangle from the market as a whole. One specific example of how violence can affect the price of oil is the case of armed conflict in Columbia. Dunning and Wirpsa (2004) demonstrate that attacks on pipelines in 2001, along with other factors, led to a reduction in production of 25% (from 800,000 to 600,000) in 1999. Guerrillas in Colombia have dynamited pipelines more than 1,000 times since 1991. They estimate that the Cano LimonCovenas pipeline lost almost $1 billion worth of crude oil between 1990 and 1995.

28

The Repercussions of Being Addicted to Oil

487

Pipelines in Columbia are also vulnerable to siphoning of gasoline. To protect their facilities, companies must spend money for protection or buy off threatening organizations. While it may be difficult, as we have noted, to specify the mechanisms by which such increases in cost affect the final price of crude oil, it is very likely that a quick cut in supply will increase the cost of production locally. In the long run, we might expect production to shift locations strategically; but in the short run fixed costs may mean an increase in prices. Oil must be locally extracted and then physically transported before it can reach the theoretically global market in which it is finally sold. As Dunning and Wirpsa put it, . . .oil is vehemently and simultaneously local, regional, national, and global. It is characteristically ‘fixed’; therefore, extraction must occur at the specific focal point of its location. This means the exploitation of oil has particular consequences for the security of the communities and territories in which it is embedded. Control of oil, however, requires the infrastructure, security and technology to convert it into an asset transportable over and through broad and complex regional, national, and transnational-national geographic space, usually across national borders. (Dunning & Wirpsa, 2004: 82)

This situation creates a significant driver for investment in megaengineering projects because it results in both economic and military power, and makes control of the infrastructure a national priority across the globe. Because of its physical characteristics, the supply of crude oil is perhaps most vulnerable to an interruption by terrorist attack during transportation. For example, in the Persian Gulf 88% of the oil is exported through the Straits of Hormuz by tanker (Billon & Khatib, 2004) (Fig. 28.1). Another possible mechanism by which terrorist attacks may affect crude oil price is via information about oil price events and terrorism that is communicated, received, understood, and analyzed. For example, one might examine the effect of

Fig. 28.1 Major oil pipelines and terrorist attacks

488

L. Schintler et al.

targeted terrorist attacks on price via speculation and look at where the producer is based. When considering the effect of terrorist events on the price of oil one might hypothesize that speculation could be one mechanism by which prices are affected. The literature on the effect of news stories on stock markets shows that stock markets tend to overreact to news events. In general, the effects of an event should be taken into account in terms of how people revise their expectations afterward (Niederhoffer, 1971). In the case of crude oil prices, this would mean that if a significant supply disruption was expected, manifestations of this in the market might include people storing oil or bidding up the future price of it. In general, stock markets overreact to dramatic and unexpected events. Also, a “losers” stock portfolio will typically experience very large January returns as much as three to five years after the formation of the portfolio. (De Bondt & Thaler, 1985) That is, a portfolio of stocks which has experienced negative news will experience a short run fall in their prices, but the effects do not seem to last into the long run. We may expect that the price of crude oil will have a similar relationship to the “bad news” of terrorist events. The mechanisms through which investors speculate about the price of oil may also be important. For example, shorting oil may be more expensive than buying it (Chan, 2003). If so, could this explain stronger reactions to negative news in oil prices relative to reactions to positive news? While the effects of terrorism and violence, and even speculation about such activities, can under certain circumstances have global ramifications, the impacts on individual nations vary tremendously. In large part, the potential for a country to be adversely impacted by a supply disruption or spike in the price of oil depends on its degree of energy security. Parry and Darmstadt (2004) define energy security as a set of conditions that protect the health of an economy against circumstances that threaten to substantially increase the costs of supplying and consuming energy. Generally, there are two factors that can affect the energy security of a nation. One is related to oil import vulnerability. Nations are more vulnerable if they rely heavily on oil imports from unstable regions, countries that control the market (e.g., OPEC) in terms of supply or access to resource or remote locations in which case there is a greater chance for sabotage involving the transshipment of oil. Shannon entropy has been used in the literature to measure oil import vulnerability and a variation of this that adjusts for the geostability of the exporting nations has also been developed (Hirschhausen & Neumann, 2003; Jansen, van Arkel, & Boots, 2004). However, just because a nation is vulnerable to a disruption does not mean that it has the potential to be negatively affected. Dependency on oil is another critical factor. Some of the ways in which a country’s dependence on oil can be measured include its reliance on oil imports to satisfy demand for the resource, oil consumption in relation to Gross Domestic Product (GDP), import share of product supplied, oil used per capita and degree of energy diversity, that is„ use of and access to alternative energies. For nations that do not have indigenous oil supply, the need to decrease oil dependency also drive megaengineering projects such as nuclear power, wind energy, solar energy, geothermal and hydroelectric. Shannon entropy is commonly used to measure energy diversity (see e.g., Center for Energy

28

The Repercussions of Being Addicted to Oil

489

Economies; The University of Texas at Austin, 2008; Asia Pacific Energy Research Center, 2007). In this paper, we draw upon some of the indices that have been introduced in the literature and measure the energy security of 63 nations in the world. The next section describes the composite indices we use to measure the two elements of energy security: oil import vulnerability and dependency on oil.

28.3 The Geospatial Risk of Oil Supply The import vulnerability of a nation is assumed to be a function of three factors: diversity of oil imports adjusted downward by the political instability of the exporting nations, the percent of imports that come from the top 10 producers, and share of imports that come from points outside of the region in which the nation is situated. Vulnerability is defined as a weighted function of the three components, as follows: Vi = w1 ∗ IDi + w2 ∗ TOP10i + w3 ∗ NLOCi

(28.1)

where, Vi is the import vulnerability of nation i, TOP10i , is the proportion of imports to nation i that come from the top 10 exporters in the world, NLOCi is the share of imports to nation i that come from outside of the region in which it is located and the w’s are weights that sum to unity. Equal weights were applied to Equation (28.1). According to the CIA World Fact Book, the top 10 oil exporters in bbl per day in 2008 were Saudi Arabia, Russia, Norway, the UAE, Iran, Canada, Mexico, Venezuela, Nigeria and Kuwait. The index, NLOC, is calculated based on the following definitions for regions: North America, South and Central America, Europe, Former Soviet Union, Africa, Asia, the Middle East and Australasia. Shannon-Weiner-Neumann entropy is used to capture the vulnerability of a nation to supply disruptions due to geopolitical factors. For each nation, we divide entropy by the natural logarithm of the total number of countries it imports from to arrive at an index that ranges between 0 and 1, where higher values indicate greater vulnerability. Specifically, the index is formulated as: IVi = IDi /Dmax

(28.2)

where, Dmax is the maximum entropy possible given the total number of exporting nations and IDi is the entropy diversity adjusted for the geo-stability of the exporting nations. It is represented as follows: IDi = −



pj (ln Pj ) cj

(28.3)

j=1

where Pj is the share of imports to nation i that come from country j and cj is a weight that reflects the stability of exporting country j. In this paper, we use

490

L. Schintler et al.

the World Bank’s Index of Political Stability and Absence of Violence/Terrorism, one of six indices they use to measure different aspects of governance (Kaufmann, Kraay, & Mastruzzi, 2008). The index ranges from 0 to 1, with higher values indicating greater stability. One of the challenges in measuring import vulnerability, based on Equation (28.2), is that up to date and detailed data on oil imports by country of origin are publicly available only for a select set of nations. It was, therefore, necessary to derive estimates of oil trade flows for the countries that we wanted to analyze. To do this, we first partition the region-to-region oil trade flows in thousands of barrels per day reported in the British Petroleum Statistical Review of World Energy (2008) country-to-country flows based on the shares of imports and exports from each of the nations for which had data. More specifically, for each importing country, the share of oil imports from each region were estimated using the share of imports to the region in which it is located and then those flows were further broken down by using the share of exports from each nation within the different export regions. For example, the imports for Ecuador by country of origin in the Middle East region were estimated by first taking the share of exports from the Middle East going into the South and Central America region. Then, secondly, the total exports going to Ecuador from the Middle East were further broken down by using information of the share of total exports for each country in the Middle East. Within-region flows were estimated through a similar method using the British Petroleum data. Oil dependency is assumed to be a function of three factors: net oil imports to oil consumption (bbl a day), oil consumption in relation to Gross Domestic Product, and two indicators of energy diversity. Similar to oil import diversity, dependency on oil is formulated as a weighted function of each of the factors as follows: DEPi = w4 ∗ ICi + w5 ∗ OGDPi + w6

∗

EDIVi

(28.4)

where, the w’s are weights that add to unity, ICi is country i’s net imports of oil to consumption, OGDPi represents a nation’s consumption of oil in relation to its Gross Domestic Product and EDIVi is a Composite Index of Energy Diversity for nation i. The OGDP index was normalized using the high and low values in the series, such that it was confined to a range of 0 to 1. The index of energy diversity is as follows: EDIVi = w7 ∗ ODi + w8 ∗ EDi

(28.5)

where, the w’s are weights that sum to unity, ODi is oil demand in relation to demand for all energy types and EDi is index of energy diversity based on Shannon’s entropy, given by: EDi = 1 − (ESDi )/(ESDmax )

(28.6)

28

The Repercussions of Being Addicted to Oil

ESDi =

k 

491

Ek ln Ek

(28.7)

k=1

where, ESDi is a Shannon entropy index of energy diversity, ESDmax is the maximum value for the entropy based on total number of energy types k and Ek is the share of energy demand in country i for energy type k. We divide through by the maximum value possible for the entropy given k and then subtract the value from one to arrive at an index that ranges between 0 an1 where larger values indicate less diversity. The energy types we use to calculate the index include oil, natural gas, nuclear energy and hydroelectricity and the shares for each are based on the consumption figures reported in the British Petroleum Statistical Review of World Energy (2008). These data are is in terms of millions of oil equivalent. Other data used to calculate the oil dependency include oil imports and consumption in bbl’s per day from the 2008 CIA Factbook (Central Intelligence Agency, 2009) and estimates from the IMF World Economic Outlook (2008) Gross Domestic Product in current United States dollars. Uniform weights were applied to Equation (28.4) and the two components of the energy diversity index (28.5) were also equally weighted.

28.4 Results of the Analysis The results of the analysis reveal that there is significant geographic variation in oil import vulnerability and oil import dependence, and for some of the factors that go into these two aspects of energy security, there are regional similarities. Figure 28.2 shows the vulnerability of nations to supply disruptions, based on the oil import vulnerability Equation (28.1). Countries that rank high in terms of vulnerability include Japan, China, Australia and New Zealand. The least vulnerable are a set of nations scattered in different parts of the world: Norway, Mexico, South Korea, Bangladesh, Philippines and Iceland. Qatar, Venezuela and Saudi Arabia were not included in the vulnerability analysis since they are countries that do not import oil. One region that depends heavily on imports from the top suppliers in the world is the Former Soviet Union. Other countries that fall into this category include Japan, China, and the United States. Those that are reliant more on marginal producers include Australia, New Zealand, Mexico, Norway and countries in Asia, excluding China, Singapore and Japan. It should be noted that some of the nations that rely heavily on oil from the export giants have, on the contrary, diverse sources of supply. This is based on Equation (28.3), absent the adjustment for the political instability of the source destinations. Two countries that fall into this category include United States and China. What is interesting is that when the stability of the suppliers is reflected in the measurement of diversity, the results change quite significantly. Figure 28.3 shows the percent reduction in import diversity when the potential for geopolitical tensions to disrupt supply are reflected in the index. China and the

492

L. Schintler et al.

Fig. 28.2 Oil import vulnerability

Fig. 28.3 Percent reduction in import diversity

United States have some of the largest reductions in diversity. Another interesting finding is that there appears to be some regional effects. Specifically, the largest percent reductions are in large parts of Asia, South America and North America. These regions are also the ones that are most vulnerable to supply disruptions resulting from terrorism, violence or military aggression. Vulnerabilities associated with the transportation of oil, reflected in the index NLOC, are highest in parts of Asia (Japan, China), much of the Former Soviet Union

28

The Repercussions of Being Addicted to Oil

493

and Canada. South America and Europe are the least vulnerable in terms of this index. The analysis reveals that the nations that are most dependent on oil, based on the factors that comprise Equation (28.4), are largely concentrated in Asia (Singapore, South Korea, Taiwan, Thailand and Philippines)—although, Belarus, Greece and Bangladesh also come out high in the rankings. Least dependent are nations in northern Europe (Norway, Denmark, United Kingdom), parts of South America (Columbia, Argentina), Canada, Mexico and Russia. Not surprising these are oil-exporting nations. These results are displayed in Fig. 28.4. The reasons for oil dependency vary considerably by nation and region. Most parts of Europe rely heavily on imports to satisfy consumption needs, that is, net imports to consumption is high for those countries. Neither are the nations of Europe economically dependent, based on oil consumption in relation to Gross Domestic Product. Countries that are economically dependent include some in the Middle East (Saudi Arabia, Egypt and Iran), others in the Former Soviet Union (Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan) and Singapore. The geographic patterns of energy diversity look quite different than those for economic dependence. Nations that consume a high share of oil in relation to the demand for all types of energy are scattered around the globe. Venezuela, Turkey, Italy, Indonesia, the United States and Peru are all highly oil-dependent according to these criteria. Venezuela, at the top of the list, consumes an amount of oil that is nearly 88% of the demand for all forms of energy. Nations that rank low in terms of this index include Norway, parts of Eastern Europe (Romania, Bulgaria) and areas in the Former Soviet Union (Uzbekistan, Ukraine, Russia). Energy diversity, based on the mix and balance of demand from multiple types of energy—oil, natural gas, coal, wind and hydroelectricity, is the worst in Singapore and some of the oil

Fig. 28.4 Dependency on oil

494

L. Schintler et al.

exporting countries: Ecuador, UAE, and Qatar. Those that are diverse according to the index include parts of Europe (Finland, Bulgaria, Romania, and Germany), but also Japan and the United States.

28.5 Conclusions Table 28.1 synthesizes the results of the analysis and sorts out nations based on how they rank in terms of oil import vulnerability and dependency on oil. More specifically, the table shows which nations ranked in the top 25% (high) and/or bottom 25% (low) for vulnerability and the same for oil dependency. We refer to these nations as energy security outliers. Nations that are at the greatest risk of being adversely affected by an oil supply disruptions are Japan and Ukraine. On the other hand, relatively immune nations include Norway and Mexico. While the vulnerability of a supply disruption is high for countries like Canada, Russia and Kazakhstan, a disruption is not likely to adversely affect their economies because they are not oildependent. Further, nations that are oil dependent, but not vulnerable, are less likely to be negatively impacted by supply shocks as a result of instability in an exporting nation. However, countries that fall into this category like Turkey and Portugal are not necessarily immune to global oil price shocks produced by violence, terrorism or military aggression. An understanding of this can help in anticipating where different geopolitical events will have their greatest impact and how the nature of the impact varies by country and region). This can provide a mechanism to see where disruption of oil infrastructure can have the greatest impact and also where investment into alternative energy megaengineering projects could reduce risk and vulnerability. Further insight is gained by the finding that import vulnerability and oil dependency suggest some evidence of regional clustering. In particular, the most vulnerable nations are concentrated largely in the Former Soviet Union and large parts of Asia and Europe are dependent on oil. There is also some clustering in Table 28.1 Energy security outliers

Dependency

Vulnerability

Low

High

Low

Mexico Norway

High

Kazakhstan Russia Canada

Turkey Portugal Switzerland Iceland Philippines South Korea Azerbaijan Ecuador Japan Ukraine

28

The Repercussions of Being Addicted to Oil

495

the case of the components that go into the two composite indices. Some of these include net imports to consumption, reliance on top exporters, energy diversity and import diversity adjusted for the political instability of exporters. Yet, some indicators do not show a spatial association and there are countries for each of the indices that may be viewed as spatial outliers, for example, the United States in terms of vulnerability. These findings have a couple of implications for the development and implementation policies intended to minimize the adverse effects on geopolitical tensions on the energy market and on regional economies. The results of the analysis suggest that for some nations coordinated regional approaches are needed to address energy security concerns. In particular, nations located in regions that are generally susceptible to supply shocks from geopolitical events could benefit from forming or strengthening regional partnerships aimed at reducing those vulnerabilities. Regional collaboration could be useful in negotiating with other countries to construct a new pipeline that would help in diversifying transportation routes and lessening the importance of oil transshipment choke points. In contrast to this, reducing a country’s dependence on foreign oil dictates more localized strategies, such as those that are targeted at increasing producing from domestic oil fields, maximizing refinery output and diversifying energy supply.

References Alhajji, A. F., & Williams, J. L. (2003). Measures of petroleum dependence and vulnerability in OECD countries. Middle East Economic Survey, 46, 16. Asia Pacific Energy Research Center. (2007). A quest for energy security in the 21st century: Resources and constraints. Retrieved February, 2009, from www.leej.or.jp/apec. Barsky, R. B., & Kilian, L. (2002). Oil and the macroeconomy since the 1970s. Journal of Economic Perspectives, 16(4), 115–134. Billon, P. L., & Khatib, F. E. (2004). From free oil to ‘freedom oil’: Terrorism, war and US geopolitics in the Persian Gulf. Geopolitics, 9(1), 109–137. Blanchard, O. J., & Gali, J. (2007). The macroeconomic effects of oil price shocks: Why are the 2000s so different from the 1970s? Centre for Economic Policy Research. Retrieved October, 2010, from http://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=1140560#. British Petroleum. (2008). BP statistical review of world energy. June 2008. Center for Energy Economics, The University of Texas at Austin. (2008). Energy Security Quarterly: USAID South Asia Regional Initiative for Energy (USAID SARI/ENERGY), Prepared for USAID/New Delhi, 386-C-00-07-00033-00. Central Intelligence Agency. (2009). The World Factbook. Available via U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. Retrieved October, 2010, from http://www.odci.gov/cia/publications/nsolo/wfball.htm. Chan, W. S. (2003). Stock price reaction to news and no-news: Drift and reversal after headlines. Journal of Financial Economics, 70(2), 223–260. Chen, N., Graham, L., & Oswald, A. J. (2008). Oil prices, profits, and recessions: An inquiry using terrorism as an instrumental variable (Unpublished manuscript). Warwick, UK: University of Warwick, Working Papers. DeBondt, W. F. M., & Thaler, R. H. (1985) Does the stock market overreact? Journal of Finance, 40(3), 793–895. Papers and Proceedings of the Forty-Third Annual Meeting American Finance Association, Dallas, Texas, December 28–30, 1984. Dunning, T., & Wirpsa, L. (2004). Oil and the political economy of conflict in Colombia and beyond: A linkages approach. Geopolitics, 9(1), 81–108.

496

L. Schintler et al.

Hamilton, J. D. (1983). Oil and the macroeconomy since World War II. Journal of Political Economy, 91(2), 228–248. Hamilton, J. D. (2008). Understanding crude oil prices. New York: National Bureau of Economic Research. Working Paper No. 14492; Retrieved October, 2008, from http://papers.nber.org/papers/w14492 Hirschhausen, D., & Neumann, A. (2003). Security of gas supply: Conceptual issues, contractual arrangements, and the current EU situation. Amsterdam: Presentation at the INDES (Insuring against Disruptions of Energy Supply) Workshop. International Monetary Fund. (2008). World economic outlook database. Retrieved October, 2010, from www.imf.org. Jansen, J. C., van Arkel, W. G., & Boots, M. G. (2004). Designing Indicators of long term energy supply security. Report to the Netherlands Environmental Assessment Agency. ECN-C-04-007. Petten, Netherlands. Kaufmann, D., Kraay, A., & Mastruzzi, M. (2008). GovernancemMatters VII: Aggregate and individual governance indicators, 1996–2007. Washington: World Bank. Policy Research Working Paper No. 4654. Lippi, F., & Nobili, A. (2008). Oil and the macroeconomy: A structural VAR analysis with sign restrictions. Center for Economic Policy Research Discussion Papers 6830. Retrieved October, 2010, from http://ideas.repec.org/p/cpr/ceprdp/6830.html Washington, DC. Newbery, D. (1981). Oil prices, cartels, and the problem of dynamic inconsistency. The Economic Journal, 91, 617–646. Niederhoffer, V. (1971). The analysis of world events and stock prices. Journal of Business, 44(2), 193–219. Parry, I. W. H., & Darmstadt, J. (2004). The costs of U.S. oil dependency. Washington, DC: National Commission on Energy. Paper Presented.

Chapter 29

Global Motor Vehicle Assembly: Nationalism, Economics, and Rationale Craig S. Campbell

29.1 Introduction In the provision of goods and services that make urban hierarchies regular in the developed world, motor vehicles have become necessary and they require huge amounts of space. Whether the focus is on highway and road networks, parking, or production, the influence of cars, trucks and other wheeled vehicles is everywhere, and their influence in the third world is nearly as prevalent. Much of the world, then, is mega-engineered for vehicular use. The goal of this chapter is to better understand the assembly of motor vehicles throughout the world and the space taken up by factories – as is discussed below, accumulating this information was not a straightforward task. There are several questions that arise when considering space and design needed for a vehicle plant. How many and what type of vehicle will be produced? What is the general skill level of the workers? How much of the vehicle is to be fabricated at the final plant? Will land be set aside for proving grounds of some type? What is the rationale for plant landscaping? How are the surrounding communities involved in a plant’s history and geography? What kinds of government programs dictate form and site? Will the plant make some kind of nationalistic or political statement? Many of these questions are addressed in this chapter.

29.2 Definitions and Finding Factories For this work, the term “motor vehicle” is defined as automobile, truck, bus or tractor. The project started as only automobile assembly plants, but it was found that plant characteristics were similar for many other vehicles. One or more type of vehicle could have been excluded depending on one’s philosophical stance, but in the end I could not rationalize and took a more inclusive route in analyzing vehicle C.S. Campbell (B) Department of Geography, Youngstown State University, Youngstown, OH 44555, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_29,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

497

498

C.S. Campbell

assembly. This also included specialty manufacturers of fire engines, recreational vehicles, and heavy duty wheeled or tracked military and construction machinery. I also started with a preconceived notion on the normal size of a plant in the United States (perhaps about 100 acres or 40 ha), but had to alter notions with different economic and political systems and varying land use situations. There is no good single source for all the world’s motor vehicle plants. Books, pamphlets, manufacturers’ association websites, brochures, newspaper articles (online and print) sales ads and private and company websites were all used. Yes, Wikipedia was accessed as well. In fact, for some historical information, wisely used and double checked, Wikipedia was invaluable. An example of a normal procedure for identifying plants was to look at a company website (for examples see General Motors Global, Ford Manufacturing or Mitsubishi Motors in literature cited) and find listings for a company’s plants. Most corporation websites include this information, often under a section that might be titled “Corporate Information” or “Company”. For example, in General Motors’ case, a complete listing is then found under “Global Operations”. For Mitsubishi the global website was accessed, then “About Us” is clicked, then “Profile” which leads to clicking on more information for various plants. Every company website is different. If addresses were given on the website, locations were found using Google Maps and then Google Earth and measured with the measuring tool. If the location was in doubt, WikiMapia was searched for labels and company names typed into GoogleEarth or GoogleMaps (say “Volkswagen plant” or “Volkswagen factory”) and multiple pop-up business and private “tear-drop” identification tags were used to corroborate the plant location. Such were verified again with newspaper articles and private websites discussing a plant’s opening, closing, and special labor or product events. Some factory locations of small producers in Europe were probably missed, but the list is extensive. For example, since small town metal crafters have been so prevalent in Italy, it is certain a few bus coachworks there were missed, though the review of Italian automobile “carrozzeria” is exhaustive. In searching out plants some were found to be more coy than others. I am more fluent with Romance languages, so interpretation of websites in Spanish, French, Portuguese, and Italian was more complete than with other languages. I had to brush up on Cyrillic to search within the Slavic realm. In China and other parts of Asia more visual searches using GoogleEarth and Wikipedia were resorted to. Chinese companies online present a variety of stances from impressively complete information to being so tight lipped as to make one wonder how they sell their products at all. Auto enthusiast websites eventually discuss where a vehicle was made and sometimes give the specific location. Historic auto advertisements found using Google Image often gave factory addresses at the bottom, particularly for post-war American, British, German or Italian low volume producers. Sometimes Google Panoramio photos identified a factory or gave leads. Online historic photos of factories were also used to locate and identify special cases when addresses could not be found. Historic publications were also used to track locations of different manufacturers (an example is Motor Trend, 1955).

29

Global Motor Vehicle Assembly

499

Factories needed to be located visually, which requires familiarity of a plant’s general shape, size, and layout. Sometimes this could be tricky. Some plants are CKD (knock-down assembly) where a vehicle is partially assembled or disassembled and sent to a third world or other factory to be built up again. CKD plants don’t usually require more than 2 acres (1 ha), but a normal auto factory takes up a large amount of space, say 20–400 acres (8 to 160 ha), and perusing a city in GoogleEarth at about 25,000 ft (8,000 m) eye altitude revealed likely candidates for more unfamiliar areas of the world. The modular form of most plants often with stamping, engine assembly, and final assembly portions becomes easy to identify – however not all appear in the same form (Rubenstein, 2001: 114–118). Truck and bus plants are often not as large simply because construction is usually more CKD in form with less total assembly done at the final location. Large numbers of rowed uniform vehicles parked to one side of a structure is indicative of a plant, but shopping malls from a mile up can be mistaken for plants, especially in the developed world. Though a shopping mall may appear modular, its location adjacent to neighborhoods and the fact that autos will surround a mall on all sides, make it distinguishable from a plant. Conversely, in the developed world and especially in the United States and Canada, the large numbers of autos brought by the commuting workers can make a plant look like a mall. Plants in lesser developed parts of the world have larger stockpiles of new autos and trucks parked in the vicinity while in the U.S., Europe, and Japan, just-in-time delivery keeps stock at the plant to a minimum. Another clue is a proving ground (test track) near the plant, especially in plants of European and Asian automakers. American proving grounds are usually elaborate affairs separate from manufacturing facilities or attached to pre-assembly technical or research centers, and not placed at the assembly plant site itself.

29.3 Calculating Area Information was collected on plants constructed or making vehicles globally post World War II when a new ethos in industrial mass production was becoming evident. Many formerly devastated economies shared in attempts to industrialize together and recover from war (Flink, 1988: Chapters 13 and 14). For this study, the thousands of small auto factories pre-World War II are not included since most did not make it beyond the depression anyhow, and the full range and suburban impact of production had not yet been manifested (Rae, 1985; Jackson, 1985: Chapters 9 and 10). Factories built before World War II were included, however, if production in those facilities continued post-war. Conversely, factories that have been mothballed or razed were included if their production was post-war. Auto companies may express the area of a plant in diverse ways. Often, a distinction is made between the sizes of the plant buildings contrasted with the total area for the entire site. In terms of engineering the earth, the totality of site size is more important than mere building size. Facilities for stamping, engine assembly,

500

C.S. Campbell

component sub-assemblies and testing were included in a factory’s area if they were located adjacent to final assembly. However, time permitted only a partial tally of the many stand-alone stamping and engine factories, test tracks, and other parts assembly and storage facilities and such were not included in this research. The study revealed 1,261 factories ranging from huge complexes of 450 or more acres (about 190 ha) down to craft and design “carrozzeria” of about half an acre (0.2 ha; for the complete 54-page list contact the author). Total area of auto factories worldwide was just over 160,000 acres (65,000 ha) or about 251 miles2 (649 km2 ). If all auto factories in the world were merged into one – it would make a plant about five times the size of the City of San Francisco, or the size of Madrid, Spain proper, or a tad smaller than Nantucket Island. Sixty-two of these were mega-plants greater than 450 acres (186 ha; Table 29.1 is a listing of plants of 700 acres/283 ha or more). The largest factory in total size was the Kamaz/FIAT truck plant in Naberezhnye Chelny, Tatarstan, Russia, with a total production area of 12,000 acres (about 4,850 ha) – a tad smaller than a township in Ohio’s Western Reserve. This gigantic plant covers 18.75 mi2 (45.5 km2 )! Conversely, a large number were very small European craft shops or small volume sports car producers. An example of the smallest factory is the late 1940s Muntz/Curtis Kraft Glendale, California, garage of about a tenth of an acre (500 m2 ). This sets the lower limit of automobile producers accepted for this study. Muntz/Curtis Kraft probably made a total of about 200 cars. Generally, only

Table 29.1 Manufacturing plants >700 acres (283 ha). Plants are automobile production unless noted otherwise. Like numbers are in order of size Location

Manufacturer

Acres/hectares

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

Kamaz/OKA/FIAT Truck Avtovaz/GM Honda (with proving ground) GAZ Severstal Auto/FIAT Proton Hyundai Volkswagen FAW/VW/Audi/Mazda Volkswagen/Skoda Anadol/Ford/Otosan Kocaeli Ford Rouge Chrysler Subaru/Toyota GM/Saturn Honda Nissan GM Kia Asan Bay Toyota Chrysler/Dodge truck

11,775/4,765 5,020/2,031 3,449/1,396 1,548/626 1,540/623 1,280/518 1,225/496 1,054/426 1,049/424 988/400 976/395 891/361 846/342 820/332 818/331 803/325 797/323 726/294 726/294 726/294 725/293

Nabarezhnye, Tatarstan, Russia Tolyatti, Russia Marysville, OH, U.S. Nizhny Novgorod, Russia Nabarezhnye, Tatarstan, Russia Tanjung Malim Town, Malaysia Ulsan, South Korea Wolfsburg, L. Saxony, Germany Changchun, Jilin, China Kaluga, Russia Gülcük, Turkey Dearborn, MI, U.S. Saltillo, Coahuila, Mexico Lafayette, IN, U.S. Spring Hill, TN, U.S. Greensburg, IN, U.S. Smyrna, TN, U.S. Oshawa, ON, Canada Hwaseong/South Korea Georgetown, KY, U.S. Warren, MI, U.S.

29

Global Motor Vehicle Assembly

501

enterprises making 50 or more cars were counted (like Tucker which made 50 cars in the huge former Dodge engine plant in Chicago). “One-off” craftings, no matter how famous among car aficionados, were also not included. The layout of factories, their sizes and clustering varies greatly throughout the world. The bulk of global auto production is in the United States, Europe, Japan, and China, but there are significant production from countries generally labeled third world and from some that probably should not be labeled third world any longer (especially in the arena of auto production). The latter would includes Brazil, Mexico, India, Malaysia and South Africa. Even Guatemala, Bangladesh, Kenya, and Ethiopia produce small to moderate numbers of trucks. Then there are examples like Russia and the Czech Republic which under their previous command economies produced incredible amounts of land in auto and truck production, disproportionate to actual numbers of autos produced on the world stage (Laux, 1992: 205–214). Also notable are regions once producing significant numbers of automobiles with former factory land that is now converted to other uses. Since World War II, California, for example, has had 32 factories with more than 781 acres (316 ha) of past production; today it has only one large plant, the Long Beach Hino truck plant. The influence of the central market location of the Middle-West and Upland South has made California almost insignificant as production there has ended. California is taking a leading role in companies producing alternative fuel vehicles (for example Zap and Tesla), but these plants have yet to take up much space. Both Greece and Chile had significant production in the 1960s and 1970s because of protectionist national policies restricting imports. A renewed global economy in Chile and Greece’s joining with the EU shut down their auto industries (Bizarro, 2005). The remainder of this chapter highlights the motor vehicle production in different countries and regions.

29.3.1 The United States The largest plant in the U.S. is the Marysville, OH, Honda complex which is an immense 3,448 acres (just under 1,400 ha). This total, however, is illusory as the complex includes a fantastic proving ground 3.2 mi (5.1 km) long and 1 mi (1.6 km) wide. For a megaengineering comparison, 11 Indianapolis Motor Speedways could fit inside the whole complex. After this, Ford’s River Rouge plant is merely huge at 891 acres (361 ha), but there are ten other plants in the U.S. that are more than 600 acres (243 ha), each larger than the average sized mall: Chrysler – Warren, MI; GM – Oklahoma City, OK; GM – Spring Hill, TN; Honda – Greensburg, IN; Hyundai – Montgomery, AL; Mitsubishi – Normal, IL; Nissan – Smyrna, TN; Subaru/Toyota – Lafayette, IN; Toyota – Georgetown, KY; and Toyota – Princeton, IN). While Malaysia can boast of a single plant larger than any of these (Proton), no country can match the U.S. in the total diversity of large plants spread across the Middle West and Upland South.

502

C.S. Campbell

With 34,200 acres (13,840 ha) (or 53.4 mi2 or 138.3 km2 ) in motor vehicle plants constructed since World War II, the U.S. represents both the oldest and the newest in factories. In Michigan, the state with the most land in auto production (6,784 acres/2,746 ha a larger total than all the assembly facilities in France), one can still view Ford’s old Piquette garage, the Highland Park plant where the assembly line was perfected, the huge and almost paranoid concentration at the River Rouge facility, as well as the new Ford/Mazda Auto-Alliance plant, where the newest of U.S. and Japanese technologies are intertwined (Rubenstein, 2001: Chapters 1 and 6). Despite modern computer order systems and robotics, many of the factories built just after World War II or during the early 1950s are now ostensibly antiquated because customers stopped buying the trucks and SUVs. And during the current economic downturn, and in the spring of 2009, both GM and Chrysler declared bankruptcy. The survival of plants depends whether the fitter and trimmer American companies can still attract customers. In many cases at least half of the plants in the Midwest have been closed (and most of the plants on the East coast) in the name of efficiency. The result is, and will continue to be, large tracts of unused brownfield space and a continued depopulation of the Rustbelt (Campbell, 2007). Countering the higher value of the yen and the lessened effect of subsidized tariff relief in Japan, the newest trend has been the foreign company transplant. Starting in the late 1970s, Honda, Toyota, Mitsubishi, Nissan, Mazda, and Subaru all built in the United States. Some of these plants were shared with U.S. companies. German Mercedes Benz, BMW, and Volkswagen have joined in, as well as Hyundai/Kia from South Korea. For these new ventures space was used differently. Plants were now located away from traditional union America, first in the Southern Midland/Upland South and later in the Deep South. Here, lower wage scales and lower rural land values, mixed with excellent transportation connections, attracted new industry and guaranteed that the total size of the new plants would be substantially larger than in the Rustbelt (Rubenstein, 1992). Whereas the older plants averaged about 140 acres (56 ha), the average size for the transplants in the new southern industrial regions is more than four times that (about 560 acres or 228 ha). The new rural locations made nearly household names of several small towns like Spring Hill, Georgetown, and Marysville. Even General Motors tried to join in the new manufacturing philosophy, building the newfangled Saturn plant on an 817 acre (331 ha) site in Spring Hill, TN, 30 mi (48 km) south of Nashville (Fig. 29.1). Whereas Nissan built a huge “white monolith” in Smyrna, about 20 mi (32 km) away, GM moved 162 million cubic feet (4.6 million m3 ) of dirt to make a beautifully landscaped, mounded and partially hidden facility that would supposedly out-do the Japanese, as well as possibly eclipse Lordstown as GMs new small car plant (O’Toole, 1996: 92). Today, however, Spring Hill builds trucks and Saturns are built off of German-made Opel platforms. After an impressive initial investment, observers and fans of Saturn are left wondering what the hoopla was all about. The story of GM’s superlative dedication transformed into contemporary apathy is beyond remarkable.

29

Global Motor Vehicle Assembly

503

Fig. 29.1 GM’s answer to the Japanese – GoogleEarth image of the Spring Hill, Tennessee Saturn plant

29.3.2 Soviet and Modern Russia The motor vehicle production pattern for today’s Russia was established during the time of the U.S.S.R. Production quotas in a system without incentives often led to poor quality and the same product offered for decades (Smith, 1976: Chapter 9). Saying that large factories were the mark of the Soviet system is an understatement. Huge megaengineered complexes were deliberately planned often farther eastward away from possible invasion and ostensibly to be world leaders in all kinds of goods. There were immense motor vehicle factories in central market areas surrounding Moscow, but this was not all. Mainly during the 1960s, entire cities were dedicated to vehicle production. The city of Tolyatti was constructed on the Volga to be the Soviet “Motor City” with auto facilities covering 5,028 acres (2,035 ha) or, for comparison, about one-third of Manhattan Island. As mentioned above, the largest plant in the world – a veritable city – dedicated to vehicle production was the Kamaz/FIAT truck (Fig. 29.2) and auto plant which was nearly 14 times larger than Ford’s Rouge. The famed GAZ truck and auto works in Nizhny Novgorod (formerly Gorkii) were over 1,530 acres (622 ha), or twice the size of the Rouge. Even the more modest Ligachev (ZIL) works in Moscow which made trucks and state limousines was 620 acres (251 ha), 69 acres (27.5 ha) larger than the average for the new large foreign transplant factories in the United States. Total plant space in Russia (not including former Soviet Republics) is 26,501 acres (10,724 ha). It is probably no accident that this number is not much different than the total U.S. figure of 34,200 acres (13,840 ha), though most Soviet production

504

C.S. Campbell

Fig. 29.2 The Kama River, Kamaz Truck and FIAT plant – the largest motor vehicle plant in the world seen in GoogleEarth. Originally, the total plant size was most of the rectangular area seen in this image – about 12 square miles (7,680 acres or just over 3,100 ha), with automotive operations extending to other parts of the city. This is more space than all the motor vehicle plants in France and almost as much as all those in Japan, though there is some boulevard and green space mixed in here

took place at huge factories in single locations. But if you removed the new transplants in the U.S. since 1980, Russia alone would have bested the states by about 4,000 acres (1,620 ha). Add in production from the Ukraine, Belarus and other former republics and the Soviets could proudly boast that they had plenty more space dedicated to auto production than the United States. Of course, total U.S. production vastly overshadowed Russia and the even distribution of plants serving different labor regions in America made the Soviet pattern look lumpy and unwieldy. Russian factories did not and do not represent paragons of vehicle manufacturing today. They always lagged behind the west technologically and over the last couple of decades have become dilapidated. Areas of modern production are completed in smaller areas of the former factories which produced nearly everything necessary for the vehicle at an earlier time. A truer picture of Russian auto production today is found in the transplants from GM, Volkswagen, and Toyota built within the last fifteen years. Some are large, but are of average size compared to their European and American counterparts.

29.3.3 Italy Germany, France or Great Britain could be discussed at this juncture, but there are important reasons to look southward first. Though Italy was the last European

29

Global Motor Vehicle Assembly

505

country to come to full industrialization after World War II, the cities of Turin and Milan have developed impressive and extensive automotive complexes, chiefly FIAT (Laux, 1992: 198–201). Fiat owns Lancia, Alfa Romeo, Abarth, Ferrari and Maserati – and now bankrupt Chrysler. FIAT is becoming ever more influential on the world automotive stage. Megaproduction aside, there is still a traditional feel to Italian manufacturing that is distinct from anywhere on earth. This involves a substantially elevated sense of sport, style and craftsmanship that is not seen elsewhere (the word craftsmanship cannot always be interpreted as “quality,” however). To a great degree, Italy can be seen as a collection of veteran mechanics and sheet metal workers who pushed their abilities to the level of a fine art that later gained prominence on the world stage (see Ghia Aigle, 2009). Italy has over 5,521 acres (2,234 ha) of space dedicated to automobile fabrication since World War II. That is roughly one U.S. transplant factory larger than the U.K. and only about one modest sized factory less than France. Large factories like FIAT’s Mirafirori in Turin and Alfa Romeo’s former Arese works on the western edge of Milan are no surprise, though the Italian incorporation of proving grounds on factory premises in the 1920s are the earliest of any found in the world; they also show the importance to the Italians of the “feel” of the road (Orsini, 1979). Furthermore, the great number of specialty tractor, sports car, custom car, specialty body designers and engineers that have existed in the country, especially from the 1950s through the 1970s, is notable. At least 25 manufacturers of specialty vehicle “carrozzeria” occupying less than 5 acres (2 ha) each are identified. With names like Vignale, Michelotti, or Savio, many of these shops only produced a few hundred custom FIATs or Alfa Romeos during the 1960s, but their influence among the car-initiated is legend. Besides, the main companies would sometimes recognize the creativeness of the small crafters by accepting a design and building it in large numbers. In addition, some of these specialty manufacturers, after a period of competitive reduction, have today become large scale custom batch producers on their own; the names Peninfarina, Ghia, Zagato, and Giugiaro are well known worldwide.

29.3.4 England The overwhelming bulk of auto production in the British Isles has taken place in England, with only token production in Scotland and Northern Ireland, and only three small coachworks in Wales. The pattern within England is more surprising than expected with auto makers found in a general northwest to southeast swarm extending from south of London northwest through the auto manufacturing hearth of Coventry/Birmingham, then gradually fading near Preston. Somewhat surprising is the number of small auto and truck makers around and to the southwest of London. This specialty car manufacturing region now includes Rolls-Royce (now made by BMW), AC Cars, and high tech McLaren. To some degree, England’s experience is similar to that of Italy as the British made an incredible array of small sports and minicars in a market forcibly flooded

506 Table 29.2 Selected countries and total land in vehicle fabrication specifically comparing to Great Britain (excluding Northern Ireland)

C.S. Campbell United States Russia China Germany Japan France Italy England Brazil South Korea Canada Mexico India Spain Malaysia

34,200 acres (13,840 ha) 26,501 (10,724) 13,496 (5,462) 9,211 (3,728) 8,136 (3,293) 6,105 (2,470) 5,521 (2,234) 4,728 (1,913) 4,379 (1,772 4,354 (1,762) 4,282 (1,733) 4,147 (1,678) 3,889 (1,574) 3,858 (1,561) 2,678 (1,084)

with transport possibilities. Out of England’s 158 total plants, 94 (59%) were small producers taking up less than 5 acres (2 ha) of space. The emphasis was on sporting cars, an ideal shared with Italy, though the Brits somehow lacked the elevated sense of “carrozzeria” and frequently turned to the Italians for design, anyhow. England was mass producing many more different types of autos right out of World War II up through the 1960s compared with Germany, Italy, or France. As has been pointed out many times (for example, Wilson, 1993), the British industry attempted to flood the world in a somewhat colonial way with medium quality cars that were fun to drive but lacked the necessary backing to find export success. Labor divisiveness, weak service and parts supply networks, and too many models at too high a price doomed the mass produced British auto. Though there are a couple of mega-factories like Ford’s Dagenham plant (just under 650 acres or 260 ha), the broad diversity of manufacturers is reflected in many modest sized facilities. Producers such as Singer, Alvis, Standard and Jowett rarely had facilities of over 18 acres (7 ha) and 22 of England’s factories measured between 4 and 18 acres (2 and 7 ha). Facilities in the U.S. were commonly 5 to 10 times that size. Today there are no British owned automobile companies mass producing cars. The Mini, though still made at Oxford, is made by German BMW. Jaguar and Land Rover are owned by Tata Motors of India. Chinese SAIC owns Rover and MG which aren’t producing much anyhow and new Rover designs are made in Shanghai and Nanjing, not the venerable Longbridge plant southwest of Birmingham. While there are plenty of Hondas and Toyotas and GM Vauxhalls and Fords and overall production is significant, a comparison of land in plants in England since World War II to other countries shows the British loss in industrial footing (Table 29.2). It should be remembered that though Great Britain has more space dedicated to motor vehicle factories, South Korea and even Spain regularly out-produced it.

29.3.5 Japan and South Korea In some ways it is appropriate to compare Great Britain to Japan. Both are island nations about the same size with significant industry. The similarities end there,

29

Global Motor Vehicle Assembly

507

however. Where Britain has used up most of its resources of coal and iron ore, Japan preserves hers and receives resources from Russia, China, Indonesia and Australia. The British built up their foreign market at the same time as or ahead of their own domestic one. Japan built up its own market first and then exported. British ports are not up to modern global shipping standards, but Japan’s deep water piers are world class. One feature that Japan does not possess is large amounts of flat lowland space to expand. Industrial development generally occurs in densely populated port areas. For its legend motor vehicle industry, it is surprising that the country’s average plant size is a rather modest 172 acres (70 ha). Over 90% of the area of the Japanese motor vehicle industry is found from Nagoya to Tokyo, the most concentrated area of large production on earth. Most notable are Toyota City, just east of Nagoya with at least 900 acres (364 ha) dedicated to the automobile industry. Mazda’s main Ujina district plants in Hiroshima (an example outside of the Nagoya – Tokyo concentration) is a good-sized 496 acres (201 ha; Fig. 29.3). This does not seem grandiose compared to many of the gigantic Japanese installations in America, until one considers that it is mostly constructed on harbor landfill. South Korea’s assembly plant sizes are even more impressive than those of Japan. Outside of the Soviet experience (with an average plant size of 716 acres or 290 ha), South Korea is next with an average of 363 acres (147 ha). Next is the United States at 170 acres (69 ha), Japan and Malaysia are tied at 158 (64), Spain at 154 (62), Brazil at 152 (61), then France at 149 (60), and Germany at 133 (54). Automobile companies like Daewoo and Hyundai/Kia are smaller divisions of immense industrial conglomerates which follow the chaibol business model of close ties to government planning – closer even than the Japanese model which pioneered

Fig. 29.3 GoogleEarth image of the Hiroshima Ujina complex (Mazda Manufacturing, 2009)

508

C.S. Campbell

government-industrial cooperation and planning post World War II (Richie, 2002: 140–142). Automobile plants in South Korea are huge, singular, and, therefore, distributed more sparsely throughout the peninsula.

29.3.6 China General Motors sold 1,000,000 vehicles in China in 2008, most of them Buicks, probably a main reason the company has decided to kill the Pontiac name in the United States (Andolong 2009). China has 13,496 acres (5,462 ha) of factory space, taking third in rank after the U.S. and Russia. Whereas the U.S. total reflects past production, with plants well known in the 1950s but closed since the 1980s, nearly all of the Chinese plants identified and recorded for this study are currently producing. China surpassed the United States in total auto production in 2008 by 600,000 units with 9.3 million total motor vehicles produced (EMS Now, 2009). So much has changed that one well written academic article on Chinese automobile culture from 2002 seems woefully out-of-date seven years on (Barmé, 2002). At the beginning of 2009 China was not feeling the global economic downturn nearly as much as other parts of the world. Motor vehicles in China are assembled in a variety of ways reflecting both communist past and the global interconnections of the present. A large number of factories continue to make buses and trucks in the old communist system style, piecemeal in old run-down warehouses without so much as a brick produced from modern technology. Many of these factories are small and are widely diffused throughout China. Nationally, these contrast with the most modern of facilities constructed over the last decade. Foreign auto companies such as Volkswagen, Toyota, and General Motors by Chinese law cannot operate alone and must joint venture with Chinese industrial giants, like First Auto Works (FAW), Shanghai Auto Industry of China (SAIC) or Beijing Automobile Industry (BAIC). Some of these factories are in the megafactory range (450 acres or 186 ha) and are unique because the same company will make Nissans, Volkswagens, and Fords all within a kilometer of each other in a single complex. One good example is the FAW complex in Chanchun, Jilin province just north of Shenyang (Fig. 29.4). Here, Mazdas, Volkswagens, and Audis are made with FAW trucks in a manufacturing area measuring 1.7 miles long by 1 mile wide (2.7 km by 1.6 km) and taking up 1,049 acres (425 ha). This is just six acres smaller than Volkswagen’s huge Wolfsburg, Germany plant (see Table 2.1). In one way, the Chinese share a problem similar to the British in the late 1940s through the 1950s, viz., a lack of industrial rationalization (Flink, 1988: 300). There are about eight major manufacturers in China with about ten smaller ones trying to flood the voracious Chinese market with their vehicles and the feast of one maker gobbling up another is just getting started. This is a market of over 1.2 billion people and though England’s lack of rationalization led the decimation of its mass production, China’s vehicular future is ripe with possibilities. The great mix of new and old assembly types is also the main reason that China’s average factory size is so

29

Global Motor Vehicle Assembly

509

Fig. 29.4 GoogleEarth image of the FAW Chanchun, Jilin works. Over 6,000 vehicles are parked to the southeast – a testament to an undeveloped just-in-time system? The FAW Toyota works are just over a kilometer to the southeast

modest – only 115 acres (46 ha), whereas the U.S. average is not quite twice this amount and South Korea’s average triples it. A perennial problem of Chinese manufacturers as perceived by the west and Japan has been copyright/trademark infringement. Many Chinese cars are simply copies of Nissans, Mitsubishis or Hyundais offered to an anxious home market that does not fathom or care where the designs come from. Some of the Chinese companies argue that their products are indeed unique, to the dismay of global auto makers, but change is in the air as unique designs and engineering are coming about (see discussions on the informative China Car Forums website). Brilliance Auto began producing its unique and attractive BC3 sport coupe in 2008. BYD Auto, based in the Guanzhou (Canton) urban region has dedicated itself to energy efficient hybrids. Geely has announced its intention to export to the U.S. The Chinese realize the foreign market potential, particularly of the U.S., and are shaping themselves to function there. The efficiency of distribution of goods and services in any economy can be measured by how well a company or organization can diffuse its products all through an urban service system from the largest city down to the smallest. China has done an impressive job of locating motor vehicle facilities throughout the country with companies (usually still owned by the government – Geely is the only major private operator) developed in the regions of Shanghai, Beijing, Guangzou, Fuzhou, Chongqing, Changchun, Shenyang, Qingdao and many others. There is no primate city structure here.

510

C.S. Campbell

29.4 Global Perspectives The variety of auto manufacturing, and thus, auto plant philosophies across the world is surprising. The U.S., the juggernaut of auto production historically, now seems vulnerable. Central and South American production, not discussed much here, is surprising, with significant production histories in Mexico, Brazil, and Argentina. Brazil is always up-and-coming and ranks ninth in total space allotted to assembly. Sometimes Argentine ads are known for their nationalistic rhetoric for example displaying an IKA Kaiser as the “Grand Coche Argentino” (the Great Argentine Car), Autoar (for “AUTO ARgentina”) truck ads showing great trucks of the “patria,” or the “Justicialista” during Peronist years of the early 1950s (Aguerre, 2009; Autohistoria, 2003). Europe, ostensibly unified, shows a remarkable variety of different auto production philosophies matching a country’s raison d’être and general cultural milieu. Germany’s average plant size is not the largest in the world, South Korea, the U.S., Japan, France and even Spain and Malaysia plants are all larger. Yet German plants on average are larger than England or Italy mentioned above. France’s factories, though on the whole 16 acres (6.47 ha) larger, are distributed in a pattern more reflective of a primate urban system mainly based on Paris. Farther southward, Lyon, Bordeaux, Marseilles and Toulouse are lacking automobile production (not ignoring Toulouse’s aircraft production, however). Germany’s pattern is a testament to a wider geographic diffusion of facilities throughout a more diverse and even urban network. So bigger is not always better. Elsewhere in Europe, Sweden’s unique history with previously independent Volvo and Saab, is now in doubt as their new owners, Ford and GM, respectively, have sold them off. Spain is a country where FASA Renault and SEAT of the 1960s Franco era have given way to completely modernized motor vehicle production. SEAT is now owned by Volkswagen and the country now rivals the United Kingdom in space for manufacturing. In average factory size, Spain ranks fifth, and in 2007 it out-produced the U.K. by over 660,000 vehicles (OICA, 2008). In fact, Spain outproduced the U.K., Italy, Brazil, Canada, and Russia. Portugal has seven new and advanced plants. Eastern Europe since the Velvet Revolution has opened new markets with new factories from Poland to Romania and every country in-between. Poland is already approaching Italy in total vehicle production (OICA, 2008). Japan remains dominant on the world stage, its marvel being how such densely populated coasts have developed a huge yet compact industrial pattern along congested rivers, subsidized agricultural areas, and on landfill. South Korea takes the Japanese pattern to an extreme with the largest newer factories in the world. Other Asian countries are on the rise. India, with 3,889 acres (1,574 ha) in factories, is quickly raising its standards for mass production, particularly for export. Malaysia also has significant space dedicated to vehicle production (2,678 acres or 1,084 ha). Perhaps it is not surprising now, but China is probably set to become the principal global auto maker and distributor. It has passed the U.S. and Germany in total auto production (OICA, 2008). It has the most space in productive auto assembly after the U.S. and has the widest variety of types of vehicles produced of any country. Is it

29

Global Motor Vehicle Assembly

511

ultimately a ruse? A mask? Will China really be the next automotive superpower? China has not yet mastered the desires of the American and European markets. The answer probably lies in a series of complex population and environmental issues that range far beyond motor vehicle assembly, but China’s rise to the top of the motor vehicle industry seems inevitable.

References Aguerre, F. (2009). IKA Torino. Hemmings Classic Car, 5(9), 21. Hemmings Motor News. Andolong, T. (2009). American carmaker steals show in Auto Shanghai 2009. Business Mirror online, April 30. Autohistoria. (2003–2008). La Historia de la industria automotriz Argentina. Auto enthusiast website. Barmé, G. (2002). Engines of revolution: Car cultures in China. In P. Wollen & J. Kerr (Eds.), Autopia: Cars and culture (pp. 177–190). London: Reaktion. Bizarro, S. (2005). Automobile industry. Historical dictionary of Chile (3rd ed.). Lanham, MD: Scarecrow. Campbell, C. (2007). Rust belt. In R. Sisson, C. Zacher, & A. Cayton, A. (Eds.), The American Midwest: An interpretive encyclopedia (pp. 78–80). Bloomington, IN: Indiana University. China Car Forums. (2009, Accessed). Online professional and enthusiast website. EMS Now. (2009). China surpasses U.S. in auto production in 2008, to exceed Japan in 2009. Online journal, May 27. Flink, J. (1988). The Automobile age. Cambridge, MS: MIT Press. Ford Manufacturing. (2008, Accessed). Assembly plants by type. Corporate website. General Motors. (2009, Accessed). Global operations and facilities. Corporate website. Ghia Aigle. (2009, Accessed). Swiss and Italian car designers and coachbuilders. Enthusiast website. Jackson, K. (1985). Crabgrass frontier: The suburbanization of the United States. New York: Oxford. Laux, J. (1992). The European automobile industry. New York: Twayne. Mazda Manufacturing. (2009, Accessed). Automotive Intelligence online. Organization website. Mitsubishi Motors. (2009, Accessed). Profile of corporate information and manufacturing facilities. Corporate website. Motor Trend Automotive Year Book. (1955). Trend Book no. 118. Trend Incorporated. OICA. (2008, Accessed). 2007 Production Statistics. Organisation Internationale des Constructeurs d’Automobiles. Organization website. Orsini, L. (1979). The dynasty begins: Enzo Ferrari’s Scuderia Days. Automobile Quarterly, 17(2), 115–131. O’Toole, J. (1996). Forming the future: Lessons from the Saturn corporation. Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. Rae, J. (1985). The American automobile industry. Boston: Twayne. Richie, D. (2002). Some thoughts on car culture in Japan. In P. Wollen & J. Kerr (Eds.), Autopia: Cars and culture (pp. 139–146). London: Reaktion. Rubenstein, J. (1992). The changing U.S. auto industry: A geographic analysis. New York: Routledge. Rubenstein, J. (2001). Making and selling cars: Innovation and change in the U.S. automotive industry. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins. Smith, H. (1976). The Russians. New York: Ballantine. Wilson, K. (1993). Exhausted empire. AutoWeek, 43(10), 23–31.

Chapter 30

Potentials and Employment Impacts of Advanced Energy Production from Forest Residues in Sparsely Populated Areas Olli Lehtonen and Markku Tykkyläinen

30.1 Why Devote a Megaproject to Biomass Utilization? 30.1.1 Background and Aims Interest in converting biomass to energy efficiently and on a large scale has been evolving for decades. Initially this interest was driven by concerns over potential shortages of crude oil, but in recent years the ecological advantages of biomass as energy have become an even more important factor. Energy policy supports the use of bioenergy to the extent that the European Union, for example, has set a target that in every member country should be obtaining 10% of its energy supply from biomass by 2010 (Faaij, 2006). To fulfil this aim the governments of the member countries can subsidize bioenergy production by means of tax concessions and other measures (Ericsson, Huttunen, Nilsson, & Svenningsson, 2004; Hakkila, 2006). Due to its extensive geographical coverage, this target will gradually lead to the implementation of megaprojects concerned with biomass use. A large amount of biomass will be needed, as the annual energy consumption per capita for the 453 million citizens of the European Union is 3.7 tonnes of oil equivalent and the current proportion of bioenergy is 3.9% (Wright, 2006: 708). Technology, taxes, subsidies and R&D funding, as well as the development of emissions trading and the relatively high and fluctuating prices of fossil fuels, are the major factors that will affect how the use of bioenergy and the related industries will develop during the next 10 years. Bioenergy is already able to compete well with fossil fuels in some instances, particularly where industrial or other residues can be utilized, hence avoiding certain waste disposal problems, and it is clear that increasing the use of bioenergy will have favourable effects not only on the economy and the environment, but also on development in biomass-producing regions. The increasing interest in bioenergy produced from forests has arisen from the facts that specially-grown energy crops such as tree plantations and oil plants O. Lehtonen (B) Department of Geography, University of Eastern Finland, Joensuu, Finland e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_30,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

513

514

O. Lehtonen and M. Tykkyläinen

can have a negative carbon balance (Pimentel, 2003; Tilman, Hill, & Lehman, 2006) and they take up land that could otherwise be used for food production. The open questions regarding the sustainability of specialized energy systems have increased interest in forest residues as a source of biomass, as also have expectations that the latter could improve rural employment (Hyttinen, Niskanen, Ottitsch, Tykkyläinen, & Väyrynen, 2002: 4–6). The aim of this article is to investigate the impacts of the large-scale production of bioenergy from forest residues on regional incomes and employment and seek answers to the question of its potential for compensating for the power and heat generated by fossil fuels. It will cover the production of energy by combustion, the production of pellets, the refining of pyrolysis oil and the production of diesel fuel by Fischer-Tropsch synthesis. We will concentrate our analysis on the income and employment effects of these alternative technologies because job creation is generally an important argument for promoting bioenergy in a rural environment (Domac, Richards, & Risovic, 2005). The employment effects will be calculated by means of an input-output model into which the production functions of new, hypothetical bioenergy industries are inserted, with the provision that bioenergy production should be limited by the constraints of the regionally available sources of forest residues. Thus, the analytical method used here is similar to that of Gan and Smith (2007) but differs from the business-based assessment of Thornley, Rogers, and Huang (2008). The empirical data were collected from North Karelia, a sparsely populated border region of Finland, representing a relatively remote area in the coniferous zone where the forest sector has been a significant employer for more than a century (on the definition of the forest sector, see Hyttinen et al. (2002: 4, 13–14). Although the calculations used here are case and region-specific, the results give a general picture of the potential for exploiting bioenergy in similar regions.

30.1.2 Benefits of Bioenergy Utilization The advanced production of energy from forest biomass creates several benefits that have been objects of interest among researchers in recent years. These can be classified into two categories: environmental and socio-economic benefits, both of which may be either direct or indirect. The environmental benefits include the fact that careful collection of forest residues could reduce the diffusion of plant diseases and insect damage. Bioenergy production could also benefit forest management by offering opportunities for thinning, intermediate cuttings and stand rehabilitation (Manley & Richardson, 1995). The local and regional socio-economic benefits of bioenergy depend very much on the social and institutional conditions in the area. In developed but restructuring rural economies, new jobs and economic returns are important benefits of the use of biomass for energy production, while the effects on the distribution of welfare, gender issues and self-reliance are seen as important in developing countries due to the different technological and institutional context (Borsboom, Hektor, McCallum,

30

Potentials and Employment Impacts of Advanced Energy Production

515

& Remedio, 2002; Domac et al., 2005). In the current phase of regional development in many sparsely populated European areas, economic stimuli are welcomed in rural settings (Okkonen, 2008; Tykkyläinen & Lehtonen, 2008; Whitley, Zervos, Timmer, & Butera, 2004). Investments in bioenergy can improve the efficiency of use of rural resources such as infrastructure, land, labor and machines, and can offer increased flexibility in fuel supplies and improved energy security. From the viewpoint of regional development, the production of bioenergy is important as it can set up energy and production systems across rural regions with dispersed populations (Johansson, Kisch, & Mirata, 2005; Mirata, Nilsson, & Kuisma, 2005).

30.1.3 Bioenergy Production Requirements Units generating bioenergy from forest residues require a suitable business environment for this purpose. This is an emerging aspect of the production chain in the forest sector, where the main value is added in forestry and in the production of sawn timber, boards, pulp and paper (Hyttinen et al., 2002: 4, 13–14). While the focus in new forms of energy production is usually on the establishment of new production systems, the provision of efficient and advanced technology and the granting of tax relief and subsidies while production is in its infancy, the large-scale utilization of forest residues are bound up not only with current local production chains and their multiplicative effects, but also with forest management practices and infrastructure. The utilization of forest residues requires skilled harvesting practices and efficient technology. Firstly, their procurement requires an efficient forest management system that includes a final felling at the end of the lifespan of the forest that allows collection of the stumps and root wood, as these constitute about 30–40% of the total forest residue potential. Large scale bioenergy production associated with large scale wood-processing industries means the use of resources on a mega scale, especially if the system is implemented to produce substantial amounts of electricity, heat and fuels. Secondly, infrastructural improvements, such as a dense forest road network, enable the forest residues to be transported from the stand to the roadside at low cost and enlarge the area over which the procurement of residues can be costefficient. Transportation costs are central to this activity, as about 30–40% of the procurement costs come from transportation within the stand and from the stand to the power plant or refinery (Asikainen, Sikanen, & Laitila, 2004). The satisfaction of these two requirements is greatly dependent on earlier forest resource utilization practices. In countries like Finland and Sweden, the procurement of forest residues is integrated with harvesting cycles, the stages of harvesting and regeneration and the synergetic use of machinery and logistics. Without the historically efficient use of forest resources the large-scale utilization of forest residues would not be possible, or at least it would require a new widespread infrastructure, including roads, skills, machinery and supporting business activities. It is this fact, for example, that makes it unlikely that countries with poor infrastructure such as Russia will be able to make efficient use of its forest resources for advanced bioenergy production in the short term.

516

O. Lehtonen and M. Tykkyläinen

Forestry is an areal mode of production that requires the deployment of labor and machinery wherever wood is to be procured. In the Finnish case the ownership of forest land is divided between private owners (60%), companies (9%), local authorities, parishes and communities (6%) and the state (26%) (Finnish Statistical Yearbook of Forestry, 2007), and procurement takes place on an open market. Thus energy production has to compete for the purchase of biomass with other uses of forests and their timber, including conservation and recreation. Consequently, our scenarios are contingent on the functioning of the markets as well as on technology and infrastructure.

30.2 Resources, Regional Modeling and Spatial Economics 30.2.1 The Potential for Forest Residues in North Karelia The potential availability of forest residues for combustion and fuel production is highly dependent on the behavior forest owners, cutting practices and the production structure of the forest industries. Logging in North Karelia remains below the regionally determined objectives, and forest residues are a form of biomass which is of little value to the traditional forest industries but constitutes a suitable raw material for the production of renewable energy. For a forest owner, the sale of residues for energy production does not bring much benefit, as the price is a fraction of that obtainable for roundwood. If forest residues cannot be utilized for bioenergy, they are usually left on the forest floor to decompose. The most common forest management practice is the periodic cover silviculture, where an even-aged forest is harvested by means of two thinnings and the growth of the trees at the end of rotation period ends in a single final felling. This practice allows the collecting of forest residues in connection with cutting. The residues from the thinning operations consist of undersized, low-quality wood and those from the final felling mainly of tops, branches, stumps, root wood and undersized pulp wood. Hence, the sale of residues is linked to cuttings and forest management. The volume of forest residues available in North Karelia was estimated for the present purposes from the 2006 inventory data produced by the Finnish Forest Research Institute (Table 30.1). The maximum sustainable cut defines the highest constant availability of roundwood, but still lies below the annual growth, which is over 6 million m3 in North Karelia (Finnish Statistical Yearbook of Forestry, 2006). In the average plan the cut is set at 4.4 million m3 and is calculated as the mean of the annual cuts in North Karelia over the period 2000–2005. The utilization of forest residues has to take into account nutrient losses and changes in biodiversity (Richardson, Björheden, Hakkila, Lowe, & Smith, 2002). It is generally recommended that no more than 2/3 of the residues should be removed, and that, if possible, stands of specific ecological value should be excluded. In our calculations the utilization of forest residues would be limited to 70% of the total accumulation of residues in the region, even though nutrient losses can be

30

Potentials and Employment Impacts of Advanced Energy Production

517

Table 30.1 Forest residues by cutting alternatives in North Karelia Cutting scenario

Biomass

Maximum Tops, branches and undersized sustainable cutting Roots and stumps Average cutting Tops, branches and undersized (2000–2005) Roots and stumps Use in 2006 Forest residues

Gg/a

1,000 m3 /a

GWh/a

344

795

1,863

261 246

603 568

1,414 1,332

201 80

464 191

1,089 460

Source: Finnish Forest Research Institute (2008)

compensated for by returning the ashes after combustion. Intake can be tailored locally according to the soil requirements. In addition the current use of residues is lower the potential total. After these reductions the power generation industries will have about 787,600 m3 (with the maximum sustainable cut) or 531,400 m3 (with the average cut) of forest residues left to be used annually.

30.2.2 Regional Impacts of Forest Residue Utilization The regional input-output model for North Karelia is constructed from the relevant input-output statistics (Statistics Finland, 2006). An input-output model is an application of the neo-classical theory of general equilibrium to the empirical analysis of the interdependence between economic sectors, such as industries, consumption and exports, and compensations for households and imports. It was originally developed to analyze the connections between different industries within a national economy (Leontief, 1966: 134), and is a useful tool for showing the structure of the economy in terms of the flows of goods and services and for analyzing the impacts of changes in final demand. The input–output model applied here takes as an initial assumption that industrial outputs are determined by the final demand as linear functions of inputs from other industries, labor, capital and imports. The model is written as x = (I − A)−1 y

(30.1)

where the term A is an n × n matrix of input coefficients for n industries, (I − A)−1 is known as the Leontief inverse and B = (I − A)−1 whereupon the coefficients bij represent the direct and indirect requirements of industry i per unit of final demand for the output of industry j. The vector y is the final demand for the output of each industry and x is the column vector of gross outputs for each industry. This basic model was augmented in order to be more comprehensive than the traditional basic model by closing it with respect to households. This extension assumes that changes in exports from North Karelia would alter salaries, wages and capital incomes in the region and adjust regional consumption as a fixed ratio of the gross output of each industry. Hence both the inputs and household consumption

518

O. Lehtonen and M. Tykkyläinen

were added to the model. In matrix terms, matrix A is amended by a new row and a new column for the household sector – the former showing how its output (labor and capital) serves as inputs to industries and the latter showing the distribution of its purchases (consumption) from the region’s industries. Household consumption was already included in the regional input-output table produced by Statistics Finland, and the household income row was calculated by taking the sum of wages, salaries and entrepreneur and capital incomes in each sector. Entrepreneur and capital incomes were estimated from the databases of Statistics Finland (2007c) and the Finnish Forest Research Institute (Finnish Statistical Yearbook of Forestry, 2006). Income transfers between households were estimated from the national accounts (Statistics Finland, 2007a). Data on income transfers from outside the households were obtained from the Social Insurance Institution of Finland (Laine, 2007). The process of constructing the household row followed earlier studies (c.f. Rimler, Kurttila, Pesonen, & Koljonen, 2000; Vatanen, 2001). A row containing household incomes by industry of origin was added to the table, and the column showing private consumption was removed from the final demand and attached to the transaction table, thus setting up a new coefficient matrix. A new input coefficient matrix including the household consumption (hc ) and income coefficients (hi ) vectors and a scalar cross-term for transfers between households (h. ) was constituted as 

A hc A= hi h.

 (30.2)

and the augmented input–output model was thus −1  y x= I−A

(30.3)

The revised input coefficients for 2002 consist of 34 industries, including the households. The vectors for gross outputs and final demand in the region in 2006 were updated from the Regional Accounting (Statistics Finland, 2007b), while the input coefficients describe the economic structure as it was in 2002 (Statistics Finland, 2006). The employment data are from 2006 (Statistics Finland, 2007b). Since no utilization of forest residues has emerged on a large scale in the region, it was difficult to acquire any exact data regarding modified or new energy production processes. For simplicity, we assume as far as the production of heat, electricity and wood pellets is concerned that apart from fuel, other inputs to this energy production would be similar to those required by the already existing electricity, steam and hot water supply industry. This may be a rough assumption, but the coefficients are the best-available estimates, because the current equipment is compatible with the burning of forest residues and the operation and maintenance costs would not be much different from those of existing plants (Gan & Smith, 2007). In the case of the refining of fast pyrolysis liquids and the Fischer-Tropsch diesel refining process, new coefficients were constructed on the basis of a survey of companies, technical information and coefficients describing the manufacture of refined petroleum

30

Potentials and Employment Impacts of Advanced Energy Production

519

products. As these industries do not yet exist commercially, the input coefficients and the coefficients for supplies to other industries may not be as reliable as those for industries already operating in the economy. Employment impacts were analyzed with input–output multipliers. The Type II multipliers used measure direct, indirect and induced effects on the direct employment change (Miller & Blair, 1985: 116–136; The Scottish Government, 2008). The induced effects take into account the effects of household incomes and expenditure, and therefore yield higher employment effects than the Type I multiplier, which only accounts for direct and indirect changes. When interpreting the results of the multiplier analysis, it had to be considered that the multiplier effects associated with forestry are region-specific and can vary significantly according to the structure of the regional economy in question.

30.2.3 Spatial Properties of the Forest Sector in North Karelia North Karelia represents a suitable testing ground as it is a forested border region where much emphasis has been placed on the development of wood energy and where a severe restructuring of the forest industries is anticipated on account of the global economic crisis and the introduction of Russian export tariffs on roundwood (Tykkyläinen & Lehtonen, 2008). The forest industries of North Karelia are dominated by large-scale mills which, with the exception of the Joensuu plywood mill, are located in sparsely populated areas outside the growing Joensuu travel-to-work area (Fig. 30.1). Although increases in productivity since the 1990 s have reduced employment in the forest sector, the existing production still serves as the backbone for many industrial communities and forest work provides employment for small companies in a more dispersed spatial setting (see Fig. 30.1). The incomes generated via the forest sector keep services and many other businesses alive in these areas, which would otherwise probably be no more than uninhabited wilderness. The dispersed spatial structure of forestry and the forest industries is mainly a legacy from the earlier locational choices affected by logistics and the post-war goal of exploiting the under-utilized resources of the rural areas. The importance and value of the present spatial structure of forestry and the forest industries for the country’s regional structure are based on the fact that these distant areas cannot attract new businesses as easily as the Joensuu travel-to-work area does. The continuing selective out-migration has deprived the rural areas of its younger generations and thereby distorted their population structure (Lehtonen & Tykkyläinen, 2009). The rural areas of North Karelia are peripheries not only geographically, but also in terms of socio-economic development and demography (Table 30.2). In sparsely populated countries such as Finland and Sweden the forest sector has served as a backbone for the regional structure. According to previous studies the Russian export tariffs planned to be imposed in 2009 were estimated to create a pressure to cut down and restructure production in the forest industries to hundreds of jobs in North Karelia (see Tykkyläinen & Lehtonen, 2008). The employment

520

O. Lehtonen and M. Tykkyläinen

Fig. 30.1 North Karelia and its forest sector. The postcode areas are classified according to their socio-economic properties Table 30.2 Forestry, the forest industries and socio-economic variables, by types of postcode area (see Fig. 30.1). Most of the information applies to 2005 Socio-economic characteristic Forestry contractors Large wood-processing companies Median income (C) Unemployment (%) Proportion of persons over 65 years of age (%) Persons working in primary production (%) Persons working in secondary production (%) Persons working in public services (%) Distance from Joensuu (km)

Core rural areas

Distant rural areas

Core municipal areas

Suburban areas

37 2 11,821 22 18

15 0 10,245 26 27

75 7 12,588 19 24

19 0 16,268 16 10

54.5

47.4

10.4

11.1

17.1

9.9

22.5

26.7

25.3

40.6

66.1

60.5

66.2

82.8

65.6

16.1

Source: SuomiCD 2006 and State Provincial Office of Eastern Finland

opportunities in forestry would have increased by depending on the cutting scenario, but the reductions in employment in the forest industries otherwise would have diffused strongly through the whole regional economy, so that hundred or even thousands of jobs would have been in jeopardy depending on the levels of timber cuttings in the region and the market forecasts (ibid.). The post–September 15

30

Potentials and Employment Impacts of Advanced Energy Production

521

global economic crisis is bringing about similar job losses, when mills are temporarily closed for many months. These results point to the need for new jobs and their potential importance. The production of bioenergy from residues would be one part of this development process and would ensure that more efficient use was made of the region’s resources.

30.3 Potential Applications for Producing Energy Various energy commodities can be produced from forest residues for use in power plants, buildings and vehicles. Residues can be burnt directly for heat and for the production of electricity, or they can be refined to compact solid fuels (e.g. pellets) or converted into gaseous or liquid fuels by technologies such as fast pyrolysis or Fischer-Tropsch synthesis. The following paragraphs present the technologies available for using and refining forest residues with a view to energy production, describing the principles which have been applied to determine the input levels and input coefficients of the power production and refining plants.

30.3.1 Forest Residues in Power Plants Combustion is widely used on various scales to convert biomass to heat and/or electricity. Combustion plants are normally used to generate heat for district heating systems or in the case of larger units for generating electricity. The capacity of the latter plants usually varies from 1 MW to 200 MW, the largest bioenergy plant built in Finland, with a capacity of 500 MW, being designed to accept a variety of biomass fuels. Forest residues can also be used directly to replace fossil fuels in heat and electricity production. The amount of electricity obtained from forest residues may be calculated as E=

1 ηθDV 3, 6

(30.4)

where E is the amount of electricity generated (MWh), D is the density of the forest residues (t/m−1 ) (from Hakkila, 1978), V is the volume of the forest residues (m3 ), η is the efficiency of power conversion and θ is the energy content of the forest residues (GJ/t−1 ) (from Impola, 2002). The empirical data on the coefficients of power plants were obtained from technical reports, applications for environmental permits and vectors applying to the energy sector in the input-output table for North Karelia.

30.3.2 Pellets from Forest Residues Pellets are a wood-based fuel which has been obtained so far by drying and compressing residues from the mechanical wood-processing industries. They are often

522

O. Lehtonen and M. Tykkyläinen

marketed as an environmentally friendly form of fuel and an alternative to fossil fuels, which are their main competitors. The greatest market potential for pellets has emerged predominantly from the replacement of oil-fired systems and electric heating in houses (Ericsson et al., 2004). Since pellets are currently by-products of sawmills, their production in Finland is dependent on the production volumes of sawmills. Hence, to increase the production of pellets and to reduce the dependence of this on sawmilling, the producers will have to start using forest residues as raw materials. The main problems in processing forest residues to pellets are the high moisture level in the residues and the high transportation costs. A cost-efficient drying technology is necessary, but a significant amount of energy will still be needed in the drying process (Wolf, Vidlund, & Andersson, 2006). Some risks may arise from the fact that pellet producers are marginal players in the wood market. The amount of pellets produced from forest residues may be calculated as P=

DV ω

(30.5)

where P is the amount of pellets produced (t) and ω is the compression ratio of pellets from residues (from Kallio & Kallio, 2004). D and V denote the same variables as in Equation (30.4). The data for constructing the input coefficients and supplies to other industries are based on technical reports regarding pellet production, annual reports and applications for environmental permits for pellet factories, together with regional input and output vectors depicting the manufacture of veneers, plywood and particle boards, panels and other wood products in North Karelia.

30.3.3 Pyrolysis Oil from Forest Residues Fast pyrolysis is a high-temperature process in which the feedstock is rapidly heated to above 500◦ C in the absence of air, whereupon it vaporizes and condenses to a dark brown liquid which has a heating value of about half that of conventional fuel oil (Bridgwater & Peacocke, 2000). This technology, which maximizes the yield of liquid fuel from wood biomass, is often viewed as a very promising candidate for decentralized or small-scale power production, because the overall liquid yield may be about 75% by weight and it is just as easy to transport as heating oil (Chiaramonti, Oasmaa, & Solantausta, 2007). The technology required for producing and using pyrolysis liquids is still under development. The main production problems originate from the fact that pyrolysis liquids are acidic, unstable, viscous liquids of heterogeneous quality that contain suspended solids and a large amount of chemically dissolved water (Chiaramonti et al., 2007). These properties have so far limited the range of biofuel applications because the high acidity causes erosion and corrosion in engines and turbines. The substitution of pyrolysis liquids for fuel oils in heat and power generation requires minor modifications to the installations (Czernik & Bridgwater, 2004), whereas the refining of pyrolysis liquids to a motor fuel, known as pyrolysis oil, is currently not

30

Potentials and Employment Impacts of Advanced Energy Production

523

profitable (Demirbas & Balat, 2006). At the moment no fast pyrolysis plants are in operation in Finland. The amount of pyrolysis oil that can be extracted from forest residues may be determined by Py =

μDV σ

(30.6)

where Py is the amount of pyrolysis oil produced (l), μ is the overall liquid yield from forest residues (t) (from Chiaramonti et al., 2007) and σ is the density of the pyrolysis oil (t/m−3 ) (from Oasmaa, Peacocke, Gust, Meier, & Mc Lellan, 2005). Again D and V are as in Equation (30.4). The empirical data used here were based on an expert survey, from which the input coefficients were derived, and an earlier study (Laihanen et al., 2006).

30.3.4 Traffic Fuels Obtained from Forest Residues by the Fischer–Tropsch Pocess Among the few options that exist for producing motor biofuels with commercial potential, the gasification of biomass to obtain Fischer–Tropsch (FT) diesel has received growing attention in recent years, as it offers a way of refining a clean and potentially carbon-neutral motor fuel that is directly usable in vehicles (Hamelinck, Faaij, den Uil, & Boerrigter, 2004). The integration of wood biomass gasification with Fischer-Tropsch synthesis has not yet been demonstrated on a commercial scale, although commercial FT diesel production is at the pilot plant phase in Finland. The aim is to develop a commercially profitable refining process and hence to lower the risks for commercial investors. FT plants in Finland are planned to be joint ventures between the oil refining industry and the forest industries and the intention is to build them next to pulp and paper plants, to give greater efficiency in raw materials management and a measure of industrial synergy. The future of FT plants is highly dependent on the price of crude oil, because production costs for FT fuels are at the moment about 2–4 times higher than those for diesel refined from crude oil (Hamelinck et al., 2004). The amount of FT diesel that can be produced from forest residues was determined by FT = λDV

(30.7)

where FT is the amount of FT diesel produced (l) and λ is the yield of FT diesel from forest residues (l/t) (from Huber, Iborra, & Corma, 2006). D and V are as in Equation (30.4). The empirical data are based on technical reports, earlier studies (Hamelinck & Faaij, 2002; Hamelinck et al., 2004), an expert survey and input-output flows in the oil refining industry in the Eastern Uusimaa region.

524

O. Lehtonen and M. Tykkyläinen

30.4 Impacts of Bioenergy Alternatives on Energy Production and Employment in North Karelia 30.4.1 Energy Generating Potential Total energy consumption in North Karelia in 2004 was 10,390 GWh, of which 6,423 GWh (74.0%) was used in heating and power plants, 1,400 GWh (13.5%) in motor vehicles, 1,305 GWh (12.5%) for the direct heating of houses and 1,262 as electricity (Pohjois-Karjalan bioenergiaohjelma 2015, 2007). The proportion of regional energy commodities was already 69.8%, but North Karelia has the potential to become even more self-sufficient in energy if the remaining potential of the forest residues can be used for energy production. Ignoring limiting factors such as energy prices, technological bottlenecks, labour constraints etc., forest residues and products refined from them have a considerable energy potential. The proportion of the total energy production obtained from forest residues is currently small, only 3.5%, but the energy content of the total volume of forest residues would be 3,277 GWh if the forests were harvested according to the maximum sustainable cutting plan, or 2,421 GWh with the average cutting plan, so that they could meet 31.5% or 23.3% of the total energy consumption, or 42.6% and 31.5% of the energy consumption of power plants, respectively (Table 30.3). Thus the energy content of forest residues alone would easily exceed the target of 10% set by the European Union for biomass energy supplies. Although only 0.5% of detached houses in North Karelia were heated by pellets in 2004 (Pohjois-Karjalan bioenergiaohjelma 2015, 2007), they and firewood are expected to replace oil-fired systems and the electric heating of houses in the future, especially in sparsely populated areas, due to the increasing price of oil

Table 30.3 Annual energy potential of forest residues and their refined products under two harvesting plans Type of consumption

Estimate for energy consumption 2004 (GWh)

Total 10,390 Power plants∗ 7,685 Heavy and light 1,367 fuel oils Heavy and light 1,367 fuel oils Traffic 1,400

Energy content potential (GWh)

Proportion of respective energy consumption (%)

Replacement Maximum biofuel sustainable

Maximum sustainable

Average

Average

Residues Residues Pellets

3,277 3,277 1,305

2,421 2,421 964

31.5 42.6 95.5

23.3 31.5 70.5

Pyrolysis oil

1,720

1,271

125.8

93.0

405

283

28.9

20.2

FT diesel

Source: Pohjois-Karjalan bioenergiaohjelma 2015 (2007) ∗ including imported electricity

30

Potentials and Employment Impacts of Advanced Energy Production

525

and electricity. In spite of the small current use and demand, pellets produced from forest residues, could replace 96% of the energy content of the fuel oils currently consumed given the maximum cutting plan, or 71% with the average cutting plan (see Table 30.3). The energy content of the pellets would be equivalent to 12.5% or 9.3% of the region’s total energy consumption, depending on the cutting plan adopted. It is anticipated that fast pyrolysis oil will replace heavy and light fuel oils in the future. The consumption of fuel oil for heating and electricity production in 2004 was approximately 137 million l, corresponding to an energy content of 1,367 GWh. As the energy content of pyrolysis oil is about 46% of that of light fuel oil, about 210 million l of pyrolysis oil would have to be produced to obtain the corresponding amount of energy. Depending on the timber cutting plan, forest residues in North Karelia could yield approximately 265 million l of pyrolysis oil, equivalent to 126% of the energy content of the fuel oil consumed in 2004, or 195 million l, equivalent to 92% of the fuel oil consumed. It is assumed in these calculations that the overall liquid yield from dry biomass is 75% by weight (Chiaramonti et al. 2007), the rest consisting of natural moisture. Replacing fuel oils with fast pyrolysis oil would increase energy security in the region and its energy self-sufficiency by only 12 or 13 percentage points, measured as a proportion of total energy consumption in the region, depending on the cutting plan. Vehicles consumed about 69.7 million l of petrol, 65.7 million l of diesel and 13.5 million l of light fuel oil in North Karelia in 2004 (Pohjois-Karjalan bioenergiaohjelma 2015, 2007). Our rough estimates of the potential for producing FT diesel from forest residues are based on the calculation made by the Energy Research Centre of the Netherlands that 1 metric tonne of biomass yields 120 l of FT diesel with the current technology (Huber et al. 2006). In the future, with improved technology, it is possible that about 210 l of FT diesel could be obtained per metric tonne of biomass (ibid.). Moreover, the FT process generates synthetic natural gas and electricity as by-products, but neither of these will be addressed here. According to our calculation, it should be possible with the present technology to produce about 44 or 31 million l of FT diesel from forest residues, depending on the level of timber cutting, which would mean that North Karelia could meet over 29% or 21% of its requirement for motor fuels from forest residues alone. Due to the relatively inefficient nature of the FT conversion process, the majority of the energy content of residues would be consumed in the refining process or go into by-products, which could in part be used for other purposes. Future technological improvements could increase the yield of FT diesel to 51% or 35% of the region’s motor fuel requirement. As a whole, pure FT diesel produced by a future technology, exclusive of by-products, could cover 6.8 and 4.7% of the total energy consumption in North Karelia. Thus implies, of course, that the significance of FT diesel alone would be small by comparison with the biomass energy target set by the European Union.

526

O. Lehtonen and M. Tykkyläinen

30.4.2 Employment Effects of Bioenergy Alternatives 30.4.2.1 Employment Effects of Forest Residue Potentials in Forestry The profitable harvesting of forest residues and their treatment in order to be suitable for energy production are complex tasks. The process includes felling or extraction of the timber and its transportation and gathering into a heap in the forest, chipping or baling, transportation to a plant, handling, storing and drying and conveying onsite. The supply chains for chipped forest residues are usually divided into three categories according to the location of chipping, which can be done in the forest stand, beside the forest road or at a chipping terminal close to the place of use. The last option is based on a recent technique in which the material is compressed into cylindrical bales known as composite residue logs (Andersson et al., 2002), which can be transported with same equipment and trucks as roundwood. For the purposes of our model the labour input required for producing forest residues is derived from the study of Ahonen (2004), where chipping close to the place of use is identified as leading to the most cost-efficient supply chain (Table 30.4). The procurement of forest residues generates both direct and indirect employment effects (Miller & Blair, 1985). If the maximum sustainable cutting plan is adopted the procurement of forest residues could employ from 243 to 814 persons in total, depending on the productivity of residue supply chain, while the average annual rate of cuttings would have a total employment effect of 164 to 552 persons (see Table 30.4). The results provide support for the notion that bioenergy provides ample employment opportunities and is therefore an effective tool for stimulating rural development. Since the highly mechanized and developed systems used in forestry require fewer employees than the conventional method of cutting by a forest worker, the Table 30.4 Potential effects on employment in forestry and transportation of exploiting forest residues in North Karelia, in person-years Direct employment effects

Induced employment effects

Total employment effects

Supply chain

Raw material

MWh/ employee

Max

Avg

Max

Avg

Max

Avg

Composite residue logs Chipping beside the forest road Integrated harvesting Cutting by a forest worker

Forest residues

12,000

164

111

79

53

243

164

Forest residues

6,153

320

217

154

104

474

321

Small trees

5,714

344

234

166

112

510

346

Small trees

3,582

550

373

264

179

814

552

Sources: Ahonen (2004; communications with experts) Max – Maximum sustainable cuttings, Avg – Average cuttings

30

Potentials and Employment Impacts of Advanced Energy Production

527

efficiency of the production chain which uses residue logs is more than 3 times higher than in the latter case (see Table 30.4). Technological development and rationalization have reduced the need for labor in forestry during the past decades, but now the utilization of forest residues could restore the number of employees to varying extents. 30.4.2.2 Employment Effects of Bioenergy Plants Refining processes and power production are normally highly automated, and therefore the direct employment effects of conversion plants are relatively low. Interviews and earlier studies led to the outlining of five hypothetical conversion processes, the employment effects of which at the plant level were assessed by input-output analysis. The example plants were chosen with a view to the results being feasible for use in other regions, although the market values of the energy, infrastructure, actors and residue potentials involved would differ and could lead to different lines of development (Hillring, 2002). The calculated employment impacts quoted in Table 30.5 give at least rough estimates of the employment effects of the utilization of forest residues for energy directly and in refining plants of certain sizes. The results in terms of heat and power production are slightly lower than those reported in earlier studies (Borsboom et al., 2002) and show that the indirect impact in terms of job creation are much greater than the direct impact manifested the long regional bioenergy utilization chains (Thornley et al., 2008). The employment opportunities generated by bioenergy vary with the energy product concerned and with the production volume. A small heat and power plant consuming 80,000 m3 of forest residues per year would employ about 50 persons directly, via backward linkages to industries and via increased consumption by households in the region, whereas a large FT diesel plant accepting 850,000 m3 of forest residues per year would employ about 400 persons altogether. The induced and indirect employment effects are lowest in pellet factories, as the compressing of pellets is a short and simple production process linked directly to forestry (see Table 30.5), while the employment multipliers are highest in an FT diesel plant, due to the complex manufacturing process and linkages to supporting industries. Most of the induced and indirect employment opportunities, 40–60%, would be created in forestry and transportation, the exact amount being dependent on the type of bioenergy production. This is due to intensive links for all bioenergy projects with regional raw material inputs and logistic services. The impacts of bioenergy on other parts of the economy excluding forestry and transportation thus remain relatively small. The design of the system in terms of the numbers and types of plants would indirectly affect the spatial distribution of employment opportunities and the possibilities for organizing units that could be synergistically connected with each other. The direct effects of large plants are concentrated in only a few localities, whereas small plants and their related forestry work would disseminate the effects much more widely geographically. The results indicate that the burning of forest residues

9

2

4 7

1

35 MW

200 MW

70,000 t/a 31,000 t/a

68,000 t/a

Heat and power Heat and power Pellets Pyrolysis oil FT diesel

0

3 5

1

5

850,000

168,000 100,000

404,800

80,020

Use of forest residues (m3 )

70

16 14

60

12

Direct

175

29 21

76

16

156

19 27

113

22

Other

For. & trans.

Avg cut

Max sust. Cut

Size

Plant

Indirect and induced

Possible number of plants

Employment effects, person-years

401

64 62

249

50

Sum

Total

472

381 620

615

625

Per mill. (m3 )

Table 30.5 Estimated potential employment effects of sample plants in North Karelia with a composite residue log supply chain

5.73

3.99 4.46

4.14

4.14

Employment multiplier

528 O. Lehtonen and M. Tykkyläinen

30

Potentials and Employment Impacts of Advanced Energy Production

529

in power plants alone would generate relatively large regional employment impacts, whereas the other bioenergy industries would bring a smallish additional increase in employment, being labour-efficient production facilities situated at the end of the production chain, reflecting the results of Borsboom et al. (2002), for example. The employment multipliers for power plants are in the same range as in earlier studies (Gan & Smith, 2007). 30.4.2.3 Bioenergy Compensating for Jobs Lost in the Forest Industries Given that considerable restructuring is expected to take place in the forest sector in North Karelia as the global economic recession downsizes production and if the Russian export tariffs on roundwood come into full effect (Tykkyläinen & Lehtonen, 2008), increased use of bioenergy could offset any resulting decline in employment in a longer run. The number of jobs for which the production of bioenergy could compensate would be dependent on the strategic choices made in national energy policy and in the extent of cutting in the region. It can also be assumed that various stakeholders might go further in the degree to which forest residues could be used to replace fossil fuels in heat and power generation in the existing power plants and in determining whether forest residues should be refined to pellets, pyrolysis oil or FT diesel in the new plants. It is expected that energy policy will be regulated in order to create an institutional environment that is suitable for increasing the use of regional resources. If forest residues replace fossil fuels in heat and power generation, new jobs will be created in the forest residue supply chain but the possibilities for compensating for the jobs lost in mechanical and chemical wood-processing will be rather small. More beneficial to the restructuring industries from the viewpoint of job compensation would be to refine forest residues in integrated plants, such as refineries for fast pyrolysis liquids and Fischer-Tropsch diesel refineries, thereby creating new jobs at the high end of the production chains, in synergy with conventional woodprocessing. The refining of forest residues to fuels would have additional impacts on the regional economy and could strengthen the overall competitiveness of the regional forest cluster. In addition to backward linkages to forestry and transportation and synergy with conventional forest industries, high-end plants would have effects via household consumption. The utilization of forest residues could yield about 490 jobs (in 9.8 plants of capacity 35 MW each) or 202 jobs (in 3.2 pellet plants of 70,000 t/a each) in North Karelia, covering between 9.7 and 65.3% of the total impact of the cessation of wood imports, depending on the timber-cutting scenario, given the most probable trend in market development.

30.5 Conclusions The European Union target of increasing bioenergy will result in megaprojects with wide geographical impacts as technology is commercialized. Considerable amounts of the biomass contained in forest residues from the wooded areas of Europe could

530

O. Lehtonen and M. Tykkyläinen

be exploited. According to our results for North Karelia, such means of energy production could prove to be worth developing, being linked to forest management and the synergetic advantages to be gained from connections with the forest industries. The results show that forest residues could efficiently replace fossil fuels in power and district heating plants. The existing technology is suitable for plants of various sizes, and harvesting to produce composite residue logs, although leading to smaller employment effects, would be the most cost-effective way of producing the necessary raw materials. Either pellets or pyrolysis oil could replace the light and heavy fuel oils used in the heating of houses in the region and could be used in power plants to a substantial degree, pyrolysis oil being more similar in use to light oil than pellets, as it can be used as conventional heating oil, although with reservations as to its quality. The lowest energy content is obtained at present by Fischer-Tropsch synthesis, which is still under commercial development. The more complex the energy production process is, the more it can benefit from synergy with the conventional wood-processing industries. Moreover, as the procurement of raw materials is linked to the conventions of harvesting logs and pulp wood and to forest improvements, the spatial structure of this wood-based energy must co-exist with that of the conventional forest industries. The use of forest residues does not need any specific harvesting rounds, as procurement can take place in connection with commercial cuttings for the conventional forest industries and with forest management. The employment impacts of the utilization of forest residues would be geographically widespread, as forest residues are available everywhere in the region, and therefore the utilization of forest residues could slow down the decline taking place in extensive rural areas by providing jobs and thereby helping to achieve a more vital demographic structure and better provision of services. In the transformation process affecting rural areas this pressure to develop bioenergy from forest resources should be seen as a normal pattern of evolution of the rural economy towards the more advanced utilization of local resources in a spatially omnipresent context. Acknowledgements Thanks are expressed to Malcolm Hicks for checking the language of the manuscript. This study is part of research project no. 117817 funded by the Academy of Finland and belonging to the SUSWOOD consortium in the Sustainable Production and Products Research Programme.

References Ahonen, A. (2004). Metsähakkeen energiakäytön työllisyys- ja tulovaikutukset – Case-tutkimus. Oulun yliopisto: Kajaanin kehittämiskeskus, Aikuiskoulutus- ja aluekehitysyksikkö. Working Papers 47. Andersson, G., Asikainen, A., Björheden, R., Hall, P., Hudson, J., Jirjis, R., et al. (2002). Production of forest energy. In J. Richardson, R. Björheden, P. Hakkila, A. Lowe, & C. Smith (Eds.), Bioenergy from sustainable forestry. Guiding principles and practice (pp. 49–124). Dordrecht: Kluwer. Asikainen, A., Sikanen, L., & Laitila, J. (2004). Metsähakkeen tuotannon kustannustekijät ja logistiikka. In K. Hillebrand (Eds.) Metsähakkeen tuotannon kehittäminen nuorista metsistä (pp. 20–29). Projektiraportti PRO2/P6021/04. Jyväskylä: VTT Prosessit.

30

Potentials and Employment Impacts of Advanced Energy Production

531

Borsboom, N., Hektor, B., McCallum, B., & Remedio, E. (2002). Social implications of forest energy production. In J. Richardson, R. Björheden, P. Hakkila, A. Lowe, & C. Smith (Eds.), Bioenergy from sustainable forestry. Guiding principles and practice (pp. 265–298). Dordrecht: Kluwer. Bridgwater, A., & Peacocke, G. (2000). Fast pyrolysis processes for biomass. Renewable and Sustainable Energy Reviews, 4(1), 1–73. Chiaramonti, D., Oasmaa, A., & Solantausta Y. (2007). Power generation using fast pyrolysis liquids from biomass. Renewable and Sustainable Energy Reviews, 11(6), 1056–1086. Czernik, S., & Bridgwater, A. (2004). Overview of applications of biomass fast pyrolysis oil. Energy Fuels, 18(2), 590–598. Demirbas, M., & Balat, M. (2006). Recent advances on the production and utilization trends of bio-fuels: A global perspective. Energy Conversion and Management, 47(15–16), 2371–2381. Domac, J., Richards, K., & Risovic, S. (2005). Socio-economic drivers in implementing bioenergy projects. Biomass and Bioenergy, 28(2), 97–106. Ericsson, K., Huttunen, S., Nilsson, L., & Svenningsson, P. (2004). Bioenergy policy and market development in Finland and Sweden. Energy Policy, 32(15), 1707–1721. Faaij, A. (2006). Bioenergy in Europe: Changing technology choices. Energy Policy, 34(3), 322–342. Finnish Forest Research Institute. (2008). The 2006 inventory database. Helsinki: Metsäntutkimuslaitos. Finnish Statistical Yearbook of Forestry. (2006). Helsinki: Metsäntutkimuslaitos. Finnish Statistical Yearbook of Forestry. (2007). Helsinki: Metsäntutkimuslaitos. Gan, J., & Smith, C.T. (2007). Co-benefits of utilizing logging residues for bioenergy production: The case for East Texas, USA. Biomass and Bioenergy, 31(9), 623–630. Hakkila, P. (1978). Harvesting small sized wood for fuel. Folia Forestalia, 342. Hakkila, P. (2006). Factors driving the development of forest energy in Finland. Biomass and Bioenergy, 30(44), 281–288. Hamelinck, C., & Faaij, A. (2002). Future prospects for production of methanol and hydrogen from biomass. Journal of Power Sources, 111(1), 1–22. Hamelinck, C., Faaij, A., den Uil, H., & Boerrigter, H. (2004). Production of FT transportation fuels from biomass: Technical options, process analysis and optimisation and development potential. Energy, 29(11), 1743–1771. Hillring, B. (2002). Rural development and bioenergy – Experiences from 20 years of development in Sweden. Biomass and Bioenergy, 23(6), 443–451. Huber, G., Iborra, S., & Corma, A. (2006) Synthesis of transportation fuels from biomass: Chemistry, catalysts and engineering. Chemical Reviews, 106(9), 4044–4098. Hyttinen, P., Niskanen, A., Ottitsch, A., Tykkyläinen, M., & Väyrynen, J. (2002). Forest Related perspectives for regional development in Europe. Leiden: Brill. Impola, R. (2002). Metsähakkeen laatukartoitus. Projektiraportti PRO21/T6505/02. Jyväskylä: VTT prosessit. Johansson, A., Kisch, P., & Mirata, M. (2005). Distributed economies – A new engine for innovation. Journal of Cleaner Production, 13(10–11), 971–979. Kallio, M., & Kallio, E. (2004). Puumateriaalin pelletöinti. Projektiraportti PRO2/P6012/04. Jyväskylä: VTT Prosessit. Laihanen, M., Ranta, T., Arpiainen, V., Mäkinen, T., Solantausta, Y., & McKeough, P. (2006). Biopohjaisten liikennepolttoaineiden kehittämisohjelma Etelä-Savossa. Lappeenranta University of Technology, Department of Energy and Environmental Technology, Tutkimusraportti EN B-171. Laine, P. (2007). Social security benefits for households in North Karelia (Unpublished statistics). Lehtonen, O., & Tykkyläinen, M. (2009). The emerging shortage of labour in forestry in a remote coniferous region: A brake on the massive use of biofuels. In K. Andersson, E. Eklund, M. Lehtola, & P. Salmi (Eds.), Beyond the rural-urban divide (pp. 25–55). Bingley: Emerald. Leontief, W. (1966). Input-output economics. New York: Oxford University Press.

532

O. Lehtonen and M. Tykkyläinen

Manley, A., & Richardson, J. (1995). Silviculture and economic benefits of producing wood energy from conventional forestry systems and measures to mitigate negative impacts. Biomass and Bioenergy, 9(1), 89–105. Miller, R., & Blair, P. (1985). Input-output analysis. Foundations and extensions. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Mirata, M., Nilsson, H., & Kuisma, J. (2005). Production systems aligned with distributed economies: Examples from energy and biomass sectors. Journal of Cleaner Production, 13(10–11), 981–991. Oasmaa, A., Peacocke, C., Gust, S., Meier, D., & Mc Lellan R. (2005). Norms and standards for pyrolysis liquids. End-user requirements and specifications. Energy and Fuels, 19(5), 2155–2163. Okkonen, L. (2008) From exogenous to endogenous development in Scottish forestry: the feasibility of small-scale wood energy enterprise. Journal of Environmental Planning and Management, 51(2), 221–232. Pimentel, D. (2003). Ethanol fuels: Energy balance, economics and environmental impacts are negative. Natural Resources Research, 12(2), 127–134. Pohjois-Karjalan bioenergiaohjelma 2015. (2007). Joensuu: Pohjois-Karjalan maakuntaliitto. Richardson, J., Björheden, R., Hakkila, P., Lowe, A., & Smith, C. (2002). Preface. In J. Richardson, R. Björheden, P. Hakkila, A. Lowe, & C. Smith (Eds.), Bioenergy from sustainable forestry. Guiding principles and practice (pp. ix–xii). Dordrecht: Kluwer. Rimler, T., Kurttila, M., Pesonen, M., & Koljonen, K. (2000). Economic impacts of alternative timber cutting scenarios in Finland: An input-output analysis. Forest Policy and Economics, 1(3–4), 301–313. Statistics Finland. (2006). Regional input-output tables. Description of statistics. Retrieved May 20, 2008, from http://www.stat.fi/til/apt/index.html. Statistics Finland. (2007a) Annual national accounts. Retrieved May 20, 2008, from http://www.stat.fi/til/vtp/index_en.html. Statistics Finland. (2007b). Regional accounts of production and employment. Retrieved May 20, 2008, from http://www.stat.fi/til/atutyo/index_en.html. Statistics Finland. (2007c). Regional household accounts. Retrieved May 20, 2008, from http://www.stat.fi/til/akoti/index_en.html. The Scottish Government. (2008). User Guide – the Multipliers. Retrieved October 4, 2008, from http://www.scotland.gov.uk/Topics/Statistics/Browse/Economy/Input-Output/Mulitipliers Thornley, P., Rogers, J., & Huang, Y. (2008). Quantification of employment from biomass power plants. Renewable Energy, 33(8), 1922–1927. Tilman, D., Hill, J., & Lehman, C. (2006). Carbon-negative biofuels from low-input high-diversity grassland biomass. Science, 314, 1598–1600. Tykkyläinen, M., & Lehtonen, O. (2008). Russian roundwood exports: The effects of tariffs on the Finnish border economy. Eurasian Geography and Economics, 49(6), 731–754. Vatanen, E. (2001). Puunkorjuun ja puunkuljetuksen paikallistaloudelliset vaikutukset Juvan, Keuruun ja Pielisen Karjalan seutukunnissa. Metsäntutkimuslaitoksen tiedonantoja, 825. Whitley, M., Zervos, A., Timmer, M., & Butera, F., (2004). Meeting the targets and putting renewables to work. Overview Report for MITRE Project, ALTENER Programme. Corsham: Directorate General for Energy and Transport, Energy for Sustainable Development. Wolf, A., Vidlund, A., & Andersson, E. (2006). Energy-efficient pellet production in the forest industry – a study of obstacles and success factors. Biomass and Bioenergy, 30(1), 38–45. Wright, L. (2006). Worldwide commercial development of bioenergy with a focus on energy cropbased projects. Biomass and Bioenergy, 30(8–9), 706–714.

Chapter 31

Megaproject: A 4-Decade Perspective of the Gulf Development Model Michael C. Ewers and Edward J. Malecki

31.1 Introduction Since the global oil shock of the early 1970s, the Arab Gulf States have stimulated economic growth through infrastructure-led development in the form of distinct megaprojects. Initially, this was basic infrastructure in order to facilitate and expand oil production. Multinational companies (MNCs) in construction, engineering and oil and their labor provided the skill and technology for this infrastructural development. As we fast-forward 35 years and witness the exceptional urban development of Abu Dhabi, Dubai and their counterparts in the Gulf, it is often forgotten that these new development projects represent varieties of a four-decade old development continuum in the Gulf: the deployment of oil windfalls into megaprojects to promote rapid economic growth. Building on the most successful diversification megaprojects of the late 1970s, the Gulf countries continue to invest in megaprojects to transition beyond oil, representing two key post-oil trajectories: first, resourcebased industrialization, to include petrochemicals, plastics and aluminum; second, services and knowledge activities, in trade and entrepôt, information technology, tourism and education. This paper examines each of these trajectories through detailed analyses of how two countries have utilized megaprojects to leap into post-oil economic development. In particular, we examine the evolution of two megaprojects, from their creation in the 1970s to their most recent transformations with the advent of the current oil boom. Jubail and Yanbu, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia’s twin industrial cities, represented the largest industrial cities in the world at the time of their conception, and provided the basis for the country’s current construction of seven huge economic cities. Dubai’s Jebel Ali port, also constructed in the mid-1970s, is the largest human-made harbor in the world and is the model for the United Arab

M.C. Ewers (B) Department of Geography, Texas A&M University, College Station, TX, 77843-3147, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_31,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

533

534

M.C. Ewers and E.J. Malecki

Emirates’ (UAE) spectacular economic diversification program today as well as a model for projects across the Gulf. These two diversification trajectories are conceptualized through this megaproject framework with three objectives: first, to assess the complements and constraints of oil-based development legacies on the transition beyond oil; second, to identify the “construction” of new entrepôt, service, tourism and knowledge nodes in the world economy; and, third, to determine the effects of continued reliance on foreign skill, labor and technology from MNCs to promote and sustain local development.

31.2 Megaprojects: Theory, Rationale, Evaluation Megaprojects can be categorized into four groups (Gellert & Lynch, 2003): physical infrastructure, natural resource extraction, production, and consumption. In the Gulf, we see all four of these categories of projects, and often within entirely new cities. This includes the products of oil urbanization, such as the modern capital cities of the region, but also in the form of post-oil cities, such as Dubai’s enclaves and Saudi Arabia’s economic cities as will be discussed below. Megaprojects in the Arab Gulf are the physical manifestations of oil windfalls. The infrastructure itself has a global reach and a local impact, with pronounced human geographic outcomes. These include changes in the map of foreign investment and multinational corporations’ behavior, the stimulation and direction of skilled and unskilled labor migration flows, and the formation of world cities. Accordingly, examining the impacts and outcomes of Gulf megaprojects offers a great deal to our theoretic understanding of the geographic implications for such projects. But what is the rationale in the developing world to utilize megaprojects to achieve higher levels of economic development? The literature on this topic dates back to the “Big Push” theory developed by Hirschman (1958) and Myrdal (1959) and, before this, Innis’ (1933) work on the “staple trap.” Big push theories argue that the investment of large portions of revenue into a few, key, large-scale physical infrastructure projects generates a process of cumulative causation. Developing economies often have weak private sectors. If the government takes the risk to create physical infrastructure which could be shared by corporations, private capital formation will necessarily follow: private capital formation leads to industrial capacity which then leads to “development” (Amsden, 2001; Looney, 1989; Sachs & Warner, 1999; Scott, 2002). The basis of this theory is that physical infrastructure can change and stimulate the relationship between supply and demand, by reducing transaction costs and creating linkages, substituting capital and labor, and diversifying employment and consumption opportunities. In a number of cases, these projects have failed to meet expectations, instead becoming symbols of wasteful spending, corruption, or population displacement (Gellert & Lynch, 2003; Gunton, 2003). Accordingly, the World Bank recognizes that there are a number of conditions which need to be met in order for such projects

31

A 4-Decade Perspective of the Gulf Development Model

535

to generate a positive impact (Kessides, 1993). First, there must be an efficient strategy for which projects should be undertaken, where they should be located and how they should be allocated so as not to have a crowding out effect on existing production activities. Second, infrastructure cannot create new potential, but can complement and enhance existing productive capacity. Lastly, users must be willing to pay to use the infrastructure. In geography, Scott (2002) has adapted the “big push” by adding notions of space and place, developing the idea of a “regional push.” He discusses how infrastructural investments can create localization and urbanization economies. Localization economies are defined by the efficiency gains which occur due to the agglomeration of firms from a specific sector in a given region. Urbanization economies are defined by efficiency gains from the agglomeration of firms from many sectors in a given region. The common basis to both ideas is that the clustering of firms accrues positive externalities to the place where the clustering occurs. In Scott’s argument, agglomeration reduces transaction costs, stimulates the local labor market, creates a competitive advantage for the region in a given specialty, and produces economies of scale (Scott, 2002). Scott, however, recognizes that processes of cumulative causation are heavily influenced by path-dependent, evolutionary patterns of growth in a given region, at times preventing such strategies from producing the desired outcome. Indeed, path dependence and regional lock-in provide an important explanation for why the Gulf region has failed to transition beyond oil. Despite undertaking the largest megaprojects for economic growth in the world, the legacies of oil have prevented the region from diversifying into new sources of growth.

31.3 Megaprojects, Diversification and Development in the Gulf In the Gulf, we see big push and regional push strategies used as an impetus for economic growth and development. From the early days of Aramco, to the oil urbanization of the 1960s and 1970s, to the transformation of Dubai into a global city, urban-industrial megaprojects have represented key strategies for economic growth and development (Lawless & Seccombe, 1993; Melamid, 1980; Pacione, 2005; Sell, 2008). While the Arab Gulf States today are beacons of modern infrastructure, this growth is the reflection of oil rent distribution-based economies. With the 1973 oil embargo, windfalls were primarily directed to expanding government bureaucracies as a means of both creating an apparatus to control and expand oil production and as a way to distribute profits to the local populace in the form of government employment and massive social entitlement expenditures. Until the late-1970s, strategies were primarily based on big push ideas: massive investments in massive physical and productive infrastructural projects designed to increase absorptive capacity for oil production, modernize the economies, and increase standards of living as rapidly as possible (Auty, 1988; Fasano & Goyal, 2004). Even with such large social and physical infrastructural expenditures, due

536

M.C. Ewers and E.J. Malecki

to the small native populations, it was impossible to absorb all of the oil windfalls locally. As a result, large sums of money were directed to foreign equity markets, especially in the US and Europe, and transferred abroad through remittances to foreign labor. The result was rapid economic growth, but this came at a cost (Auty, 1995; Richards & Waterbury, 1990). Today, the region’s overall economic structure remains heavily dominated by oil, massive bureaucracies and, most significantly, foreign labor. In regards to the latter, population dynamics represent both a rationale for, and an impetus to, diversification in the region. The Gulf States have the highest population growth rates in the world, growing from 4 million in 1950 to 10 million in 1975 to 36 million in 2005 (World Bank, 2008). In 2005 the workforces across all six Gulf States were comprised of an average 70% expatriate labor. Qatar and the UAE have the highest percentage of expatriates in the workforce at 90% (GIC, 2006). The first oil boom (1973–1986) witnessed two key types of megaprojects for diversification which have remained the models today. The first of these, resourcebased industrialization, represents a sensible strategy for an oil-rich and labordeficient economy. Petrochemical, plastic and aluminum complexes are capital-and resource-intensive, but require few workers (Auty, 1988). Prominent early examples of these include Jubail and Yanbu in Saudi Arabia (1975), Saudi Arabia Basic Industries Corporation (1977), Dubai Aluminum (1975), and Bahrain Aluminum and Steel (1985). The second includes service, and more recently, knowledge-based activities. Prominent early examples include Bahrain as an offshore banking center (1975), and Dubai’s Jebel Ali Port (1975) and Free Zone (1985) (Fasano, 2003). Despite these exceptional successes, key megaprojects had not altered more fundamental distortions in the region’s economies, that is, distortions resulting from the rapid, oil-based development of the 1970s. Resulting social, demographic and economic distortions left the countries in dire straits as budgets had to be tightened in the 1980s. The entire economic structure of the economies had been designed for oil, with weak private sectors and heavy foreign capital and labor dependence. With the fastest-growing populations in the world, expectations for the distribution of oil rent had not changed (Keller & Nabli, 2002; Looney, 1994). Despite the seemingly urgent need for the region to transform its economies during this period, government expenditures were increasingly directed towards a different type of megaproject, viz., military infrastructure. This continued through the period of the Iran-Iraq war and Gulf War (Henry & Springborg, 2001). In the mid-1990s, as the oil market began to look more optimistic, the use of megaprojects for diversification reemerges with adaptations and new interpretations of the 1970s earlier megaproject successes to meet a new economy. With these new windfalls, the region has invested in variations on the most successful of the 1970s resource-based industrialization and service and knowledge-based megaprojects, all adapted for a 21st century global economy. These exceptional examples have provided a model for how to spend post-1998 windfalls in the region. Each of these strategies shares the same objective: provide a future after oil by diversifying the economic base and thus ending reliance on foreign workers, skill and technology and creating locally sustainable economic growth.

31

A 4-Decade Perspective of the Gulf Development Model

537

Each of the new resource and service/knowledge-based approaches of constructing megaprojects for diversification is largely based on a contained form of economic liberalization (Auty, R. M. (2007) “Personal communication”, June 14). They are designed to not jeopardize the power of the region’s monarchies or their control over oil reserves and production. In each of these cases, the government provides land, infrastructure and subsidies to foreign corporations. Such strategies more closely follow Scott’s regional push theory than the neoclassical big push arguments, as witnessed in the proliferation of special economic zones, sectorspecific industrial, service and knowledge cities, and cluster-based development strategies (Christiansen & Bohmer, 2005; Horovitz & Ohlsson, 2005; Tahir, 1998; UNESCWA, 2005).

31.4 The Case of Saudi Arabia: From Jubail and Yanbu to the 7 Economic Cities In 1982 Time Magazine proclaimed, “In all the expansive sweep of civil engineering, from the pyramids to the Nile to the construction of the Panama Canal, nothing so huge, or costly, as Jubail has ever been attempted by anyone” (Taylor & Blaylock, 1982: 1). The origin of the concept of these industrial cities, although disputed, is often attributed to Steve Bechtel Jr. of the US firm Bechtel Engineering. According to an observer, he envisioned “two industrial cities, on the East and West Coast, tied by a pipeline,” which would act as “two industrial lungs for the country, with an artery in between” (Pampanini, 1997: 13). The government would provide the capital for the construction and development of the project, using state intervention to attract foreign investors while also providing incentives to local industries. While Bechtel built the project, Shell and Mobil Oil were the two key partners (Auty, 1990). Initially the site of small fishing villages, each with populations under 20,000, Saudi Arabia established a Royal Commission to build the cities in 1975. The cities spearheaded a three-part diversification strategy embarked on by the Kingdom in the late 1970s and early 1980s: “to add value to human and material resources . . . to provide the basic linkages backwards to the raw material sector and forward to a wide variety of potential resources” (Ghanem, 1992: 85). The cities were also designed to take pressure away from the rapidly growing key cities of Riyadh and Jeddah. The projects were designed around the build-operate-transfer logic: pay foreign firms to build and initially operate the project and then train local firms and labor to take over (Auty 1990). The Royal Commission designed each city to be comprised of basic industries, secondary industries, and supporting and light industries (RCJY, 1991). While industrial, population and employment projections were consistently downgraded into the mid-1990s (Auty, 1990), the second oil boom gave new life to the cities. Population in each city grew from under 20,000 in 1975 to approximately 100,000 in 2008, 9% of which has been in the last decade. In Jubail, the population

538

M.C. Ewers and E.J. Malecki

reaches 140,000 during the day as the majority of the workers remain commuters rather than residents of the city (Martin, 2008a; Pampanini, 1997). Today, Jubail is responsible for 50% of its country’s entire foreign investment and 70% of its non-oil exports. Jubail alone is responsible for 7% of the entire world’s petrochemical production (EIU, 2006). Jubail was even named as the “Middle East city with the best economic potential” by The Financial Times FDI Magazine (Hanware, 2005). Most recently, the construction of Jubail II has begun, with Jubail III now on track for construction as well. The plan is to double the industrial site at a total budget of US $45 billion and the expectation of creating 380,000 jobs. Jubail and Yanbu are each to receive two US $6 billion dollar refineries as part of 82 total projects planned by the Royal Commission in the future (BMI, 2008; Martin, 2008a). The economic success of the cities, however, has not sufficiently addressed the population and employment challenges which face the Kingdom. Indeed, the measure by which we evaluate the success of megaprojects in the Gulf requires a different set of metrics than would be applied in the West. Most importantly, the cities’ overall impact on the Kingdom’s total employment picture is marginal, having generated a combined total of 90,000 jobs (RCJY, 2008a). This total job creation figure must be interpreted in the context of a country with a total population of 23 million people, comprised of 4.8 million foreign workers and only 1.3 million Saudi workers (GIC, 2006). The largest demographic success of the cities is that its local population is growing at a significantly faster rate than its foreign population. Yanbu, for instance, experienced a 125% increase in the Saudi population since 1990, but only a 32% increase in the expatriate population (Kutubkhanah, 2008). Indeed, the capital-intensive nature of RBI plants precludes any significant impact on the larger conundrum of large numbers of foreign labor, and young, fastgrowing local populations with high unemployment rates. The country had a 4.1% annual population growth rate from 1960–2000 and over 43% of the 2000 population was under 15 years of age (Rodenbeck, 2002). Even in Jubail, approximately 37% of the population is under 15 years of age and 70% under 30 years of age (RCJY, 2008b). Official unemployment estimates for the country sit at 12%, but some believe that the actual numbers could be double this figure (King, 2007). In regards to employment distribution, public sector, non-industrial employment continues to make up a disproportionate percentage of total employment in the cities. Just under half of all jobs remain to be in non-industrial government and social service jobs (RCJY, 2008a). It is also probable that, as in the rest of the Kingdom, the majority of the public sector jobs are held by Saudi labor while the foreigners hold a disproportionate share of the private sector positions. The economic success of Jubail and Yanbu and the larger proportion of Saudi to foreign population (though not labor) in the cities have provided a model for the Kingdom’s largest, costliest and most ambition projects yet: the seven economic cities. The new economic cities reflect Saudi Arabia’s aspired economic trajectories some 30 years later – the evolution of the Jubail/Yanbu model to tackle new challenges and create new opportunities for economic diversification. The objectives of the cities are to “promote balanced regional development, achieve economic diversification, create jobs and upgrade competitiveness” (SAGIA, 2008a). The goal is

31

A 4-Decade Perspective of the Gulf Development Model

539

to generate over one million jobs, produce between a quarter and a third of the projected GDP growth, be home to over 4 million residents, and become one of the top ten global investment destinations, all by 2020 (SAGIA, 2008a; SUSRIS, 2007). Construction on four cities has begun and plans for three more have been announced; with a total anticipated cost of half a trillion US dollars (Martins, Lewin, & Phillips, 2008). Key facts on the cities are summarized in Table 31.1. While China used its abundant resources of inexpensive labor to become a global industrial superpower, Saudi Arabia is leveraging its own most abundant resource, oil, to become an industrial superpower in its own right (King, 2007). Three key factors both characterize the economic cities as an effort to replicate Jubail/Yanbu model for the 21st century, and reflect efforts by the Saudis to attain something different entirely. Firstly, the new economic cities are designed to be entirely self-contained, with a philosophy of “live, work and play” (Mansi, 2008). Jubail and Yanbu were designed to prioritize the industrial area (Al-But’hie & Eben Saleh, 2002). By contrast, even though each economic city will have a clear sectoral focus, each will also include real estate, education, a port and tourism development (Martins et al., 2008; SUSRIS, 2007). Their goal is to create contained zones of competitiveness which can articulate the national economy onto a global stage. One of the main problems plaguing the Kingdom remains regional inequality (Abdel Rahman, Al-Muraikhi, & Al-Khedheiri, 1995). By building the cities in remote areas of the country, planners hope that the new economic cities will address this problem (Martins et al., 2008). The second factor characterizing the new economic cities is that of the public/private sector dynamic. Jubail and Yanbu were entirely financed by the national government, which also owns the land and provided subsidies to foreign investors (Martin, 2008b). In the new cities, the private sector is intended to provide the capital, as well as to own and develop the land. Additionally, the Saudi Investment Authority will act as a facilitator and regulator, rather than a provider and financer (Al Mansour, 2007). While this is strategy is in line with the neoclassical development model, some believe that the Jubail/Yanbu model was a better strategy in a region with such high levels of political and economic risk: “the biggest lesson to learn from Jubail and Yanbu: that the private sector will be involved in projects that get state financial support” (Martin, 2008b: 46). The last factor characterizing these cities is a set of sectoral specializations, chosen by McKinsey, the US consulting firm (Mansi, 2008). The cities are being built around three sectors: energy, transportation and knowledge, intended to “act as an anchor and growth engine for the city, around which other businesses will locate” (Al Mansour, 2007: 5). In regards to energy, the goal is much the same as Jubail and Yanbu: to focus on resource-based and energy-intensive industries which add value to Saudi oil resources, as well as stimulate the growth of upstream and downstream industries (SAGIA, 2008b). The second specialization, transportation, was chosen to exploit the key location of Saudi Arabia as a link between Asia and Europe/North America (SAGIA, 2008c). Achieving diversification through promoting linkages between minerals and transportation sectors has represented a key strategy since the 1970s, and is epitomized by the Jubail/Yanbu projects (Aldagheiri & Bradshaw,

Jizan

Mecca

Medina

Hail

Jizan Economic City

King Abdullah Economic City

Medina Knowledge City

Prince Abdulaziz Bin Mosaed Economic City

150

4.8

168

100

30

25

27bn

30

Cost Est. in US $ billion

300,000/55,000

50,000/20,000

2,000,000/1,000,000

500,000/250,000

Population/ Employment Estimates

Industrial activity

Industrial park, agriculture export and Energy- and distribution, business and cultural labor-intensive center, port, fisheries, health and industries education areas Port, financial island, resorts, industrial Transport and logistics, district, education zone, residential area light industry, services Islamic education theme park, health and Knowledge and technology (IT and biotechnology center, high tech park, communication) Islamic civilization research center, multimodal transport center, business, retail and hotel districts. Logistics and transport, petrochemical, Transportation and agribusiness, mining and business logistics, centers, international airport, dry port agribusiness, minerals and entertainment zone and construction

Components

Sources: Al Mansour (2007); Martins et al. (2008); SAGIA (2008a); SUSRIS (2007) Recently announced: Ras Al-Zour Resource City in the Eastern Province, focusing on energy and minerals, Sudair Industrial City in Qassini, focusing on telecommunications and electronics, and Tabuk Economic City in Tabuk, whose specialization has not been announced

Region

Name

Size in Mn sq meters

Table 31.1 The Saudi economic cities

540 M.C. Ewers and E.J. Malecki

31

A 4-Decade Perspective of the Gulf Development Model

541

2006a, 2006b). Knowledge based industries, the last of the three specializations, includes education, healthcare and medical research, and technology. King Abdullah Economic City, for instance, includes the King Abdullah University of Science and Technology, which already possesses a $25 billion endowment (Mansi, 2008).

31.5 The Case of UAE: From Jebel Ali to Nodes of Competitiveness In 1981 the UAE federal government published a five-year plan based on the following key principles: First, the projects were to be capital-intensive and not labor-intensive, export-oriented and hydrocarbon-based, as well as regionally balanced across the seven Emirates. Second, the public sector was to finance the construction, design and operation of the projects, to provide subsidies to foreign and local investors, and to create incentives for industrial expansion. Third, projects were to be based on the use of foreign firms as investors or joint ventures in order to promote technology transfer and connection to foreign markets (Ghanem, 1992). The Emirate of Dubai was well ahead of the federal government’s plan, having begun construction of Jebel Ali, the world’s largest human-made port, some six years earlier. Dubai, a regional trade hub since a century prior had already decided to use oil windfalls to reclaim this position. Because the initial foreign construction labor required for Jebel Ali would dwarf the entire population of the Emirate in the mid-1970s, leaders decided to place the port 35 km (22 mi) southwest of the city. In retrospect, building such a massive structure away from the city center was an excellent decision from a planning perspective, but the rationale at that time had more to do with fear over the impact of foreign laborers (Birks & Sinclair, 1980). The initial intention was to use Jebel Ali as a zone to transform the economy, first reclaiming the Emirate’s regional trade status and then to create production-based industrialization in the fields of aluminum, gas and cables. From this perspective, the Jebel Ali project would seem to have a great deal in common with Jubail and Yanbu. The Emirate had more innovative plans, transforming the port into Jebel Ali Free Zone in 1985 (Ghanem, 2001). Jebel Ali came to offer foreign companies an appealing base from which to create a regional hub for the Gulf States and South Asia. Location has been a key factor in Jebel Ali and Dubai’s success over the past four decades (Capineri & Randelli, 2007). In number of days at sea, Jebel Ali is 14 days from Europe, 20 days from the Far East, 9 days from Southeast Asia, 35 days from the US East Coast, 10 days from India and Pakistan, and 45 days from South America (JAFZ, 2007). More significant in a region of such high political and economic risk, Dubai has proven over the last three decades that it offers an environment which is largely immune from the military and political strife afflicting its neighbors. If anything, Dubai has benefited from its neighbors’ problems, including benefits from providing bases to US military operations, a regional entrance for US goods in the region and a doorway to the Iranian market (Davidson, 2007). Jebel Ali also offered such incentives as

542

M.C. Ewers and E.J. Malecki

complete foreign ownership, access to land with long-term leases or comparatively low rental rates, freedom from all tax, custom and levy charges, and no employment restrictions (Christiansen & Bohmer, 2005). While Gulf economies already have low taxes, the region’s governments are quite sensitive to issues of foreign control and ownership. By creating a contained space from which to get around this, Jebel Ali gave foreign investors exactly what they wanted. In 1985, at the Free Zone’s conception, there were 19 total firms, nearly all in the trade sector with US $50 million invested. In 1990, the number had grown to 276 with US $600 million invested (Ghanem, 1992, 2001). By 2006 the port had 6000 companies from nearly 100 countries in residence with approximately US $5 billion invested (JAFZ, 2007). Soon after the success of the JAFZ idea was realized, the UAE adapted its entire diversification program to be based on the idea of free zones, creating almost two dozen other free zones, with many others under construction. Rather than only creating new trade-based zones to reinforce its status as a regional hub, zones established since the second oil boom have been designed to act as “centers of innovation” in a variety of service and knowledge-based sectors (Christiansen & Bohmer, 2005; Ferretti & Parmentola, 2007; Horovitz & Ohlsson. 2005). Some of the most significant projects in Dubai are summarized in Table 31.2. Largely as a result of the success of Jebel Ali, the majority of Dubai’s current GDP is now based on non-oil activities, and 10% of non-oil GDP is from foreign direct investment. Perhaps the greatest success of Jebel Ali is that its home company, Dubai Ports World, now operates ports around the world and is hired by other countries to create ports and free zones. The company has 50,000 employees in over 100 cities around the world and 53 terminals in 30 countries. JAFZA itself is part of Dubai World. Currently under construction is Jebel Ali International Airport, poised to be the largest airport in the world. According to the JAFZ port authority the airport will distinguish JAFZA as the “only logistics hub in the world to be located within the same customs-bound complex as a major port and airport, resulting in even quicker sea to air transshipments” (JAFZ, 2007). Jebel Ali is not without competition, as the entire region has followed suit with the special economic zone strategy. This could prove problematic for Jebel Ali’s dominance in the region. While today many firms will happily make the long trip into the Straits of Hormuz and up the Persian Gulf to access the region at Jebel Ali’s state-of-the-art port, new ports are being established in much more convenient locations. These include Saudi Arabia’s new economic cities, but also ports in Oman and even the Northern Emirates of the UAE which do not require ships to travel into the Persian Gulf to access the region. Even more interesting is the construction of Saudi Arabia’s new US $5 billion landbridge railway designed to link the Red Sea and Persian Gulf coasts of Saudi Arabia. According to an engineer with Hyder Consulting, a firm working on the project, “It makes sense from almost every angle for Saudi Arabia to be the region’s hub. If you look at the way the shipping lanes are laid out, Dubai is quite painful to get to, whereas if you drop goods in Jeddah, you have regional distribution . . . and only have to pay a single set of port duties” (Tomlinson, 2007: 24).

31

A 4-Decade Perspective of the Gulf Development Model

543

Table 31.2 Key special economic zones in operation or under construction in Dubai Name

Zone Type

Est.

Sq Km

Economic activities

Jebel Ali

Free

1985

100

Dubai Airport

Free

1996

12

Dubai Internet City

Industry

2000

4

Dubai Customs and Automobile Free Zone Dubai Media City

Industry

2000

8

Trade, processing, manufacturing, packaging and assembly, storage Manufacturing, processing, assembly activities, trade activities, selected services IT Support, Software development, Web-based marketing Automobile trading

Industry

2001

0.3

Dubai Metals and Commodities Center Dubai Technology Park

Industry

2002

2

Industry

2003

3

Knowledge Village

Industry

2003

Dubai Healthcare Industry City Dubai Industrial City Industry

2003

2.1

2004

52

Dubai Int’l Financial Industry Center

2004

.44

DuBiotech

Industry

2006

2.3

Dubai Silicon Oasis

Industry

2007

7

Broadcasting, production, advertising, public relations, music, publishing, marketing, consultancy Gold, diamond and commodities trading Advanced Engineering (material science), Agro-Food, Biotech (pharmaceutics), Environment (desalination), oil Education, training, research and development Healthcare Machinery and Mechanical equipment, Base Metals, Chemicals, Food, Beverage and Mineral Products Banking; Capital Markets; Asset Management and Fund Registration; Insurance and Re-insurance; Islamic Finance Agro-Food, Biotech, Environment, Health Care, R&D Information technology, electronic innovation, R&D

Sources: Christiansen and Bohmer (2005); Tahir (1998); UAE Free Zones (2008); UNIDO (2008)

The current proliferation of megaprojects in Dubai represents the evolution of the Jebel Ali model to create nodes of economic competitiveness in other economic activities as well. The cities of the Arab Gulf, particularly Dubai, have made strong efforts to attain global city status by taking advantage of “global spectacle,” that is, constructing spectacular infrastructural projects and promoting megaevents that gain global media attention and attract foreign investors, corporations, workers and tourists (Short, 2004). Dubai has gained so much attention in the media over the last decade because its projects are always the first, costliest or largest of their kind.

544

M.C. Ewers and E.J. Malecki

Little work, however, has addressed the rationale or sustainability of such projects. Global spectacle in the Gulf is closely related to the dependence on migrant labor and the polarization of wealth in the Gulf. In order to build, and then to provide the heavy service requirements of the attractions, hotels, restaurants and events, a city requires even more expatriate labor. In order to host and promote events or build global tourist attractions in the first place, the city also needs the super-rich. The Gulf has both of these requirements (Malecki & Ewers, 2007). The success of Jebel Ali and Dubai’s other special economic zone megaprojects, in particular, can be deceptive. Most importantly, this strategy to generate service and knowledge-based development through megaprojects is based on creating hubs for multinational corporations, with no requirements for hiring and training local, Emirati labor. From the 1970s to today, the country has only increased in its total number of foreign labor, which today represents over 90% of the total labor force (GIC, 2006). The vast majority of the companies in Jebel Ali, for instance, are foreign companies. Without local hiring requirements, most of the professional workers in Jebel Ali and other UAE special economic zones continue to originate from the US, Western Europe and Asia rather than from the UAE (Tahir, 1998). Accordingly, while this strategy has clearly generated significant economic growth and has placed the UAE well on track to leaping beyond oil and into service and knowledge-based growth, the sustainability of such a strategy remains in question.

31.6 Conclusions First, and inspired by the Jubail/Yanbu success stories in Saudi Arabia, the region has increasingly invested in downstream, resource-based industrialization projects. Petrochemical, resource-based industrialization complexes were the most common megaprojects for diversification to be implemented during the first oil boom. The logic behind this move in the region is to take advantage of cheap oil inputs and large capital stocks to build non-labor intensive industries. Such projects relied heavily on oil as an input and did not protect the region’s economies from the volatility of global commodity markets. As oil prices declined, so did the prices of petrochemicals, thus questioning the rationale for oil-based industrialization a sensible post-oil strategy (Auty, 1988). There are a number of challenges for the new cities. First and foremost is the area in which Jubail and Yanbu’s success has not been sufficient: job creation. A large proportion of the industrial focus of these cities remains energy intensive industries, questioning the truly post-oil nature of such a strategy of economic diversification. Such industries create few jobs. For instance, one of the ten massive aluminum smelters being planned as part of the economic city initiative would, in total, absorb 7% of total annual oil production, but only produce 100,000 jobs (King, 2007). In non-oil sectors, such as transportation and knowledge-related activities, subsidies intended to boost local capacity will also keep wages artificially high and prices artificially low (Sell, 2008).

31

A 4-Decade Perspective of the Gulf Development Model

545

Second, and inspired jointly by the successes of Dubai’s Jebel Ali Port and Bahrain’s offshore banking center, the region’s countries have engaged in an increasing number of service and knowledge-based development strategies (Keivani, Parsa, & Younis, 2003; Pacione, 2005). As it currently stands, however, despite creating the world’s largest megaengineering projects for the purpose of diversification, the region remains dependent on foreign labor for the operation of these projects. Each of these two types of diversification strategies is potentially perpetuating the region’s problematic reliance on foreign labor, which could hinder the creation of an employed, skilled, native workforce. Just as foreign companies and their workers were imported to fill skill gaps and increase absorptive capacity during the first oil boom, the same is occurring in non-oil sectors during the second oil boom to fuel agglomeration economies. Additionally, in order for the megaproject model to represent a viable development alternative for the other Gulf countries, strategies to attract international human capital must be accompanied by the creation of indigenous human capital. Failure in this would be the rent-distribution economy in a new guise: continued dependence on skilled foreign labor, with oil and property rents being used to subsidize a dynamic market economy through service and knowledge activities that will not be competitive, but rather, a product of rent-fueled incentives (Auty, R. M. (2007). “Personal communication”, June 14).

Addendum (December 2008) In July of 2008, before the collapse of the financial sector in the U.S., world crude oil prices reached a record US $145 per barrel. According to popular and political discourse in the U.S. during this time, oil prices could go nowhere but up. This was also the consensus in the Arab Gulf States, where the building boom was in high gear and record budget surpluses were being announced. Less than five months later, however, in December of 2008, oil prices plummeted to under U.S. $39 per barrel. Gulf development expenditures had been based on oil staying at least U.S. $50 per barrel for the foreseeable future (The Economist, 2008). Instead of being awash in petrodollars, and announcing the latest, biggest megaproject yet, budget deficits are currently projected for at least Bahrain, Oman and Saudi Arabia for 2009 (Merzaban, 2008). Development strategies during the post-1998 oil boom had also relied on private sector investment more than during the previous oil boom. These investors have begun to retreat for safer ground since the credit collapse. While there is little doubt that oil prices will rise again, the “post-1998 oil boom” has now become the “1998–2008 oil boom.” Indeed, the largest of the region’s building and development projects, most of which are multi-year undertakings, now sit in jeopardy of being completed. The impact of the credit collapse and oil bust in the Gulf could have a disastrous aftermath, both inside and outside of the region. Local and foreign investors in the region are feeling the most immediate impact of the global economic crisis. Global construction firms have flocked to the Gulf during the past decade’s oil boom to build the megaprojects and banks have flocked

546

M.C. Ewers and E.J. Malecki

to finance the projects. Real estate speculators have followed suit. In June of 2006, the total value of construction projects for the six Gulf countries combined was just under $400 US billion. In June of 2008, the total value had risen to almost $2 US trillion (MEED, 2008a). Over the past decade the Gulf has become the primary source of global construction revenue. All parties involved in these projects have a great deal to lose, as described by a senior Dubai official in December, 2008: It’s a tragedy in the making . . . A lot of people are going to get hurt. A lot of dreams are going to be shattered . . . Have you seen all those ships lined up on the horizon? They’re stuck out there full of steel and concrete nobody wants anymore. (Dickey, Salama, & Summers, 2008: 44)

While the region has created a number of its own multinational construction firms, most construction companies operating in the region are of North American, Western European and East Asian origin. The activities of these companies represent important components of their respective home countries’ national revenues. The potential loss of profits from delayed or cancelled projects could add to the financial woes these countries are currently experiencing. More locally, a significant amount of construction activity in the region has been intended to accommodate higher skilled, higher net-worth expatriates. A decline in demand for luxury expatriate accommodation will only exacerbate the local impact of the global economic crisis. The most severe impacts could be felt across the Persian Gulf in the Indian Subcontinent. The largest contractors in Dubai employ as many as 40,000 workers, and as construction activity slows, many workers will be sent back to their home country (MEED, 2008b). As one analyst (Seale, 2008: 1) asks, “What will happen to these workers if many real estate and construction projects are delayed or even cancelled? What will be the impact on the economies of the sub-continent if hundreds of thousands of these immigrant workers head back. . .?” To be sure, the South Asian economies have felt the credit collapse as much as the rest of the world. Unlike Europe and the U.S., however, these economies are dependent on remittances from vast numbers of their citizens working in the Gulf, primarily in the oil and construction industries. According to World Bank remittance tracking, migrant cash transfers to the developing world are expected to decline in 2009 after several years of double-digit growth (Tavernise, 2008). In 1991, after the (first) Gulf War, Kuwait expelled nearly half a million Palestinian workers from their country in short order. It would not be unreasonable to expect an even larger expulsion of millions of low-skilled South Asian workers in the Gulf region. Gulf citizens, the intended beneficiaries of the regions’ massive development projects, have the most to potentially lose in the long term. The disjuncture between the stated objectives and real outcomes of using megaprojects for development in the Gulf has represented an important theme in this chapter. Since the 1970s oil boom, the region’s leaders have rationalized the extravagance of Gulf megaprojects to their citizenry as social and economic investments for present and future generations. The presence of foreign companies and labor is justified in Gulf political

31

A 4-Decade Perspective of the Gulf Development Model

547

discourse as a necessary and temporary evil required for jump-starting local capacity in non-oil industries. Upon completion, the projects are promised to provide jobs to the local populace and a future beyond oil for the country. Based on our ongoing fieldwork in the UAE, it appears that the region’s governments may have lost sight of this end-goal as investors tasted, for the first time, the extraordinary profit potential of real estate development and speculation. Indeed, the Gulf States did not waste time in attempting to duplicate Dubai’s initial success in the late-1990s, competing with each other to build more and more massive property, tourism, commercial and industrial projects. While the region has made record investments in building new universities in the last decade, university construction has come to represent just another Gulf megaproject. Time will tell whether these investments in physical capital have been accompanied by the human capital investments required to sustain the economies after the construction projects are completed. As oil prices continue to stagnate, we can only hope for the best as the region’s governments are forced to show their cards.

References Abdel Rahman, M., Al-Muraikhi, F., & Al-Khedheiri, A. (1995). A national spatial strategy for Saudi Arabia. In S. Al-Hathloul & N. Edadan (Eds.), Urban development of Saudi Arabia: Challenges and opportunities (pp. 331–356). Riyadh: Dar Al Sahan. Al Mansour, N. (2007). Saudi Arabia’s Economic Cities. Presentation to OECD MENA Initiative on Governance and Investment for Development, Meeting of Working Group 2, Bahrain, June. Retrieved June 15, 2008, from http://www.oecd.org/dataoecd/30/24/38906206.pdf Al-But’hie, I. M., & Eben Saleh, M. A. (2002). Urban and industrial development planning as an approach for Saudi Arabia: the case study of Jubail and Yanbu. Habitat International, 26, 1–20. Aldagheiri, M., & Bradshaw, M. (2006a). Promoting economic diversification by the relationship between the minerals sector and transportation infrastructure in Saudi Arabia. In C. Brebbia (Ed.), Urban Transport XII: Urban transport and the environment in the 21st century (pp. 579–592). Ashurst: WIT Press. Aldagheiri, M., & Bradshaw, M. (2006b). Promoting economic diversification by the relationship between the minerals sector and transportation infrastructure in Saudi Arabia. Urban Transport XII: Urban Transport and the Environment in the 21st Century, 89, 579–592. Amsden, A. (2001). The rise of the rest: Challenges to the West from late-industrializing economies. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Auty, R. M. (1988). The economic stimulus from resource-based industry in developing countries: Saudi Arabia and Bahrain. Economic Geography, 64, 209–225. Auty, R. M. (1990). Resource-based industrialization: Sowing the oil in eight exporting countries. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Auty, R. M. (1995). Patterns of development: Resources, policy and economic growth. London: Edward Arnold. Birks, J. S., & Sinclair, C. (1980). International migration and development in the Arab region. Geneva: International Labour Office. BMI (Business Monitor International). (2008). Saudi Arabia Infrastructure Report Q2. BMI Industry Report and Forecast Series. Business Monitor International, April. Capineri, C., & Randelli, F. (2007). Freight transportation flows: New trade regions and trade routes. European Journal of Transport and Infrastructure Research, 7(2), 93–112.

548

M.C. Ewers and E.J. Malecki

Christiansen, H., & Bohmer, A. (2005). Incentives and Free Zones in the MENA Region: A preliminary stocktaking. MENA-OECD Investment Programme. OECD. Working Group 2, Output 3. (Paris, 29 August). Davidson, C. (2007). The Emirates of Abu Dhabi and Dubai: Contrasting roles in the international system. Asian Affairs, 38, 33–48. Dickey, C., Salama V., & Summers, N. (2008). Financial paradise becomes a mirage. Newsweek, 152(24), 44–46. Economic Intelligence Unit [EIU]. (2006). Country report: Saudi Arabia. London: Economist Intelligence Unit. Fasano, U. (2003) Diversification in oil-dependent economies: The experience of the GCC countries. UNFCCC Workshop. Tehran, October 18–19. Fasano, U., & Goyal, R. (2004). Emerging strains in the GCC labor markets (IMF Working Paper No. 04/71). Washington, DC: International Monetary Fund. Ferretti, M., & Parmentola, A. (2007) The creation of regional innovation systems in emerging countries: the case of Dubai. International Journal of Globalisation and Small Business, 2, 137–165. Gellert, P. K., & Lynch, B. D. (2003). Mega-projects as displacements. International Social Science Journal, 175, 15–25. Ghanem S. M. (1992). Industrialization in the United Arab Emirates. Avebury: Gowerhouse, UK. Ghanem, S. M. (2001). Industrialization in the UAE. In P. Vine & I. Al Abed (Eds.), United Arab emirates: A new perspective (pp. 260–276). London: Trident Press. Gulf Investment Corporation [GIC]. (2006). GCC economic statistics (6th ed.). Abu Dhabi: GIC. Gunton, T. (2003). Megaprojects and regional development: pathologies in project planning. Regional Studies, 375, 505–519. Hanware, K. (2005). Jubail Named City with Best Economic Potential in ME. Arab News April 2. Retrieved June 1, 2008, from http://www.arabnews.com/?page=6§ion=0&article= 61454&d=2&m=4&y=2005 Henry, C. M., & Springborg, M. (2001). Globalization and the politics of development in the Middle East. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hirschman A. O. (1958). The strategy of economic development. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Horovitz, J., & Ohlsson, A. (2005) Dubai Internet City: Serving business. Asian Journal of Management Cases, 2, 163–209. Innis, H. A. (1933). Problems in staple production in Canada. Toronto: Ryerson Press. JAFZ [Jebel Ali Free Zone]. (2007). Corporate Brochure. Retrieved August 31, 2008, from http://www.jafza.ae/en/publications/jafza-corporate-brochure.html Keivani, R., Parsa, A., & Younis, B. (2003). Development of the ICT sector and urban competitiveness: The case of Dubai. Journal of Urban Technology, 10, 19–46. Keller, J., & Nabli, M. (2002). The macroeconomics of labor market outcomes in MENA over the 1990s: How growth has failed to keep pace with a burgeoning labor market (Working Paper No. 71). Washington, DC: World Bank. Kessides, C. (1993). The contribution of infrastructure to economic development: A review of experience and policy implications. World Bank Discussion Papers (WDP No. 213). Washington DC: World Bank. King, N. (2007). Saudi industrial drive strains oil-export role: Kingdom’s use jumps as cities, smelters bloom in the desert. The Wall Street Journal, December 12, A1. Kutubkhanah, I. K. (2008). Yanbu Al-Sinaiyah: The Magnitude of the Achievement Retrieved June 1, 2008, from http://www.urar.org.sa/ibda/mahawer6-6.html Lawless, R. I., & Seccombe, I. J. (1993): Impact of the oil industry on urbanization in the Persian Gulf Region. In H. Amirahmadi & S. S. El-Shakhs (Eds.), Urban development in the Muslim World (pp. 183–212). New Brunswick, NJ: Center for Urban Policy Research. Looney R. (1989). Saudi Arabia’s development strategy: Comparative advantage vs. sustainable growth. Orient, 30, 75–96.

31

A 4-Decade Perspective of the Gulf Development Model

549

Looney, R. (1994). Manpower policies and development in the Persian Gulf Region. London: Praeger. Malecki, E. J., & Ewers, M. C. (2007). Labor migration to world cities: With a research agenda for the Arab Gulf. Progress in Human Geography, 31, 467–484. Mansi, A. (2008). SAGIA Driving Saudi Arabia’s Ambitious 10×10 Economic Development Strategy. Dinar Standard March 6. Retrieved June 15, 2008, from http://dinarstandard.com/intraoic/SAGIA030608.htm Martin, M. (2008a). Developing the city model. MEED: Middle East Economic Digest, 52(14), 42–44. Martin, M. (2008b). Attracting the private sector. MEED: Middle East Economic Digest, 52(14), 46–48. Martins, L., Lewin, L., & Phillips, A. (2008). Economic cities to boost diversification. Middle East Monitor – Gulf. Business Monitor International, 18(6), 2–3. Melamid, A. (1980). Urban planning in Eastern Arabia. Geographical Review, 70, 473–477. Merzaban, D. (2008). Gulf states to run budget deficits in 2009. ArabianBusiness.com 19 December. Retrieved July 1, 2008, from http://www.arabianbusiness.com/541562-gulfstates-to-run-budget-deficits-in-2009. Middle East Economic Digest (MEED). (2008a). MEED Projects, 52(28), 4. Middle East Economic Digest (MEED). (2008b). Is it time to return to Iraq? 52(47), 6. Myrdal, G. (1959). Economic theory and under-developed regions. London: Gerald Duckworth. Pacione, M. (2005). Dubai. Cities, 22, 255–265. Pampanini, A. H. (1997). Cities from the Arabian Desert: The Building of Jubail and Yanbu in Saudi Arabia. Westport, CT: Praeger. Richards, A., & Waterbury, J. (1990). A political economy of the Middle East: State, class and economic development. Boulder, CO, Westview Press. Rodenbeck, M. (2002). Time travellers: a survey of the Gulf. The Economist, March 23. Royal Commission for Jubail and Yanbu [RCJY]. (1991). Jubail and Yanbu industrial cities: 15 years of accomplishment. Riyadh: The Commission. Royal Commission for Jubail and Yanbu [RCJY]. (2008a). J&Y Employment. Retrieved July 4, 2008, from http://www.rcjy.gov.sa/portal/default.asp?lang=eng&Sec=webpage&Id=124 Royal Commission for Jubail and Yanbu [RCJY]. (2008b). J&Y Population. Retrieved July 4, 2008, from http://www.rcjy.gov.sa/portal/default.asp?lang=eng&Sec=webpage&Id=135 Sachs, J. D., & Warner, A. M. (1999). The big push, natural resource booms and growth. Journal of Development Economics, 59, 43–76. SAGIA [Saudi Arabia General Investment Authority]. (2008a). The Economic Cities: Thinking Big. Retrieved June 10, 2008, from http://www.sagia.gov.sa/english/index.php?page=ecsoverview SAGIA [Saudi Arabia General Investment Authority]. (2008b). Pillar 1:Competitive Energy Advantage. Retrieved June 10, 2008, from http://74.54.77.178/~cssgrey/sagia/english/ index.php?page=pillar-1-competitive-energy-advantage SAGIA [Saudi Arabia General Investment Authority]. (2008c). Pillar 3: Global Logistics Hub. Retrieved June 10, 2008, from http://74.54.77.178/~cssgrey/sagia/english/ index.php?page=pillar-3 Scott, A. J. (2002). Regional push: towards a geography of development and growth in low- and middle-income countries. Third World Quarterly, 23, 137–161. Seale, P. (2008) Arab world faces uneasy new year. Gulf News, 25 December, 36. Sell, C. (2008). Taking the partnership approach. MEED: Middle East Economic Digest, 52(17), 44–48. Short, J. R. (2004). Global metropolitan: Globalizing cities in a capitalist world. London: Routledge. SUSRIS [Saudi-US Relations Information Service]. (2007). New Cities to Contribute $150B to Kingdom’s GDP. (September 27). Retrieved June 21, 2008, from http://www.saudi-usrelations.org/articles/2007/ioi/070927-new-cities.html

550

M.C. Ewers and E.J. Malecki

Tahir, J. (1998). An Assessment of Free Economic Zones (FEZs) in Arab Countries: Performance and Main Features. Economic Research Forum. Working Paper 9926. Tavernise, S. (2008). Cash flow from Tajik migrants stalls. New York Times, 25 December, A1. Taylor, A. L., & Blaylock, W. (1982) The Jubail superproject: an instant skyline in the sands of Saudi Arabia. Time Magazine, July 12, 1. The Economist. (2008). Has the bubble burst? 389(8608) November 29, 52–53. Tomlinson, H. (2007). Ports in a storm. MEED: Middle East Economic Digest, 51(29), 23–28. UAE Free Zones. (2008) Retrieved May 31, 2008, from http://www.uaefreezones.com/ United Nations Economic and Social Commission for West Asia (UNESCWA). (2005). Towards an integrated knowledge society in Arab countries: Strategies and implementing modalities. New York: United Nations. United Nations Industrial Development Organization [UNIDO]. (2008). Technology parks in the MENA region. Retrieved April 15, 2008, from http://www.unido.org/doc/26781 World Bank. (2008). World development indicators. Washington, DC: World Bank.

Part V

Transportation Projects

Chapter 32

“America’s New Design for Living:” The Interstate Highway System and the Spatial Transformation of the U.S. Joe Weber

32.1 Origins of the Interstate Highway System In the late 19th century improving roads became an important issue in the US. In 1891 state governments began to assist local governments in building better roads. Unfortunately, that effort saw limited results due to a lack of coordination among counties and other local governments (Weber, 2005). The result was an increase in spending and a shift in road building to a larger spatial scale, that of the state. In the early 20th century each state created highway departments and state highway networks, usually with the goal of connecting county seats and other large towns. These efforts, which were supported by federal money beginning in 1916, made great progress in establishing a basic rural road network for the US, albeit one that was based on connecting nearby towns rather than serving long distance travel. The creation of the US numbered highway system in 1926 provided a national numbering system, but did not change the local focus of highways. During this time new kinds of roads were developed with features such as multilane highways, medians, restrictions on pedestrians, overpasses and interchanges, and wide banked turns for high speed travel. This development included the Merritt Parkway, Pennsylvania Turnpike, and Arroyo Seco Parkway (now the Pasadena Freeway) (Lewis, 1997). As popular as they were these highways were far too expensive for widespread construction, and their construction in cities required close coordination with other transport modes, planning for industry, commerce, housing, and parks and recreation facilities. By the late 1930s interest developed in long distance highways built to modern standards. A 1944 report (National Interregional Highway Committee, 1944) recommended a 33,920 mi (54,589 km) system of interregional highways to connect major metropolitan areas, manufacturing, and agricultural areas with the least total mileage. Unlike earlier road building which focused on rural areas, this plan was

J. Weber (B) Department of Geography, University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa, AL 35487, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_32,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

553

554

J. Weber

based on the significance of cities as origins and/or destinations of long distance travel. Following this report the Federal Aid Highway Act of 1944 specified a National System of Interstate Highways to comprise no more than 40,000 miles (64,374 km), which should connect metropolitan areas and provide connections to Canada and Mexico. However, there was no funding, which was not put in place until 1956 due to debates over the source of the funds. The oil and rubber industries, along with the American Automobile Association (AAA), initially lobbied for money to come from general revenues, but the federal government was strongly opposed to this (Schwartz, 1976). Tolls were proposed, but state highway departments and AAA were against this. User fees in the form of increased gas and tire taxes were the ultimate solution, but the first proposal was voted down in 1955 due to opposition from the oil, tire, trucking, and bus industries. However, these industries quickly reversed their position, apparently after rethinking the financial possibilities of the Interstate System, and in 1956 lobbied for the program, as did the construction industry (Schwartz, 1976). Urban planners were apparently supportive or indifferent, while urban politicians enthusiastically supported the program. The Bureau of Public Roads circulated maps for planned urban routes, generating greater support from Congressional representatives. The result was the Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1956, which passed by a nearly unanimous vote. The additional funding came from an increased gas tax, which provided a popular means of financing the system. The revenues from the tax were put into a new Highway Trust Fund to be used exclusively to fund Interstate construction, and therefore Interstate construction did not count as part of the regular federal budget obligations (Mohl, 2003). The more people drove, the more funds became available to build more freeways, producing what many saw as an unstoppable freeway building machine (Lewis, 1997). The 1956 Act also increased the mileage to 41,000 miles (65,983 km) and changed the name to the National System of Interstate and Defense Highways (though the role of defense in planning the system was minor). Unlike all previous federal involvement in highway construction, it was not an open-ended construction project, but a multiyear project to be complete by 30 June 1972 (Schwartz, 1976). The highways were to be built to standards sufficient to accommodate forecasted 1975 traffic levels. The System was a partnership between (a) the federal government (the Bureau of Public Roads and later the Federal Highway Administration provided 90% of the funding for construction, and was required to approve every route and structure), (b) state highway departments (who built and maintained the routes, and provided the remaining funding), and (c) the American Association of State Highway Officials (which set design standards and specified route numbers in September 1957, along with the familiar red and blue signs displayed along the road (Weingroff, 2006)). The routes were to be jointly selected by the states and the federal government. This selection was done for the majority of the system in 1947 (Fig. 32.1), with urban routes specified in 1955 (Bureau of Public Roads, 1955). The System absorbed most existing freeways and a growing turnpike network in the northeast, including such roads as the Pennsylvania Turnpike, erasing an emerging network based on local needs with a homogenous national network.

32

America’s New Design for Living

555

Fig. 32.1 The interstate highway system in 1947. (Source: Bureau of Public Roads, 1955)

In 1957 a Bureau of Public Roads official referred to the Interstates as “America’s new design for living” (Weingroff, 2006: 6). It has proven a remarkably accurate statement, though it appears that many at the time were uncertain as to exactly what that design would be.

32.2 Spatial Extent of the System The Interstate Highway System was only about 80% complete by the original completion date of 1972 and is technically still not complete due to continual additions. However, the 1992 completion of I-70 in Colorado marked the last main Interstate route to be finished (Colorado Department of Transportation, 2008). At that time the total cost of the System was set at $128.9 billion (Federal Highway Administration, 2008a). The total mileage of the system depends on exactly what is being counted. As of 2002 the authorized route mileage was 42,793 mi (68,869 km), of which all but 5.6 mi (9 km) had been completed. However, there is an additional 3,883 mi (6,249 km) that are signed with Interstate numbers but were funded separately from the rest of the System. In 1959 the System was extended to the new states of Alaska and Hawaii and to Puerto Rico. Hawaii’s routes meet Interstate design standards, but those in Alaska and Puerto Rico are not required to comply. While Alaska and Hawaii’s routes are generally counted with System mileage, Puerto Rico’s do not.

556

J. Weber

Fig. 32.2 The interstate highway system in 2008. Metropolitan areas are shaded

A total mileage between 46,000 and 47,000 mi (74,030 and 75,639 km) may therefore be seen. Most states have built additional freeways that are not part of the System, but generally built to the same design standards and functionally remain part of the system. As a result, there are 59,563 mi (95,857 km) of fully access controlled highways in the US (Federal Highway Administration, 2006). The Interstate Highway System consists of a grid of freeways, denser in areas of higher population density in the Midwest and Northeast, connecting the majority of metropolitan areas and extending to Canada and Mexico, as required by the 1944 act (Fig. 32.2). Routes running north-south were given odd numbers, beginning with I-5 on the West coast and increasing numbers eastwards, while even numbers were given to east-west routes, beginning with I-4 (in Florida from Daytona Beach to Tampa). In addition to the national grid, each major city was assigned additional routes, such as spurs, bypasses, or a full beltway, which are generally numbered with three digits. The System was predominantly a rural intercity network when created, with urban routes taking up about 15% of the mileage. The urban component has taken up much of the added mileage; today the Interstates are about 34% urban. Traffic levels are highest in large metropolitan areas and in areas of dense urban settlement in the eastern half of the country (Fig. 32.3). The notion of the System as a national intercity network has clearly been overwhelmed by its significance to urban transportation. In 2006 the System carried 24.4% of U.S. highway traffic but comprised only 1.2% of US road mileage. The Interstates have firmly become a part of daily life for most Americans, and contain many places familiar to them, including landmarks, interchanges, areas of congestion, landmarks, sites of tragedies, and even spectacular views (Weber, 2004). They are far from being a homogenous, placeless environment.

32

America’s New Design for Living

557

Fig. 32.3 Traffic levels on the interstate highway system, 2006. (Source: Federal Highway Administration, 2006)

32.3 Impacts of the System The Interstate Highway System greatly reduced travel times and costs, resulting in significant space-time convergence (Moon, 1994; Warf, 2008). It has had the effect of leveling the accessibility surface of the country and reducing the transport advantage previously held by cities well connected by railroads in the Northeast and Midwest. The System is also associated with the postwar growth of the trucking industry and the loss of short and medium haul freight by railroads. The Interstates have resulted in a large economic savings, estimated at $737 billion annually in reduced fuel costs, reduced transport costs in food and retail costs, and accident costs, as well as an average of 70 hours of travel time saved per person (TRIP, 2006). The System created a new geography that favored certain locations, but bypassed others. The few metropolitan areas left off the network, such as Johnstown and Altoona, Pennsylvania, Huntsville, Alabama, or Lubbock, Texas, struggled to get on it. A location on the Interstates was seen as crucial for continued growth, while officials in cities such as Johnstown, which were not successful in getting an Interstate, blamed its absence for the city’s decline (Mellott, 2007). Many small towns were bypassed, and the expanded market area of cities contributed to their commercial decline. Interstates allowed for longer commuting, increasing employment opportunities for many rural people. Rural interchanges often became important commercial centers, depending on a complex interplay of local factors, including proximity to nearby towns and adjacent interchanges, traffic levels, and availability of water

558

J. Weber

and sewer infrastructure (Moon, 1989, 1994; Hartgen, O’Callaghan, Walcott, & Opgenorth, 1992). Within cities freeway construction was closely bound up with the processes of suburbanization and the decline of downtown as a commercial center (Moon, 1994). The automobile became the principal means of travel, and privately operated mass transit companies lost most of their remaining customers. Freeway networks have been credited with leveling urban accessibility surfaces, making any location as easily reached as any other, and thereby reducing the significance of downtowns as business locations (Giuliano, 1989). Beginning in the 1970s shopping malls and office parks grew at suburban interchanges, sometimes reaching the status of suburban downtowns, and commuting within suburbs has replaced the traditional suburb to central city commuting pattern (Baerwald, 1978; Moon, 1994). It is likely that the greatest impacts took place before the 1970s. The rate of return on major highway investment (including the Interstates and other primary roads) was above 40% in the 1950s and 1960s, and fell considerably since that time to 16% in the 1980s (Nadiri & Mamuneas, 1996). Given the high level of mobility that already exists, building new freeways is unlikely to have significant economic impacts, and economic growth increasingly relies on a variety of infrastructural, labor, and education issues (Bannister & Berechman, 2001). Building new Interstate routes is still justified by economic arguments, but one study suggested that building a new route would generate one new job for every $1.56 million spent on the highway, which is at least 50 times more expensive than jobs created by other government programs (Wiewel, Persky, & Sendzik, 1999). Other evidence shows that freeways no longer possess the power to transform urban areas by their presence. Another study reported that population growth in North Carolina during the 1990s at the census tract level showed no consistent association with the location of freeways (Hartgen, 2003). The Interstate system may have been a one-time boom for the country, a dramatic episode of space-time compression that has run its course, but requires tremendous investment to maintain.

32.4 Challenging the Interstate System A number of potential problems were inherent in the Interstate project. State highway engineers invited little input from urban planners when they set about building the System, and had a radically different notion of what an urban freeway should be (Mohl, 2003; Rose, 1990, 2003). City planners were interested in much slower and narrower roads, closely integrated with transit and serving broader urban planning goals. In contrast, the freeway networks laid out by engineers were designed solely for efficient capacity, had no connection to any city planning goals, and were often built far in advance of need due to the funding arrangements of the System (Rose & Seely, 1990; Taylor, 1995, 2000). The urban Interstates would therefore be intrusive and not well connected to the urban fabric.

32

America’s New Design for Living

559

Construction of urban routes was inherently far more expensive than rural routes due to higher land values and the demolition of large numbers of homes and businesses. As early as 1965 it had been estimated that 1,000,000 people may have been displaced by Interstate construction (Schwartz, 1976), while in the late 1960s it was estimated that at least 62,000 housing units were being demolished each year to make way for freeways (Mohl, 2004). However, the System did not provide money for relocating these residents or building replacement housing (Mohl, 2003). While federal officials were aware in 1956 of the number of people who would be displaced, they simply ignored the problem. The Federal Highway Act of 1962 began to address these problems, requiring all metropolitan areas to begin an ongoing planning process, as well as requiring state highway departments to assist households displaced by construction (Mohl, 2004). However, opposition to freeways erupted in many cities. Despite the belief of engineers that an organized conspiracy existed opposing them, the freeway revolt of the 1960s and later was made up of small groups of people resisting freeway construction in their city or neighborhood. Successful freeway resistance required a number of ingredients, including creating a large and active coalition of resisters that crossed neighborhood, class, and racial lines, support from politicians and journalists, a city with a strong planning history or background, and the resisters must take legal action to force a decision. Because freeway battles could drag on for years or decades, often a final decision to kill a project by a high-ranking politician was necessary to finally end the battle. In cases where one or more of these factors was missing, engineers could easily steamroll the opposition. For example, I-95 in Miami destroyed a black neighborhood near downtown, with one interchange demolishing the homes of 10,000 people (Mohl, 1993, 2004). Residents resisted, but found no support among the business community and larger population. The first successful protest began in San Francisco in 1959. Widespread public opposition to freeways planned for neighborhoods throughout the city led the city government to oppose and block the construction of the Embarcadero Freeway in 1965 (Schwartz, 1976). California law allowed cities to oppose state highway plans, a provision not common elsewhere. A process of allowing substitutions of routes within a state was developed (beginning with replacing the Embarcadero freeway with the Century freeway in Los Angeles) and formalized in the Federal Highway Act of 1973 (Mohl, 2004). While this allowed the Interstate System more flexibility to respond to local conditions, it also moved away “from the original idea/ideal of a delimited System serving national rather than parochial state-by-state interests” (Schwartz, 1976: 450). Considerable knowledge has developed on how to build freeways without causing undue disruption and also providing mitigation for disruptions (Blair & Pijawka, 2001). Unfortunately, there is apparently little effort made to test whether these mitigation efforts were actually successful. A survey of residents living near a new freeway in Phoenix suggests that residents may now be largely indifferent to freeway construction. However, little research has been directed at freeway impacts on minority communities, despite the fact that there is evidence that these impacts on these communities differs from other areas (Steptoe & Thornton, 1986).

560

J. Weber

32.5 The Beginning of the End of the System Beginning in the late 1960s the financial health of the Interstate System began to decline. Construction costs began to greatly increase, and then in the 1970s the gas tax provided much less than money than predicted due to decreases in driving and greater fuel efficiency (Taylor, 1995). The unstoppable freeway building machine created by the Highway Trust Fund began to break down. Relatively little Interstate mileage has been built since that time, with the completion of the System stretching out into the 1990s. The System clearly remains vulnerable to reduced fuel use, as high gas prices in 2008 caused the Trust Fund revenue to fall $3 billion following a 4.4% reduction in travel by Americans (Federal Highway Administration, 2008b). Annual vehicle miles traveled has grown tremendously since 1956, but actually leveled off in 2004 and has decreased in most states since then (Puentes & Tomer, 2008). While the Interstates stimulated tremendous economic development, the increased land values it helped generate in urban areas (as farmlands were transformed into subdivisions and shopping centers) in no way contributed to the Trust Fund, though it did obviously greatly increase the cost of buying land for freeways. One consequence is that many jurisdictions began finding new revenue sources to fund freeways and other transportation projects. These include a sales tax increase to pay for the Phoenix freeway system (Arizona Department of Transportation, 1998), property taxes in Mobile County, Alabama (Murtaugh, 2005), or the sale of bonds in Virginia (Bowman, 2003). Toll roads have also seen resurgence in popularity, and a substantial freeway mileage in Florida and Oklahoma has been built this way. However, these revenue sources are also vulnerable, as retail sales, housing values, toll revenues, and the ability to sell bonds have plummeted in late 2008 due to the housing crises and recession. In 1973 small amounts of money in the Highway Trust Fund began to be shifted away from highway building and towards transit (Rose, 2003), marking the beginnings of a more multimodal transport policy. The passage of ISTEA (Intermodal Surface Transportation Efficiency Act) in 1991 represented a greater shift towards a more multimodal transport system as well as a shift in decision making from state highway departments to metropolitan planners (Rose, 2003). Many non-Interstate freeways are increasingly being built, and the near-monopoly of highway departments has been broken. Las Vegas provides an excellent example, as in addition to several Interstate routes, two freeways are county highways (though one is signed as an Interstate) and another was built by a homeowner association (Clark County, 2008).

32.6 The Interstate Highway System in Birmingham Birmingham, Alabama, was founded in 1871 at the junction of two railroad lines, near deposits of coal, iron, and limestone. It grew rapidly into a decentralized collection of industrial towns, each with its own commercial and residential areas,

32

America’s New Design for Living

561

connected together with a large streetcar network (Wilson, 2000). Several Interstate routes were planned for Birmingham in 1955, including a partial beltway. A 1965 study (Moore, 1965) expected that downtown Birmingham, the center of retail trade in the city, would continue its primacy, though losing some business to outlying areas. The trade area of Birmingham would increase due to faster travel speeds, attracting shoppers from nearby cities. Access to industrial areas would be greatly improved, allowing for increased production. Considerable suburbanization was expected. Construction of I-59 in Ensley, the first route to be completed, was seen as an experiment in saving a declining neighborhood. In addition to these expectations about economic impacts, there were also expectations about social changes (or preventing them). The Birmingham freeway system was initiated at a time when planning was based on racial segregation, and the 1955 plan was manipulated to maintain that pattern (Connerly, 2005). Several routes near downtown were located to preserve boundaries between black and white neighborhoods. East of downtown the original straight route planned for I-20/59 approved by the federal government was replaced with a longer one that curved to the north to spare a white neighborhood at the expense of a black neighborhood, creating a sharp curve in I-59 (Fig. 32.4). Ironically, the result was a huge loss of housing in black areas and mass movement of blacks into white neighborhoods during the 1960s. Whites moved into newly developing suburbs and the city lost population. However, while 75% of the city’s population loss was made up of whites, the Birmingham neighborhoods experiencing the greatest total population loss since

Fig. 32.4 The interstate highway system in Birmingham, Alabama

562

J. Weber

1960 were almost all black and in the path of freeway construction (Connerly, 2002). The effects of Interstate construction on minority owned businesses elsewhere suggest that black-owned businesses lost in Birmingham were unlikely to have been replaced (Steptoe & Thornton, 1986). Later freeways reflect the changing times. The Red Mountain Expressway runs from downtown into the near suburbs on the south side of Red Mountain (Connerly, 2005). After the state highway department made an unsuccessful attempt to get it added it to the Interstate System, construction was started with reduced federal funding in 1963. The route created a local freeway revolt by the mostly black residents of the Central City housing project, part of which would be demolished with no relocation assistance for 400 residents. A lawsuit was filed in 1974 alleging in part that the plan did not take into account federal laws on environmental protection and relocation assistance (Connerly, 2002). Their opposition was eventually successful, a new route was selected and the freeway was completed in 1980. The partial beltway (I-459) was constructed in the 1970s and 1980s in an area of rapid suburban growth and has attracted emerging suburban downtowns (the Galleria and Summit areas) at two interchanges, one of which has since attracted an additional exit. Two suburban municipalities are currently pushing for additional interchanges to be built in their jurisdictions to promote new development (MacDonald, 2006). In the early 2000s serious planning for a northern beltway began, apparently motivated in large part by a hope for rapid economic growth among many small moribund towns. The experience elsewhere suggests that the northern beltway would have little impact in the absence of any local growth. A new freeway (to become I-22 when it is completed around 2012), is being built to connect Memphis and Birmingham. In 2008 about 13 miles (21 km) remain to be built to connect it to the Birmingham freeway system. This project has so far cost over $1 billion (MacDonald, 2007), with considerable detail to environmental concerns involving closed landfills, coal mines, watersheds, and residential areas. Its funding has benefited from the support of Alabama’s congressional delegation by earmarking federal money directly from the federal budget. The accuracy of the 1965 freeway report is mixed. Nearby cities such as Tuscaloosa have struggled to resist the flow of shoppers to Birmingham, but retail activity abandoned downtown. The iron and steel industry in Birmingham declined precipitously, and recent industrial developments in Alabama have avoided the city in favor of smaller metropolitan areas, part of a general move towards Greenfield sites. Suburbanization did occur along the Interstates, though the north and east were not as favored as areas to the south. The Ensley area lost considerable housing and its industrial employment, and its commercial district is today largely vacant. The goal of using the Interstates to maintain racial separation within the city was not successful. However, by enabling the large scale suburbanization of whites it has helped effectively resegregate the entire metropolitan area, and helps provide shorter commutes for white workers compared to blacks (Sultana & Weber, 2007; Weber & Sultana, 2008). While it was possible to predict many of the effects of the

32

America’s New Design for Living

563

Interstate system in Birmingham, there were clearly larger and very fundamental social and economic processes unforeseen or ignored in 1965. As in other cities Birmingham’s freeway system has become an essential part of life in the city, and includes a number of landmarks, regularly congested sections, accident memorials, troublesome interchanges, and other everyday places (Weber, 2004). Suburban traffic congestion has led to discussion of an elevated toll road over a busy arterial street and addition of toll lanes along I-65. These developments have been supported by the U.S. Transportation Secretary, who explicitly called for no new gas taxes for roads and a focus on public-private partnerships to build toll roads to handle new demands (MacDonald, 2008). Downtown Birmingham has seen considerable revitalization since the 1970s, and the need to rebuild downtown freeways constructed in the 1960s has allowed discussion of relocating I-20/59 in a tunnel to facilitate the growth of downtown as an entertainment and convention area (Williams, 2008). A new generation of leaders is planning freeway development to benefit downtown, but under vastly different local and national circumstances from the early 1960s.

32.7 Foreign Versions The highway system most commonly compared to the US Interstate Highway System is the National Expressway Network Plan of China (also called the 7918 network for its 7 routes radiating from Beijing, 9 North-South routes, and 18 EastWest routes). This was initiated in 2004 and will ultimately consist of 52,817 mi (85,000 km) when it is completed in 2020 (China Motorway Online, 2005). It is expected to cost $240 billion. The roads will provide a dense network in the eastern part of the country and connect all provincial capitals, including 83% of cities with more than 500,000 people. The need is driven by a desire to increase economic growth as well as massive increases in car ownership in China. Automobile ownership has shown a 20% annual increases in recent years and is leading to economic and social transformations in life similar to those of the US. in the early 20th century (Bradsher, 2008; Conover, 2006). The biggest difference from the Interstate System is that almost all routes are toll roads and funding for construction will come from a variety of sources, including private investment. Chinese transport development is not open to public participation or comment, has been carried out with little or no compensation or tolerance for dissent, and the organizational structure of transport planners, builders, and operators is extremely cloudy. Freeway construction is being balanced by massive investments in railroads, airports, and waterways, with the goal of creating a multimodal transport system. However, urban bicycle use is plummeting and there is talk of restricting them and also motorcycles to make driving easier (Campanella, 2008). India recently initiated the National Highways Development Project, which consists of the Golden Quadrilateral, North-South Connector, and the East-West Corridor, totaling 4536 miles or 7,300 km (National Highways Authority of India,

564

J. Weber

2008). It is a much sparser network than China’s, and will apparently not be built to freeway standards, but still serves to connect the major metropolitan areas of the country. Like China, India is attempting a massive economic transformation with these highways and is currently dealing with social transformations as well, though with only 1/10th the level of investment (Sengupta, 2008; Waldman, 2005a, 2005b). Unlike China, the Indian network was conceived in large part to encourage and promote national unity, the government has relatively little power to do as it pleases, and local cultural and religious sensitivities must be closely addressed. The US experience suggests that China and India will be transformed by these systems, and not always in ways that the government desires or may be prepared to accept.

32.8 Conclusions The Interstate Highway System continues to exist as a distinct category of roads within federal accounting and will continue to provide the backbone of highway transportation for some time to come. The Interstate System will also continue to grow, as new (mainly urban) routes are added, especially due to direct action by members of Congress rather than planning by system officials (as in Hamill, 2008). Given the rapid growth of non-Interstate freeways, there will perhaps be less dependence on it, and its identity will no doubt be blurred. This is especially the case as the larger and faster growing states and cities plan their own programs, tailored to their own particular needs and geography. Texas is planning up to 4,000 mi (6,437 km) of multimodal (freeway, railroad, utility and pipeline) corridors to be built over the next 50 years (Palacios, 2005). Because of the declining utility of the gas tax, these corridors would likely be toll roads. High speed trains have been discussed in many areas where large cities are found within 300 mi (483 km). There is perhaps increasing regional variability in transport planning, and it is not clear one System will be able to serve all needs. Despite its size and seeming permanence, the Interstate System is vulnerable to many natural hazards. On the West coast earthquakes in 1972, 1989, and 1994 have destroyed a number of freeways and required massive reconstruction for others (McNichol 2006). Likewise, a series of hurricanes in 2004–2005 in the Gulf of Mexico resulted in considerable damage to the Interstate System, destroying many bridges in Escambia Bay (Pensacola, Florida), Mobile Bay in Alabama, Pascagoula Bay in Mississippi, and the New Orleans area. Pictures of I-10 emerging from underneath Hurricane Katrina’s floodwaters are important reminders both for highlighting the vulnerability of these highways as well as the continuing presence of large numbers of people not able to derive the full benefit of these highways. In this sense the changes to the System made in the 1960s and 1970s have not yet fully succeeded in reconciling the system to the needs of the country. America’s new design for living is still under development.

32

America’s New Design for Living

565

References Arizona Department of Transportation. (1998). Introduction to the Phoenix urban area regional freeway system. Retrieved June 29, 1998, from www.dot.state.az.us/ROADS/rfs/history.htm Baerwald, T. J. (1978). The emergence of a new “downtown.” Geographical Review, 68, 308–318. Bannister, D., & Berechman, Y. (2001). Transport investment and the promotion of economic growth. Journal of Transport Geography, 9, 209–218. Blair, J. M., & Pijawka, K. D. (2001). Evaluating success in urban freeway planning. Journal of Planning Education and Research, 21, 40–51. Bowman, G. M. (2003). Highway politics in Virginia. Fairfax, VA: George Mason University. Bradsher, K. (2008). With first car, a new life in China. News Article. New York Times. Retrieved April 24, 2008, from www.nytimes.com Bureau of Public Roads. (1955). General location of national system of Interstate highways. Washington, DC: Department of Commerce. Campanella, T. J. (2008). The concrete dragon: China’s urban revolution and what it means to the world. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Colorado Department of Transportation. (2008). Fun Facts. Retrieved December 29, 2008, from www.dot.state.co.us/50anniversary/funfacts.cfm China Motorway Online. (2005). National Expressway Network Plan. Retrieved October 30, 2007, from www.chinamotorway.com Clark County. (2008). Bruce Woodbury Beltway. Retrieved November 20, 2008, from www.accessclarkcounty.com Connerly, C. E. (2002). From racial zoning to community empowerment: the Interstate Highway System and the African American community in Birmingham, Alabama. Journal of Planning Education and Research, 22, 99–114. Connerly, C. E. (2005). “The most segregated city in America”: City planning and civil rights in Birmingham, 1920–1980. Charlottesville, VA: University of Virginia Press. Conover, T. (2006). Capitalist roaders. New York Times. Retrieved July 2, 2006, from www.nytimes.com Federal Highway Administration. (2006). Federal Highway Statistics 2006. Retrieved November 20, 2008, from www.fhwa.dot.gov Federal Highway Administration. (2008a). Interstate System Design. Retrieved November 20, 2008, from www.fhwa.dot.gov Federal Highway Administration. (2008b). Highway trust fund revenue falls $3 Billion insingle year as Americans drove almost 11 billion fewer miles this September. Press release. Retrieved November 21, 2008, from www.fhwa.dot.gov Giuliano, G. (1989). New directions for understanding transportation and land use. Environment and Planning A, 21, 145–159. Hamill, S. D. (2008). Road stirs up debate, even on its name. New York Times. Retrieved December 28, 2008, from www.nytimes.com Hartgen, D. (2003). Highways and Sprawl in Ohio. Columbus, OH: Buckeye Institute. Hartgen, D. T., O’Callaghan, J. E., Walcott, W. E., & Opgenorth, J. (1992). Growth at rural interchanges: what, where, why. Transportation Research Record, 1359, 141–150. Lewis, T. (1997). Divided highways: Building the Interstate highways, Transforming American life. New York: Viking. MacDonald, G. (2006). Hoover, Vestavia Hills seek I-459 interchanges. Birmingham News. Retrieved April 2006, from www.al.com MacDonald, G. (2007). 13 Miles of Corridor X to open. Birmingham News. Retrieved June 2, 2007, from www.al.com MacDonald, G. (2008). U.S. Roads chief seeks boost for toll lanes. Birmingham News. Retrieved January 30, 2008, from www.al.com

566

J. Weber

McNichol, D. (2006). The roads that built America: The incredible story of the U.S. interstate system. New York: Sterling. Mellott, K. (2007). Johnstown among cities orphaned by Interstate system. Johnstown TribuneDemocrat. Retrieved March 2, 2007, from www.tribstar.com Mohl, R. A. (1993). Race and space in the modern city: Interstate 95 and the Black community in Miami. In A. R. Hirsh & R. A. Mohl (Eds.), Urban policy in twentieth-century America (pp. 100–158). New Brunswick: Rutgers. Mohl, R. A. (2003). Ike and the interstates: creeping towards comprehensive planning. Journal of Planning History, 2, 237–262. Mohl, R. A. (2004). Stop the road: freeway revolts in American cities. Journal of Urban History, 30, 674–706. Moon, H. (1989). Interstate villages as urban places: A new form for small communities. Small Town, 19, 4–14. Moon, H. (1994). The Interstate highway system. Washington, DC: Association of American Geographers. Moore, C. T. (1965). Expected economic and social impact of interstate highways in the industrial and commercial trading area of Birmingham, Alabama. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama School of Commerce and Business Administration. Murtaugh, D. (2005). Changes to road program proposed. Birmingham News. Retrieved December 19, 2005, from www.al.com Nadiri, I., & Mamuneas, T. (1996). Contribution of highway capital to industry and national productivity growth. Washington, DC: Federal Highway Administration. National Highways Authority of India. (2008). Welcome to NHAI. Retrieved November 19, 2008, from www.nhai.org National Interregional Highway Committee. (1944). Interregional highways. Washington, DC: National Interregional Highway Committee. Palacios, Antionio. (2005). Trans-Texas Corridor. Public roads magazine article. Retrieved June 12, 2006, from http://www.tfhrc.gov/pubrds/05jul/07.htm Puentes, R., & Tomer, A. (2008). The Road. . .Less traveled: An analysis of vehicle miles traveled trends in the U.S. Washington, DC: Brookings Institution. Rose, M. H. (1990). Interstate: Express highway politics 1939–1989. Rev. ed. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Rose, M. H. (2003). Reframing American highway politics, 1956–1995. Journal of Planning History, 2, 212–236. Rose, M. H., & Seely, B. E. (1990). Getting the Interstate system built: road engineers and the implementation of public policy, 1955–1985. Journal of Policy History, 2, 23–55. Schwartz, G. T. (1976). Urban freeways and the Interstate System. Southern California Law Review, 49, 406–513. Sengupta, S. (2008). With cars in reach, Indians must learn to drive. New York Times. Retrieved January 11, 2008, from www.nytimes.com Steptoe, R., & Thornton, C. (1986). Differential influence of an interstate highway on the growth and development of low-income minority communities. Transportation Research Record, 1074, 60–68. Sultana, S., & Weber, J. (2007). Journey to work patterns in the age of sprawl: evidence from two midsize southern metropolitan areas. Professional Geographer, 59, 193–208. Taylor, B. D. (1995). Public perceptions, fiscal realities, and freeway planning: the California case. Journal of the American Planning Association, 61, 43–56. Taylor, B. D. (2000). When finance leads planning: urban planning, highway planning, and metropolitan freeways in California. Journal of Planning Education and Research, 20, 196–214. TRIP. (2006). The Interstate highway system: Saving lives, time and money. Retrieved December 12, 2008, from www.tripnet.org

32

America’s New Design for Living

567

Waldman, A. (2005a). Mile by mile, India paves a smoother road to its future. New York Times. Retrieved December 4, 2005, from www.nytimes.com Waldman, A. (2005b). In today’s India, status comes with four wheels. New York Times Retrieved December 5, 2005, from www.nytimes.com Warf, B. (2008). Time-Space compression: Historical geographies. New York: Routledge. Weber, J. (2004). Everyday places on the American freeway system. Journal of Cultural Geography, 21, 1–26. Weber, J. (2005). The morphogenesis of state highway networks in the United States. Journal of Historical Geography, 31, 723–743. Weber, J., & Sultana, S. (2008). Employment sprawl, race and the journey to work in Birmingham, Alabama. Southeastern Geographer, 48, 53–74. Weingroff, R. F. (2006). Essential to the National Interest. Public Roads. Retrieved June 12, 2006, from www.tfhrc.gov/pubrds/06mar/07.htm Wiewel, W., Perksy, J. J., & Sendzik. M. E. (1999). The proposed new instersate 69 highway: is it a cost-effective rural economic development tool for Southwest Indiana? Chicago: University of Chicago Great Cities Institute. Williams, R. L. (2008). Effort revives interest in burying I-20/59. Birmingham News. Retrieved February 23, 2008, from www.al.com Wilson, B. M. (2000). America’s Johannesburg. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield.

Chapter 33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future Robert Walker, Stephen Perz, Eugenio Arima, and Cynthia Simmons

33.1 Introduction The geography of Brazil has long constrained its economic development and physical expansion. A coastal range rising in many places to 1,000 m (3,281 ft) stymied its westward expansion off the Atlantic seaboard for centuries, a barrier that was only overcome in the 20th century with the penetration of the interior first by railroad, then by highway (Pfaff et al., 2009). The truck and automobile made possible an efficient terrestrial linkage with the far reaches of the country, especially the north, a region that for centuries remained an autarchic backwater, with closer relations to the European continent than the heartlands of São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro in the south (Weinstein, 1983). Thus, the creation of modern Brazil was in many respects made possible by its highways, and the movement of capital and labor across the coastal ranges to the vast resources of the interior, natural riches that helped create the wealthy nation we know today. This chapter considers the most recent phase in the evolution of Brazil’s spatial economy, namely the penetration of its northern region, which encompasses Amazônia. The opening of Amazônia was driven in large part by the construction and improvement of federal highways in a series of megaprojects that continue to this day (Walker, Diniz, Caldas, & Chermont, 2008). We focus our attention on the most famous of these, the so-called Transamazon Highway, which forms part of BR-230 in the official highway nomenclature of Brazil. Planned in the 1960s, the Transamazon Highway was inaugurated on 30 August 1972, perhaps the most notable consequence of the federal government’s strategy at the time to link isolated Amazônia with the Brazilian homeland to the east and south. Originally planned as a corridor connecting, via asphalt surface, north and northeast Brazil with Colombia, today’s Transamazon Highway stretches about 2,900 km (1,800 mi) to the west from its Amazonian starting-point in Maranhão, ending without pavement in Lábrea, a small town in Amazonas State just west of BR-319, the ground connection between R. Walker (B) Department of Geography, Michigan State University, East Lansing, MI 48824, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_33,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

569

570

R. Walker et al.

Fig. 33.1 The extent of BR-230

Porto Velho in Rondônia and the industrial capital of the basin, Manaus (Sant’Anna, 1998). Much of the highway remains as when it was first built, unpaved and impassable during the rainy season. Nevertheless, its thoroughfare has decisively cut open the Amazon forest to the south of the river, forever changing the cultural landscape of both Brazil and the region it made accessible to the world (Fig. 33.1). This chapter focuses attention on the historical dimensions of the Transamazon project, and on environmental, cultural, and economic impacts arising in the aftermath of its inauguration in the early 1970s. Since then, extension and improvement of the Transamazon Highway has proceeded in fits and starts, slowing to a stop through the difficult and inflationary 1980s, but continuing with the economic recovery in the mid to late 1990s, with large projects currently underway to pave large stretches of dirt and gravel surface. Thus, although what we discuss refers largely to a work in progress, enough time has passed since its initiation that we can provide at least a partial assessment of the road’s legacy, both the good and the bad. We start by considering the Brazilian Highway system in order to establish a working terminology and context for the text that follows. After this comes a discussion of the highway’s implementation, which was part and parcel of government initiatives starting in the mid-1960s to develop Amazônia and connect it to the rest of Brazil. We consider both the grand colonization schemes envisioned to accompany and validate the highway’s construction, as well as the hard grinding reality of what the colonists faced, and overcame, to take advantage of government investment. Next comes an accounting of the many impacts that have been engendered by the Transamazon project, not the least of which has been the opening of the heart of the world’s largest closed tropical forest to agriculture, its most controversial, and valuable, consequence. We conclude the chapter with a brief consideration of

33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future

571

the policy environment affecting present-day Amazônia, and with a call to strike a balance between the region’s development and its long-run conservation.

33.2 Roads in the Amazon 33.2.1 Nomenclature The Transamazon Highway is part of a well-articulated system of Brazilian highways possessing two nomenclatures of interest to the present chapter, one associated with the Instituto Brasileiro de Geografia e Estatística, or IBGE, and the other, with the Ministério dos Transportes. We also consider an academic distinction between official and unofficial roads that has been adopted by researchers studying Amazonian development; this distinction sheds light on the spatial processes of road-building and the patterns of forest fragmentation that result. IBGE identifies the highway system with a jurisdictional hierarchy distinguishing federal, state, and municipal roads, which is completely analogous to the federal (i.e., interstate), state, and county breakdowns of the road transportation system in the U.S. Alternatively, the naming convention of the Ministério dos Transportes focuses strictly on the federal system and elaborates a typology reflecting the geography of Brazil. Thus, both the IBGE and Ministério dos Transportes nomenclatures refer to so-called, official roads, those built by some level of Brazilian government, and maintained as such.

33.2.2 Official Versus Unofficial Roads Discussions of the Amazonian road network would be incomplete, and misleading, without consideration of roads that federal bureaucracies overlook, although with some exception, as will be discussed momentarily. These are the so-called unofficial roads implemented by private citizens (Brandão & Souza, 2006; Perz et al., 2005; Perz, Caldas, Arima, & Walker, 2007; Perz, Overdevest, Caldas, Walker, & Arima, 2007). Official roads, be they federal, state, or municipal, are typically built in the interest of regional development or local traffic circulation. They may be paved or not, but tend to be maintained with some regularity. In contrast, unofficial roads are constructed mainly by private citizens seeking to expand local transportation services to exploit resources (Perz, Caldas, et al., 2007; Perz, Overdevest et al., 2007). They are less likely to be paved than official roads, and maintenance is haphazard, particularly outside of urban settlements. Distinctions between official and unofficial roads can be difficult to make. In areas of colonization, private citizens frequently take it upon themselves to build roads to provide a better means to transport their agricultural products or logs to market, but they may do so with the active participation of municipal government. Should the road emerge as important to the community’s or region’s transportation network, it may be absorbed by the government system, becoming an official road at the municipal, state, or even federal level.1

572

R. Walker et al. Table 33.1 Build-up of the official highway system in Amazonia Federal

State

1968 1975 1981

400 17,504 18,672

1999

19,223

0 13,276 31,044 (1985) 37,410

Paved and Unpaved components of system. To create the data, a digital road data (1993) was obtained from Departamento de Geografia, Universidade Federal Fluminense, Campos Praia, Vermelha, Niteroi, Brazil. The 1993 digital map included road jurisdiction and type, and was used to created digital maps, determining attributes from paper maps (1987, 1975, 1981) from the Diretoria de Planejamento, Department Nacional De Estradas De Rodagem, Ministerio Dos Transportes, Republica Federativa Do Brazil. A second digital map for 1999 was later obtained in 2004 with more accurate geometry. The digital files from this map were used to revise the earlier years

Although the federal and state components of Brazil’s official road system have expanded in Amazônia over the past few decades, from 400 km (249 mi) in 1968, to 56,635 km (35,191 mi) in 1999 (Table 33.1), this is overshadowed by growth of the unofficial system. For example, in central Pará State, federal and state roads account for 3,616 km (2,247 mi), while the unofficial network reaches 57,896 km (35,975 mi) (Brandão & Souza, 2006). These numbers translate into a much higher network density for unofficial roads, as has been demonstrated by Arima, Walker, Perz, and Caldas (2005) in the vicinity of the Transamazon Highway (BR-230), where the unofficial density (0.062 km/km2 ) is an order of magnitude greater than the federal and state infrastructure (0.004 km/km2 ). The growth of this unofficial road system is one of the significant impacts of the Transamazon Highway.

33.2.3 BR-230 As indicated, the Ministério dos Transportes nomenclature focuses strictly on the federal system. As such it reflects objectives of developing the economy at the national level.2 Ground transportation in Brazil has presented a number of spatial challenges resolved by the establishment of a federal system comprising (1) a radial network centered on the capital, Brasília; (2) north-south linkages connecting the southern core with the northern periphery; (3) corridors from the coastal plain across the mountains into the planalto of central Brazil and the Amazon Basin; and (4) diagonal pathways from the heartland of São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro to the north and west, seeking continental integration and access to the Pacific. Each of these spatial challenges is met by a specific type of federal highway, identified as radial, longitudinal, lateral, and diagonal, respectively. The parallel numbering scheme is 0, 1, 2, and 3. Thus, a federal highway designated as BR-0∗∗ indicates

33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future

573

Fig. 33.2 Transamazon highway road sign

an arbitrary radial highway in the system; the acronym, BR, identifies the road as federal. As for the Transamazon Highway, the Ministério dos Transportes identifier is BR-230 (Fig. 33.2), in which case the Transamazon is immediately recognizable as a lateral road connecting the Amazon Basin to the coastal plain to the east. The component of the identifier represented by “30” refers to spatial ranking from a northerly to southerly orientation, with the number increasing toward the south. Another east–west corridor was envisioned for Amazônia, BR-210, or Perimetral Norte, a road meant to parallel the Transamazon Highway to the north of the river. This highway would connect Macapá, the capital of Amapá state across the mouth of the Amazon from Belém, to the Colombian border. In so doing, it would make accessible the hidden riches of the region, and facilitate commerce with Brazil’s northern neighbors, Venezuela, Suriname, and Guyana. Although early efforts succeeded in opening certain components of this corridor, its implementation has largely stalled, and still remains on the drawing board for a future date (Sant’Anna, 1998). The government’s present day attention has focused on completing other projects, as promulgated by planning administrations of both President Henrique Cardoso and Lula da Silva. Of these, improvements of the so-called Soy Highway (The SantarémCuiabá, BR-163) and the road it crosses in the heart of Amazônia, namely the Transamazon Highway, are of top priority.

33.3 Building the Transamazon Highway 33.3.1 Long-Term Objectives and Strategy The campaign to build Brazil’s road system is the outcome of a long term development project starting in the middle of the 20th century, with the strategic move of the

574

R. Walker et al.

nation’s capital to Brasília, off the coastal plain where Brazilian society had developed for centuries, leaving the vast center of the country almost empty (Pfaff et al., 2009). Thus, the push to integrate Amazônia via transportation corridors shows significant continuity with the long term process of Brazil’s spatial evolution from a coastal nation to a transcontinental power. Indeed, Brazilian society, politicians, and strategic thinkers had long hoped to connect southern agriculture to northern trade outlets, which transportation investments under federal administrations of the 1960s and 1970s ultimately accomplished (Valverde & Dias, 1967; Walker, Browder et al., 2009). In pursuing this historic goal, President Juscelino Kubitschek (1956–1961) initiated the Belém-Brasília Highway, linking the new capital of Brazil with the de facto capital of Amazônia. Following this, successive regimes, most notably that of the military government, laid down a network designed to traverse the region from east to west, and to connect its various components by direct ground linkage to the economic core in the south of the country. Figure 33.3 shows Amazônia’s current network of federal roads, and reveals the spatial logic of the government planners of the 1960s and 1970s. Specifically, the network reveals linear edges connecting nodes defined by pre-existing settlements. These edges, each one associated with a federal highway, were laid in very long segments running hundreds of miles between the settlements, serving as so-called pontos de ajuda, or “points of help,” for construction crews and the storage of road building equipment during the rainy season (Hébette et al., 2002). The main

Fig. 33.3 The federal highway network in Amazonas

33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future

575

elements of the federal system show only one significant detour from the straightline network as described. This detour, along the Transamazon Highway in the State of Amazonas, carried the road south in an obtuse angle from its eastern and western extensions, evidently to avoid an extensive area of wetlands on the southern flank of the Madeira River, below the towns of Manicoré and Novo Aripuanã. The Transamazon Highway, the subject of the present chapter, links up the northeastern part of the country, historically poor and subject to drought, to the development frontiers of Amazônia. Its specific construction geometry carried it point by point across the basin, touching old settlements located on five major southern tributaries of the Amazon River, the Tocantins, the Xingu, the Tapajos, the Madeira, and the purus rivers. These towns, Marabá, Altamira, Itaituba, Humaitá, and Lábrea, respectively, had emerged long before near rapids or at river confluences (Fig. 33.4) which gave them locational advantages with respect to the region’s early economy based on the extraction of forest products.

33.3.2 The Development Initiatives The immediate history of the Transamazon Highway is intimately bound up with development plans executed by the military government that took power by force in 1964, ousting President João Goulart. Efforts here start with Operation Amazônia, comprising government actions and laws passed in 1966 and 1967 in order to pursue both economic and geopolitical objectives relative to Amazonia. Notable among these was the creation, in 1966, of the Superintendência do Desenvolvimento da Amazônia, or SUDAM, which functioned as a disperser of credit subsidies and a clearing house for investment projects in the north (Kleinpenning, 1977). During

Fig. 33.4 Port of Altamira on Xingu river

576

R. Walker et al.

its checkered history, SUDAM provided funds to many dubious projects that did little to develop Amazonia, but contributed mightily to its initial deforestation (e.g., Hecht, 1985). Such subsidies to capital, begun under the military regime, have continued to this day under a variety of programs, forming one of the foundations of the region’s development. The ostensible rationale for Operation Amazônia, as articulated by the generals in charge, was to bring a “people without land, to a land without people,” although commentators have called attention to the government’s strategic desires to secure its empty borderlands and enhance its bureaucratic prestige (Kleinpenning, 1977; Smith, 1982). Another contributing factor was populist unrest that had been suppressed following the ouster of President Goulart. Some of the most radical sectors of Amazonian society at the time, the Peasant Leagues aligned with the Brazilian Communist Party, were particularly active in the Northeast, and had undertaken a program of direct action expropriation of large holdings. Agrarian unrest gave impetus to the military’s seizure of power, and its early interest in opening Amazônia to Brazil’s rural poor via colonization. Once power had been secured, however, the regime brutally suppressed any stirrings of resistance. In Amazonia, a group students and intellectuals from the south initiated a campaign of Marxist insurgency in the early 1970s, near the eastern terminus of the newly constructed Transamazon Highway. The army deployed about 20,000 troops to engage the 60–70 would-be revolutionaries, killing all but a few (Simmons, Walker, Arima, Aldrich, Caldas, 2007). As a background motivation to Operation Amazonia, construction and completion of the Belém-Brasília Highway (BR-010) had sparked mass migration of about two million spontaneous colonists, who settled at roadside, built towns, and introduced a cattle economy, thereby promoting development at very low cost (Moran, 1983; Valverde & Dias, 1967). Work on this highway began shortly after the formation of a commission in 1956, tasked with establishing a ground connection linking the two cities within a ten year period (Hébette & Marin, 2004). Although the roadbed was opened in 1960, an all-weather asphalt surface did not completely connect Belém with Brasília until 1973. The highway was inaugurated on 13 January 1974, a bureaucratic irony given the Transamazon Highway, whose development it made possible, had already been christened (Hébette & Marin, 2004). Operation Amazônia first favored the lower Amazon basin, but created a free trade zone in Manaus in 1967 in order to disperse its efforts spatially. The momentum of Operation Amazônia continued building under the First National Development Plan (1972–1974) via tax exemptions and credit subsidies which attracted capital to the region and stimulated colonization (Browder, 1988a; Hall, 1987, 1989; Mahar, 1979; de Santana et al., 1997). The occupation of the arc of deforestation, particularly in northern Mato Grosso and Southeastern Pará State, was largely stimulated by these fiscal incentives, although entrepreneurs from the south had been preparing long in advance for the ultimate opening of the region (Fernandes, 1999). Key to the prospects of Operation Amazônia’s success, and the generals’ plans for Brazil, was implementation of the Transamazon Highway, promulgated under the National Integration Plan (PIN) of 1970, which predated

33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future

577

then complemented the First National Development Plan. Ostensibly conceived in response to humanitarian concerns stemming from drought in northeastern Brazil, PIN elaborated an extensive colonization program, in addition to the construction of a highway, and, therefore, in contrast to the Belém-Brasília project, which had built a highway and nothing more. The colonization program was grandiose in its intention to settle 100,000 families between 1972 and 1976, and possibly as many as 1,000,000 within the first ten years of implementation (Hamelin, 1991; Kleinpenning, 1977). A population of 100,000 families would have been equivalent to about half a million individuals, assuming an average family size of five. Thus, PIN’s demographic impact even as planned was small when compared to the number of poor and landless peasants in Brazil in the early 1970s (Wagley, 1974). As shown in Fig. 33.1, BR-230 is ultimately planned to link João Pessoa in the State of Ceará with Benjamin Constant on the border with Colombia. However, by the term “Transamazon Highway” we only refer to that part traversing Amazônia, starting in the town Estreito on the Tocantins River, in the southwestern part of Maranhão State, and trailing west to Lábrea.3 Indeed, to the east of Estreito, Brazil rapidly desiccates into the sorrows of the dry caatingas, which are nearly dessert and provide for a hardscrabble rural existence. The Transamazon portion of BR230 was built in two stages starting in 1970, and funded in part by the World and the Inter-American Development Banks with about US$ 400 million (Kleinpenning, 1977; King & McCarthy, 2005; Sant’Anna, 1998). The first stage, linking Estreito with Itaituba, in Pará, was completed by September 1972; this was followed a year and a half later (March 1974) by the link from Itaituba to Humaitá, in Amazonas (Kleinpenning, 1977; Sant’Anna, 1998).4 Several large Brazilian multinationals did the work, and the labor force numbering into the hundreds of men crowded in makeshift camps along the construction route (Moran, 1981; Velho, 1981). Some of these workers were skilled employees of the corporations who operated equipment and received reasonable compensation (Smith, 1982). Others, particularly the men who cleared the forest in advance of road construction, were local contract workers from the region and the northeast, who suffered low wages, tropical diseases, and grueling labor (Smith, 1982). Most of the right-of-way cut through lands that the federal government had appropriated from the State of Pará; specifically, the generals declared 100 km (62 mi) on either side of the planned road as a federal domain for colonization and agro-industrial development (Moran, 1981). When completed, construction costs for the Transamazon were reported at US$ 53,710 per km, yielding a total cost for 2,900 km of US$ 156 million. Applying a deflator to translate 1972 US$ into current ones, the total cost from Estreito to Humaitá calculates at about US$ 700 million.

33.3.3 PIN and the Transamazon Highway As already indicated, PIN called for an extensive colonization project, to be realized by the development of settlements, or Projetos Integrados de Colonização

578

R. Walker et al.

(PICs). These would accommodate mostly poor farmers and landless individuals, but also more highly capitalized interests dedicated to agro-industrial development. Although implemented in both the States of Pará and Rondônia, the first test came in Pará, where the PICs formed geographic spaces that mapped the right-of-way of the Transamazon Highway (Kleinpenning, 1977; Moran, 1981; Smith, 1982). The PICs planned and implemented in the lower basin, with varying degrees of success, were PIC-Marabá, PIC-Altamira, and PIC-Itaituba (Moran, 1981). Once promulgated and set in motion, they proved to be monumental undertakings for the federal government, involving the coordination of highway construction with settlement policy, against a background vision of developing an agrarian society of explicitly spatial order, inspired by central place theory and a cadastral geometry that ultimately gave rise to the so-called fishbone pattern of deforestation. As planned, the Transamazon Highway would be oriented, roughly, on an eastwest transect. Settlement roads (or travessões) (Fig. 33.5) would sprout every 5 km (3.1 mi) and run about 10 km (6.2 mi) north and south, providing property boundaries for 100 ha (247 acre) lots. These lots were surveyed as 500 × 2,000 m (1,640 × 6,562 ft) properties along the main axis of the Transamazon Highway, aligned

Fig. 33.5 Travessão or settlement road

33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future

579

Fig. 33.6 The cadastral geometry of Transamazonia colonization

vertically above and below it. Back from the highway in the strips of land, or glebas, stretched between the settlement roads, the 100 ha (247 acre) lots, in 450 × 2,500 m (1,476 × 8,202 ft) rectangles, lay horizontally with shared back boundaries. Figure 33.6 reproduces the original cadastral planning map for an area of colonization west of Altamira, near the town of Uruará (Fig. 33.7). A critical component of the land occupation plan was a hierarchy of central places involving the agrovila, the agropolis, and the ruropolis. These were meant to be urban centers of increasing complexity that would deliver an increasingly sophisticated array of services to colonist populations. The agrovila, the smallest of these central places, would be situated one per gleba, and provide basic services to the approximately 50 families (48–62) expected to settle in its vicinity (Kleinpenning, 1977; Smith, 1982). One rung up the urban hierarchy, the agropolis was conceived as a small town of perhaps 300 families, providing marketing and storage facilities for 22 agrovilas (Moran, 1981; Smith, 1982). Here would also be found restaurants, government offices, sawmills, and small-scale manufacturing (Moran, 1981). Finally, a ruropolis would crown the spatial configuration as a development pole. Planners conceived the ruropolis as home to about 1,000 families, and a true urban center, with high order government and financial services, rural industries, and infrastructure, even motels (Moran, 1981). As it turns out, these plans were ultimately developed only for the section of the Transamazon Highway west of Altamira to about 120 km (74.5 mi), given the riches of the soils there, and an

580

R. Walker et al.

Fig. 33.7 Town of Uruara

early surge in population. Thus, as of 1971, the government intended to build 66 agrovilas and 3 agropolis, with one ruropolis emerging later, but farther west at the intersection of the Transamazon (BR-230) with the Santarém-Cuiabá (BR-163) Highway. As for the other lands of the three Transamazon PICs, the intention was to open them to dispersed settlement (Kleinpenning, 1977). The PIC program was initiated by a national campaign offering attractive incentives that could hardly be neglected by Brazil’s rural masses, the majority of whom were poor, if not living in outright poverty (Moran, 1981). For those who responded to the call, there was land, most importantly, the demarcated 100 ha (40 acre) lots for individual households that have just been discussed. Further, to let families secure a precarious foothold in the forest, the government provided six months of salary, at minimum wage, and cheap credit, payable at 7% interest (Moran, 1983). Beyond these financial essentials, the government provided price supports for rice, and even built houses, at least in the beginning.

33.3.4 Early Aftermath of Highway Construction and Colonization Although the government offered generous support at the outset, more colonists arrived than could be accommodated, and many new arrivals went needy. They had left difficult lives, mostly in the northeastern part of the country, famous for its droughts and rural hardship. Many of the migrants, ostensibly from the southern part of the country had, in fact, begun their lives in the northeast, having first gone south for relief from poverty before heeding the government’s call to conquer the Amazon (Hébette, Alves, & Quintela, 2002; Moran, 1981; Velho, 1981). The problems the colonists faced at the outset were soon compounded by poor government planning.5

33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future

581

To make matters worse, government policies shifted away from the populist tilt of the early PIN years. This shift probably had a basis in the latifundia’s interest in the land bank of Amazônia, and efforts starting in the 1960s to claim large tracts of land, ranging into the hundreds of thousands of hectares, by notable capitalists of the period such as Lunardelli and Lanari (Fernandes, 1999). Thus, in 1975, the PIN program was abandoned to make way for an exclusive focus on agro-industrial ventures. The Second National Development Plan (II PND 1975–1979), with its growth pole policy for the region (POLOAMAZÔNIA), was predicated on the role of Amazônia in generating foreign exchange via export-oriented activities such as ranching, timber, and mineral extraction (Browder, 1988b; Hall, 1987, 1989; Mahar, 1979, 1989; de Santana et al., 1997). The retraction of support for colonization ultimately did not stem the migratory flow, as we shall discuss shortly. But it did allow the government greater fiscal flexibility in the provision of subsidies to the interests of capital, which certainly stimulated market-oriented development along the Transamazon Highway. In fact, the cadastral geometry of PIC colonization provided not only for poor colonists, but also set aside land for the development of properties ranging up to 3,000 ha (7410 acres) starting in 1973 (Kleinpenning, 1977). Many of these large holdings, cleared and dedicated to ranching by the mid-1980s, are still active today, and readily visible on satellite images (Aldrich et al., 2006). It has often been suggested that colonization under the PIN program was a failure. Indeed, it is hard to argue otherwise, if the intention of the plan was to solve problems of rural insurgency and starvation in the northeast. Even on its own terms, the pace of settlement was slow, and the government did not manage, for whatever reason, to meet its obligations, a fact that surely stemmed some of the response that had been anticipated. As of the mid-1970s, on the order of 6,000 families had come to settle along the Transamazon Highway, with about 1,422 in Marabá by 1975, 3,000 in Altamira by 1977, and 1,450 Itaituba by 1977 (Miller, 1983). Before proceeding, it is important to point out that the “empty” land referred to by the generals had never, in fact, been empty. Amazônia had long sheltered large populations of indigenous peoples, to be discussed in the sequel (Denevan, 1992), and extraction of wild rubber and Brazil nuts had attracted northeasterners to lonely stretches of the Araguaia, Xingu, and Tapajos Rivers by the late 19th century (Velho, 1981). Numbers, of course, were small, and settlement, highly dispersed.6 Infertile soils undermined the viability of PICs in both Marabá and Itaituba, and attention soon focused exclusively on Altamira, but only to the west, from 20 to 120 km (12.4 to 74.5 mi) from town (Hamelin, 1991). As for the planned urban hierarchy, only one agropolis took root, the town of Brasil Novo found 40 km (24.9 mi) west of Altamira directly on the Transamazon Highway. Although remnant structures of the agrovilas can still be seen on several of the travessões, those that were built disappeared as functioning units of an urban hierarchy. A single ruropolis emerged, Ruropolis Presidente Médici simply known as Ruropolis today.7 Found at the intersection of BR-163 and BR-230, the town is now starting to grow, not as a service center for a bustling collection of small towns, but as an increasingly

582

R. Walker et al.

important cross-roads in the emerging agricultural economy of Amazônia (Brown, Koeppe, Coles, & Price, 2005; Jepson, 2005). The difficulties of development along the Transamazon Highway, and its lazy pace of improvement during the first several decades of its existence, are probably best interpreted not as an outcome of government failure, but as a consequence of broader conditions affecting the Brazilian economy throughout the period. Indeed, as the 1970s faded into the 1980s, the Brazilian economic “miracle” gave way to the looming disasters of high inflation, structural readjustment, and economic recession. Both colonists and large holders found themselves increasingly on their own in their efforts to gain footholds on the frontier. The transition from military to civilian government in 1985 also brought changed attitudes, particularly with respect to cultural and environmental resources (Simmons, 2002). Amazônia, once a wilderness to be conquered and subdued, was increasingly seen as a reservoir of cultural and ecological treasures, a viewpoint that altered policy in the region, and put brakes on development that were only intensified with the hyper-inflationary period of the early to mid-1990s, before the success of the new monetary policy of the Plano Real. Figure 33.8 demonstrates the timing of expansion and improvement of the Transamazon Highway, starting shortly after its inception. This figure shows maps covering the so-called “Amazônia Legal,” a federal planning unit roughly coterminous with the Amazon basin. They include a portion of BR-230 to the east of Estreito, since a large part of Maranhão States lies within Amazônia Legal. As can be seen, the opening of the Transamazon roadbed was accomplished by 1975. After this, improvements stopped, except for paving east in Maranhão, completed by 1981. The three maps are somewhat deceptive in showing an asphalted segment at the western terminus near Lábrea. In fact, Federal Highway BR-319, linking Porto Velho and Manaus, was paved at the time of construction, in 1972 and 1973 (Fearnside & De Alencastro Graça, 2006). The segment of BR-230 heading west to Lábrea may very well have formed part of the project. In subsequent years, this entire section of the federal network fell into neglect due to low traffic volumes, with BR-319 becoming impassable by 1988 (Fearnside & De Alencastro Graça, 2006). With this in mind, the sequence of maps in Fig. 33.3 reveals the government’s retreat from its early development vision and abandonment of the region.

33.3.5 The Transamazon Highway Today The present chapter acknowledges the grandiose vision of PIN, and the authors have personal experience with old colonists embittered by what the government said it would do, but did not. Frustrations in general have remained high for decades at the Transamazon Highway’s lack of paving (Fig. 33.9), and seeming government indifference in providing basic health and educational services throughout the region. That said, recent years have brought renewed government interest, and paving projects along substantial segments of the Highway. As can be seen in Fig. 33.1, the entire stretch of road between Marabá and Altamira is now being

33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future

583

Fig. 33.8 Phase of construction for the Transamazonia highway (top) 1975, (middle) 1981, (bottom) 1999

asphalted. Of course, thousands of kilometers remain, but the pace of improvement has accelerated with the stabilization of the currency in the late 1990s, and a strong Brazilian economy. Government and societal objectives remain unchanged from the military period, with strategic goals of securing international borders and establishing closer economic ties with neighbors to the north and west (Sant’Anna, 1998; Walker, Browder, et al., 2009).

584

R. Walker et al.

Fig. 33.9 Logging truck on unpaved Transamazonia highway

Further, continental integration via transportation infrastructure has emerged as a grand hemispheric design under the initiative, Integration of South American Regional Infrastructure (IIRSA by its Spanish acronym). IIRSA is a discussion forum initiated in 2000 that involves all 12 South American countries in an effort to develop an “intermodal” transport network of rivers and highways. IIRSA has identified 10 terrestrial axes that will link the South American countries in a network of transportation routes by land and by water. Of these, three involve Amazonia, placing Brazil’s ecologically sensitive north in a bull’s eye of continental infrastructure. The Inter-American Development Bank (IDB), the Andean Finance Corporation (CAF), and the Financial Fund for the Development of the River Plate Basin (FONPLATA) are some of the deep pockets that will broker the tens of billions of dollars needed for IIRSA’s plan.8 The current economy and population of the Transamazon region show signs of expansion, and the agricultural development envisioned by a long succession of government planners starting with the Kubitschek administration. Table 33.2 presents numbers for both population and size of cattle herd, given cattle

33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future

585

Table 33.2 Cattle herd and population in the Transamazon Corridor, 2007 Cattle Herd Amazonas Apuí Canutama Humaitá Lábrea Manicoré Maués Novo Aripuanã Para Altamira Anapu Brasil Novo Itaituba Itupiranga Jacareacanga Marabá Medicilândia Nova Ipixuna Novo Repartimento Pacajá Placas Rurópolis Senador José Porfírio Trairão Uruará Vitória do Xingu Total

Population

130, 371 13, 618 20, 801 285, 519 56, 390 22, 358 11, 620

17, 451 11, 463 38, 559 36, 909 44, 327 47, 020 18, 196

402, 340 280, 321 225, 866 174, 318 290, 000 26, 789 430, 300 143, 359 74, 600 363, 456 256, 420 59, 450 117, 821 60, 899 68, 497 293, 640 195, 201 4, 003, 954

92, 105 17, 787 18, 749 118, 194 42, 002 37, 073 196, 468 22, 624 14, 086 51, 645 38, 365 17, 898 32, 950 14, 302 16, 097 35, 076 9, 693 989, 039

Source: www.sidra.ibge.gov.br

ranching has become Amazônia’s primary agricultural activity, even by small producers. The numbers for Table 33.2 sum the data for all Amazonian counties through which the Transamazon Highway passes (Fig. 33.10), beginning with Marabá, given this was the start-point for the colonization programs. As the table shows, the region’s population has climbed to nearly one million people. This number compares favorably to the 100,000 families (Fig. 33.11) that were to come in response to the PIN program in the 1970s, and would have been consistent with a population doubling in about thirty years had the planners been right. Although not an exceptionally high population growth rate (∼2% by the “70 year” rule), it is, nevertheless, respectable. More striking is the build-up in the cattle herd. In fact, early government planners wished to develop ranching in Amazônia, but their expectations for small-holders were focused on crops like rice and cocoa they thought would be well suited for tropical moist conditions. The cattle economy was to emerge in the southeastern part of Pará State and northern Mato Grosso, near the drier ecotone with the Brazilian savanna known as cerrado. Indeed, early capitalists began staking claims

586

Fig. 33.10 Counties crossed by BR-230 in Pará and Amazonas

Fig. 33.11 Transamazonia colonist family

R. Walker et al.

33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future

587

here with the intention of ranching prior to PIN, prior to the generous subsidies of the early military government, and prior to the paving of the Belém-Brasília Highway (Fernandes, 1999). As of 1973, the agronomic outcome was largely consistent with government expectations, and a grand total of 706 head of cattle grazed in PIC-Altamira, the only colonization area that showed signs of agricultural life. Although a few others may have been scattered across the Transamazon region, their numbers were probably few. Thus, the current herd of about four million animals represents explosive growth.9 It is a significant portion of Amazônia’s herd of 70,000,000 found primarily on the drier margins of the basin in Southeastern Pará, Northern Mato Grosso, and Rondônia (Walker, Browder, et al., 2009).

33.4 Impacts of the Transamazon Highway 33.4.1 Deforestation The Belém-Brasília Highway (BR-010), important in establishing an early northsouth link in Brazil’s highway system, passed through the lower basin, but its route traversed primarily areas of cerrado. Thus, significant penetration of the closed moist forest did not occur until the construction of BR-364 in Rondônia, BR-163 in Mato Grosso and Pará, BR-319 in Amazonas, and BR-230, the Transamazon Highway, in Pará and Amazonas. Of these, BR-364 and the Transamazon Highway have precipitated the most impact. The Transamazon Highway has captured the public’s imagination to a greater degree, perhaps because of its namesake, but also because its considerable length passes entirely through formerly closed moist forest. Although the Transamazon Highway remains mostly unpaved to this very day, it has succeeded in opening the inner part of the basin and its ecosystems to substantial agricultural impact, as just indicated. Investment in transportation is often seen as critical to efforts at economic development, particularly in developing countries (Owen, 1987; Vance, 1986). Railroads were important to the integration of the U.S. economy in the 19th century, and roads have often been built in frontier settings, to stimulate migration in advance of demand for transportation (Friedmann & Stuckey, 1973). The expansion of the federal highway network in Amazônia is no exception to this model. Although it took time, the region’s agricultural economy now makes extensive use of its highways, which have provided some degree of upward mobility for resident populations (Ozório de Almeida, 1992; Perz, 2001; Schneider, 1995). But Amazônia’s agricultural economy, in large part centered on the Transamazon Highway, is a two-edged sword that has brought economic development at considerable expense. Since roads began their steady trek across the region, human populations have risen sharply, reaching about 20 million in the Brazilian portion of the basin alone (Walker, Browder, et al., 2009; Santos, 1980). As part and parcel of this phenomenal growth, over 16% of the 4 million km2 of the original forest has been transformed, mostly into pastures (Alves, 2007) (Fig. 33.12), with significant consequences for both ecological and cultural resources. That roads are implicated

588

R. Walker et al.

Fig. 33.12 Pastures where forests once stood

in forest losses in Amazônia is hardly controversial, and has been well documented by econometric research (Anderson, Granger, Reis, Weinhold, & Wunder, 1996; Anderson & Reis, 1997; Pfaff, 1999; Reis & Guzmán, 1994; Reis & Margulis, 1991; Wood & Skole, 1998). Moreover, GIS analysis shows a strong link between the location of roads and the extent of cleared lands in Amazônia, with almost all deforestation occurring within a narrow strip along the region’s major roads, including the Transamazon Highway (Laurance et al., 2001; Alves, 2002, 2007). In this chapter we have focused on roads as corridors for the in-migration of colonists, mainly poor farmers who occupy holdings of 100 ha (40 acres) or less, and engage in diversified agriculture that typically includes a small herd of cattle (Walker, 2003). Roads also attract more potent deforestation agents, particularly capitalized ranchers and loggers, whose actions account for the lion’s share of forest loss and degradation (Alves, 2002, 2007; Walker, Browder, et al. 2009). In this regard, the Transamazon Highway has functioned as an important logging frontier (Merry et al., 2006), and, as already discussed, is home to large consolidated holdings that show almost complete deforestation over thousands of hectares (Aldrich et al., 2006). Although most deforestation has occurred on the region’s southern and eastern margins, all of the large highways like the Transamazon make dramatic slices through the heart of the forest.

33.4.2 Endogenous Road-Building The deforestation agents attracted to the region are those who build the unofficial roads discussed earlier in the chapter. Such roads are linked to the official road

33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future

Table 33.3 Unofficial road construction. Transamazon highway

589

Agent

Total (km)

Federal Government (F.G.) Loggers Mayor Private Company Ranchers Colonists F.G and Colonists Mayor and Loggers F.G. and Private Company F.G. and Mayor Unknown

162 153 184 9 17 61 11.5 157 10 35 71

system in a positive feedback that drives continuing expansion of the transportation network, with land cover change. Specifically, the Transamazon Highway has opened the region to economic agents who – in seeking profits or simply improved livelihoods – clear land to create agricultural enterprises. Then, in order to make better use of their captured resources, they build new roads on their own account, or in cooperative ventures with other agents, including local politicians. These roads improve productive efficiencies that raise rents and continue attracting economic factors in a cycle that extends the agricultural frontier by its own momentum. As described, unofficial roads are endogenous to deforestation, in contrast to exogenous federal roads like the Transamazon Highway, which are imposed from outside by agents of the state, and initiate the cycle of environmental change from its starting point. The authors have studied the extension of unofficial roads between Altamira and Itaituba, in the old colonization region of PIC-Altamira. In 2004 they visited seventeen travessões along a 75 km (46.6 mi) stretch of the Transamazon Highway, centered on Uruará, to determine the agents involved in unofficial road construction, and the dynamism of their road building activities. Data presented in Table 33.3 reveal a complex process involving loggers, colonists, ranchers, and other private interests, as well as the mayor and the federal government. Sometimes these agents work alone, but often they form productive alliances. In all, the authors identified 52 separate road building events that began in the early 1970s and added 870 km (541 mi) to the local network. The town of Uruará was “abandoned” by the federal government before colonization actually got underway, and even the initial opening of many travessões was undertaken by local interests (Hamelin, 1991). Consequently, colonization followed the pattern of direct action land reform, spontaneously unfolding in the region independently of federal government support, or intervention (Simmons et al., 2007). Although loggers were heavily involved in road construction, the emergent landscape presently reveals the famous fishbone pattern (Fig. 33.13), given a large population of colonists and their interest in securing property titles. Early road extensions were undertaken to make room for new arrivals, who mimicked the

590

R. Walker et al.

Fig. 33.13 Cadastral geometry and fishbone settlement

cadastral geometry of the original PIC in order to facilitate land claims. In general, the office of the mayor has found ample reason to help the colonists given electoral considerations, and loggers have their own motivations provided by loopholes in the Brazilian law that allow wood to be taken from small holdings without a management plan (Arima et al., 2005). Today, the travessões of Uruará run far from the main axis of the Transamazon Highway, to the north and south. The port town of Santarém, over 200 km (124 mi) away, can now be reached by unofficial roads, cutting the trip from Uruará via BR230 and BR163 by half a day.

33.4.3 Climate Change Loss of primary forest along the Transamazon Highway, driven by the interacting process of deforestation and road building just described, has no doubt impacted biodiversity, given the high degree of species endemism of Amazonian forests. The physical nature of the cut, which has opened a strip of agriculture anywhere from a few to 100 (62 mi) wide over most of the road’s length, also appears to have impacted local microclimate (Moore, Arima, Walker, & Ramos da Silva, 2007). Experimental simulations with a regional climate model suggest that continued development of the Transamazon Highway corridor will desiccate locations along its route, particularly in the vicinity of Altamira and the intersection with BR-163 near Ruropolis and Itaituba. Desiccation extends the full length of the road west, to its current end point at Lábrea. Of course, the drying-out of Amazônia to a tipping point is a clear and present danger associated with continuing agricultural

33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future

591

development in the region as a whole. Scientists have long speculated that rainfall reductions stemming from an altered hydrometeorology could alter the vegetationbound cycle of rain that currently supports Amazônia’s lush ecology (e.g., Serrão Nepstad, and Walker, 1996). Whether that cycle is now being broken remains a critical, if unresolved, issue (Costa, Botta, & Cardille, 2003; Durieux, Machado, & Laurent, 2003; Marengo, 2004; Negri & Adler, 2004).

33.4.4 Indigenous Peoples Perhaps the greatest destructive impact of the Transamazon Highway has been the loss of cultural resources stemming from contact between Brazilian society and the indigenous peoples who have called Amazônia home for millennia. Although Amerindians have long populated the basin throughout its vast reaches, the upper and middle Xingu basin, which the Transamazon Highway helped open to Brazil, remained an indigenous refuge until well into the 20th century, largely unaffected by the encroachment of Brazilian civilization that affected all the other major tributaries quite early. Here, fearsome rapids blocked passage south, and kept explorers and exploiters confined to the downstream reaches of the river below Altamira (Schmink & Wood, 1992). Clearly, the Transamazon Highway brought changes, and bloodshed, in a tragedy that spread across Amazônia with the building of the federal system of roads, and with the enthusiasm of colonists and speculators for the lands made accessible, which were often tribal territories. The first author visited such a tribal area in 2002, about 100 km (62 mi) south of the Transamazon Highway on the Iriri River, a large tributary to the Xingu (Cachoeira Seco do Iriri). The Amerindians encountered attested to their bloody confrontations with colonists developing lands off the Transamazon Highway, and their decision, only twelve years previously, to sue for peace, knowing that continued conflict would spell their doom. By the visit in 2002, a FUNAI presence had been established on the reserve, bringing rudimentary medical services and basic education in small shacks, a physical statement of the government’s recognition of their indigenous rights. This recognition, however, had not eliminated all conflict. The author witnessed a party of warriors (guerreiros) returning from an action against encroaching fishermen, who were exploiting what the Indians claimed were their waters. The action, which involved the destruction of a catch of fish, was in reprisal for the disappearance of one of their own, presumably by murder. Many indigenous peoples have been put under severe pressure in Amazônia since the 1970s with the massive investments in infrastructure and the energetic response of Brazilian society to settle its tropical frontier. Tribes experiencing the greatest impact are found in more settled parts of the basin, like the Bragantine region between Belém and Maranhão State. Here, groups such as the Tembê find themselves under attack, their lands being taken, their way of life in rapid, unwanted transformation.10 Elsewhere, the story is different, due to actions by the federal government, and the willingness of the indigenous peoples to defend themselves and their territories. Of critical importance in this regard has been the declaration

592

R. Walker et al.

of indigenous reserves. Historically, Brazil’s policy on indigenous peoples has been to assimilate them. To accomplish this, the Brazilian government created indigenous agencies; the current one, Fundação Nacional do Índio, or FUNAI, was put in place in 1967 by the military government. The assimilation policy changed in the wake of democratic reform, particularly with the Constitution of 1988; it gave new directions to the relationship between post-Colombian Brazilian society and Amerindians (Simmons, 2002). Specifically, it proclaimed the sovereignty of native peoples and accelerated the demarcation of 375 indigenous reserves, encompassing about 1 million km2 , a fifth of Brazilian Amazônia. Although the indigenous peoples of present-day Amazonia have experienced hardship and loss owing to their uninvited contact with Brazilians, they have not generally been forced onto reservations far from their homelands, and enlightened policy of recent years has granted them a substantial amount of political autonomy. The Transamazon Highway passes through, or very close to, a number of these reserves, bringing both advantages and disadvantages to the native peoples who call them home (Fig. 33.14).11 Although Convention 169 of the International Labor Organization ensures Amerindians the right to the exploit their territorial resources, both Agenda 21 (Rio Summit) and the 1996 Indigenous Lands Project of the G7 Pilot Program to Conserve the Rainforest express an expectation of indigenous environmental stewardship. This expectation is also stated in the Brazilian Forestry Code

Fig. 33.14 Protected areas in the Brazilian Amazonas

33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future

593

(www.funai.gov.br) and the National Plan for Protected Areas (decree no. 5758, April 13, 2006). Democratic reform, and awareness of the impacts of Amazonian development on its native inhabitants, have shaped policies of cultural conservation that possess significant environmental spillovers (Simmons, 2002).

33.5 Conclusions The Transamazon Highway was built pursuant to a policy elaborated by Brazil’s military regime in 1970, but it fulfilled a long standing vision to develop the country. Democratic administrations have continued to extend and improve what was begun over three decades ago. Although the highway did not achieve the grandiose dreams of those who built it, and although critics have not been shy in describing its impacts on Amazônia’s environment and native cultures, the Transamazon Highway is a fait accompli, at least the 2,900 km (1,802 mi) that link the relatively dry borderlands of Maranhão, with Lábrea on the Purus River, in the heart of Amazonas state. The genie is out of the bottle. This chapter has pointed out the good and the bad, and approached the Transamazon Highway as the two-edged sword that it is, bringing development with destruction, in much the same way that the Transcontinental Railroad opened the American West to colonists, forever altering the prairie ecosystems of the plains and the indigenous populations that depended on them. The parallel with North America’s frontier has been pointed out before, as has the comparability of Brazil’s historic mandate to open Amazônia with the concept of “manifest destiny,” an obvious expression of national will to Americans who were drawn west once the railroad had paved the way (Walker, Browder, et al., 2009). Luckily, there are grounds for hope that Brazil can do a better job than the U.S. in developing its last frontier. With respect to the native peoples of Amazônia, the Brazilian government showed considerable foresight two decades ago when it created the indigenous reserves. Although state support has not always been consistent, the 1988 constitution empowered Amazonian tribes to act as necessary to defend their resources and way of life. A considerable amount of research shows that these long term residents of Amazônia are both willing and capable of resisting the encroachment of loggers, farmers, and ranchers, even when located nearby active settlement frontiers (Deruyttere, 1997; Euler et al., 2008; Ferreira n.d.; Mahar & Ducrot, 1998; Nepstad et al., 2006; Ribeiro, Verissimo, & Pereira, 2005; Schwartzman & Zimmerman, 2005; Zimmerman, Peres, Malcolm, & Turner, 2001). In addition to the cultural security offered indigenous peoples, Brazil has taken important steps to defend its ecological treasures (Simmons, 2002). Although Brazilian environmental legislation dates back to the early 1930s (Machado, 1995), democratic reform helped defenders of the Amazonian environment have their say. In this regard, the creation of the National System of Nature Conservation Units, or SNUC, has led to the setting aside of about 1.25 million km2 in the region. This program classifies protected areas, or PAs, into integral protection and sustainable use units, including parks, biological reserves, ecological stations, natural heritage

594

R. Walker et al.

reserves, wildlife refuges, national forests, and extractive reserves. Protected areas, both indigenous reserves and components of SNUC, account for close to 40% of the Brazilian Amazon. Thus, laws requiring the maintenance of native forest on private holdings boost the legally mandated minimum forest extent to a rather high number. Regional climate models suggest that the maintenance of protected areas in Amazônia can buffer against a climate tipping point, with its threat of widespread desiccation and conversion of forest to scrub savanna (Walker, Moore et al., 2009). Whether Brazilian society will honor its self-made pledges remains to be seen. Brazil, a sovereign nation, certainly has a right to develop the resources within its boundaries. Nevertheless, since the 1970s, the exercise of this right in Amazônia, involving mega-projects like the Transamazon Highway, has sparked a vocal response, both within Brazil and beyond its borders. Brazil rightfully observes that the U.S. was free to build its railroads at the cost of native cultures and magnificent ecosystems. Of course, this was done in a less civilized time, before ecology had blossomed as a discipline, before anyone understood the importance of biodiversity, and before the threat of global warming united the world as a citizenry in peril. As for the Transamazon Highway, the damage has been done, and improvements such as paving are not likely to spark the massive loss of forest observed after its initial opening (Anderson et al., 2002; Pfaff et al., 2007). This qualified statement is based, however, on the assumption that the last leg will not be built out to the border with Colombia, which would necessitate penetration of protected indigenous lands (see Fig. 33.7). Brazil has come of economic age during this past decade, a maturation based in part on agriculture, much of it found in a region that only four decades ago remained mysterious to the world. The Transamazon Highway helped make this hidden region known, and in so doing changed it forever. Brazil and the world community must now work to see that changes from this point forward achieve maximum effect, for both Amazonian residents, be they native or new arrivals, and for future generations who also have a right to an Amazônia that has not been sacrificed on the altar of development. Acknowledgements We would like to acknowledge support from the Large-Scale BiosphereAtmosphere Experiment in Amazônia (LBA), from the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA), and the U.S. National Science Foundation and the National Geographic Society. Specifically, the research this chapter is based on was conducted under NASA project (NNG06GD96A) “Spatially Explicit Land Cover Econometrics and Integration with Climate Prediction: Scenarios of Future Landscapes and Land-Climate Interactions;” and under NSF projects (BCS-0822597) “Collaborative Research: Territorializing Exploitation Space and the Fragmentation of the Amazon Forest;” and (BCS-0243102) “Socio-Spatial Processes of Road Extension and Forest Fragmentation in the Amazon.” The views expressed are those of the authors, and do not necessarily reflect those of LBA, NASA, or NSF. We would also like to thank Claudio Bohrer and IMAZON for providing digital data on the federal and state highway systems.

Notes 1. For example, BR-421 in Rondônia, which goes from Ariquemes to Guajará-Mirim, was originally had a “picada,” or unpaved footpath, dating from the 1960s.

33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future

595

2. See www.transportes.gov.br/bit/br/BRs.htm 3. Amazonia refers to the hydrological basin or to the region at large. 4. Since then, only 180 km (111 mi) have been added, connecting Humaitá with Lábrea, on the Purus River. 5. For example, the government originally intended settlers to live in the agrovilas, not their properties. This posed severe problems in accessing their properties, given they could be many kms distant. 6. The first author undertook an expedition on the Iriri River in 2002, 100 km (62 mi) south of the Transamazon Highway. On the order of fifty families lived along 300 km (186 mi) of the river, mestizo descendents of local Indians and migrants responding to two rubber booms. 7. A second ruropolis, Mirituba, was planned and initially implemented at a location near Itaituba (Kleinpenning, 1977). It has largely been absorbed by Itaituba. 8. See www.iirsa.org/acercadeiirsa.asp?CodIdioma=ESP 9. The comparison areas are not exact. Marabá certainly had a few cattle by 1973, but at that time the county was much larger and included nearly half of all lands in the so-called South of Para; since then, it has been partitioned on several occasions to a relatively small size, as given in Fig. 33.5 (Simmons et al., 2007). 10. The lead author visited the Tembê reserve in the mid-1990s, and visited the indigenous lands on invitation by a leader of Brazilian settlers engaged in a territorial incursion. 11. The Transamazon Highway crosses very closely by reserves for many tribal peoples, including the Apinayes, Parakana, Koatinemo, Kararo, Arara, Caitutu, Pirahã, Tenharim, and Mundurucu.

References Aldrich, S., Walker, R., Arima, E., Caldas, M., Browder, J., & Perz, S. (2006). Land-Cover and land-use change in the Brazilian Amazon: Smallholders, ranchers, and frontier stratification. Economic Geograph, 82(3), 265–288. Alves, D. (2002). Space-time dynamics of the deforestation in Brazilian Amazônia. International Journal of Remote Sensing, 23(14), 2903–2908. Alves, D. (2007). Science and technology and sustainable development in the Brazilian Amazon. In T. Tscharntke, C. Leuschner, M. Zeller, E. Guhardja, & A. Bidin (Eds.), The stability of tropical rainforest margins: Linking ecological, economic and social constraints of land use and conservation (pp. 493–512). Berlin: Springer-Verlag. Anderson, L. E. (1996). The causes of deforestation in the Brazilian Amazon. Journal of Environment and Development, 5(3), 309–328. Anderson, L. E., Granger, C. W. J., Reis, E. J., Weinhold, D., & Wunder, S. (2002). The dynamics of deforestation and economic growth in the Brazilian Amazon. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Anderson, L., & Reis, E. (1997). Deforestation, development and government policy in the Brazilian Amazon: An econometric analysis. IPEATexto para Discussão no. 513. June 2001. http://www.ipea.org.br Arima, E. Y., Walker, R., Perz, S., & Caldas, M. (2005). Loggers and forest fragmentation: Behavioral models of road building in the Amazon basin. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 95(3), 525–541. Brandão, A., Jr., & Souza, C., Jr. (2006). Mapping unofficial roads with Landsat images: A new tool to improve the monitoring of the Brazilian Amazon rainforest. International Journal of Remote Sensing, 27(1), 177–189. Browder, J. (1988a). The social costs of rain forest destruction: A critique and economic analysis of the hamburger debate. Interciencia, 13, 115–120.

596

R. Walker et al.

Browder, J. (1988b). Public policies and deforestation in the Brazilian Amazon. In R. Repetto & M. Gillis (Eds.), Public policies and the misuse of forest resources (pp. 247–298). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Brown, J. C., Koeppe, M., Coles, B., & Price, K. (2005). Soybean production and conversion of tropical forest in the Brazilian Amazon in the case of Vilhena, Rondonia. Ambio, 34(6), 462–469. Costa, M. H., Botta, A., & Cardille, J. A. (2003). Effects of large-scale changes in land cover on the discharge of the Tocantins River, Southeastern Amazonia. Journal of Hydrology, 283, 206–217. Denevan, W. (1992). The Pristine myth: The landscape of the Americas in 1492. Annals of the American Association of Geographers, 82(3), 369–385. Deruyttere, A. (1997). Indigenous peoples and sustainable development: The role of the InterAmerican Development Bank. Washington, DC: IDB Forum of the Americas, Washington, D.C. No. IND97-101. de Santana, A. C., Dávila, J. L., de Alencar, M. I. R., Mattar, P. N., Souza, R. F., & Queiroz da Costa R. M. (1997). Reestruturação produtiva e desenvolvimento na Amazônia: Condicionantes e perspectivas. Belém, Brazil: BASA. Durieux, L., Machado, L. A. T., & Laurent, H. (2003). The impact of deforestation on cloud cover over the Amazon arc of deforestation. Remote Sensing and Environment, 86(1), 132–140. Euler, A., Millikan, B., de Brito, E. B., Cardozo, I. B., Leroy, J. P., & Caminha, L. (2008). The end of the forest? The devastation of conservation units and indigenous lands in the State of Rondonia (translated from the Portuguese). Porto Velho, Brazil: Grupo de Trabalho Amazônica. Fearnside, P. M., & De Alencastro Graça, P. M. L. (2006). BR-319: Brazil’s Manaus-Porto Velho Highway and the potential impact of linking the arc of deforestation to central Amazonia. Environmental Management, 38(5), 705–716. Fernandes, M. (1999). Donos de terra: Trajetorias da Uniao Democratica Ruralista – UDR. Belem, Brazil: UFPA. Ferreira, L. V. (nd). Protected areas or paper parks: The importance of protected areas in reducing deforestation in Rondônia, Brazil. Brasilia, Brazil: WWF-Brasil. Friedmann, J., & Stuckey, B. (1973). The territorial basis of national transportation planning. In J. S. DeSalvoo (Ed.), Perspectives on regional transportation planning (pp. 141–175). Lexington, MA: D.C. Heath Company. Hall, A. L. (1987). Agrarian crisis in Brazilian Amazônia: The Grande Carajás programme. Journal of Development Studies, 23(4), 522–552. Hall, A. L. (1989). Developing Amazônia: Deforestation and social conflict in Brazil’s Carajás Programme. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Hamelin, P. (1991). O Fracasso Anunciado. In P. Léna & A. D. Oliveira (Eds.), Amazônia: A Frontiera Agrícola 20 Anos Depois (pp. 161–176). Belem, Brazil: Museu Goeldi. Hébette, J., Alves, J. M., & Quintela, R. (2002). Parentesco, vizinhança e organização profissional na formação da fronteira amazônica. In J. Hébette, S. B. Magalhaes, & M. C. Maneschy (Eds.), No mar, nos rios e na fronteira: Faces do campesinato no Para (pp. 175–202). Belem, Brazil: UFPA. Hébette, J., & Marin, R. E. A. (2004). A ligação rodoviária norte-sul: Sonhos e realidade. In J. Hébette (Ed.), Cruzando a Fronteira: 30 Anos de Estudo do Campesinato na Amazônia, Volume 1. Mgração, Colonização e ilusões de desenvolvlimento (pp. 36–38). Belém, Brazil: UFPA. Hecht, S. B. (1985). Environment, development, and politics. World Development, 13(6), 663–684. Jepson, W. (2005). A disappearing biome? Reconsidering land-cover change in the Brazilian savanna. The Geographical Journal, 171, 99–111. King, L., & McCarthy, D. (Eds.). (2005). Environmental sociology: From analysis to action. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Kleinpenning, J. M. G. (1977). An evaluation of the Brazilian policy for the integration of the Amazon region (1964–1974). Tidjdschrift Voor Economische en Sociale Geografie, 68(5), 297–311.

33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future

597

Laurance, W. F., Cochrane, M. A., Bergen, S., Fearnside, P. M., Delamônica, P., Barber, C., et al. (2001). The future of the Brazilian Amazon. Science, 291, 438–439. Machado, P. A. L. (1995). Brazilian environmental law (translated from the Portuguese, 5th ed.). São Paulo, Brazil: Malheiros Editores Ltda. Mahar, D. J. (1979). Frontier development policy in Brazil: A study of Amazonia. Praeger: New York. Mahar, D. J. (1989). Government polices and deforestation in the Brazilian Amazon. In: G. Schramm & J. J. Warford (Eds.), Environmental management and economic development (pp. 87–116). Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Mahar, H., & Ducrot, C. E. H. (1998). Land-Use zoning on tropical frontiers: Emerging lessons from the Brazilian Amazon. Washington, DC: Economic Development Institute of the World Bank. Marengo, J. A. (2004). Interdecadal variability and trends of rainfall across the Amazon basin. Theoretical and Applied Climatology, 78, 79–96. Merry, F., Amacher, G., Nepstad, D., Lima, E., Lefebvre, P., & Bauch, S. (2006). Industrial development on logging frontiers in the Brazilian Amazon. International Journal of Sustainable Development, 9(3), 277–296. Miller, D. (1983). Entrepreneurs and bureaucrats: The rise of an urban middle class. In E. F. Moran (Ed.), The dilemma of Amazonian development (pp. 65–93). Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Moore, N., Arima, E., Walker, R., & Ramos da Silva, R. (2007). Uncertainty and the changing hydroclimatology of the Amazon. Geophysical Research Letters, 34, L14707. doi:10.1029/2007GL030157. Moran, E. F. (1981). Developing the Amazon. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Moran, E. F. (1983). Growth without development: Past and present development efforts in Amazonia. In E. F. Moran (Ed.), The dilemma of Amazonian development (pp. 3–23). Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Negri. A., & R. Adler. (2004). The impact of Amazonian deforestation on dry season rainfall. Journal of Climate, 17, 1306–13131. Nepstad, D. C., Schwartzman, S. Bamberger, B., Santilli, M., Ray, R., Schlesinger, P., et al. (2006). Inhibition of Amazon deforestation and fire by parks and indigenous lands. Conservation Biology, 20(1), 65–73. Owen, W. (1987). Transportation and world development. Baltimore, MA: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Ozório de Almeida, A. L. (1992). The colonization of the Amazon. Austin: University of Texas Press. Perz, S. G. (2001). From sustainable development to “productive conservation:” Forest conservation options and agricultural incomes and assets in the Brazilian Amazon. Rural Sociology, 66(3), 93–112. Perz, S., Souza C., Jr., Arima, E., Caldas, M., Brandão A., Jr., Araújo de Souza, F. K., & Walker, R. (2005). O dilema das estradas nãooficiais na Amazônia. Ciência Hoje, 37(222), 56–58. Perz, S., Caldas, M., Arima, E., & Walker, R. (2007). Unofficial road-building in the Amazon: Socioeconomic and biophysical factors. Development and Change, 38(3), 531–553. Perz, S., Overdevest, C., Caldas, M., Walker, R., & Arima, E. (2007). Unofficial road building in the Brazilian Amazon: Dilemmas and models for road governance. Environmental Conservation, 32(2), 1–10. Pfaff, A. S. P. (1999). What drives deforestation in the Brazilian Amazon? Journal of Environmental Economics and Management, 37, 26–43. Pfaff, A., Robalino, J., Walker, R., Reis, E., Perz, S., Bohrer, C., et al. (2007). Road investments, spatial intensification and deforestation in the Brazilian Amazon. Journal of Regional Science, 47(1), 109–123. Pfaff, A., Barbieri, A., Ludewigs, T., Merry, F., Perz, S. & Reis, E. (2009) The impact of roads in the process of deforestation. In M. Keller, M. Bustamante, J. Gash, & P. Dias (Eds.), Amazonia and global change (pp. 101–116). Washington, DC: American Geophysical Union.

598

R. Walker et al.

Reis, E., & Margulis, S. (1991). Options for slowing Amazon jungle clearing. In R. Dornbusch & J. M. Poterba (Eds.), Global warming: Economic policy responses (pp. 335–375). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Reis, E., & Guzmán, R. (1994). An econometric model of Amazon deforestation. In K. Brown & D. Pearce (Eds.), The causes of tropical deforestation: The economic and statistical analysis of factors giving rise to the loss of tropical forests (pp. 172–191). London: University College of London Press. Ribeiro, B., Verissimo, A., & Pereira, K. (2005). The advance of deforestation onto protected areas in Rondonia (translated from the Portuguese). IMAZON, Serie, “O Estado da Amazonia # 6.” Belem, Brazil: IMAZON. Sant’Anna, J. A. (1998). Rede basica de transporte da Amazonia. Brasília, Brazil: IPEA. Santos, R. (1980). História econômica da Amazônia (1800–1920). São Paulo, Brazil: T.A. Queiroz. Schmink, M., & Wood, C. (1992). Contested frontiers in Amazônia. New York: Columbia University Press. Schneider, R. R. (1995). Government and the economy on the Amazon frontier. Washington: World Bank. Schwartzman, S., & Zimmerman, B. (2005). Conservation alliances with indigenous peoples of the Amazon. Conservation Biology, 19(3), 721–727. Serrão, A., Nepstad, D., & Walker, R. (1996). Upland agricultural and forestry development in the Amazon: Sustainability, criticality, and resilience. Ecological Economics, 18(1), 3–13. Simmons, C. S. (2002). Development spaces: The local articulation of conflicting development, Amerindian rights, and environmental policy in Eastern Amazônia. The Professional Geographer, 54(2), 241–258. Simmons, C. S., Walker, R., Arima, E., Aldrich, S., & Caldas, M. (2007). The Amazon land war in the South of Pará. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 97(3), 567–592. Smith, N. (1982). Rainforest corridors: The Transamazon colonization scheme. Berkeley: CA: University of California Press. Valverde, O., and Dias, C. V. (1967). A Rodovia Belém-Brasília. Rio de Janeiro, Brazil: IGBE. Vance, J. E. (1986). Capturing the horizon: The historical geography of transportation. New York, NY: Harper & Row. Velho, O. G. (1981). Frentes de expansão e estrutura agrária: estudo do processo de penetração numa área da Transamazônica (2nd ed.). Rio de Janeiro, Brazil: Zahar. Wagley, C. (Ed.). (1974). Man in the Amazon. Gainesville, FL: University of Florida. Walker, R. (2003). Mapping process to pattern in the landscape change of the Amazonian frontier. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 93(2), 376–398. Walker, R., Diniz, M., Caldas, M., & Chermont, L. (2008). A Economia da Amazônia Hoje e Amanhã: Integração Nacional e a Expansão da Oferta. In M. Batistella, E. F. Moran, & D. S. Alves (Eds.), AMAZÔNIA: Natureza e Sociedade em Transformação (The Amazon: Nature and Society in Transformation, pp. 117–136). São Paulo, Brazil: EDUSP. Walker, R., Browder, J., Arima, E., Simmons, C., Pereira, R., Caldas, M., et al. (2009). Ranching and the new global range: Amazônia in the 21st century. Geoforum, 40(5), 732–745. Walker, R., DeFries, R., de Carmen Vera-Diaz, M., Shimabukuro, Y., & Venturieri, A. (2009). The expansion of intensive agriculture and ranching in Brazilian Amazonia. In M. Keller, M. Bustamante, J. Gash, & P. Dias (Eds.), Amazonia and global change (LBA-IGBP Synthesis Volume) (pp. 61–81). Washington, DC: American Geophysical Union. Geophysical Monograph Series (vol. 186). Walker, R., Moore, N., Arima, E., Perz, S., Simmons, C., Caldas, M., et al. (2009). Protecting Amazônia with protected areas. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 106(26), 10582–10586. Weinstein, B. (1983). The Amazon rubber boom: 1850–1920. Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University Press.

33

The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future

599

Wood, C. H., & Skole, D. L. (1998). Linking satellite, census, and survey data to study deforestation in the Brazilian Amazon. In D. Liverman, E. F. Moran, R. R. Rindfuss, & P. C. Stern (Eds.), People and pixels: Linking remote sensing and social science (pp. 70–93). Washington, DC: National Academy Press. Zimmerman, B., Peres, C. A., Malcolm, J. R., & Turner, T. (2001). Conservation and development alliances with the Kayapó of south-eastern Amazonia, a tropical forest indigenous people. Environmental Conservation, 28(10), 10–22.

Chapter 34

Megaprojects in India: Environmental and Land Acquisition Issues in the Road Sector G. Raghuram, Samantha Bastian, and Satyam Shivam Sundaram

34.1 Introduction Mega projects (primarily infrastructure) receive a sizable investment (~10%) of the gross fixed capital formation in India (Table 34.1). These investments have been made by both the government (central and state) and the private sector. The proportion of private sector investment has been increasing over the years. The governance structure is federal, which has a central (national) government, 28 state governments and six union territories. States and union territories are sub-national governments. Mega projects could be initiated and financed by the central or state governments, depending on the infrastructure domain. Environmental clearances have to pass through both central and state regulatory frameworks. Land acquisition is executed by the state government at the request of the project initiator. Some of the striking features of these projects include a steady increase in the proportion of projects running on schedule (Fig. 34.1) and a sharp decline in the proportion of projects with cost overruns (Fig. 34.2). These accomplishments have been achieved due to both better project management and reform in the regulatory frameworks related to environmental and land acquisition aspects (Ministry of Statistics and Program Implementation, 2008). Various committees have identified environmental and land acquisition issues as the two largest sources of delay in megaprojects. An analysis of 897 projects implemented between March 1994 and September 2007 and having project cost over Rs 200 million ($ US 4 billion) revealed that 31% of the projects faced cost overrun while 35% of the projects faced time overruns. 10% of the projects faced both cost and time overruns (Ministry of Statistics and Program Implementation, 2008). In this paper, we briefly describe the evolution of the regulatory frameworks related to environmental and land acquisition aspects in infrastructure development in India. We examine the efforts made in the direction of making the process quicker and hassle free. We also discuss examples of two projects, one implemented by the G. Raghuram (B) Public Systems Group, Indian Institute of Management-Ahmedabad, Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_34,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

601

602

G. Raghuram et al. Table 34.1 Investment indicators in India Item

Share of GDP % (year)

Gross fixed capital formation Investment in all infrastructure Investment in road infrastructure

22.7 (2003) 33.8 (2005) 3.5 (2004) 0.5 (2004)

Source: Pstigo (2008), ADB (2005), Johnson (2006), World Bank (2007)

Fig. 34.1 Proportion of projects on schedule (of total projects). (Source: Ministry of Statistics and Program Implementation, 2007)

Fig. 34.2 Percentage of cost overrun. (Source: Ministry of Statistics and Program Implementation, 2007)

34

Megaprojects in India

603

central government and another by the state government, from the road sector to understand the implementation aspects. Based on these, we identify the key findings in the Indian context.

34.2 Evolution of Regulatory Frameworks 34.2.1 Environmental Issues The environmental acts and notifications, as they evolved, are presented in Box 34.1. Initially, laws were enacted for environmental concerns related to water, air, noise etc, as and when they became areas of concern. Later, an integrated law was passed by the government.

Box 34.1 Environmental acts and notifications in India. (Source: http://www.indiacore.com/environment.html, www.indlaw.com) The first environment related Act was the Easement Act of 1882 which allowed private rights to use groundwater. The Indian Forest Act of 1927 was enacted to consolidate the laws related to forests. The Factories Act of 1948 ensured the welfare of workers and its application in hazardous processes. The River Boards Act of 1956 enabled the setting up of a central government advisory River Board to resolve issues in interstate cooperation. Subsequently, the following acts were passed: Wildlife Protection Act, 1972; Water (Prevention and Control of Pollution) Act, 1974; Air (Prevention and Control of Pollution) Act, 1981; Forest (Conservation) Act, 1980; and Atomic Energy Act, 1982. The Environment (Protection) Act of 1986 (EPA) authorized the central government to protect and improve environmental quality, control and reduce pollution from all sources, and prohibit or restrict the setting up and operation of any industrial facility on environmental grounds. Under this umbrella Act, rules were passed to control handling of different types of waste: hazardous, hospital, municipal, biomedical, and municipal solid; to regulate activities in the coastal area; to provide incentives by branding environmentally-friendly products; to prescribe pollution emission norms for new non-commercial vehicles; to regulate the production and consumption of ozone depleting substances; to reduce noise pollution; and to provide for the conservation of biological diversity. Under the EPA, many projects required an environmental impact assessment (EIA). The EIA process (Fig. 34.3) begins with whether EIA is required and, if so, impact analysis and mitigation before final clearance have to

604

G. Raghuram et al.

be reported and approved. Possible mitigation measures include: change in project sites, routes, processes, raw materials, operating methods, disposal methods, disposal routes or locations, timing or engineering designs; introducing pollution controls, waste treatment monitoring, phased implementation, landscaping, personal training, special social services or public education; offering (as compensation) restoration of damaged resources, money to affected persons, concessions on other issues, or off site programs to enhance some other aspects of the environment or quality of life for the community. Thirty-two categories of projects require the EIA clearance. They include projects related to nuclear power, river valley projects (hydel-power, irrigation, flood control etc), thermal power plants, mining, highways, ports, and airports. Setting up manufacturing industries like petroleum refineries, chemical fertilizers, pesticides, petrochemical complexes and intermediates, bulk drugs and pharmaceuticals, synthetic rubber, asbestos and asbestos products, hydrocyanic acid, pulp and paper, dyes, cement, and paints. Heavy industries like; primary metallurgical industries (iron and steel, aluminium, copper, zinc, lead and ferro alloys), electric arc furnaces and electroplating. Exploration, production, transport and storage of oil and gas, and new construction projects and industrial estates would also require clearance. In order to facilitate speedy redressal of environment related disputes, there is the National Environmental Tribunal Act of 1995 and the National Environment Appellate Authority Act of 1997.

As the number of projects and private investments increased, bureaucratic delays became a concern. Laws were modified to overcome these delays. Between 1980 and 1998, nine Acts, Bills, and Amendments related to environment were enacted. These included the Forest Conservation Act 1980, the Environment Protection Act 1986, the National Environment Appellate Authority Act 1997, and the Coastal Regulation Zone notification 1991. The Environment Protection Act (EPA) 1986 came into existence soon after the Bhopal gas tragedy. It became an umbrella legislation, and attempted to seal the existing gaps in the law. It empowered the central government to take measures to protect and improve the quality of the environment, by setting standards for emissions and discharges, by regulating the location of industries, and by protecting public health and welfare (EPA, 1986). The need for the Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA) was formally recognized at the Earth Summit held at Rio de Janeiro in 1992. In India, the EIA Notification was enacted in 1994, with the EPA as its legislative foundation (MoEF, 2008). The Act has been amended in 1997, 2006, and 2007. The process of getting the clearances as per the EIA Act is illustrated in Fig. 34.3. Thirty-two categories of developmental projects require EIA approval. In addition, all developmental projects, whether or not mentioned in the schedule, and if located in an environmentally fragile region, must obtain clearance from Ministry of Environment and

34

Megaprojects in India

605

Fig. 34.3 Environmental approval process. (Source: MoEF, 2006)

Forest (MoEF), a central government entity set up in 1985. Prior to this clearance, they must also obtain clearance from the State Pollution Control Board (SPCB). If the location involves forestland, a No Objection Certificate (NOC) shall be obtained from the State Forest Department (SFD). Both SPCB and SFD are the state entities functioning in the geographical region where the project exists. Over the years, regulations have been simplified with an aim to reduce the total time required for the approval process. The simplifications include reducing the number of interfacing agencies and approvals, and allowing parallel activities for clearances. As per the EPA Amendment Act 2007, environmental clearance for project proposals were to be granted usually within the mandated time frame of 120 days from the date of receipt of complete information from the project authorities. The project clearances had been delayed due to non-submission of the requisite information. Some of the steps taken to expedite the process included (Wildlife Protection Society, 2008).

606

G. Raghuram et al.

1. A time limit of 90 days for completing appraisals, 30 days for communicating the decision, and 60 days for completing the public hearing by SPCB was fixed. 2. The investment limit for a project requiring MoEF clearance was raised from Rs 500 million ($IS 10 billion) to Rs 1000 million ($US 4 billion) for new projects. 3. The requirement of public hearing for Small Scale Industries (SSIs) located in industrial areas/estates. These include widening and strengthening of highways, offshore exploration activities beyond 10 km (6 mi) from the nearest habitat, mining projects of major minerals with lease upped 49 acres (20 ha), modernization of existing irrigation projects and units to be located in Export Processing Zone (EPZ) and Special Economic Zone (SEZ). 4. The requirement of the EIA report for pipeline projects was dispensed with. 5. NOC/consent to establish was not insisted upon at the time of receipt of the application for environmental clearance. 6. Authority was delegated to the state governments for granting environmental clearance for certain categories of thermal power projects.

34.2.2 Land Acquisition Issues The land acquisition policy has experienced less number of modifications in the Act. The prevailing laws related to land acquisition are: (i) Land Acquisition Act of 1894, (ii) The National Highways Act of 1956, (iii) National Policy on Resettlement and Rehabilitation for Project-Affected Families of 2003, and (iv) State Government Policies (few state governments have special policies). The Land Acquisition Act of 1894 empowered state governments to acquire land for any public purpose project. It provides three methods for arriving at the value of land, which were: (i) government approved rates, (ii) capitalized value of average annual income from the land, and (iii) prevalent market rate based on the land transactions data. The process of land acquisition under this Act is illustrated in Fig. 34.4. As the figure shows, much depended on the District Collector’s satisfaction. The National Highways Act of 1956 had provisions for acquiring land through a competent authority (a person authorized by the central government by notification in the official Gazette). Under the Act, publication of the intent of the government to acquire land, surveys, hearings of objections, and the declaration of acquisition were to be completed within a year. This Act reduced the time frame significantly. This Act included provisions for compensation to only the title holders based on the market value of the land, additional payments for trees, crops, houses, or other immovable properties, and payments for damage due to severing of land, residence, or place of business. The National Policy on Resettlement and Rehabilitation for Project-Affected Families of 2003 provided additional compensation to project-affected families, over and above the provisions of the Land Acquisition Act. It recognized the multipurpose use of land by both title holders and non-title holders of the land. State laws varied in terms of their compensation package and the definition of project affected people to some extent.

34

Megaprojects in India

607

Requiring body

Requisition to the government represented by the Collector

Study of the proposal

Notification: Gazette and Two daily newspapers

Identification of probable losers Calculation of compensation

Notification legitimizing government to conduct feasibility study on the said land

Objection to be registered at the Collectors office

Collector’s Satisfaction

Compensation awarded Land transferred

Fig. 34.4 Land acquisition process under the land acquisition act of 1894. (Source: Chakrabarti, 2008)

Poor compensation and undervalued market price of land have led to many disputes by the affected population. The undervaluation was as high as four to ten times, due to both regulatory arbitrage (government has to provide clearance for land use change) and information asymmetry (title holders may be difficult to identify due to poor record keeping) (Morris & Pandey, 2007). As of November 2008, the central government was considering the modification of the prevalent Land Acquisition Act by modifying the definition of “public purpose,” increasing the compensation package, imposing restrictions on non-used land, and simplifying the process of dispute resolution.

34.2.3 Direction of Movement Both environmental and land acquisition Acts were moving in the direction of process simplification and speedier response. However, the Acts also tried to retain enough restrictions so that no compromise was made on the environment and the livelihood of the affected people. In the next section, we provide details of two projects to better understand the implementation aspects, derive key findings, and to suggest steps for further improvement.

608

G. Raghuram et al.

34.3 Implementation: Example from the Road Sector 34.3.1 National Highway Development Program (NHDP) This project was conceived in 1998 to upgrade, rehabilitate, and widen major highways in India. It is carried out by the National Highways Authority of India (NHAI) under the Ministry of Road, Transport and Highways. The project has the following phases. 34.3.1.1 Phases of NHDP The details of the NHDP can be found at www.nhai.org and http://en.wikipedia.org/ wiki/National_ Highways _Development_Project. Phase I: To connect four major cities Delhi, Mumbai, Chennai, and Kolkata. This was popularly known as the Golden Quadrilateral (GQ). It was approved in the year 2000. The total length of the project was 7,507 km (4,692 mi). As of December 31, 2008, 6,370 km (3,981 mi) has been completed. It was funded largely by the road cess and borrowing by the government. Road cess was a form of tax, levied on fuel (petrol and high speed diesel), under the Central Road Fund Act 2000. As per the Act, 57.50% of the petrol and 28.75% of high speed diesel cess was allocated for the development and maintenance of National Highways. While the cess started as Rs. 1/l ($0.02/l) on petrol and high speed diesel in 2000–01, it was increased to Rs. 1.50/l ($0.033/l) in 2003. In 2005, it was increased to Rs. 2/l ($.04/l) for both petrol and high speed diesel. Phase II: To construct North-South and East-West corridors comprising National Highways to connect four extreme points of the country: Srinagar in the north to Kanyakumari in the south and Silchar in the east to Porbandar in the west. Total length of the envisaged network was 7,300 km (4,563 mi). As of December 31, 2008, 640 km (400 mi) of the National Highways under this phase had been completed. 5165 km (3,228 mi) was under progress while the rest was yet to be awarded. It has been funded largely by the road cess and the borrowing by the government. Phase III: To improve the existing National Highways of 12,230 km (7,643 mi). This phase mainly included connectivity to state capitals, major commercial hubs, and ports: 44 km (27.5 mi) had been completed (4 laning) while 2030 km (1,268 mi) was under progress. 10,156 km (6347.5 mi) was yet to be awarded as of December 31, 2008. Phase IV: To widen the existing National Highways which were not a part of the earlier phases. This phase mainly included widening of single lane National Highways to two or more lanes. The length of the network in this phase was expected to be 20,000 km (12,500 mi). Phase V: To upgrade 5,000 km (3,125 mi) of four lane highways to six lanes including some portions of GQ. Work on 1,030 km (644 mi) was under progress as of December 31, 2008. Rest was yet to be awarded.

34

Megaprojects in India

609

Phase VI: To construct 1,000 km (625 mi) of expressways to connect major hubs in the country. Phase VII: To provide faster connectivity to the highways by improving the urban road network. Construction of flyovers and bypass roads for seamless movement on the highways are also part of this phase. While some parts of Phase I and II were done on PPP basis (primary funding from government borrowing and road cess), Phase III to VII have been envisaged to be done in PPP mode. This policy change was possible because of the commercial viability shown through some stretches of Phase I and II. For projects which were commercially not viable, viability gap funding (VGF) was provided as a grant from the pool of road cess collected. VGF was to bridge the gap between desired rate of return by the private player and the actual financial rate of return from the project. 34.3.1.2 Details on GQ The GQ passed through 13 state boundaries (Fig. 34.5). Contracts were awarded from Feb 2002 for the construction of the corridor. It was planned to be completed in 2004. As of December 31, 2008, 85% of the project 6,370 km (3,981 mi) out of 7,507 km (4,692 mi) had been completed. In the words of the Secretary, Department of Road Transport and Highways, “Reasons for delay in completion are land acquisition and environmental issues, and in some cases failure of contractors to keep up with this time line”. Another reason for the delay was existence of many religious institutions (including prayer places) on the highway land. Contractors faced stiff resistance in moving them. They also had to reconstruct or shift the whole structure in some cases, leading to cost and time overruns (Mile by Mile, 2005). In some places, the proposed highway divided the land and the village on two side of the road. This also attracted resistance from the landowners. Over bridges/underpasses had to be constructed to facilitate the movement of land owners/cultivators and animals in such cases.

34.3.2 Bangalore Mysore Infrastructure Corridor The Bangalore Mysore Infrastructure Corridor (BMIC) was envisaged, as early as 1988, with the twin objectives of (i) connecting Bangalore and Mysore (two rapidly growing cities in Karnataka) with an expressway and (ii) developing the infrastructure around the periphery of Bangalore city and around the expressway. The project was awarded by Karnataka (a state government within whose jurisdiction the stretch was) on a “Build Own Operate Transfer” (BOOT) basis to Nandi Infrastructure Corridor Enterprises Ltd (NICE) in October 1998 on negotiation basis, after an unsuccessful round of bidding for the project. The project was awarded after negotiation, based on the feasibility study carried out by NICE. The project scope included construction of the expressway between Bangalore and Mysore and five townships along the expressway (Raghuram & Sundaram, 2009).

610

G. Raghuram et al.

Fig. 34.5 Golden Quadrilateral. (Source: http://www.nhai.org/nhdpmain_english.htm)

The clearance from Karnataka SPCB required public hearings. The first public hearing was held on 9 March 2000 in Bangalore and subsequent hearings were to be conducted at Mandya and Mysore. These hearings were postponed due to lack of information among the public regarding the project. Conceding to the request of various organizations, the Deputy Commissioner, Bangalore Urban District promised to release necessary documents in the public domain. Hearings were then conducted on 30 June in Mysore, 3 July in Mandya, and 5 July in Bangalore. On 1 August 2000, the Karnataka State Pollution Control Board (KSPCB) issued a NOC to the project contingent on several conditions. On 8 August 2001 the MoEF gave a clearance

34

Megaprojects in India

611

to the road/expressway component of the project, subject to meeting the specified conditions. The approval did not go well with the environmentalists. They believed that 2,968 acres (1,327 ha) of the Badamanavarthi Kaval forest in Bangalore Urban District, and 4,075 acres (1,822 ha) of the Handigundi and Chikkamanagude forests in Bangalore Rural District would be destroyed as a part of the project. These were one of the few remaining natural forests of the Bangalore region. Many environmentalists claimed that rare species of flora and fauna were affected. The executive summary report provided by NICE, which was the only document in public domain, did not mention anything about this impact. Contamination of water (in lakes in the vicinity) was another challenge that the project was facing. NICE had entered into an agreement with Bangalore Water Supply and Sewerage Board (BWSSB) for use of more than 150 MLD of water which was one-fourth of the amount of the water supplied to Bangalore city. Thus, the project was expected to adversely affect supply of water to the city. In addition, there were ongoing disputes on the Cauvery river water between Tamil Nadu and Karnataka. BMIC was expected to receive 85 MLD of waste water free for non potable use, depriving farmers who used it for various agricultural purposes. This decision was also a region with extensive irrigation network based on the River Cauvery basin. In January 2008, BWSSB decided not to permit NICE to shift water and sewerage lines into four locations as it could have affected the water supply and sanitation in the city. Shifting of the pipeline was essential for the completion of the alignment in the prevalent form. In spite of repeated request from NICE, the pipelines were not shifted stating technical opinions. On 24 January 2008, the High Court of Karnataka directed the BWSSB to shift the water and sewage pipelines in four locations so that NICE could complete the peripheral road, which was part of the BMIC project. The notice for land acquisition was served under the Karnataka Industrial Areas Development Board (KIADB) Act and the purpose was stated as industrial use. Some farmers contested that the notice was vague in its message as the exact use was not stated. A single bench (when a single judge carries out the hearing) of the High Court of Karnataka decided in favor of these farmers. However, the division bench (when two judges carry out the hearing against the judgment of a single judge bench) of the High Court and subsequently, the Supreme Court (highest court of appeal in India) decided that it was difficult for the government to state the purpose for each land parcel for such vast land acquisition. Thus the government was well within its right to acquire land by mentioning broad usage of the land. The amount of land acquired was also not clear. The government order (GO) of 1995 identified 18,313 acres (7,414 ha) as the land requirement for the project. In 1997 the FA specified 20,193 acres (8,186 ha) of land while the formal award of the contract to NICE in 1998 specified 23,846 acres (10,659 ha). By 2004, KIADB had notified 29,258 acres (12,631 ha) for land acquisition. The discrepancy in land requirement created both political and legal obstructions for the project. One of the possible reasons for the varying requirement was that the land acquisition plan was based on a communication sent by NICE and not on the approved drawings/maps of the project. Another reason could be the collusion of vested interests. The decision

612

G. Raghuram et al.

to notify or denotify a plot could have been taken depending on the personal gain that could be made by the politicians and the administrators. This rent seeking was facilitated by the absence of any detailed project report which gave the decision makers absolute discretion. The project created further controversies when the more than half a dozen top officials, who awarded the project, accepted employment offers from the private party after their retirement and within few years of the award itself.

34.4 Summary and Key Learnings Shift from Negotiation to Competitive Bidding. Initial projects were awarded on negotiation basis, as not many private players were interested in the bidding process. This situation changed over the years for three reasons: (a) risk profiles (primarily traffic and regulatory) become clearer and (b) some projects demonstrated viability, and (c) user charges were accepted with time. Competitive bidding had established trust in the public and political circles. In the future, the projects were expected to be awarded only on competitive bidding. Project Structure/Size. Initially, projects of smaller sizes were awarded as no bidder was ready to take a long term contract. However, the average length of award has been increasing over the years. In a network infrastructure like roads, it is very important to have the whole network in good quality for optimal returns. One poor stretch of road may dissuade a section of users from using the whole corridor as the perceived benefit may become marginal. In such cases, all the private players stand to lose due to the poor maintenance by one player. The government was yet to come up with a mechanism to ensure that all the players within a sub network provide good quality service. Willingness to Pay. Initially the infrastructure was understood as a facility to be provided by the government and there were protests against asking commuters to pay for the use of roads. However, with time, users realized the benefit from such roads and slowly agreed to the concept of a user fee. Regulatory Delays. The environmental regulations were simplified and to a large extent and as time went on the time span for each of the activities, as related to regulation, was specified in the Act. Resettlement and rehabilitation (R&R) controversies (core of land acquisition problems) were also dealt with by modifying the regulation and allowing for higher compensation. However, this was a lengthy process as land markets were distorted due to regulatory and informational asymmetry which lead to excessive under pricing of land under present circumstances. Conflict of Interest due to Staffing of Top Positions. In the case of BMIC, many top officials joined NICE immediately after their retirement. It may be alleged that some have given undue favors to NICE, while acting on behalf of the government, in order to attract employment from NICE after their retirement. One of the members of the high level committee (HLC) (which had found the project suitable), was later appointed as the chairman of the committee to investigate the allegation of excess

34

Megaprojects in India

613

land grant by the government during the award of the project. In this case, a person who was party to the award could not have done justice in the investigations. The government is struggling with these issues and as of yet has not come up with any concrete plans to tackle them. Judicial Activism. The judiciary has also influenced the progress of the projects. Some projects moved faster because of judicial intervention, while others were delayed due to the decision making process of lower courts. The courts have also been instrumental in prompting the government to make/amend laws related to environmental and land acquisition issues. Religious Sentiments. Some of the projects have been delayed as the prayer halls were encroaching on the right of way of the road. Sometimes, road alignments had to be diverted to avoid hurting religious sentiments. In some case, these building were reconstructed or shifted by the government to clear the way. These were not considered in the original estimate and hence led to cost and time overruns. Absorption of Economic Loss due to Delays. The economic costs of delays are very high for mega projects. In case of a road project, congestion would lead to higher inventory carrying costs, higher inventory requirements, increased pollution, and higher fuel consumption. In most cases, the cost gets transferred to the tax payers and users of the facility in the long run. The fairness of this transfer can be questioned.

34.5 Scope for Further Improvement Use of Technology for Faster and More Transparent Assessment. Environmental and land acquisition assessments were based on field surveys carried by the consultants. Many times, these studies were questioned by the social activists and local groups. In most cases this process requires a long time for megaprojects. Sometimes, there are long gaps (time delays) between the completed field surveys and actual award of the project. These lead to changes at the ground level conditions and hence higher level of dissatisfaction. Satellite images may be used to identify the number of people affected by a project as well as the exact land use pattern. The images can also be used at the planning level to identify the corridors which will affect the fewest number of people. The use of technology would also help in identifying environmental and land acquisition issues during the preliminary stages of the project itself and at a much lower cost. Such identification would help in deciding the project with the least conflicts. Independent Land Value Evaluators. As stated earlier, the land was identified and acquired by the District Collector and he/she only decides the price of the land. This procedure was not a fair process. The idea of using market price (market value was decided based on the stamp duty charged (a state government levied tax on the sale of property) on the land in the vicinity of the project) has also not worked well as the land market was highly underpriced. For paying low stamp duty, a price much lower than the under priced value was quoted. In India, there are no independent land value evaluators and there is no legislation that identifies such a profession. The creation

614

G. Raghuram et al.

of such evaluators would make the process more transparent and trustworthy for the losers of the land. Other Sources of Revenue. Apart from cess and government borrowing, the user fee idea has been accepted as a source of revenue within the last one decade. In recent years, land development rights and advertisement rights have been an additional source of revenue. With the help of these two income sources, corridors with lower traffic (lower user fee revenue) could also been seen as feasible. In recent years, projects with “viability gap funding” (one time or annuity based) have also been awarded. This method opened the door for private sector investment on low density corridors which were not financially viable, even after adding alternate sources of revenue. Decentralization, Transparency, and Capacity Building. The decision making can be decentralized by making the state government entities responsible for most of the clearances. This change reduces the number of agencies required for approval and also the time required for approval. However, the process of decision making will have to be made more transparent before such decentralization can be done. The state government employees also need to be technically equipped to make these decisions. Special capacity building exercises need to be developed. Training also needs to be provided on various aspects of public-private partnership and project management. This training would equip the decision makers in identifying the right private player for the project and also in monitoring the contracts awarded.

34.6 Concluding Remarks The acceptance of a user fee and development of alternate sources of revenue had helped attract larger investments in megaprojects. With increasing private sector participation, delays due to project management as expected to reduce significantly and the focus would be left to environmental and land acquisition issues. The modifications in the regulatory framework on these issues are moves in the right direction. However, methods used for assessments related to environmental impact and land acquisition are still conducting manual surveys, making the whole process time consuming. Technology could be a good instrument in reducing the time required for these studies as well as in bringing transparency in the system. Decentralization with capacity building at the state level would also help in the long run in reducing these delays.

References ADB. (2005). Asian development outlook. Manila, Philippines: Asian Development Bank. Chakrabarti, B. (2008). Role of agencies in land acquisition: Problem of coordination and process failure. Writers’ Workshop, 3i network, IIM Ahmedabad. Centre to Simplify Rules for Environmental Clearance. (2003). Retrieved December 8, 2008, from Times of India, Mumbai. http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/cms.dll/html/uncomp/ articleshow?artid=33606523

34

Megaprojects in India

615

EPA. (1986). Environment protection act. Delhi: Government of India, Ministry of Environment and Forest. India Core. Retrieved December 6, 2008, from India Core: http://www.indiacore.com/ environment.html Mile by Mile, India Paves a Smoother Road to Its Future, December 4, 2005. Retrieved December 9, 2008, from The New York Times: www.nytimes.com Ministry of Statistics and Program Implementation. (2003). Retrieved October 8, 2008, from Ministry of Statistics and Program Implementation, Government of India, New Delhi: http://mospi.gov.in/login_correct1.htm?rept_id=esu01_2003&type=nsso MoEF (Ministry of Environment & Forests, Government of India). (2006). Retrieved October 8, 2008, from: Ministry of Environment & Forests, Government of India, New Delhi: http://envfor.nic.in Morris, S., & Pandey, A. (2007). Towards reform of land acquisition framework in India. Environmental and Political Weekly, 42(22), 2083–2090, June 02–June 08, 2007. Pstigo, A. (2008). Financing road infrastructure in China and India: Current trends and future options. Journal of Asian Policy, 1(1), 71–89. Raghuram, G., & Sundaram, S. S. (2009). Lessons from leveraging land: A case of Bangalore Mysore Infrastructure Corridor. India Infrastructure Report 2009, 3i Network, 241–248. The Definition to Indian Law. Retrieved October 2, 2008, from INDLAW: www.indlaw.com Wildlife Protection Society of India. Retrieved September 12, 2008, from Wildlife Protection Society of India, New Delhi: http://wgbis.ces.iisc.ernet.in/biodiversity/Environ_sys/doc200405/eneia240820.html World Bank. (2007). World development indicators. Washington DC: World Bank CD ROM version.

Chapter 35

Shifting Sands: The Trans-Saharan Railway Mike Heffernan

35.1 Introduction The Sahara desert is an exceptional space, a region of extremes where an uncompromising nature defies the conventions of more populated, well-watered areas, including the conventions associated with the idea of space itself. Like the Polar regions and the oceans, the Sahara’s environment has prevented its full integration into the global geopolitical system of demarcated, surveyed, legally regulated space. The Sahara is not part of the global “commons,” to be sure, and is certainly not subject to the international laws that govern these arenas, but it remains a space set apart from regions where more static, territorialized geopolitics hold sway. Despite continuing attempts to absorb the Sahara into imperial and national territories, it is still seen as a space of uncontrolled movement, flow and transgression, and where international borders mean little. This impression has been underlined by the region’s recent re-scripting as Europe’s vulnerable and lawless underbelly across which armed Al Queda militants supposedly roam at will. The Sahara’s “otherness,” its radical difference from the temperate and tropical zones to its north and south, has lured generations of travelers, adventurers and missionaries in search of adventure or sanctuary. These same qualities have also fascinated those who have sought to conquer, control and transform the Sahara. This has been an international endeavor, to be sure, and remains a central concern of the various African states that claim authority over different parts of the desert today. But the conviction that the Sahara might be tamed and controlled has been articulated most insistently in France, the European colonial power that claimed the lion’s share of the North African desert during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. For much of this period, the Sahara was the ultimate environmental challenge for the French colonial imagination, a terra nullius where forms of innovation and experimentation unimaginable elsewhere were deemed not only possible but necessary (Broc, 1987). M. Heffernan (B) School of Geography, University of Nottingham, Nottingham NG7 2NR, UK e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_35,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

617

618

M. Heffernan

The French Saharan debate developed in two distinct forms. The first concentrated on the possibilities of transforming the desert margins into productive agricultural land through the development and implementation of a scientifically based agrarian regime involving modern water conservation measures, irrigation techniques, soil conservation and enhancement practices, crop rotation and management, and even veterinary science (Davis, 2007). The idea that a new, more efficient agrarian regime might make the desert bloom was generally inspired by a partial and selective reading of the region’s supposedly more fertile and productive past during the classical Mediterranean civilizations when North Africa was sometimes described as the “bread basket” of Rome, the implication being that the subsequent centuries of Islamic Ottoman rule had allowed the environment to degenerate, a sad decline that rational, technologically advanced France, the modern heir to the classical Mediterranean civilizations, would reverse (Swearingen, 1988). However self-serving these colonial mythologies were, they nevertheless spawned a range of impressive agricultural improvements across the coastal regions of North Africa that provided the economic, social and cultural foundations on which the French colonial order was constructed. The second debate, the focus of this paper, focuses on the possibilities of conquering the interior of the Sahara by modern, scientifically advanced forms of transportation, thereby overcoming an otherwise impenetrable barrier to commercial and cultural exchange. Unlike the more localized agrarian debate, the transportation debate operated on a much grander continental scale, though it was ultimately less productive of real colonial achievements. In this register, the desert was deemed to be an unchanging or even expanding environmental reality. The only long-term solution was a system of modern railway routes across the desert’s vast interior spaces, a network that would bind together the French colonies in North and West Africa, creating an integrated African empire. This debate also recycled historical mythologies about the Saharan past, emphasizing how the desert had once been criss-crossed by long-distance caravan trails, the conduits through which the precious commodities of the African interior had reached the Mediterranean basin, a communications system that had also apparently declined prior to the arrival of the French, but which could be revivified in a new, more technically advanced form under European direction (Bovill, 1958; Holsinger, 1980). A cursory glance at an atlas map of the Sahara reveals the obvious fact that no railways were ever constructed across its interior. The Sahara remains today what it has always been – a railway free zone. This begs an obvious question: why bother with these long forgotten, decidedly hubristic colonial railway schemes, particularly in a volume concerned with the impact of very real engineering projects on the landscape? The answer is that unrealized engineering projects are in many respects more revealing and important to the historian of science than projects conceived, executed and successfully implemented with minimum fuss. Unsuccessful initiatives, especially controversial and long-running ones, tend to leave an archival legacy that is more complex and extensive than realized projects. Failures allow the historian to chart the limits of our faith in science and technology (see also Latour, 1996). The saga of the trans-Saharan railway, which waxed and waned from the

35

Shifting Sands: The Trans-Saharan Railway

619

1870s to the 1950s, also allows an exploration of the outer edges of the French colonial imagination in Africa. According to one bibliography, well over 500 books and articles had been published on the trans-Saharan railway by the 1960s (Liniger-Goumaz, 1968; see also Carrière, 1988). An analysis of this material, supplemented by an investigation of the even larger mass of unpublished archival reports and newspaper articles, suggests that the trans-Saharan campaign moved through five distinct phases, each shaped by different external and internal forces and involving continually changing arguments.1 The idea first emerged as a radical alternative to the Suez Canal which opened, amid much fanfare, in 1869. The Suez Canal was conceived in France during the mid-19th century, drawing on blueprints dating back to the Napoleonic Empire in the early 1800s, and was built by a French company during the 1850s. Its success, however, depended on Britain’s willingness to direct shipping through the new facility, something London politicians were initially reluctant to agree. The ignominious collapse of the Napoleon III’s Second Empire, which had sponsored the project, a few months after the canal was inaugurated, and the subsequent acquisition of a British majority holding in the Suez Canal company, convinced the new republican leadership in Paris that canals were unlikely to work in their favor in Africa, though this sentiment did not step Ferdinand de Lesseps, the principal architect of the Suez Canal, embarking on his ill-fated attempt to construct a canal across the isthmus of Panama in the 1880s (Heffernan, 1990). Long distance railways seemed an altogether more appealing and effective colonial alternative in Africa, their feasibility demonstrated six months before the opening of the Suez Canal when the Central Pacific Railroad of California and the Union Pacific Railroad completed the “Last Spike” of the transcontinental American railroad through Promontory Summit, Utah in May 1869 (Ambrose, 2000). By the mid-1870s, the idea of a north-south trans-Saharan connection linking the French rail networks in North and West Africa had secured a measure of official support, though the public debate was always tempered by widespread skepticism (McKay, 1943).

35.2 Proposals The first detailed proposals were put forward by Alphonse Duponchel, a civil engineer who produced a report commissioned by Chambers of Commerce in Marseilles and Montpellier (Duponchel, 1875–1878), and the African explorer Paul Soleillet, who outlined a similar scheme in a report to the Ministry of Public Works (Gros, 1881). The idea was seized upon by ambitious politicians, notably Charles de Freycinet, an avid railway supporter who was spending millions of francs expanding the French domestic network as Minister of Public Works from 1877 to 1879. Freycinet established a commission of inquiry in 1879 to investigate the feasibility of a trans-Saharan railway and dispatched four expeditions to explore alternative routes, three to identify the best routes into the African interior from West Africa, the fourth and most important mission to establish a route across the desert interior. The

620

M. Heffernan

fourth expedition, led by Paul Flatters, a 48-year old professional soldier, headed south into the desert from the Algerian town of Constantine in early 1880, having previously abandoned an earlier attempt (Pottier, 1948). The mission ended in disaster when Flatters and several dozen French soldiers were massacred by Touareg tribesmen south of Ouragla (Grévoz, 1989; Heffernan, 1989; Porch, 1984: 83–135). Thus ended the first flirtation with the trans-Saharan railway. The more zealous enthusiasts continued to speculate about the economic and political benefits of a trans-Saharan railway through the 1880s, encouraged by the completion of a Canadian transcontinental railroad in 1885. The second wave of French enthusiasm of long-distance railways only re-emerged with any force in the early 1890s, inspired initially by the imperial Russian scheme to drive a trans-Siberian railway from St. Petersburg to Vladivostok, an ambitious project championed by the Tsar Alexander III himself. In 1892, liberal republican France and imperial, autocratic Russia had establishing their “fateful alliance” intended to protect both countries from potential German aggression, an international rapprochement symbolized by the subsequent construction of the ornate beautiful Pont Alexander III in Paris. The Franco-Russian alliance, itself a response to the widely feared ability of the German High Command to move whole armies quickly and efficiently across the integrated central European railway network, provoked competition as well as collaboration between these unlikely partners, and news that the imperial regime was investing unprecedented amounts of money on a railway across to expanses of central Asia stimulated further media and official interest in the transSaharan scheme. British ambitions to establish a Cape to Cairo railway connection across the eastern part of Africa, an objective associated with Cecil Rhodes, provided an additional impetus to the fin-de-siècle revival of the trans-Saharan debate, as did the even more alarming prospect of German railway from Berlin to Baghdad, the spine of a new imperial axis linking Central Europe and the Middle East. The colonial lobby was by that stage a powerful, though still contentious, presence in French politics and its increasingly vocal representatives, led by Eugène Étienne, insisted that the trans-Saharan railway was the only way to create a functioning and integrated African empire. Without this connection, it was argued, France’s imperial possessions in Africa would always be vulnerable to incursions from enemy states more willing than France to make the necessary infrastructural investments in their African empires. Arguments in favor of the railway, previously articulated in economic terms, began to be expressed in a more complex geostrategic language. Whereas the awful fate of the Flatters mission seemed definitive proof that a trans-Saharan railway was premature in the early 1880s, by the mid-1890s, the railway was deemed sufficiently urgent to require the “pacification” of the Sahara by military force. In March 1899, the twentieth National Congress of French Geographical Societies assembled in Algiers and devoted two days of its week-long meeting to debating the trans-Saharan railway. Dozens of papers were presented by politicians, businessmen and scientists rehearsing by then familiar arguments about the technical feasibility of the rail connection and about the many economic and political benefits that would result from its construction. Despite the general agreement

35

Shifting Sands: The Trans-Saharan Railway

621

that a railway was urgently required, there was no consensus about the best route. Three main alternatives were proposed – an eastern route extending the existing line from Constantine to Biskra onwards to Ouargla, the Hogger massif, Agades, and Barroua on the shore of Lake Chad; a central route beginning in Algiers and passing through Laghouart, Gardaia, Goléa, In Salah, Taourit and from there by two alternative routes to Timbuctoo and the River Niger; and a western route, which its supporters insisted was the cheapest and shortest, running from Oran via Ain Sefra, Colomb Béchar, Igli, Taourit to Timbuctoo. Needless to say, these three alternatives were championed by political and business interests in Constantine, Algiers and Oran respectively. Internal disputes within the pro-railway lobby were bound to undermine the wider campaign and the pro-railway lobby hoped that the three large, well-armed military expeditions dispatched into the African interior a few months earlier, with generous financial from three government ministries, would resolve the matter. The objective was partly to consider possible railway routes but mainly to crush the potential resistance that might check further French expansion. Two of these expeditions, led by Émile Gentil and by Paul Voulet and Julien Chanoine, headed north from the Congo and Dakar respectively, while a third, directed by Fernard Foureau and Amédée-François Lamy, moved south into the desert from Algeria. The Gentil expedition returned in 1900 relatively unscathed, despite repeated clashes with local tribesmen. The notorious Voulet-Chanoine expedition to Lake Chad ended in an orgy of violence, the murder of hundreds of men, women and children, and a pathetic trail of burned-out villages. Voulet, who had evidently gone insane, even murdered the French officer, Jean-François Kolb, who was dispatched by the shocked colonial authorities in West Africa to put an end to the carnage. Shortly afterwards, Voulet and Chanoine were themselves killed by the native populations they had brutalized with such bestial ferocity (Taithe, 2009). The full horror of the Voulet-Chanoine expedition would not be revealed until much later, but even a censored version provoked a storm of controversy, further undermining the already tarnished reputation of a French army still reeling from the accusations of anti-Semitism and corruption that Émile Zola and his supporters in the liberal press had previously proposed as the Dreyfus Affair reached its initial climax. But it is measure of changed political circumstances that the unmitigated catastrophe of the Voulet-Chanoine mission did not bring an immediate halt the campaign for a trans-Saharan railway, just as the Flatters mission had done two decades earlier. This was largely because the Foureau-Lamy mission, the first major expedition to cross the Saharan interior, had been a relatively peaceful affair, even though it also ended with Lamy’s death at the hands of local tribesmen in 1900. Despite this unfortunate conclusion, Foureau returned to France to a hero’s welcome, armed with bundles of new information on the possible routes across the Sahara (Britsch, 1989). Unfortunately, the results of the Foureau-Lamy expedition were inconclusive and the rivalry between the three routes, which soon expanded to four, five, even six alternatives, intensified into an increasingly bitter conflict over the next decade

622

M. Heffernan

Le Roy-Beaulieu, 1904. The internal debates within the railway lobby also expanded into other areas, particularly in connection with the technical challenges of building a railway across such a vast expanse of sand and rock. Rival claims and counter-claims were made by engineers, geologists and other scientists championing different routes and various technical solutions. Dozens of crack-pot proposals were also published by optimistic charlatans hoping for a slice of the substantial public funds still being deployed to investigate the railway’s feasibility. One Floran de Villepique argued that the trans-Saharan line should comprise a sequence of funicular rail links powered from by well-defended pumping stations along the route (Floran de Villepique, 1890). For some, the trans-Saharan campaign had become an industry in itself, a cynical quest for easy government cash rather than a serious infrastructural project. These disputes played into the hands of an increasingly organized anti-railway lobby, hitherto dominated by conservative opponents of colonial expansion who had long objected to squandering scarce capital and overstretched military resources on speculative imperial ventures. This constituency was reinforced by a growing element of railway skeptics among traditionally pro-colonial liberal republicans, the kind of people who read books like Zola’s La bête humaine (1890) with its famously disturbing final scene describing happy, drunken, misguidedly patriotic soldiers careering towards their imminent death in a driverless train (Baroli, 1969; Pick, 1993: 106–110; Starostina, 2003). One of the most persuasive opponents of the trans-Saharan railway was Augustin Bernard, a professor of geography at the University of Algiers. Bernard was a leading authority on the French colonial empire, renowned for his passionate and eloquent advocacy of a French presence in Africa. Bernard was the sole naysayer at the 1899 congress mentioned above, but his hostility to the trans-Saharan railway carried real authority given his impeccable colonial credentials. His argument was based on an unflinchingly realistic assessment of the railway’s economic and political benefits given the limited resources and markets of the Saharan interior. Intra-imperial trade would need to expand massively before a railway would be viable, Bernard insisted. The idea was hopelessly premature while the region through which the railway was to pass remained barely part of a functioning French empire. “To speak of the trans-Saharan now”, Bernard concluded, “is to put the cart before the horse” (on Bernard, see Deprest, 2009). The railway’s supporters were by no means cowed by these assessment, however, and in the tense international climate before World War One, the trans-Saharan was urgently debated once, this time as a pressing military necessity. The inspiration on this occasion was Charles Mangin’s widely-read La force noire (1910) which called for a massive mobilization of African troops from the colonies to support French re-armament (Saintoyant, 1911). A rail connection would allow French generals to move African troops from the centre of the continent to European battlefields within a matter of days. In a remarkable book, also published in 1910, the geographer E. F. Gautier, another eminent professor from the University of Algiers, reconsidered the various arguments that had been made in support of the trans-Saharan. He concluded that the railway had become a veritable “idée fixe” of the French

35

Shifting Sands: The Trans-Saharan Railway

623

colonial lobby, a chimerical nation- and empire-defining aspiration that had shaped the national and imperial psychology of an entire generation more by its absence than its presence (Gautier, 1910; see also Deprest, 2009). The outbreak of World War I brought an abrupt end to the speculation about the trans-Saharan as the nation’s attention shifted from the far horizons of empire to the familiar “blue line” of the Vosges. But the debate sparked into life once again in the 1920s, inspired in part by the “mis-en-valeur” school of colonial development championed by the new Colonial Minister Albert Sarraut (see Sarraut, 1923). More literature was generated on the trans-Saharan during the 1920s and 1930s than in any era before or since (Liniger-Goumaz, 1968). Despite the continuing opposition of Bernard and other scientists, including fellow geographer Camille Vallaux (1930), the psycho-geographical arguments developed by Gautier were extended by other commentators, some of whom even anthropomorphized the still nonexistent railway into a quasi-human agent struggling against the odds to be born (Ladreit-Lacherrière, 1928; Reclus, 1929–1930). The 1920s debate was motivated by a range of entirely new concerns, however, notably the prospect that more modern forms of transport might eclipse the railway before it was even constructed. As early 1920, the legendary French air ace Joseph Vuillemin had steered his fragile World War I airplane across the Sahara in a series of hops from oasis to oasis, raising the prospect of a non-stop flight achieved later in the decade. Two years later, André Citroën demonstrated that specially prepared automobiles were capable of defeating the Sahara’s heat and dust, his caravan of motorcars making the journey from Touggourt to Timbuctoo in three weeks (Audouin-Dubreuil, 2005). As the geographer Gautier remarked in his classic book on the Sahara, by the 1920s the desert became “the scene of an interesting duel between the road and the rail” (Gautier, 1935: 223; see also Gautier, 1925; Wrigley, 1925). The depression, which impacted on France somewhat later than other parts of Europe, eventually brought the trans-Saharan debate to another close though enthusiasm for “this passionate railway” flared once again in the late 1930s when the government dusted off the old reports and commissioned new ones, spurred into action by the prospect of another war and the need to tighten and hasten the geostrategic and military connections between France and its “reservoir” of potential troops in its African colonies (Maître-Devallon, 1939: 25). Somewhat surprisingly, the subsequent German invasion and occupation of northern and western France in 1940 intensified the trans-Saharan debate within the Vichy regime in unoccupied southern France. All the familiar economic, political and military arguments were rehearsed once again, though with a new and distinctively 20th century geopolitical inflection (Pottier, 1941). The trans-Saharan railway would not only bind European France to its Mediterranean lands in North Africa and its more distant territories in Central and West Africa, it would also create a pan-regional Eurafrican confederation, immeasurably strengthening the new fascist order in Europe and linking the authoritarian regimes in Germany, France, Italy and Spain with an emerging rail and road network into the continent of Africa from which Britain would be largely excluded.

624

M. Heffernan

On 22 March 1941 the Vichy leader Philippe Pétain signed an order to begin work on a version of the western route from Oran to the Niger via Ain Séfra, Colomb Béchar and In Salah. The objective was to complete the railway within five years. This uncharacteristically decisive action was made considerably easier by the lack of any democratic opposition and work duly began shortly afterwards using imported earth-moving equipment supplied by the U.S. firm Caterpillar and, tragically, Jewish slave labor from France and Algeria. The route had progressed not much further than Colomb Béchar when the Anglo-American invasion of North African in November 1942 brought this grim exercise to a halt. Whereas World War I had undermined a railway project that might otherwise have come into existence; World War Two temporarily rescued the same project from oblivion. The collapse of Vichy authority in North Africa provoked a short-lived international debate about whether the trans-Saharan line should be completed by the Allies after the war, an idea hastily dismissed as unnecessary and impractical (see review by Forbes, 1943). The French geographer Jean Gottmann, who had escaped to the USA after the German invasion of his adopted country in 1940, insisted that it would be far more useful to improve east-west road and rail communications along the Mediterranean from Morocco to Egypt (Gottmann, 1943: 196). The involvement of the Vichy regime did not end the trans-Saharan dream completely, however, and the idea of extending the line to facilitate the mineral and hydrocarbon exploitation of the desert interior was raised intermittently through the 1950s though the outbreak of the Algerian War of Independence and the final end of French authority in 1962 brought the whole story to its final conclusion. The rather half-hearted 1950s debate had none of the romance and drama of earlier discussions for it reflected an entirely different objective. By the 1950s, the Sahara was no longer a fearful void to be crossed; it was itself the focus of mineralogical and hydrocarbon investigation that required, and fuelled, an entirely different form of transportation.

35.3 Conclusion Railways were the sinews that once bound together national and imperial spaces. They have acquired, therefore, a rich symbolic, cultural and political significance (Bishop, 2002; Foster, 2005), sustained by the pleasures and aesthetics of railway travel across climatic and environmental zones (Schivelbusch, 1986). It may seem fanciful to argue that this is true of railways that were never completed, or even convincingly begun, but the story of the trans-Saharan railway, one of the great unrealized engineering projects of the modern era, suggests that an absence can be as powerfully revealing as a presence.

Notes 1. The unpublished reports and official correspondence on the Trans-Saharan project can be consulted in the Archives Nationales [AN] F17 2928/3-4 (for the initial scientific and technological proposals and debates), AN F14 12436-46 (for the practical challenges and commercial potential of each phase of the project from the 1870s to the 1930s), AN F14 15353-6 (for the

35

Shifting Sands: The Trans-Saharan Railway

625

technical reports from the 1930s to the 1950s), and AN F14 17447-52 (for the commercial and related reports from the 1890s to the 1950s). Further unpublished material can be found in the archives of the Société de Géographie de Paris [SGP], housed in the Bibliothèque Nationale, particularly SGP Série par format [SF] Ms. in-fo 12, 1079-1095 (for the late 1870s and early 1880s, including the Flatters mission) and SGP SF Ms. in-4o 59, 1237 to 62, 1240 (for the period 1912-24). The cartography relating to the project, including several striking promotional maps, can be found in the SGP archives, some of the most notable being SGP Ge.FF.12582 (1890), Ge.D.7022 (1890), Ge.FF.12591 (1899), Ge.FF.12266 (1911), Ge.FF.5690 (1929).

References Ambrose, S. E. (2000). Nothing like it in the world: The men who built the transcontinental railroad. New York: Simon and Schuster. Audouin-Dubreuil, A. (2005). La croisière des sables: sur les pistes de Timbouctou. Paris: Éditions France Loisirs. Baroli, M. (1969). Le train dans la littérature française. Paris: Éditions N.M. Bishop, P. (2002). Gathering the land: the Alice Springs to Darwin rail corridor. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 20, 295–317. Bovill, E. W. (1958). The golden trade of the moors. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Britsch, J. (1989). La mission Foureau-Lamy et l’arrivée des français at Tchad, 1898–1900. Paris: L’Harmattan. Broc, N. (1987). Les français face à l’inconnue saharienne: géographes, explorateurs, ingénieurs (1830–1881). Annales de Géographie, 535, 302–338. Carrière, B. (1988). Le Transsaharien: histoire et géographie d’une enterprise inachevée. Acta Geographica, 74(2), 23–38. Davis, D. K. (2007). Resurrecting the granary of Rome: Environmental history and french colonial expansion in North Africa. Athens, OH: Ohio University Press. Deprest, F. (2009). Géographes en Algérie (1880–1950): savoirs universitaires en situation coloniale. Paris: Belin. Duponchel, A. (1875–1878). Le chemin de fer transsaharien, junction coloniale entre l’Algérie et le Soudan. Paris: Hachette. Floran de Villepique, M. (1890). Le transsaharien et la colonisation de l’Afrique facilités par les chemins de fer à vie mobile. Paris: Société des Chemins de Fer à Voie Mobile. Forbes, R. H. (1943). The transsaharan conquest. Geographical Review, 33(2), 197–213. Foster, J. (2005). Northward, upward: stories of train travel and the journey towards white South African nationhood 1895–1950. Journal of Historical Geography, 31(2), 296–315. Gautier, E.-F. (1910). La conquête du Sahara: essai de psychologie politique. Paris: Armand Colin. Gautier, E.-F. (1925). The Transsaharan railway. Geographical Review, 15(1), 51–69. Gautier, E.-F. (1935). Sahara: The great desert. New York: Columbia University Press. [translation of Gautier, E.-F. (1928) Le Sahara. Paris: Payot]. Gottmann, J. (1943). The economic problems of French North Africa. Geographical Review, 33(2), 175–196. Grévoz, D. (1989). Sahara 1830–1881: les mirages français et la tragédie Flatters. Paris: L’Harmattan. Gros, J. (1881). Voyages et découvertes de Paul Soleillet en vue d’un projet d’un chemin de fer transsaharien raconté par lui-même. Paris: Dreyfous. Heffernan, M. (1989). The limits of utopia: Henri Duveyrier and the exploration of the Sahara in the nineteenth century. Geographical Journal, 155(3), 342–352. Heffernan, M. (1990). Bringing the desert to bloom: French ambitions in the Sahara desert during the late nineteenth century – the strange case of la mer intérieure. In D. E. Cosgrove & G. E. Petts (Eds.), Water, engineering and landscape: Water control and landscape transformation in the modern period (pp. 94–114). London: Belhaven Press.

626

M. Heffernan

Holsinger, D. C. (1980). Trade routes of the Algerian Sahara in the nineteenth century. Revue de l’Occident Musulman et de la Méditerranée, 30(2), 57–70. Ladreit-Lacherrière, J. (1928). La paternité du Transsaharien. Le Temps 20th February. Latour, B. (1996). Aramis, or the love of technology. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Le Roy-Beaulieu, P. (1904). Le Sahara, le Soudan et les chemins de fer transsahariens. Paris: Guillaumin. Liniger-Goumaz, M. (1968). Transaharien et transafricain: essai bibliographique. Génève-Afrique, 7, 70–85. Maître-Devallon, C. (1939). Le transsaharien. Politique Étrangère, 4(1), 18–26. Mangin, C. (1910). La force noire. Paris: Hachette. McKay, D. V. (1943). Colonialism in the French geographical movement 1871–1881. Geographical Review, 33(2), 214–232. Porch, D. (1984). The conquest of the Sahara. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pottier, R. (1941). Le transsaharien liaison d’empire. Paris: Fernand Sorlot. Pottier, R. (1948). Flatters. Paris: Editions de l’Empire Français. Pick, D. (1993) War machine: the rationalisation of slaughter in the modern world. New Haven: Yale University Press. Reclus, M. (1929–1930). Psychologie du Transsaharien. Le Temps. 21st December and 5th January Sarraut, A. (1923). La mise en valeur des colonies françaises. Paris: Payot. Schivelbusch, W. (1986). The railway journey: The industrialization of time and space in the nineteenth century. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Saintoyant, J. (1911). L’armée noire et le Transsaharien. Questions Diplomatiques et Coloniales, 15, 352: 404–418 and 456–475. Starostina, N. (2003). Writing the train: imperial visions, masculinity and nationalism in the work of French writers in the last third of the 19th century. Dialectical Anthropology, 27(2), 141–155. Swearingen, W. D. (1988). Moroccan mirages: Agrarian dreams and deceptions, 1912–1986. London: I. B. Tauris. Taithe, B. (2009). The killer trail: A colonial scandal in the heart of Africa. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Vallaux, C. (1930). La verité sur le Transsaharien. Paris: Payot. Wrigley, G. M. (1925). The great desert: an appreciation of E. F. Gautier’s “Le Sahara”. Geographical Review, 15(1), 92–105.

Chapter 36

Will New Mobilities Beget New (Im)Mobilities? Prospects for Change Resulting from Mongolia’s Trans-State Highway Alexander C. Diener

36.1 Introduction Even a cursory review of the literature on transportation geography reveals the multifaceted effect of mega-road/rail construction on the communities and societies it spans and connects. These effects include dramatic changes in economic development, environmental conditions, social justice, governance, and ownership (Knowles, Shaw, & Docherty, 2008). Each change may to greater and lesser degrees be traced to shifting patterns of mobility. Recent scholarship relating to this topic defines mobility as either a strategy to cope with insecurity and harsh environments by enhancing and maintaining access to resources (Leder & Streck 2005), or a principle of late modernity, transforming societies in the context of globalization (Urry, 2000). Reflecting the significance of this volume’s theme, it is clear that megatransportation projects are a means by which states shape patterns of mobility in both senses. Each project and each state are nevertheless unique. The importance of the cultural paradigm and ecological setting in which a given mega-project is enacted can, therefore, not be understated. Development-induced ecological change resulting from road construction within tropical biomes has long been a topic of intense study (see Arima, Walker, Perz, & Caldas, 2005; Bilsborrow & DeLargy, 1985; Coomes & Barham, 1996; Hecht & Cockburn, 1989; Timmons, 1992; Timmons & Hite, 2000; Turner, 1990). As globalization integrates new geographic realms into the world economy, it is increasingly apparent that more work needs to be done on the impact of road construction in biomes beyond the tropics and in socio-cultural settings other than agricultural. From the cultural, economic, and socio-political perspective, structural similarities between post-Marxist-Leninist Mongolia and developing regions of Latin America and Southeast Asia (i.e. unemployment, insecure land tenure, and A.C. Diener (B) Senior Scholar in Eurasian Studies, IERES Elliott School of International Affairs, George Washington University, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_36,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

627

628

A.C. Diener

exchange rate policies that encourage export of raw materials) compel comparative inquires as to road construction’s impact. This paper suggests the Mongolian Millennium Highway mega-project is an ideal case for such research. Surveying the literature on mega-transportation projects makes clear that research needs to be conducted in a timely manner. Too rarely have clear and accurate “before pictures” been attained so as to confirm predictive models and enhance the capacity of policy makers to adapt project-plans to best serve their targetpopulations. One commonly accepted belief is that the degree to which change occurs is in some sense proportional to the scale of the road/rail project. Examples of mega-road or rail projects exist on every continent and in virtually every state. Perhaps the most famous and most profoundly impacting have been those spanning states and creating regional transportation corridors. Prime examples include the US transcontinental railway (1869), Route 66 (1926) and the Eisenhower Interstate System; Canada’s Trans-Canada railway (1885) and highway (1970) and the ALCAN highway (1943); Brazil’s Trans-Amazonian Highway (1970s); Russia’s Trans-Siberian railway (1905) and highway (2004); and the Trans-Asian highway (still under construction). Each of these has radically altered the landscapes through which they are (or are being) routed. Only recently have scholars begun to consider changes at various scales wrought by such mega-projects. At the global scale, Theo Barker depicts “how 150 years of innovations in global movement have transformed what we eat, think and wear” (1996: 20; see also Barker & Gerhold, 1995). At the national scale, Owen Gutfreund’s (2004) argues that federal investment in highways and rural roads at the expense of public transportation catalyzed suburbanization and recast America’s ethnic, social, political, and economic landscapes (see also Wells, 2006). At a regional scale, Teresa Van Hoy (2000) and Chapin, Peterson, and Berkes (2004) explore how new modes of transportation and communication provide links to the global economy and transform the socio-political, biological, cultural, and economic systems of arid regions of Mexico and remote realms of the Arctic north respectively. At the provincial/local scale, Corey Todd Lesseig explores how automobiles and the roads connecting remote rural communities and cities in Mississippi from 1909 to 1939 changed patterns of work and leisure, even to the point of “altering the foundations of society, family, church and school” (1997: 2). One may hypothesize that the construction of Mongolia’s Millennium Highway and its facilitation of rapid modernization will catalyze changes at each of these scales. Given space limitations, I will focus this essay on the possible national and regional impacts of the highway.

36.2 An Historical Sketch of Mongolia’s Evolving Mobilities It would be a mistake to think of Mongolia as a bastion of pure, pastoral nomadism in an increasingly sedentary world. Truth be told, no such place exits. Rather, Mongolia’s modern history, like that of all nomadic peoples, suggests a longstanding negotiated hybridity between mobile pastoralists and their sedentary neighbors

36

Will New Mobilities Beget New (Im)Mobilities?

629

(Barfield 1993; Gertel 2007). The result is a complex tale of adapting traditional patterns of mobility to the changing socio-political and economic realities of specific regions. As the comparative military advantage of mobile horsemen dissipated in the face of demographic, technological and strategic advances within China and Russia (late 17th to mid 19th century) the pastoral nomads of Northeast Asia eventually found themselves seeking to balance retention of their traditional ways and an increasingly hegemonic “modernity”. It was not, however, until the emergence of communism (early 20th century.) and its endorsement of forced sedentarization and collectivization that the very future of their cultural paradigm came into question. Traditional Mongolian mobilities were first assailed by unsuccessful efforts to collectivize the nomads in the 1920s. By 1958 low productivity and ecological degradation catalyzed a new strategy that compelled herders to join negdels (state owned ranches) in which they would be proletarianized by making them wage earners. As was common in much of the Soviet system, “free-rider” or lazy herders emerged as problems and limited the overall success of the project. Nevertheless, the negdel system is generally regarded as having benefited a majority of Mongolian pastoralists by providing water wells, winter-fodder, agricultural-mechanization, subsidized transportation of goods to market, finished goods, pensions for the elderly, medicine and literacy for those in the countryside (Rossabi, 2005: 114–123). Though the distances covered were far shorter, mobility remained a core element of rural life. Nevertheless, the intrinsic power of modernity and its ascription of fixed borders and semi-sedentarization succeeded in socializing the population to Soviet territorial administrative divisions. Despite continued relevance of clan, tribal, and ethnic identities, Mongolia’s people became more locally oriented to their soum (county), regionally oriented to their aimag (province) and nationally oriented to their state (the Mongolian People’s Republic). While development of the Mongolian steppe was sporadic and concentrated only in particular regions, Soviet investment in the capital city of Ulaan Baatar and a few other urban centers catalyzed a new pattern of seasonal mobility from the countryside to the city and vice-versa. Educated elites spent portions of the summer with pastoralist relatives in the countryside, while pastoralists would periodically travel to cities for trade, education, or cultural events. Through this practice, much of the society’s “pastoralist” distinctiveness was retained. Despite large housing projects and the aforementioned industrialization of the urban centers, felt tents (known as gers or yurts) and large herds remained points of pride and clear markers of Mongolian uniqueness in northeast Asia. Though Soviet development efforts were successful in introducing textile factories and promoting a mineral resource industry, Mongolia was only partially integrated into the truncated global economic system of the “second world”. By virtue of its role as a buffer between the briefly friendly and later antagonistic People’s Republic of China (PRC) and the Soviet Union (USSR), Mongolia never served as a central node of global trade or cultural interaction. It was in many ways kept behind the “iron curtain” and thus cloistered from the world stage. The result was a sustained hybridity of mobile pastoralist tradition and socialist modernity. Where nomads were plowed under by modernity’s advance in other parts

630

A.C. Diener

Fig. 36.1 Population distribution in Mongolia 2000. (Source: Mongolian National Statistics Office: 2000 Population Census 2001, 30)

of the world, patterns of semi-nomadic practice remain visible in the Mongolian landscape (Baabar, 1996; Beall & Goldstein, 1994). The state currently boasts a population of some three million people on 1,564,116 km2 of territory (slightly smaller than Alaska). Though census data for societies with large numbers of mobile pastoralists are often questionable, even the proximate figure of 0.6 people per km2 places Mongolia among the least densely populated states on earth. As depicted in Fig. 36.1, the broad dispersal of people across a large land area with so few developed urban centers is a by-product of enduring pastoralist practices. A full 43% of Mongolia’s population (243,000 herding households) continues to reside in a generally undeveloped countryside. The collapse of Soviet support networks and the Mongolian government’s embrace of a “shock therapy” approach to economic and political reform catalyzed an economic crisis during the mid-1990s. As a result of the abolishment of collectivized farming/ranching as well as decreasing subsidies and supplies to urban centers, migration to the countryside gained popularity among even those with little herding knowledge. Many believed subsistence was more readily attainable in herding practices and through the support of rural extended family networks. In 1990 it is estimated that the herder population was 147,000. By 1993 it had doubled and by 1998 it had tripled. The conversion of 255 negdels into 224 joint stock ventures gave rise to large-scale inequity in the distribution of former collective property. Trucks, tractors and prime water-access pastures found their way into the hands of various power holding elites; while other members of the collectives were relegated to marginal lands with little equipment. With privatization leaving many rural pastoralists in grave economic positions and former urbanites finding the pastoralist lifestyle difficult, large portions of the population once again flocked to the state’s few cities. Urbanization was enhanced by overtly harsh winters in 1999, 2000, and 2001, during which many marginal herders established squatter settlements around the

36

Will New Mobilities Beget New (Im)Mobilities?

631

state’s main urban centers (e.g. Ulaan Baatar 760,000, Erdenet [Orkhon] 68,000, Darkhan [Darkhan-Uul] 66,000 and Choibaalsaan [Dornod] 42,000). In total, some 936,000 people or 39% of Mongolia’s population are currently “urbanites.” Since 1989 the capital (Ulaan Baatar) alone has increased in size by 39% (Mongolia National Statistical Office, 2001: 53). Despite considerable investment of international aid and sustained efforts to manage the economic crisis, some 36% of Mongolians currently live below the poverty line (43% of the rural population). Recent estimates suggest that 160,000 of the 243,000 herder households hold fewer than the requisite 100–125 animals required for subsistence (Rossabi, 2005: 20). It is largely from this segment of the population that new patterns of mobility and immobility are emerging.

36.3 Emerging and Prospective Patterns of Immobility Dotting the outskirts of the major cities are the white or grey domed roofs of traditional nomadic homes. A lack of apartment complexes or other permanent housing structures has relegated many of these new urbanites to reside in what have become known as “ger suburbs”. The presence of gers in and around cities is not, however, historically unprecedented. As noted above, throughout the Marxist Leninist period herders regularly visited cities to trade, seek medical attention, or attend events (sporting, cultural, etc.). Nevertheless, according to Giovanna Dore and Tanvi Nagpal, “the main difference between earlier population movements and recent ones is that while the former were temporary, and people retained their nomadic identities, the latter are more or less permanent” (Dore & Nagpal, 2006: 15). Despite the common practice of “summer nomadism” among cosmopolite city-dwelling professionals, true knowledge of mobile pastoralist ways is waning among the growing number of urban dwellers. The emergence of seemingly permanent “ger suburbs” suggests a pattern that I hypothesize will propagate following the construction of the Millennium Highway. With rural youth lamenting the dwindling of government supplies to the remote soums (counties) and craving both opportunities for urban jobs and access to global culture, a generational divide has emerged in Mongolia. This social cleavage has taken on a political dimension, as parties like the Mongolian National Democratic Party (MNDP) and the Mongolian Socialist Democratic Party (MSDP) provide vehicles for the ascension to power of what traditionalist M. Zenee describes as “people with un-Mongolian bodies and mentalities, thieves, liars, hooligans, criminals, border-crossers, alcoholics, and prostitutes” (Zenee, 1992: 4). Undarya Tummursukh (2002: 132–134) argues this condemnation is far less abstract than it may seem. The younger men and women running for parliament from the MNDP and MSDP coalition have regularly been cast as modernizing puppets of foreign powers and examples of “political prostitution”. While many “modernizers” envision a strictly nominal role of traditional Mongolian values within the newly imagined nation, “traditionalists” fear the hegemonic quality of modernity and anticipate a growing marginalization of traditional culture. Modern technology’s

632

A.C. Diener

Fig. 36.2 Transportation infrastructure of Mongolia. (Source: Produced by the University of Wisconsin Cartographic Laboratory; modeled after unpublished map from Mongolian Ministry of Transportation, 2001)

advance into centuries-old cultural and material practices is considered emblematic of the broken threshold through which Mongolia’s people are not likely to return. A key catalyst of this modernizing process is likely to be the improvement of the state’s transportation infrastructure. At present, Mongolia’s road network consists of 1,217.6 km (756 mi) (11.9%) of paved roads, 1,378.9 km (857 mi) (12.5%) of gravel roads and 8,366.5 km (5,199) (75.6%) of natural earth roads. Neither a railroad nor paved roadway spans the state from east to west (Fig. 36.2). Quite simply, development of this former Soviet satellite state is profoundly inhibited by the lack of dependable transportation infrastructure. Nevertheless, government surveys reveal that Mongolia’s highly dispersed population has begun to invest in automobiles. The period of 1990–2002 saw a ten-fold increase in the number of passenger cars (6,660–70,000), suggesting that modernization and development are not only desired but expected. One question that must be answered is what impact will this development have on the population distribution as well as, cultural and physical landscapes of the state? In 2002 Mongolia’s Prime Minister (current President) Nambariin Enkhbayer suggested that with the completion of the Millennium Highway, 90% of the Mongolian population would migrate to settlements along the road’s route (Enkhbayer, 2002: 5). This route (portrayed in Fig. 36.2) is specifically designed to encompass 33% of the state’s territory, 80% of the state’s population, 72% of the state’s urban areas, as well as many of Mongolia’s most significant “natural sightseeing and historical places” within a 200 km north/south radius (Enebish, 2001: 2). Envisioned as a prime catalyst of modernization within Mongolia, the yet to be completed 2,400-km east-west highway is expected to attract rural pastoralists to

36

Will New Mobilities Beget New (Im)Mobilities?

633

current and new “urban” centers along the road’s route. These urban centers will develop in conjunction with opportunities relating to the road’s emergence as a prime artery for trade in northeast Asia (see Section 36.4). Gas stations, restaurants, shops, hotels, various tourist related businesses and commerce nodes for local products are expected to generate revenue for an increasingly sedentary population. The revival of single family herds, occurring since the fall of socialism, would potentially be reversed through the incorporation of large farms employing as little as 10% of the state’s population (Bayartsaikhan, 2002: 5). Reminiscent of Soviet efforts at modernization in the 1960s and 1980s, a direct assault on the traditional eco-cultural paradigm of the Mongolian people once again looms on the horizon. Skepticism relating to this project is, however, high. This is partly due to the consistent delays in the road’s construction. The highway was scheduled to be built in stages, starting in 2001–2003 with the paving of 800 km (497 mi) of road extending east and west from Ulaan Baatar at a cost of $US 88 million. Stage two was scheduled from 2004 to 2008 with the paving of 1,200 km (745 mi) further east and west at a cost of $US 132 million. Stage three was to follow this pattern from 2008 to 2010 and cover the remaining 660 km (410 mi) at an estimated cost of $US 80 million. Despite the delays and exponentially rising costs, the plan to complete the road in the near future remains intact (Author Interview with Official from the Ministry of Infrastructure, Ulaan Baator, May 2004). Other reasons for skepticism regarding the projected sedentarization of society along the road’s route relates to potential ecological and socio-cultural complications. Given the largely pastoral nature of the population, it is likely that the majority of internal migrants would bring at least portions of their herds. Such an occurrence would be highly detrimental to water quality and cause major grassland depletion in the areas surrounding the settlements. Sedentarization along the road will undoubtedly alter land use, taking the form of large-scale deforestation, refuse distribution, and soil degradation (see Fernandez-Gimenez, 1999, 2002; Timmons, 1992), but may also signal a socio-cultural rupture that many fear will irreparably change Mongolia (Endicott, 2005; Fabetti & Salzman, 1996). Peri-urban settlement surrounding the capital city of Ulaan Baatar provides a glaring example of the complexity of emerging patterns of immobility in a largely pastoralist society. The provision of utilities (water, sanitation, and electricity) to these ger suburbs is very limited (Lin, 2007). A high percentage of ger families’ incomes go to heat, water, healthcare, and education. Should the pattern of periurbanization in settlements along the Millennium Highway route follow that of the ger suburbs around Ulaan Baatar, air pollution, water pollution, service-overburden, unemployment, crime, and disease will likely increase (Humphrey & Sneath, 1999; World Bank, 2004). For a nation priding itself on its pristine wilderness and a longstanding ecologically friendly way of life, these changes could be devastating. Additional influence of emerging immobilities will be felt in the more abstract socio-cultural realm (Khazanov & Shapiro, 2005; Salzman, 1980). Pastoral nomadic heritage is seen by many within Mongolia as the prime bonding agent of this unique society. Projecting the identity of “felt-tent dwellers” (tuurgatan) to the entire society and positioning that identity against the sedentary “rest

634

A.C. Diener

of the world”, Ch. Sharavtseren contends that “the Mongols divide the world into those who live within earth walls and those who dwell within felt walls. From the nomads’ point of view the sedentary lifestyle still appears rather miserable” (Sharavtseren, 2002: 7). Members of this faction often equate modernization with westernization and warn against an irreversible cultural concession to the ways of the “other” (that is, the sedentary – global – agricultural – industrial). In contrast, another faction within Mongolia views nomadic heritage as antithetical to economic advancement and questions the viability of mobile pastoralism in the modern world. This faction accepts the hegemony of modernity and encourages a strictly nominal hybridity with traditional Mongolian values. In a 2001 interview, while serving as Mongolia’s Prime Minister, current President Nambariin Enkhbayar stated, “it is not my desire to destroy the original Mongolian identity, but in order to survive we have to stop being nomads” (quoted in Murphy, 2001: 31). This statement clearly establishes the belief that modernization is the key to Mongolia’s future. It also implies that modernization will ultimately marginalize nomadic values and by consequence propagate new patterns of immobility. For many, the only viable answer is a socio-cultural compromise, wherein traditional nomadic values will be integrated into a modern socioeconomic paradigm. The writer G. Mend-Ooyo offers a clear call for this hybridity: It is obvious that nomadic civilization cannot remain as it was in the past. Why can’t nomads have electricity thanks to wind generators? Why can’t they have mobile phones? Why can’t we improve the traditional ger, so it is comfortable in all seasons? Then nomads would not settle down. Rather, movement would flow from cites to the courtside and busy city life would stand in admiration of nomadic civilization. (Mend-Ooyo, 1999: 3–4)

Efforts to improve life conditions in the ger suburbs through the introduction of plumbing, clean-burning stoves, and thermo insulation have been only moderately successful because of the continuous in-flux of new “squatters” from the countryside since the late 1990s (see Rossabi, 2005: 140–143). It is clear that hybridity between modernity and the traditional mobile pastoralist culture of Mongolia will not be easily achieved in material or cultural terms. Nevertheless, a balance between traditional cultural practices and modernizing efforts continues (see Fratkin, Abella-Roth, & Nathan, 1999). Shifting from the more abstract notion of socio-cultural hybridity to a functional hybridity of economic systems, one might consider how new patterns of mobility may emerge in the wake of the mega-project completion. Can new mobilities catalyzed by the Millennium Highway help restructure Mongolian society, so that some members sedentarize and function within new economic roles while others retain pastoralist lifestyles?

36.4 Emerging and Prospective Patterns of New Mobility Historic mega-transportation-projects similar to the Millennium Highway demonstrate a profound capacity to transform the societies they cross. The completion of

36

Will New Mobilities Beget New (Im)Mobilities?

635

railroads like the U.S. Transcontinental, the Trans-Canada, and the Trans-Siberian, each of which was eventually coupled with a highway, contributed profoundly to the formation of cohesive nationalized populations and integrated economies within their respective states. Socio-political landscapes were changed by the dramatic redistribution of population, development of new land use patterns, and integration of these states into the global economy. One may hypothesize that the Millennium Highway will have a similar effect on Mongolia. Mongolian officials have long lamented the state’s lack of transportation infrastructure. A research group analyzing the development of a Northern Route for the Asian Highway Network calculated Mongolia’s highway capacity (length of paved roads per square kilometer of territory) to be the lowest figure for any country in the world at 0.00082 in 1992 (Ariunbold, 1992: 4). Seeing potential for the roughly 2,400 km (1,491 mi) of poorly maintained dirt roads that separate Mongolia’s westernmost aimag of Bayan Olgi from the easternmost aimag of Dornod (Fig. 36.3), this group suggested the Economic Social Commission for Asia and the Pacific (ESCAP), Japan, Kuwait, India, South Korea and the Asian Development Bank assist the Mongolian government in creating the Millennium Highway. Looking to prospective alterations in patterns of mobility, internal movement of Mongolia’s population will increasingly center on the capital city. Early stages of this mega-project revolve around linking or improving the links of small stretches of road between key industrial or mining towns and Ulaan Baatar. In Figs. 36.2 and 36.3 the progress made on these improvements is evident in the spur of paved roads extending from the state’s capital. Subsequent stages will create arterial north-south routes linking remote regions of the state to the central east-west Highway. The process of urbanization discussed above can be expected to continue as modernity’s call to Mongolia’s youth draws additional settlers toward the roadway. A veritable

Fig. 36.3 Projected population redistribution. (Source: Produced by the University of Wisconsin Cartography Laboratory)

636

A.C. Diener

magnetic pull enacted by major highways is documented in historic cases offering a mix of benefits and costs to developing societies (see Knowles et al., 2008). One may hypothesize that problems of the post-Marxist Leninist transition in Mongolia (including educational decline, unemployment, failing social support services, and poverty) will similarly advance population redistribution, patterned by the Millennium Highway. However, the effect of this population redistribution is unknown. With economic enterprises emerging along the road’s route, depletion of population in regions distant from the road may create opportunities for those committed to retaining pastoralist lifestyles. In a sense, nomadism may be saved by the new immobilities facilitated by the larger scale mobilities relating to the Millennium Highway (see Fratkin & Mearns, 2003). As has occurred in other pastoralist social settings (Gertel & Breuer, 2007), families may divide, leaving some members to tend herds, while others develop business enterprises along the highway. A reduction in overgrazing may result in plentiful pastures as poor and economically struggling herders abandon the steppe for roadside settlements. Will this lead to the rise of an entrepreneurial middle class? Will the highway serve as a conduit for the importation or cultivation of negative social processes (drugs, prostitution, human trafficking, etc.)? How will the growth of a tourism industry affect Mongolia’s culture? Will transnational trade bolster GDP and political stability, establishing Mongolia as a capitalist, democratic beacon in the region? Each of these questions requires further research at the local and national scales. It is equally clear that the Millennium Highway will also dramatically alter patterns of mobility on a regional scale. In addition to internal development, revolving around vertical arterial links connecting remote regions with the capital and industrial centers in the middle of the state, the Millennium Highway is expected to catalyze a series of new transnational economic relationships between Mongolia and the states of northeast Asia (Fig. 36.4; Enebish, 2001: 2; Olzovoy, 1996). By spanning the extent of the state east to west, the Millennium Highway is envisioned to link Russian, Kazakhstani, and Chinese highway systems and subsequently connect to the Asian Highway Network (China to Laos, Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Malaysia, Myanmar, Bangladesh, India, Nepal, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Iran, Azerbaijan, and possibly Turkey) (see Ariunbold, 1992: 4; Indra, 1996: 3). While the latter components of this plan are far from fruition, recent improvements in transportation infrastructure within neighboring states (see Fig. 36.3) could generate immanent possibilities for increasing transnational flows of goods, ideas, and people. Connections to the Russian Trans-Siberian Highway (Central Europe ∼ Primorsky = port of Vladivostok) and the BAM corridor (TSR∼ Taishet ∼ Vanino ∼ Sakhalin) represent important links between Mongolia, and the large cities of Central Russia (Omsk, Novosibirsk, Tomsk, Krasnoyarsk, Yekaterininburg) and Europe. Connections to China’s ever improving “7918 Network” (otherwise known as the National Trunk Highway System) provides Mongolia access to ports of China and both North and South Korea (West Corridor = Shenyang ∼ Dandong ∼ Sinuiju ∼ Pyongyang ∼ Seoul ∼ Busan; East Corridor = TSR ∼ Primorsky ∼ Khasan ∼ Rajin-Sonbong ∼ Busan). In addition, China’s booming west and the states of

36

Will New Mobilities Beget New (Im)Mobilities?

637

Fig. 36.4 Existing trade corridors of Northeast Asia (2001). (Produced by the University of Wisconsin Cartographic Laboratory, modeled after: Hisako Tsuji “Key Transportation Corridors in Northeast Asia ERINA REPORT”, 2001)

Central Asia (China Land Bridge = Lianyungang Port ∼ Alashankou ∼ Druzhba ∼ Kazakhstan) emerge as viable trade partners. Mongolia’s untapped mineral fields could readily supply much needed resources for China’s industrial expansion. Not unlike the Caspian oil reserves that currently garner so much international attention, transport costs have long undermined efforts to exploit the Mongolia’s natural resources. Uranium, copper, coal, and gold deposits remain largely untapped. This condition is not likely to remain as it has already drawn some attention from the international community. Capitalizing of the economic possibilities existing literally on and beneath Mongolia’s horizon require massive investments. Since the collapse of its Marxist Leninist government Mongolia has been characterized as the “star pupil” of Western post-communist reformers. As noted by Rossabi (2005), it has adhered to international financial institutions’ recommendations for the liberalization of its currency, trade, and economy. The Asian Development Bank alone provided $160 million in loans and grants for the state’s transport and energy sectors and another $25 million specifically for roads during the 1990s (Mongol Messenger 8 Sept. 1999). Such investment in transportation infrastructure is essential for Mongolia to successfully increase production of its mineral reserves and expand its economy beyond the pastoral base. Nevertheless, despite SOCO International’s discovery of oil in Mongolia during the 1990s (Fig. 36.5), very little production has actually occurred. As of 2003 only 400,000 barrels for export (mostly to China) has resulted from an investment of some $85 million dollars (Montsame Mongolian News Agency 3 Feb. 2004).

638

A.C. Diener

Fig. 36.5 Oil in and around Mongolia. (Source: Produced by the University of Wisconsin Cartographic Laboratory, modeled after NESCOR ENERGY Map published in Mongol Messenger 02 June 1999, 3)

As demonstrated by the 2008 riots in Mongolia, current levels of investment have not resulted in a rapid transcendence of the post-Marxist Leninist condition. Corruption, high unemployment, poverty, weak growth of domestic product (GDP), and declining state services remain problems and barriers to sustainable development. Improved transportation infrastructure would certainly help assuage some of these problems. Questions nevertheless arise as to the combined effect of exploiting the state’s largely untapped natural resources and the advent of new economic roles for the Mongolian people and the state in general (Neupert, 1999). What seems clear is that this process would dramatically contribute to new local, national and regional patterns of mobility and immobility.

36.5 Conclusion The “mobility turn” in the social sciences has generated a substantial literature that concentrates on the movement of people, goods, images, and ideas in the world. This literature stresses the links between spatial and social mobility arguing that like individuality, rationality, and globality, mobility is a given principle of late modernity (Bonβ, Kesselring, & Vogel, 2004). Research in this field traces movement from a starting point to a destination via a specific trajectory. It seeks to identify how and why entities experience change in status, identity, and value during the journey. What has become clear from this literature is that points of departure, transversal and destination are each shaped by the movement through and between them. Without question mega-transportation-projects, particularly in developing regions, have and will facilitate such a process. Mongolia’s pastoral nomadic paradigm and recent emergence from the socialist sphere make it an ideal case for examining the effect of a mega-transportationproject. Mobility for the Mongolian population is omnipresent. It has long

36

Will New Mobilities Beget New (Im)Mobilities?

639

constituted a skill used to spread economic risks and reduce insecurity resulting from the state’s global marginality. While nomadic ways of life currently perish in other parts of the world, is it not possible that an integrated pastoral livelihood system could arise from the larger scale mobilities and new economic opportunities soon to manifest on the Mongolian steppe? Constituting a strategy to gain access to resources, mobility will catalyze labor migration and may result in household members working in different geographic locales. As shown in other ecological and socio-cultural contexts, this process can catalyze dramatic social re-structuring, thereby offering an ideal setting for research into the correlation between social and spatial mobility. Mongolia’s trans-state paved highway will catalyze specialization, diversification, and social polarization in its role as an intersection between both pastoral and non-pastoral livelihood systems. Intense negotiations of culture, economics, politics, and gender roles will play out among state-elites, international development agencies, tourists, and pastoralists. The absence of scientifically rigorous “before pictures” in most instances of mega-transportation projects makes studying the Millennium Highway while it is under construction a unique and important opportunity. Researchers have an opportunity to witness the very process by which new patterns of mobility and immobility reshape a society, while simultaneously informing policy relating to the highway’s routing and its relationship to the target population.

References Arima, E. Y., Walker, R. T., Perz, S. G., & Caldas, M. (2005). Loggers and forest fragmentation: Behavioral models of road building in the Amazon basin. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 95(3), 525–541. Ariunbold, D. (1992). Bridge between Asia and Europe. Mongol Messenger, 6 October 4. Baabar, B. E. (1996). XX zuuni Mongol: nuudel suudal, garz olz (Twentieth century Mongolia: Nomadism and sedentarism, losses and gains, pp. 3–5). Ulaan Baatar: National Photographic Center. Barfield, T. (1993). The nomadic alternative. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall. Barker, T. (1996). The world transport revolution. History Today, 46(11), 20–26. Barker, T., & Gerhold, D. (1995). The rise an rise of road transport 1700–1990. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bayartsaikhan, N. (2002). Mongolia and globalization. Mongol Messenger, 23 January 30. Beall, C., & Goldstein, M. (1994). The changing world of Mongolia’s Nomads. Berkeley: University of California Press. Bilsborrow, R. E., & DeLargy, P. F. (1985). Impact of rural development projects on demographic behavior. New York, NY: United Nations Fund for Population Activities. Bonβ, W., Kesselring, S., & Vogel, G. (Eds.). (2004). Mobility and cosmopolitan perspective (working Paper series to Workshop at Munich Reflexive Modernization Research Centre, 29–30 January 2004). Retrieved from http://www.sfb536.mwn.de/veranstalungen/ B3_Workshop_0104_Dokumentation.pdf November 2008. Chapin, F. S., Peterson, G., & Berkes, F. (2004). Resilience and vulnerability of northern regions to social and environmental change. Ambio, 33(6), 344–369. Coomes, O. T., & Barham, B. (1996). Prosperity’s promise: the Amazon rubber boom and distorted economic development. Boulder, CO: Westview Press.

640

A.C. Diener

Dore, G., & Nagpal, T. (2006). Urban transition in Mongolia: Pursuing sustainability in a unique environment. Environment, 48(6), 10–25. Endicott, E. (2005). The Mongols and China: Cultural contact and the changing nature of pastoral nomadism. In R. Amitai & M. Biran (Eds.), Mongols, turks and others: Eurasian nomads and the sedentary world (pp. 461–482). Boston: Brill. Enebish, L. (2001). Millennium road. Mongolian National Road Department. Enkhbayer, N. (2002). Mongolia in the age of globalization. Mongol Messenger, 20 February 5. Fabetti, U., & Salzman, P. C. (Eds.). (1996). The anthropology of tribal and peasant pastoral societies: The dialectics of social cohesion and fragmentation. Pavia, Italy: Ibis. Fernandez-Gimenez, M. (1999). Sustaining the steppes: A geographical history of pastoral land use in Mongolia. Geographical Review, 89(3), 315–342. Fernandez-Gimenez, M. (2002). Spatial and social boundaries and the paradox of pastoral land tenure: A case study from postsocialist Mongolia. Human Ecology, 30(1), 49–78. Fratkin, E., Abella-Roth, E., & Nathan, M. (1999). When nomads settled: The effects of commoditization, nutritional change, and formal education on ariaal and rendille pastoralists. Current Anthropology, 40(5), 729–735. Fratkin, E., & Mearns, R. (2003). Sustainability and pastoral livelihoods: Lessons from East African Maasai and Mongolia. Human Organization, 62(2), 112–122. Gertel, J. (2007). Mobility and insecurity: The significance of resources. In J. Gertel & I. Breuer (Eds.), Pastoral Morocco: Globalizing scapes of mobility and insecurity (pp. 11–30). Wiesbaden: Dr. Ludwig Reichert Verlag. Gertel, J., & Breuer, I. (2007). Pastoral Morocco: Globalizing scapes of mobility and insecurity. Wiesbaden: Dr. Ludwig Reichert Verlag. Gutfreund, O. (2004). Twentieth century sprawl: Highways and the reshaping of the American landscape. Oxford University Press. Hecht, S. B., & Cockburn, A. (1989) The fate of the forest: Developers, destroyers, and defenders of the Amazon. London; New York: Verso. Humphrey, C., & Sneath, D. (1999) The end of nomadism? Durham: Duke University Press. Indra, B. (1996). Asian road network picks up some pace. Mongol Messenger, 4 December 3. Khazanov, A., & Shapiro, K. (2005). Contemporary pastoralism in Central Asia. In R. Amitai & M. Biran (Eds.), Mongols, turks and others: Eurasian nomads and the sedentary world (pp. 503–534). Boston: Brill. Knowles, R., Shaw, J., & Docherty, I. (Eds.). (2008). Transport geographies: Mobilities, flows, and spaces. Oxford: Blackwell. Leder, S., & Streck, B. (2005). Shifts and drifts in nomad sedentary relations. Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag. Lesseig, C. T. (1997). Automobility and social change: Mississippi 1909–1939. Dissertation, The University of Mississippi. Lin, G. C. S. (2007). Peri-urbansim in globalizing China: A study of new urbanism in Dongguan. Eurasian Geography and Economics, 47(1), 28–53. Mend-Ooyo, G. (1999). In defense of our nomadic civilization. U.B. Post, 24 February, 3. Mongol Messenger. (1999). Oil refinery to be erected in Nalaikh district. Mongol Messenger, 2 June 3. Mongolian National Statistical Office. (2001). Hun am, oron suutsny 2000 ony toollogyn ulsyn dun (Population and Housing Census 2000, National Results). Ulaan Baatar: Mongolian National Statistical Office, 67. Murphy, D. (2001). No room for nomads. Far Eastern Economic Review, 31 May, 30–32. Neupert, R. F. (1999). Population, nomadic pastoralism and the environment in the Mongolian Plateau. Population and Environment, 20(5), 413–244. Olzovoy, K. (1996). A Mongol’s view of economic development and cooperation in Northeast Asia. The Mongolian Journal of International Affairs, 3, 60–67. Salzman, P. C. (Ed.). (1980). When nomads settle: Processes of sedentarization as adaptation and response. New York: Praeger.

36

Will New Mobilities Beget New (Im)Mobilities?

641

Sharavtseren, Ch. (2002). Innovative approach to the Mongolian Ger. Mongol Messenger, 13 February 7. Rossabi, M. (2005). Modern Mongolia: Khans, commissars, to capitalists. Berkeley: University of California Press. Timmons, J. R. (1992). Squatters and urban growth in Amazonia. Geographical Review, 82(4), 441–467. Timmons, J. R., & Hite, A. (2000). From modernization to globalization: Perspectives on development and socialchange. Oxford; Malden, MA: Blackwell. Tummursukh, U. (2002). Righting over the reinterpretation of the Mongolian woman in Mongolia’s post socialist identity construction discourse. East Asia: An International Quarterly, 19(3), 119–146. Turner, B. L. (1990). The Earth as transformed by human action: Global and regional changes in the biosphere over the past 300 years. Cambridge, NY: Cambridge University Press with Clark University. Tsuji, H. (2001). Key transportation corridors in Northeast Asia: Overcoming physical and regulatory impediments – ERINA REPORT – erina.or.jp. Urry, J. (2000). Sociology beyond societies: Mobilities for the twenty-first century. London: Routledge. Van Hoy, T. M. (2000). The railroad as public utility and the public: Land, labor, and rail services in southern Mexico 1842–1908. Ph.D. Dissertation, Department of History, University of Houston, Clear Lake. Wells, C. (2006). The changing nature of country roads. Agricultural History, 80(2), 143–166. World Bank. (2004). Mongolia environment monitor: Environmental challenges of urban development East Asia environment and social development. Washington, DC: World Bank. Zenee, M. (1992). Mongol dah’ ardchilal Fashist Shinjtei. Democracy in Mongolia is Fascist in Nature, Ug, 4 May 4.

Chapter 37

“America’s Glory Road” . . . On Ice: Permafrost and the Development of the Alcan Highway, 1942–1943 Frederick E. Nelson

The most important geographic fact of World War II is that it is being fought mainly in that northern temperate zone which, on a spherical earth, lies in a circle round the Arctic. –Vilhjalmur Stefansson (1944a, p. 295)

37.1 Introduction Alaska is often described with superlatives. Known colloquially as “The Great Land,” the landscapes of Alaska and adjacent regions in northwestern Canada are dominated by “majestic” mountain ranges, “mighty” rivers, “glittering” glaciers, “innumerable” peatlands, and “endless” coastlines. Awe-inspiring from an aesthetic standpoint as these physiographic features (Wahrhaftig, 1965) may be, they present formidable obstacles to engineered works. Problems of human occupancy and resource use are exacerbated by Alaska’s remoteness, its size (equal to nearly 20% of the area of the conterminous U.S.), and the extreme climates that dominate most of the state. Another potentially calamitous hazard to infrastructure lurks below the surface of vast expanses of Alaska and adjacent Yukon Territory: permafrost (perennially frozen ground) can cause severe construction and maintenance problems if appropriate engineering methods are not employed. When the administration of President Andrew Johnson acquired Alaska from Russia in 1867 for $7,200,000, the transaction was referred to derisively by many as “Seward’s Folly,” after Secretary of State William Seward, who negotiated the deal. Although a few pleas for rational exploration and development, and for fair treatment of native peoples, appeared in the territory’s early years (e.g., Kane, 1868), Alaska remained a largely unexplored and unexploited backwater until the Klondike gold strike of 1898 brought thousands of prospectors and support personnel north. F.E. Nelson (B) Department of Geography, University of Delaware, Newark, DE 19716, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_37,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

643

644

F.E. Nelson

The discovery of rich mineral resources in the vast territory awakened the U.S. federal government to its potential, and systematic surveys across its extent began in earnest during the first decade of the 20th century, largely through the work of the U.S. Geological Survey (e.g., Moffit, 1905; Prindle, 1905). Early USGS surveys in Alaska were not concerned entirely with economic geology. Most of the scientists responsible for these expeditions were generalists, well versed in survey methods, topographic mapping, physiography, botany, and anthropology. Many of the publications growing out of these surveys documented the existence of ground that remained frozen throughout the summer, often with large inclusions of ground ice. Referring to this phenomenon variously as “permanently frozen ground,” “eternal frost,” and “ever-frozen ground,” these reports conveyed recognition that it could cause severe problems for engineering projects. Unlike the situation in Russia, knowledge in North America about perennially frozen ground developed in piecemeal fashion. Although information was sufficient by the late 1920s to enable publication of a treatise about its effects on placer mining operations (Wimmler, 1927), an extensive knowledge base was not developed in systematic fashion and made available in accessible form to the engineering community. Information about perennially frozen ground was (a) acquired by personnel on expeditions to the North American Arctic sponsored by such private organizations as the American Geographical Society (e.g., Leffingwell, 1915; Russell, 1890; Stefansson, 1910); (b) written by Russian expatriates (e.g., Nikiforoff, 1928), or (c) gained through field experience in Russia (e.g., Cressey, 1939). Articles about frozen ground were scattered through the literature of several basic scientific disciplines (e.g., geography, geology, botany) and operating engineers in North America were generally unaware of this knowledge base. At the dawn of World War II, advances in basic understanding of perennially frozen ground and its disruptive potential had not been introduced to North American engineering literature (French & Nelson, 2008b), setting the stage for several of the continent’s largest and strategically important infrastructure projects to be affected by costly and dangerous engineering blunders.

37.2 Alaska’s Strategic Position Frozen ground was not the only characteristic of Alaska to be largely ignored by the U.S. government during the decades following the Klondike gold rush. The territory’s strategic value was essentially unrecognized by government agencies, even after the advent of reliable aircraft made great-circle routes practical and air travel rendered vast expanses of wilderness open to potential development and supply (Burden, 1944; Joerg, 1930; Stefansson, 1922). Alaska’s strategic value (and its vulnerability to military attack) at the opening of World War II cannot be overstated. The territory extends over 20◦ of latitude and 51◦ of longitude. Its western margins in the Aleutian Islands reach into the relatively

37

Permafrost and the Development of the Alcan Highway, 1942–1943

645

warm waters of the North Pacific, offering many opportunities to develop harbors for naval forces and for defensive positions. Nonetheless, by 1940 little had been done to bolster defenses in Alaska or to develop an overland supply route to the territory. Despite occasional warnings by military leaders such as General William Mitchell, who declared in a meeting of the House Committee on Military Affairs that Alaska “is the most important strategic place in the world,” military preparedness in the territory was at such a low level that a 1941 article by Alaska’s delegate to the U.S. Congress asserted that “until comparatively recent years, and one might almost say recent months, [the strategic value of Alaska] was seldom adverted to and all but completely ignored” (Dimond, 1941: 13). A peculiar asymmetry characterized the pre-war actions of the American and Japanese adversaries-to-be: during negotiation of the Treaty of Naval Limitations of 6 February 1922, the Japanese government sought and received assurance from the American government that the Aleutian Islands would not be fortified (Dimond, 1941). The great Arctic explorer and geographer, Vilhjalmur Stefansson, ascribed American ignorance about (and indifference to) Alaska’s strategic importance to “standardized misinformation” arising from two geographical misconceptions. The first is a kind of cultural ignorance by which the public (and, by extension, in a representative democracy its elected leaders) perceives the Arctic as a homogeneous land of ice, snow, and darkness, peopled by rustics living in igloos. The second misconception was a fundamental, and nearly universal, misunderstanding of the relative positions of geographical locations on a spherical surface, arising in large part though the standard use of Mercator’s projection to depict geographical relationships (Dimond, 1941; Stefansson, 1944a). The second misconception was attacked in the U.S. during World War II by a widespread campaign to recreate the public’s geographical perceptions through the use of alternative map projections and striking cartographic depictions of strategic relationships. Henrikson (1975) and Schulten (2001, Chapter 9) described this effort, which involved virtually every public and private organization engaged in the production, dissemination, and use of maps. A leader in this campaign was Richard Edes Harrison, an architect who electrified the readers of Fortune Magazine with his hand-drawn depictions of strategic geographical relations. These efforts were consummated in Look at the World, Harrison’s (1944) cartographic tour de force prescription “for world strategy.” Using striking graphics, one section of the atlas depicts a variety of geographic approaches to Japan (including from Alaska and from Siberia) and their relative advantages and disadvantages. These maps were widely reproduced and emulated (Fig. 37.1),1 and played an important role in overcoming geographical ignorance among professionals and the lay public. Another section of the Atlas titled “Arctic Arena” demonstrated the importance of the north polar region in the age of air travel. American engineers were among the primary targets of this campaign, and it is impressive to regard the large number of articles in publications such as The Military Engineer addressing this and related cartographic issues (e.g., Donoghue, 1943; McMillion, 1942; Smith, 1943) during the war years.

646

F.E. Nelson

Fig. 37.1 (a-left) The ALSIB (Alaska-Siberia) route, showing airfields of the Northwest Staging Route (map courtesy of U.S. Air Force). (b-right) Map of overland routes to Alaska proposed at the outset of America’s entry into World War II. The Alcan route, depicted as a solid black line and labeled with a circled “C,” was chosen primarily because of its distance from potential enemy naval attacks and for its proximity to the Northwest Staging Route. Alternative proposed routes (A, B, D) are indicated, as is route of Canol Pipeline and Canol Highway from Norman Wells to Whitehorse. From Stefansson (1944b). These maps exemplify the cartographic approach of Richard Edes Harrison in depicting geographic relationships between World War II adversaries

37.3 Implementation 37.3.1 Routing Shortly after German forces launched a surprise attack on the Soviet Union on 22 June 1941, the Soviet ambassador to the U.S. made a formal request that the Lend-Lease program, already in effect with Great Britain and other countries, be extended to the USSR. After a great deal of back-and-forth wrangling about the types and numbers of aircraft and the most appropriate route, it was agreed that an “AlSib” route (Hays, 1996) should be created between Alaska and Siberia, using Ladd Field (Fig. 37.2) in Fairbanks as the transfer point. Aircraft were brought to Fairbanks using the “Northwest Staging Route,” a string of airfields extending from Great Falls, Montana through Alberta, British Columbia, and Yukon Territory (see Fig. 37.1a). The Northwest Route, built in 1941–1942 to supply Alaska, was an extension of Canadian prewar aeronautical ambitions (Hays, 1996). Concerns about Alaska’s vulnerability (at extremely high levels after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941), coupled with the need to

37

Permafrost and the Development of the Alcan Highway, 1942–1943

647

Fig. 37.2 B-25 bombers and P-39 fighters at Ladd Field in Fairbanks, AK, awaiting transfer to Russia. The template for Soviet red star insignias used on the aircraft was obtained from a local Texaco gasoline station (Hays, 1996). Photograph courtesy of U.S. Air Force

contain costs in servicing the airfields of the Northwest Staging Route, convinced authorities of the need for an overland route to Alaska. Four routes were proposed (see Fig. 37.1b) and bitter arguments arose over their relative advantages and disadvantages (Finnie, 1942; Stefansson, 1944b). Recriminations, including congressional investigations, continued long after the Rocky Mountain route was chosen. This route was selected ostensibly because its distance from the sea rendered attack by naval forces improbable (see Stefansson, 1944b) and because it offered the best proximity to the airfields of the Northwest Staging Route. At the outset of the project much of the route was uncharted wilderness. Another project concerned with bringing oil from Norman Wells on the lower Mackenzie River to Whitehorse also began during 1942 (see Fig. 37.1b). This project, known as CANOL (“Canadian Oil”), was also highly controversial (Drapeau, 2002; O’Brien, 1970; Richardson, 1942a). Initially, the general course of the Canadian-Alaskan Military (“Alcan”) Highway (Coates & Morrison, 1992) through the largely uncharted territory making up the route was determined using 1:250,000 National Geographic Society maps, 1:1,000,000 aeronautical charts, and the services of a bush pilot (Greenwood, 1992). Beginning in July 1942 the route was determined through stereoscopic interpretation of air photographs obtained on missions flown by the U.S. Army Air Forces specifically for that purpose (Lane, 1942; Richardson, 1943). Working with air photos marked with local segments of the route, field parties determined routing details on the ground using plane tables, optical instruments, and chains where possible, but often reverting to compass-and-pace, line-of-sight, and offset survey methods. Where heavy vegetation obscured terrain, bulldozers were run along compass lines connecting treetop reconnaissance stations. Grades were established using hand (Abney) levels (Lane, 1942).

648

F.E. Nelson

37.3.2 Construction Methods Construction of the Alcan Highway began in March 1942 under the command of Brigadier General William M. Hoge, only a month after President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed legislation authorizing the road. An unusual two-phase plan involved immediate construction of a “pioneer road” by military engineers and troops, followed by development of an improved “PRA road” administered the U.S. Public Roads Administration, using private contractors. The sense of urgency accompanying construction of the pioneer road is apparent in the instructions issued to troop commanders from the Army’s Chief of Engineers: A pioneer road is to be pushed to completion with all speed within the physical capacity of the troops. The objective is to complete the entire route at the earliest practicable date to a standard sufficient only for the supply of troops engaged on the work. Further refinements will be undertaken only if additional time is available. (Sturdevant, 1943:173)

Seven engineering regiments (nearly 11,000 troops) had begun working by the second quarter of 1942. The 35th, 341st, and 95th Engineers worked northward from Dawson Creek and Fort St. John (Fig. 37.3). The 18th Engineering Regiment worked westward from Whitehorse, while the 97th Engineers progressed southward from Alaska. The 93rd and 340th regiments worked in difficult terrain in Yukon Territory east of Whitehorse (Richardson, 1942b; Sturdevant, 1943). The PRA phase involved a large number of U.S. and Canadian contractors employing thousands of civilian workers. The project used three supply routes: (a) by rail to Dawson Creek; (b) via ship to Skagway and rail to Whitehorse; and (c) by ship to Valdez and road to Big Delta, Alaska (Richardson, 1942b). Working conditions for the road crews were often primitive, involving horse-drawn water wagons, tents and wanigans, canned field rations, and extreme isolation (Figs. 37.4 and 37.5a). Frigid winter temperatures, hazardous water crossings, and hordes of insects added misery to the three eight hour shifts each day of the week (Greenwood, 1992; Hardin, 1942; Richardson, 1942b). Each of the seven regiments charged with constructing the pioneer road was issued 20 D-8 (23-ton) diesel bulldozers, 24 lighter tractors and bulldozers, six tractor-drawn graders, three patrol graders, six router plows, 50–90 dump and cargo trucks, 11–20 jeeps (“quarter-ton trucks”), 12 pickup trucks, two 0.5 yard gas shovels, one truck crane, six 12-yard scraper/carriers, one portable sawmill, two pile drivers, as well as light tools, water purification equipment, and electricity generation plants (Richardson, 1942a; Sturdevant, 1943). Nearly all of the equipment was new. Following in the wake of the survey crews were mechanized units composed of a lead D-8 Caterpillar bulldozer used to fell trees along the centerline, flanked by two or more Cats clearing the path to a 100 foot (30.5 m) right-of-way in most sections (Fig. 37.6a, Table 37.1). Additional bulldozers followed to clear fallen timber, remove brush, and scrape surface materials. Roadcuts were used extensively (see Fig. 37.6d). The heavy bulldozers were able to clear up to three miles per day, allowing them to stay well ahead of specialized companies responsible for follow-up tasks (Greenwood, 1992). Extending 30–50 mi (48–80 km) behind the mechanized

37

Permafrost and the Development of the Alcan Highway, 1942–1943

649

Fig. 37.3 Map of Alcan Highway route in 1942, showing approximate locations of regimental sectors. Base map from Richardson (1942a: 82)

companies were “soldier units” responsible for grading, culverting, and constructing small bridges (Richardson, 1943). An alternative deployment divided regiments into companies that were responsible for all major tasks and “leap-frogged” one another along their assigned portion of the construction route. Major river crossings were bridged by relatively stationary crews operating quasi-independently of the road builders (see Fig. 36.5b). Richardson (1943) provided a detailed account of construction procedures. Once the effects of the spring thaw abated, progress was rapid (Table 37.2), and the entire route was open to traffic by late October of 1942 (see Fig. 37.5c). Detailed accounts of early passages on the Alcan route (Correll, 1981; Lanks, 1944) provide fascinating insights into travel on the pioneer road.

650

F.E. Nelson

Fig. 37.4 The sense of displacement and conjugal longing of young soldiers and engineers far from home is well expressed in this cartoon (of unknown origin) from the Herbert Warner collection, American Geographical Society Library, Golda Meier Library, University of WisconsinMilwaukee. Warner was an employee of a private contractor retained by PRA. Reproduced with permission

37.4 Permafrost and the Alcan Highway 37.4.1 Permafrost Permafrost is defined as subsurface earth materials that remain continuously at or below 0◦ C (32◦ F) for 2 or more years (Fig. 37.7a). The layer of ground above permafrost that freezes and thaws on an annual basis (the active layer) varies from a few tens of centimeters to several meters in thickness, depending on geographical location, the composition and thermal properties of the substrate, and type and properties of the surface cover. Where surficial materials have highly insulative properties

37

Permafrost and the Development of the Alcan Highway, 1942–1943

651

Fig. 37.5 Life along the construction route of Alcan pioneer road. (a-top left) Primitive camp with sawmill in early 1942. (b-top right) Bridge across a tributary of the Peace River. (c-bottom left) Opening ceremony of the Alcan Highway at Soldiers’ Summit near Kluane Lake, Yukon Territory, approximately 100 mi (160 km) east of the Alaska border. (d-bottom right) Small bulldozer enmired in mud after thaw of ice-rich permafrost. Photos courtesy of Library of Congress

(i.e., low thermal conductivity), their removal will increase the flow of heat into the ground, resulting in thickening of the active layer and thawing of the uppermost layers of frozen ground (see Fig. 37.7b). When the frozen substrate is devoid of water substance, permafrost presents no direct stability challenges to engineered works. If, however, the frozen materials contain a substantial amount of ground ice, thawing of the permafrost will result in loss of volume and differential settlement at the surface. This thaw settlement is particularly likely to occur if large inclusions of nearly pure subsurface ice are present, usually in the form of quasi-horizontal lenses or nearly vertical veins and wedges (Mackay, 1972). Thaw settlement has great potential for damaging infrastructure built on the ground surface. Perennially frozen ground aroused considerable attention in the scientific literature when information about its great thickness at Yakutsk, Siberia was first widely disseminated early in the 19th century. Initially regarded with disbelief by many western scientists (Muller, 2008: 7), “perpetually frozen ground” became something of a scientific curiosity in North America (Richardson, 1839). Unfortunately, engineering practice took little notice of the phenomenon and even by 1940 little

652

F.E. Nelson

Fig. 37.6 Pioneer road construction techniques. (a) Because the roots of many trees do not penetrate permafrost, clearance of rights of way by bulldozers was a relatively easy task over much of the Alcan route. After clearance of felled timber and brush, the ground was scraped, promoting absorption of solar radiation and thaw of underlying ice-rich permafrost. Three of the seven U.S. Army regiments (93rd, 95th, 97th) involved in construction of the pioneer road were composed of African-American troops. (b) After a period of only several days, ablation of ground ice turned many rights of way into impassible quagmires. (c) Corduroy road construction used to mitigate damage caused by thaw of ice-rich permafrost. Timbers were obtained from slash created by road construction, and covered with brush and gravel to inhibit thaw. (d) Steep section of pioneer road with prominent road cuts. Photos courtesy of Library of Congress

applied (engineering) literature had been published in the English language. In contrast, the Russian approach to permafrost science was systematic and holistic – both basic and applied aspects of the subject were treated in unified fashion under the rubric of “geocryology” (e.g., French & Nelson, 2008b; Sumgin, 1927, 1931, 1940). This approach imparted great benefits to the design and operation of engineered works, such as the Trans-Siberian Railway (Shiklomanov, 2005), and at the beginning of World War II an extensive Russian-language literature about permafrost had appeared. Engineers had developed detailed design criteria for construction projects, and manuals for engineered works in permafrost regions were widely available.

37

Permafrost and the Development of the Alcan Highway, 1942–1943

653

Table 37.1 Specifications for Alcan highway Feature

Specification

Total length (pioneer road, Dawson Creek to Delta Junction, PRA road shortened to 1,440 mi [2,317 km]) Maximum elevation Clearance width

1,591 mi (2,545 km)

Surface

Shoulders Surfacing materials Grade Curvature

Ditch depth Crown Major bridges (∼200)

Culverts (∼8,000)

4,212 ft (1,284 m) 50 ft (15.2 m) on either side of centerline (32 ft (9.75 m) minimum) 18 ft (5.5 m) (12 ft (3.65 m) minimum) on pioneer road; two lanes (20–22 feet minimum) for PRA road 5 ft (1.52 m) gravel/dirt (specified to be of local origin) 10% maximum for pioneer road; 5–7% for PRA road 50 ft (15.2 m) radius on pioneer road; 3◦ on “prairie” segments of PRA road, 19◦ in mountains 2 ft (0.6 m) 1 inch/foot (25.4 mm/305 mm) maximum 24 ft (7.3 m) width (12 ft (3.65 m) if bridge length exceeds 100 feet (30.48 m)) Trestle construction with local (primarily timber) materials Local (timber) construction

Sources: Richardson (1942a,1942b, 1943, 1944) and Greenwood (1992) Table 37.2 Rates of Alcan highway construction during 1942 (after Sturdevant 1943: 180) Construction to

Miles

Kilometers

Remarks

April 30 May 31 June 30 July 31 August 31 September 30 October 25

8 95 360 794 1, 186 1, 479 1, 645

13 152 576 1, 270 1, 897 2, 366 2, 632

by 35th Engineers by 4 regiments all 7 regiments all 7 regiments including PRA work road passable to Whitehorse road passable to Fairbanks

37.4.2 Consequences of Alcan Construction Methods The “brute force” construction methods used to develop the Alcan pioneer road guaranteed degradation of ice-rich permafrost beneath the road surface and major problems from thaw subsidence. Although the military commanders in charge of the Alcan and Canol projects had been warned repeatedly by both locals and Arctic experts such as Stefansson, the use of bulldozers to remove vegetation and scrape the resulting bare surfaces thawed ice-rich permafrost in many locations, creating

654

F.E. Nelson

Fig. 37.7 (a) Permafrost profile typical of terrain along the Alcan route. In areas of “warm” permafrost, in which mean annual temperatures are at or just below 0◦ C (32◦ F), the substrate is vulnerable to thaw induced by changes in the insulating layers of vegetation and organic matter at the ground surface. Taliks (unfrozen layers at the top of or within permafrost) may or may not be present, depending on site’s climatic history and local conditions (b) Permafrost profile along a road through swampy terrain, showing the relation between surficial cover and depth to permafrost. Both diagrams appeared in Muller (1944)

major problems in the sections where the 18th and 340th Engineers were operating. Removal of insulating layers of vegetation, peat, and humus meant that ice-rich permafrost was exposed directly to solar radiation and high surface temperatures. Under such conditions, a right-of-way that had appeared smooth and dry immediately after clearance could become a morass only a day or two later, as ground ice melted, the surface subsided unevenly, and water collected in the hollows (see Fig. 37.6b). Both heavy and light bulldozers frequently became enmired (see Fig. 37.5d). Muller (2008: 118) cited anecdotal evidence about one bulldozer disappearing completely, never to be recovered. Road cuts also created localized problems of thaw settlement and slumping.

37.4.3 Another “AlSib Connection” Although unclassified literature published during 1942–1943 glossed over the deleterious effects of thaw settlement on the pioneer road (e.g., Lane, 1942; Richardson, 1942a), great administrative concern was generated by continuing thaw-related problems. Remedial actions, such as corduroy road segments covered with insulating layers of brush, dirt, and gravel (see Fig. 37.6c) slowed the pace of construction substantially, and there was general concern about continuing thaw in 1943 and beyond. A search was initiated to find an individual who possessed both knowledge about engineering problems relating to frozen ground and the linguistic skills necessary

37

Permafrost and the Development of the Alcan Highway, 1942–1943

655

to access Russian-language literature on the subject. It is unclear why authorities did not tap Constantin C. Nikiforoff, a U.S. Soil Conservation Service scientist who had completed doctoral studies at St. Petersburg University during the prerevolutionary period and had published an English-language paper about frozen ground in Siberia (Nikiforoff, 1928). Nonetheless, an extremely capable scientist was found. Siemon W. Muller, a professor of geology at Stanford University, was engaged as a civilian consultant to the Army (French & Nelson, 2008a). Muller was the son of a Danish engineer who had worked on the Trans-Siberian Railway’s telegraph line. At the time of the 1917 revolution Siemon Muller was a cadet in the Naval Academy in Vladivostock. After a well-advised escape to China, Muller made his way to the United States and eventually earned a doctorate in geology. At the opening of World War II Muller was a highly respected professor at Stanford, specializing in stratigraphy and paleontology. When the magnitude of the problems associated with frozen ground along the Alcan route became apparent, Muller was recruited by the Army to create a compilation of appropriate engineering methods based on Russian-language literature (French & Nelson, 2008a). Working at the Library of Congress and the U.S. Geological Survey Library, Muller compiled a construction manual representing a distillation of the Soviet experience with frozen ground. Issued to military engineers as a classified report early the following year (Muller, 1943), the compilation provided a firm basis for constructing and maintaining engineered works in regions of perennially frozen ground. Following completion of the initial version of his report, the U.S. Army Air Forces Air Transport Command assigned Muller, still a civilian, to study frozen-ground phenomena along the Alcan route and at air bases throughout Alaska. This work resulted in an expanded version of his classified report (Muller, 1945). A series of shorter reports on specialized topics (e.g., Muller, 1944) was also issued to military engineers late in the war. After being declassified, the report received wide distribution (Muller, 1947) and functioned for many years as the premier English-language permafrost text. It remains an authoritative work to the present time (French & Nelson, 2008a). Muller’s report also performed the critically important function of providing an instantly recognizable name for the phenomenon. Muller’s book introduced the term permafrost (“permanent frost”), a loan translation from the Russian Vechnaya merzlota (“eternal frost”). Although concerns were raised about the term’s etymological purity (e.g., Bryan, 1946, 1948) permafrost quickly became firmly rooted in the scientific vocabulary, and remains the preferred term for perennially frozen ground.

37.4.4 Applications to Alcan Permafrost science is an integrative discipline, mastery of which requires an understanding of elements of many other branches of science, including geology, botany, hydrology, soil physics, and civil engineering. Muller’s 1943 report was a masterful

656

F.E. Nelson

blend of these topics, and allowed operating engineers to understand and predict the behavior of frozen ground. Probably more importantly at the time, the manual provided a wealth of information about how to recognize and avoid potential problems involving permafrost, and how to implement practical solutions to existing problems. During the summer of 1943 nearly a third of the Alcan route had to be relocated, in many cases because of recurrent thaw-related problems. On the basis of his extensive 1943–45 investigations along the Alcan route, Muller (2008: 114) summarized the types of problems likely to cause damage to roads in permafrost terrain: (a) cracking resulting from thermal contraction; (b) differential frost heave; (c) differential settling as the active layer thaws; (d) turbation induced by differences in moisture content; (e) differential settling due to thaw of underlying permafrost; (f) mass movements induced by cut-and-fill operations; (g) erosion along drainage ditches and culvert margins; and (h) roads impeding drainage, creating localized icings. He emphasized the need for proactive strategies: The choice of a route in permafrost terrain should not be dictated by either the usual evaluation of topography or the premise that the shortest and most direct route is the most satisfactory. . .During the construction of the Alaska [Alcan] Highway, costly experience showed that every effort should be made to preserve permafrost in its frozen state beneath the roadbed and in the immediately adjacent ground. Once the original insulating cover of vegetation and topsoil had been removed and permafrost allowed to thaw, the thawing process spread like cancer and in many cases could not be checked. (Muller, 2008: 114–118)

Muller’s summary of road-construction problems and his prescriptive strategy are illustrated graphically in Fig. 37.8. This approach to construction has stood the test of time, and has been implemented widely in subsequent construction projects in Arctic and subarctic regions of North America.

Fig. 37.8 (Top) “wrong” and (bottom) “right” methods for constructing roads in permafrost terrain (Muller 2008: 119)

37

Permafrost and the Development of the Alcan Highway, 1942–1943

657

37.5 The Alcan Legacy The Alcan Highway was one of the largest North American engineering projects undertaken to that time. The urgency with which it was implemented led to costly construction blunders that could have been avoided if information about permafrost behavior and effective construction methods had been readily available to North American engineers at the time the highway was built. Siemon Muller’s work during the 1940s led to widespread recognition of permafrost-related problems (e.g., Barnes, 1946; Wilson, 1948), development of methods for detecting the presence of permafrost (e.g., Woods, Hittle, & Frost, 1948), and improved technical understanding of its behavior (e.g., Jaillite, 1947). An important factor in the success of Muller’s contribution derived from his having assigned a “catchy,” easily retained name for the phenomenon. Following a permafrost conference held in St. Paul MN in January 1945, the U.S. Army’s Corps of Engineers created a Permafrost Division. Responsibility for permafrost research in the U.S. military continued through a succession of Corps of Engineer reorganizations, culminating in the Cold Regions Research and Engineering Laboratory in Hanover, New Hampshire (Wright, 1986). Responsibility for other governmental research and publication on permafrost is diffused through a wide array of government agencies (U.S. Arctic Research Commission, 2003). Despite these organizational and dissemination efforts, the permafrost-related lessons of the Alcan project were not inculcated completely upon the North American engineering community for many years. After major oil reserves were discovered at Prudhoe Bay in 1968, the rush to create overland access to the area involved a new, heavier generation (D-9) of Caterpillar bulldozers employing virtually the same methods used in the early stages of Alcan construction (Nelson & Outcalt, 1982). Initial industry plans for bringing the petroleum to refining facilities included an astonishingly incompetent plan to bury a hot-oil pipeline in ice-rich permafrost terrain over much of its route (Lachenbruch, 1970). After the bitter, expensive, and widely publicized debate about implementing the Trans-Alaska Pipeline (Coates, 1991), engineering practice in permafrost regions improved considerably. Today, specialized texts and manuals are widely available (e.g., Andersland & Ladanyi, 2004). Unbeknownst to almost everyone (including permafrost scientists), Siemon Muller continued to compile information about permafrost and had nearly completed a lengthy integrative text at the time of his retirement in the early 1960s. This book (Muller 2008) remained in manuscript form until discovered in the effects of one of his students and brought to publication many years after Muller’s death (French & Nelson, 2008a). Had it been published at the time of completion (c. 1962), the book would have advanced North American permafrost science by well over a decade (French & Nelson, 2008b). The road was renamed “Alaska Highway” in 1943 (Fig. 37.9). It was turned over to Canadian authorities in 1946 and, after construction of suitable service facilities, was opened to civilian traffic (Nelson, 1947). Today, after decades of continuous

658

F.E. Nelson

Fig. 37.9 Checkpoint at south end of Alaska Highway, fall 1943. Drastic improvements to the road in summer 1943 are apparent from the fact that Carlson traversed the entire highway using the twowheel-drive staff car shown passing the checkpoint. (Photograph by Colonel William S. Carlson, U.S. Army Air Forces; courtesy of the Ward M. Canaday Center for Special Collections, W.S. Carlson Library, University of Toledo)

improvements and realignments, the road is an all-weather, hard-surfaced route carrying large volumes of tourist and commercial traffic. The Alaska Highway has its own annual publication, The Milepost. A trained eye can discern many permafrost-related features along the route of the Alaska Highway (e.g., Taber, 1943; Denny, 1952). Frost heave and thaw settlement still plague highway maintenance crews. Little remains, however, to focus the attention of casual travelers on the existence of permafrost, aside from potholes, undulating surfaces, “drunken forest,” and place names (e.g., Snafu Lake, Tarfu Lake) that serve as reminders of the problems Army engineers encountered during the early 1940s. Acknowledgments Thanks are due Stan Brunn for encouragement, patience, and editorial expertise. The staff of the American Geographical Society Library in Milwaukee, particularly Susan Peschel and Kay Guildner, provided invaluable assistance in my search for literature and artifacts related to the development of the Alcan Highway, as did Barbara Floyd of the University of Toledo. It was my good fortune to have been invited by Dr. Hugh M. French (University of Ottawa) to collaborate in bringing Siemon Muller’s last book (Muller, 2008) to publication, a project that provided insights into 1940s-era permafrost engineering and science I would not have otherwise gained. Conversations with Eric and Sherry Muller provided invaluable insight into Siemon Muller’s life and his role in 1940s permafrost engineering. I owe my own interest in the Alcan Highway to my late father, Staff Sgt. Fred E. Nelson, who early in World War II piloted military aircraft along the Northwest Staging Route and in later phases of the war was an Arctic search-and-rescue pilot stationed at the U.S. Army Air Forces base at Galena, AK.

37

Permafrost and the Development of the Alcan Highway, 1942–1943

659

Note 1. Including on the cover of at least one U.S. Army permafrost manual (Muller, 1944).

References Andersland, O. B., & Ladanyi, B. (2004). Frozen ground engineering. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Barnes, L. C. (1946). Permafrost: a challenge to engineers. The Military Engineer, 38, 9–11. Bryan, K. (1946). Permanently frozen ground (letter). The Military Engineer, 38, 168. Bryan, K. (1948). The study of permanently frozen ground and intensive frost action. The Military Engineer, 40, 304–308. Burden, W. A. M. (1944). American air transport faces north. In H. W. Weigert & V. Stefansson (Eds.), Compass of the world: A symposium on political geography (pp. 137–147). New York: The Macmillan Company. Coates, K. S., & Morrison, W. R. (1992). The Alaska highway in World War II. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Coates, P. A. (1991). The Trans-Alaska pipeline controversy: Technology, conservation and the frontier. Bethlehem, PA: Lehigh University Press. Correll, D. S. (1981). Alaska highway adventure. Printed privately, 170 pp. Cressey, G. B. (1939). Frozen ground in Siberia. Journal of Geology, 47, 472–488. Denny, C. S. (1952). Late Quaternary geology and frost phenomena along Alaska Highway, northern British Columbia and southeastern Yukon. Bulletin of the Geological Society of America, 63, 883–922. Dimond, A. J. (1941). The strategic value of Alaska. The Military Engineer, 33, 12–20. Donoghue, J. H. (1943). The geography of total war. The Military Engineer, 35, 334–335. Drapeau, R. (2002). Pipe dream. Invention and Technology Magazine, 17, 25–35. Finnie, R. (1942). A route to Alaska through the Northwest Territories. Geographical Review, 32, 403–416 French, H. M., & Nelson, F. E. (2008a). Introduction. In S. W. Muller (Ed.), Frozen in time: Permafrost and engineering problems (pp. ix—xxiv). Reston, VA: American Society of Civil Engineers. French, H. M., & Nelson, F. E. (2008b). The permafrost legacy of Siemon W. Muller. In D. Kane & K. M. Hinkel (Eds.), Proceedings of the ninth international conference on permafrost (pp. 475–480). Fairbanks: University of Alaska Press. Greenwood, J. T. (1992). Building the road to Alaska. In B. F. Fowle (Ed.), Builders and fighters: U.S. Army Engineers in World War II (pp. 117–135). Fort Belvoir, VA: Office of History, U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Hardin, J. R. (1942). Engineers rush Alaskan defenses. The Military Engineer, 34, 1–3. Harrison, R. E. (1944). Look at the world: The Fortune Atlas for world strategy, 67 pp. Hays, O., Jr. (1996). The Alaska-Siberia connection (184 pp). College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press. Henrikson, A. K. (1975). The map as an “idea:” The role of cartographic imagery during the second world war. The American Cartographer, 2, 19–53. Jaillite, W. M. (1947). Permafrost research area. The Military Engineer, 39, 375–379. Joerg, W. L. G. (1930). Brief history of polar exploration since the introduction of flying. New York: American Geographical Society Special Publication 11, 50 pp. + two accompanying large-scale maps. Kane, T. L. (1868). Alaska and the polar regions: Lecture of Thomas L. Kane before the American Geographical Society in New York City, Thursday Evening, May 7, 1868. New York: Journeymen Printers’ co-operative Association.

660

F.E. Nelson

Lachenbruch, A. H. (1970). Some estimates of the thermal effects of a heated pipeline in permafrost. U.S. Geological Survey Circular 632. Lane, A. L. (1942). The Alcan Highway: road location and construction methods. The Military Engineer, 34, 492–499. Lanks, H. C. (1944). Highway to Alaska (200 pp). New York: D. Appleton-Century Company. Leffingwell, E. de K. (1915). Ground-ice wedges: the dominant form of ground-ice in the north coast of Alaska. Journal of Geology, 23, 635–654. Mackay, J. R. (1972). The world of underground ice. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 62, 1–22. McMillion, S. A. (1942). The strategic route to Alaska. The Military Engineer, 34, 546–553. Moffit, F. H. (1905). The Fairhaven gold placers, Seward Peninsula, Alaska. U.S. Geological Survey Bulletin 247. Muller, S. W. (1943). Permafrost or permanently frozen ground and related engineering problems. Special Report, Strategic Engineering Study no. 62. Intelligence Branch, Office of the Chief of Engineers, 136 pp. Revised second printing, 1945. Muller, S. W. (1944). Permafrost: studies in connection with engineering projects in Arctic and Subarctic regions. Part I. Instructions for Measuring Ground Temperatures. Air Installation Division, Heaquarters Alaskan Division, U.S. Army Air Forces, Alaska Transport Command. Muller, S. W. (1947). Permafrost or permanently frozen ground and related engineering problems. Ann Arbor: J. W. Edwards, Inc. Muller, S. W. (2008). Frozen in time: permafrost and engineering problems. In H. M. French & F. E. Nelson (Eds.), (280 pp.). Reston, VA: American Society of Civil Engineers. Nelson, F., & Outcalt, S. I. (1982). Anthropogenic geomorphology in northern Alaska. Physical Geography, 3(1), 17–48. Nelson, H. E. (1947). The long trail revisited. The Military Engineer, 39, 157–162. Nikiforoff, C. (1928). The perpetually frozen subsoil of Siberia. Soil Science, 26, 61–78. O’Brien, C. F. (1970). The Canol project: A study in emergency military planning. Pacific Northwest Quarterly, 61, 101–108. Prindle, L. M. (1905). The gold placers of the Fortymile, Birch Creek and Fairbanks regions, Alaska. U.S. Geological Survey Bulletin 251. Richardson, J. (1839). Notice of a few observations which it is desirable to make on the frozen soil of British North America; drawn up for distribution among the officers of the Hudson’s Bay Company. Journal of the Royal Geographical Society, 9, 117–120. Richardson, H. W. (1942a). Alcan—America’s Glory Road. Part I—Strategy and location. Engineering News-Record, 129(25), 82–95. Richardson, H. W. (1942b). Alcan—America’s Glory Road. Part II—Supply, equipment and camps. Engineering News-Record, 129(27), 35–42. Richardson, H. W. (1943). Alcan—America’s Glory Road. Part III—Construction tactics. Engineering News-Record, 130, 131–138. Richardson, H. W. (1944). Controversial Canol. Engineering News-Record, 131, 78–84. Russell, I. C. (1890). Notes on the surface geology of Alaska. Bulletin of the Geological Society of America, 1, 99–162. Schulten, S. (2001). The geographical imagination in America, 1880–1950. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Shiklomanov, N. I. (2005). From exploration to systematic investigation: Development of geocryology in 19th-and early-20th-century Russia. Physical Geography, 26, 249–263. Smith, P. A. (1943). Aeronautical chart production. The Military Engineer, 35, 357–361. Stefansson, V. (1910). Underground ice in northern Alaska. Bulletin of the American Geographical Society, 42, 337–345. Stefansson, V. (1922). The Arctic as an air route of the future. National Geographic Magazine, 42, 205–219. Stefansson, V. (1944a). Arctic supply line. In H. W. Weigert & V. Stefansson (Eds.), Compass of the world: A symposium on political geography (pp. 295–311). New York: The Macmillan Company.

37

Permafrost and the Development of the Alcan Highway, 1942–1943

661

Stefansson, V. (1944b). The North American Arctic. In H. W. Weigert & V. Stefansson (Eds.), Compass of the world: a symposium on political geography (pp. 215–265). New York: The Macmillan Company. Sturdevant, C. L. (1943). The military road to Alaska: Organization and administrative problems. The Military Engineer, 35, 173–180. Sumgin, M. I. (1927). Vechnaya merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR (Permafrost in the USSR) Dal’nevost, Geofiz. Observ. Sumgin, M. I. (1931). Osnovnyye problemy vechnoy merzloty i puti k ikh razreshenivu (Fundamental problems of permafrost and their solutions). Sovet. Aziya, 3–4, 176–185. Sumgin, M. I. (1940). Obshcheye merzlotovedeniya (General permafrostology): Akad. Nauk SSSR. Taber, S. (1943). Perennially frozen ground in Alaska: Its origin and history. Bulletin of the Geological Society of America, 84, 1433–1548. U.S. Arctic Research Commission Permafrost Task Force (Nelson, F. E., & Brigham, L. W., Lead Authors). (2003). Climate change, permafrost, and impacts on civil infrastructure. Washington, DC: U.S. Arctic Research Commission. Wahrhaftig, C. (1965). Physiographic divisions of Alaska. U.S. Geological Survey Professional Paper 482. Wilson, W. K., Jr. (1948). The problem of permafrost. The Military Engineer, 40, 162–164. Wimmler, N. L. (1927). Placer-mining methods and costs in Alaska. U.S. Bureau of Mines Bulletin 259. Woods, K. B., Hittle, J. E., & Frost, R. E. (1948). Use of aerial photographs in the correlation between permafrost and soils. The Military Engineer, 40, 497–499. Wright, E. A. (1986). CRREL’s first 25 Years, 1961–1986. Hanover, NH: U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, Cold Regions Research and Engineering Laboratory.

Chapter 38

“We Shall Dress You in a Robe of Cement and Concrete:” How Discourse Concerning Megaengineering Projects Has Been Changing in Israel Izhak Schnell and Anda Rosenberg

38.1 Introduction In line with ideas of progress and the success of technology to initiate economic development, the 20th century witnessed a large number of megaengineering projects, aimed at remaking nature for human benefit. Accordingly, the capability to move masses of rocks and soils, cement and metal construction, and engines have been utilized to change the face of the earth. Now in the 21st century, developing countries are keen to follow this trend, whereas in Western countries the wider implications are being considered of such megaengineering projects. Currently, in many developed countries, proposed megaengineering projects are publicly debated for a long time and much more cautious and critical attitudes are taken when evaluating their wider implications on the environment, including their costs and benefits. At this juncture it is important to describe precisely our definition of megaengineering projects. Such projects employ multiple technologies to make significant changes in the landscape that affect broad regions as well as large segments of the population. Consequently megaengineering projects impact, to varying degrees, environmental, economic, socio-political, and cultural aspects of human life. Since its establishment, Israel has carried out numerous megaengineering projects, many inspired by Zionist ideology. Large national projects have been perceived as symbols of progress; they include draining the Hachula swamps, constructing a national water carrier, the Cross Israel Road, the security or separation barrier between Israel and Palestine and, in recent years, plans for canals from the Red to the Dead Sea or from the Mediterranean to the Dead Sea. In this study, we compare two relatively large technological projects: the draining of the Hachula swamps immediately after the establishment of the state of Israel during the early 1950s and the Cross Israel highway, started in the late 1990s and still under construction. Our study is based on the premise that megaengineering projects are the result of both formal and informal decisions that take place in municipal, private I. Schnell (B) Department of Geography and Human Environment, Tel Aviv University, Tel Aviv, Israel e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_38,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

663

664

I. Schnell and A. Rosenberg

and media organizations. We examine who were the main players in the decision making debates and what were their worldviews and ideologies. Furthermore, we inspect the power relations among the main players. Finally, we consider what was the socio-political dynamic of such debates and how it reflects Israeli society.

38.2 Conceptual Framework Since megaengineering projects affect large populations in significant ways, typically they attract wide public debates as well as involvement of the central government and parliament. Therefore, decisions about these projects tend to reflect, and sometimes challenge, deeply rooted socio-political values. Although megaengineering projects bear the potential to restructure society, generally their implementation exposes how elites impose their interests on society at large. Specifically, in the case of democracies, elites must gain wide public support for the construction of such projects, which forces them to engage the general public, the media, various institutions that mediate between the state and the citizen, as well as the government and the parliament. This engagement process is shaped by the nature of the ruling political system, hegemonic versus deliberative. In hegemonic political systems, elites inculcate their ideas using a diverse range of practical strategies, such as education and advertising. Typically, elite power is distributed widely among institutions affecting the daily life practices of the general public in such a way that manipulations designed to recruit public support for elite interests are indiscernible. Hegemonic elites establish themselves as moral, intellectual and political authorities on ideologies and worldviews relating to society, so that elite interests become synonymous with how the general public interprets their own interests (Eagleton, 1991; Gramsci, 1971). Ideology serves a key role in justifying policies and decisions and, in this context, is defined as a coherent and comprehensive set of beliefs that shape social action and encourage wide social support for such action (Eagleton, 1991). Therefore, in order to establish a hegemonic system where the public remains passive in response to elite decisions, there must be broadly accepted ideologies that bridge between elites and the public. In an article headed “Besieged Society,” Horovitz and Lisak (1990) proposed that Israel, from its independence in 1948 until the late 1970s was a hegemonic society. They defined Zionist ideology as the engine of the Israeli hegemonic system. The nation building groups and political parties were the purveyors of Zionist ideology, whereas refugees from the Holocaust and Arab countries, who arrived during the early years after independence, represented the passive public, influenced by the hegemonic power of the elite. The veteran elite were committed to mainstream Zionist ideology which believed in the power of pioneers to transform the desolated homeland by a set of selected means: collectivism, modern technology, comprehensive centralized organization, centralized capital accumulation and above all, the

38

How Discourse Concerning Megaengineering Projects

665

pioneering determination of immigrants. These elites believed that by transforming the landscape, the public and themselves would be transformed synergistically into new human beings and a better society (Schnell, 1997, 1998). We present evidence showing that the elite, in only a partially formal manner and with limited public debate, made decisions concerning the draining of the Hachula swamps in accordance with the Zionist narrative of blooming the wilderness. Deliberative democracies depend on free and intensive participation of the general public and civil society organizations (Scott, 1995). Habermas (1996) suggests that legitimate decision making in democratic systems requires open and free communicative action. Foucault (1977) develops this idea further by arguing that liberalism should not be defined as a distinct ideology, but as a worldview that legitimizes and values public criticism of governments. The health of deliberative democracies is dependent on the involvement of citizens in civil society organizations and more importantly on their willingness to be informed, knowledgeable and assertive in a way that can lead to effective action. Civil society organizations that recruit wide support and/or are particularly committed; they succeed in influencing public opinion, and thus limit the power of elites to direct decision making processes (Ashenden, 1999). The dynamic of public debates is such that they boil down to specific leading principles which become the “frame” of the debate (Goffman, 1974). These principles are cognitive tools and value judgments that simplify complex arguments (Kaufman & Smith, 1999). As such, they pay attention to some aspects of the debated dilemma and veil other aspects (Ben-Gal, 2003). Commonly, in debates the players develop deliberately arguments that hide some of their real interests, but claim to take into consideration all the aspects of the dilemma relevant to the general public (Gordon, 1999). Nevertheless, the general public relates to the frame and, accordingly, influences political action and decision making. The media is becoming an increasingly important tool for communicating knowledge and information and consequently, a critical influence on the frame of public debate (Scott, 1995) and on ensuing public action. Several Israeli scholars argue that Israel in the post-1990s is becoming increasingly a deliberative democracy with strong civil society organizations that limit the power of the elite to dominate the public arena. Furthermore, some characteristics of multiculturalism are developing in Israeli society with more ethnic and cultural groups gaining public legitimacy (Ben Rafael, 2000; Mautner et al., 1998; Ophir, 2001; Rosen, 2001). In light of these changes, we set out to investigate whether decisions concerning megaengineering projects are more formally debated in government and whether civil society organizations and media are involved more in such debates. Specifically, we aimed to survey the discourse concerning the Cross Israel Road and to evaluate whether Zionist ideology framed this debate. Finally, by examining the discourses concerning megaengineering projects carried out at different times in Israeli history, viz., the Hachula project versus the Cross Israel Road, we aimed to explore the premise that Israel has been transforming from a hegemonic to a deliberative democracy.

666

I. Schnell and A. Rosenberg

38.3 The Hachula Project 38.3.1 Background Hachula valley is located in the northern corner of the state of Israel close to the sources of the Jordan River. Due to various factors including a geological fracture, the sink of the valley, the elevation of areas in the south and a volcanic block, in pre-Israeli independence, water accumulated in the Hachula valley creating a small lake and swamps that covered between 30,000 to 45,000 dunams (8,000–11,000 acres; 3,576–4,917 ha)) during winter (Gvirtzman, 2002; Livne, 1994). The valley itself is 30 km (18.6 mi) long and 7 km (4.3 mi) wide and was considered to have the potential to become an agricultural center for growing grains and fruits and thus, to provide hundreds of farmers with livelihood (Shacham, 1994) (Fig. 38.1). After independence the young state embraced the opportunity to implement a pioneering project and determined to drain the last swamp left, as the popular song articulates: We shall dress you in a robe of concrete and cement . . . In the desert we will quarry roads, the swamps we will drain.

Two months after the end of the Independence War in December 1948, the government decided to nominate a committee to direct the Hachula project, specifically, to study the proper methods required to drain the swamp and to evaluate the economic potential of the dried lands (Blass, 1950b). This committee presented their conclusions in June 1949 (Hachula Drainage Committee, 1949). Subsequently, a second expert committee was nominated by the Ministry of Agriculture, and was asked to draw up detailed plans for the project. The government approved these plans in June 1950 (Blass, 1950a). In parallel, an organization called The Jewish National Fund, referred to as KKL, which had gained the certificate to develop the Hachula area from the British mandate, made separate plans for the project. However, in November 1950 the KKL realized that their plan necessitated changes in the route of the Jordan River in an area close to the Syrian border and therefore, government approval for implementation of their plan was unavoidable (KKL Board, 1950b). Rivalry between the government and the KKL is now considered to have been a recurrent feature of the Israeli political scene at that time. The then Prime Minister, Ben Gurion alluded to this when he stated in March 1950: “I do not want to reach a situation in which the government’s involvement is only limited to approve a finalized project. We need to set a monitoring committee common to the government and the KKL” (Government Session, 1950). In general, the KKL leaders were worried about their legitimacy in the new state as illustrated by this comment: “but the government treats us as a stepdaughter and their general tendency is to ignore our contribution to develop new lands for settlement” (KKL Board, 1950a). The leaders of the KKL had realized that they must redefine their goals in order to survive the transition of Israel from mandate to state: “Since the independence of the state we

38

How Discourse Concerning Megaengineering Projects

667

Fig. 38.1 A map of the Hachula valley. (Source: Ecologia and Sviva, 4, 1, 1994)

transformed our activities from redemption of lands from foreigners to the redemption of lands from its desolation” (Granot, 1950). Thus, the Hachula project became a focus of KKL’s activities after Israel’s independence.

668

I. Schnell and A. Rosenberg

38.3.2 Goals The formal goals of the project were six-fold (Dar, 2000; Gvirtzman, 2002; Haretz, 1954; Livne, 1994) to: eliminate the malaria disease, develop new lands for agricultural production, increase the water reservoir for use by 28 million m3 , make use of the peat created by the swamp, improve access to the area by opening new roads, and use the major draining canal for transport. The KKL started working on this first major national project in 1951. The plan was as follows: initially, to dig two main canals running north to south along the two fringes of the valley and then to bend the Jordan river stream into these canals; subsequently, to open the basaltic block at the southern exit of the valley, enabling water to flow to the lake of Galilee. It was expected that freeing the water flow in this way would lower the underground water level in the valley (Fig. 38.2). The plan included also developing projects like roads and bridges, as well as the development of a national preservation park. The project was opened officially in October 1957 (Yakobovitz, 1971).

38.3.3 Outcome The project resulted in 60,000 dunams (15,000 acres; 6,705 ha) of lands becoming available for agricultural use. These lands were distributed to existing villages that were short of fertile lands. However, other goals were not fulfilled and the project triggered a whole set of environmental problems. No new settlements were founded and no new roads were built due to the instability of the dried peat soils. Malaria had been abolished by DDT long before the implementation of the project and, therefore, its abolition cannot be attributed to the project. The main environmental problems are due to the low quality peat. The drained peat is vulnerable to fires in the summer. Farmers are unable to control soil humidity in a way that enables raising crops on the one hand, but avoids soil decomposition on the other hand. Often, decomposed soil is removed by the wind or washed to the Lake of Galilee. As time passes, the valley is sinking, to a degree that has caused concern that the swamp will return. Fishing ponds and a second lake were later built in order to reduce this risk (Alon, 1996; Goren, 1995; Shacham, 1994). The current conclusion is that, unfortunately, the warnings of the experts proved to be accurate and the benefits of the project proved to be minimal.

38.3.4 Discourse There were three main players influencing the decision making process relating to the Hachula project. In total, not more than 30 people were involved. Two players that shared the Zionist worldview were the government and KKL, nonetheless, as described above, these two organizations competed over power and influence. The third player was a group of people concerned about the environment, referred to as

38

How Discourse Concerning Megaengineering Projects

669

Fig. 38.2 The KKL plan for draining the Hachula swamp. (Source: Karnenu, 2, 1954)

“greens.” A green movement did not exist at that time in Israel, but a group of zoologists and botanists from Tel Aviv University and specifically, a small group of their graduate students organized to protest against the project. Professor Mendelson, the most prominent researcher, founded in 1949 “The committee for the protection of nature.” In 1951 the greens organized a visit to the valley for a group of well known

670

I. Schnell and A. Rosenberg

journalists, in order to raise awareness about the risks of destroying unique ecosystems. The tour had some influence both on environmental activists and the public. The members of the botanical society in their annual meeting in 1952, called on the government to preserve the natural qualities of the swamp. They declared: “It is the duty of the government to deposit the natural treasures of wild vegetation and animals in the hands of a public organization in order to guard them from destruction” (Yediot Ahronot, 1952). Excluding the few articles concerning the tour, the involvement of the media was marginal. Very few critical articles were published in Israeli newspapers about the project. One article in Yediot Achronot in August 1952 described hesitantly some critique of the project: “The expansion of settlements and conquering of the desolation involves lights and shadows. The tractors and the plough destroy, by the way, treasures of vegetation and animals from our land: with the draining of the Hachula swamp, for example, a rich natural reservoir will be completely destroyed with none remaining” (Yediot Ahronot, 1952). Notably, the effectiveness of the project was not challenged, despite scientific evaluations existing at that time that doubted the likelihood of its success. There were some articles that alluded to a conflict with Syria over the project. However, these articles stressed the Israeli duty to prove sovereignty over each inch of the land in the name of progress and intimated the Syrian attitude to be anti-development. Conspicuously, the project was glorified in cinema magazines screened at the opening of each movie, which in general praised the concept of nation building. The Zionist position adopted by the elite should be understood in the broader context of the human versus nature dialectic, which was popular at that time. The attitude adopted by the elite and presented to the public by the KKL was that the domestication of nature required human sacrifices and determination (Schnell, 1997, 1998). This attitude is embodied by the words of Berachiahu, the project manager from the KKL, who stated towards the end of the project: “Six and half years took the war that the Israeli man waged against the largest and most dangerous swamp in our land. The work was directed toward the transformation of primordial creation and the correction of flaws made by nature allowing the beautiful landscape of the valley to be eaten by the teeth of the swamp” (Berachiahu, 1958). In general, the head of KKL justified transforming the land with economic arguments that had direct agricultural implications: “The KKL development project includes many activities but one thing characterizes them all, the creation of soils to Israel. These actions transform swamps, sand, and stone deserts that physically may be considered soils, to real soils, soils in an economic meaning and agricultural soils for settlements” (Granot, 1950). It is important to note that agriculture was perceived by Zionism not only as a feature of the economy but also as a means for redeeming synergistically the land and the human being. This metaphysical understanding of agriculture was presented to the public in the KKL journal Karnenu (December 1950): “There is an assumption that the human being is the product of his mother land. Perhaps this is true in other places around the world, but in the creative process here this trend has been overcome. The vision of Zion that erected the spirit of this old nation and taught them to take their faith in their own hands made them also the

38

How Discourse Concerning Megaengineering Projects

671

masters of their land, by fighting the land’s nature and overcoming it. Large areas in our country were conquered from desolation by a bloody and aggressive battle in order to be transformed into new human beings.” Moreover, as exemplified here, the spiritual attitude of KKL to agriculture promoted the Zionist moral right to own the land, to feel sense of belonging to it and even to be reborn from the renewed land (Schnell, 1998). Ultimately, the government and the heads of the KKL were the critical players in the debate concerning the Hachula project, although the decision to reserve 4,000 dunams (1,000 acres; 447 ha) for preservation did take into account the position of the green activists. This “allowance” was made after Mendelson, the head of the committee for the protection of nature, met with Weitz, the head of the KKL. One important long term consequence of the greens’ campaign was the establishment of the first environmentalist non-governmental organization (NGO) in Israel. A particularly revealing debate developed around the decision to preserve 4,000 dunams (1,000 acres; 447 ha). Surprisingly, Mendelson and his green associates accepted the principle of land development and redemption, revealing their deep rooted alignment with Zionist ideology, asking merely to rescue a small corner of the swamp. One of the leading activists, Azaria Alon, wrote: “If we were a larger and richer country perhaps we would have the ability and the obligation to preserve the Hachula swamp as a national park. It is probably impossible to expect it, therefore we have to choose the least damaging solution: to preserve 4000 dunams. . . . We have to hope that the vegetation and the animals will agree to frugality and will find the way to arrange their life in the preservation” (Alon, 1956). According to Mendelson, even these restricted demands of the green activists were met with strong disapproval. Yosef Weitz, the head of the KKL, screamed at him: “Go out! You are completely crazy! You suggest throwing the Jews to the sea in order to keep the wild animals and vegetation?” (Regev, 1993). In their debate the greens used idealistic arguments, as illustrated by this letter to the government from January 1951: “The swamp area is scientifically extremely important due to its uniqueness. It is the only area outside Tropical Africa in which one can find papyrus and a whole bunch of related vegetation and unique animals. Dozens of scientific expeditions in the last decades have confirmed this evaluation” (Committee for Nature Protection, 1951). The activists were excited by the novel principle of preserving a natural ecosystem, but recognized its limitations when applied to the new Israeli state: “Who was even able to think about preserving nature in the years of 1948–9?” (Alon, 1996). The idealistic narrative was presented to the general public by Peter Merom (1961), who published an extremely popular photo book displaying the beauty of the swamp wilderness. It is striking that the activists did not employ more pragmatic arguments. For example, the group did not disseminate the conclusions of a scientific evaluation predicting that the project will not yield the expected results (Ephraim, 1954). In the evaluation it was forecast that digging the peat would recreate swamps and possibly, even renew flooding of the valley. Moreover, there were concerns that the dried peat would create severe environmental problems. The peat could burn the soils, releasing nitrogen into the lake of Galilee and thus result in drinking water of reduced

672

I. Schnell and A. Rosenberg

quality. Most remarkable is the fact that Mendelson did not quote Weitz, who wrote in 1936 before he was involved in the project, that it will be impossible to build houses and agricultural fields on the lands of the lake itself (Weitz, 1936). After agreeing to the 4000 dunam preservation, the government attitude was cynical: The only positive value of the preservation is that it secures from disappearing few swamp vegetations and birds that are not even permanent citizens of our state. In addition, the preservation will secure a few dozens of scientists and a few hundred biology teachers and nature lovers the right to observe these vegetations and birds (Reiskin, 1955).

In the end, the dominant figure that enabled the development of the preservation was the head of the KKL, Weitz. A few weeks after his angry meeting with Mendelson, he was quoted as saying to Mendelson: “Look, I think it is a good idea that the next generations will see after the draining of the last swamp how dreadful were the swamps. I will give you a few dunams.” In response to concerns about the economic benefits of the project, Brutzkus from the national planning unit in the Ministry of Interior is said to have responded famously that: “Zionist peat will not disappoint us.” Whether Brutzkus spoke these words or not, they epitomized the Zionist Zeitgeist. In summary, the debate about the Hachula project was framed by the belief that there is a historical responsibility to fight nature in order to domesticate it. Even the reasons for the preservation were framed thus, that it would serve as a memorial to future generations of the great victory over wild nature.

38.4 The Cross Israel Road Project (Road 6) 38.4.1 Background In the mid-sixties a formal planning procedure was introduced in Israel that requires local, regional and national planning committees to approve spatial plans. During the planning procedure, the committees have to consider the environmental and social impacts of spatial plans and are obliged to hear any objections of individuals directly affected by the plans and of third sector institutions. This procedure enables wide public participation in spatial planning. The idea of a Cross Israel Road was first introduced in a national master plan for car and railroads (Master Plan No. 3) and was approved in the year 1976 by the National Planning Committee. Regional committees responsible for the central and the southern regions of Israel assimilated the plan into their regional plans in the early 1980s. Toward the end of the 1980s, discussions started concerning widening the road to a main national route. In response to the absorption of one million immigrants from the former Soviet Union during the 1990s, a new national plan (no. 31) was proposed that would facilitate immigrants to live a commutable distance away from the central urban areas. The widened road was a major feature of this plan. In 1991 the National Road Construction Company carried out profitability tests that validated the economic profitability of the project. In June 1992 a partial plan relating to the central part was delivered to the National Planning Committee, which

38

How Discourse Concerning Megaengineering Projects

673

decided to order an environmental impact assessment report, to obtain the opinion of the regional committees and to open the plan to public debate. In November the government established a management company, Hoze Israel, to supervise the project, which in turn was supervised by the Prime Minister’s office. The company initiated another round of economic and transportation profitability tests, the results of which supported earlier conclusions. During 1993 private people that felt negatively affected by the plan as well as municipalities and NGOs registered objections to the plan at the National Committee offices. Due to the large number of objections, a special judge was nominated to weigh the objections. His most influential decision was to reject the demands of man, Nature and Justice Organization to prepare the environmental impact of the whole project as opposed to a few segments impacts, which were under consideration by the National Committee at that time. In 1994 the National Committee rejected also the claim of the same organization that the road is not necessary and their premise that a railroad is more efficient and environmentally friendly. On the contrary, the National Committee accepted the management company’s argument that the road is necessary to avoid transportation catastrophe. Due to this implied sense of urgency, the greens lost their chance to object to the need for the road, and subsequently, which limited their campaign to reducing the negative environmental and social implications of the planned road. Following the decision of the Supreme Court, a comprehensive environmental impact assessment report was not required, only the arguments supporting the construction decision. The NGOs decided to delay any public demonstrations against the road, but rather to rely on their institutionalized campaign. In 1995 the Knesset (the Israeli Parliament) approved the Cross Israel Road Law, which shortened procedures for expropriating lands for the project and allowed the road to be operated as a toll road. The management company (Hoze Israel) subcontracted a private consortium (Derech Eretz) to build, finance, and operate the road, and agreed to protect the consortium from risk, should road usage be lower than predicted. Building work started in 1999 and it was only then that the general public became aware of the environmental implications of the road. Fifty-four Knesset members from both sides of the political spectrum, but mainly from the opposition, started collaborating with 33 NGOs, including environmental and social ones, and with intellectuals and celebrities to challenge the need for the road. They demonstrated against construction work, but their campaign was organized too late to stop the project.

38.4.2 Goals The Cross Israel Road was intended to become the backbone of the Israeli transportation system. The goals set by the planners of the road were as follows: 1. To bring the national periphery closer to the center, 2. To facilitate distribution of the one million immigrants from the former Soviet Union to the national periphery,

674

I. Schnell and A. Rosenberg

3. To become a main outer ring road for the metropolitan area of Tel Aviv. A set of East-West main roads was planned to enable easy access from the road to the main cities in the metropolitan area. 4. To ease the transportation congestion in the central area of Israel, and 5. To serve as an artery for international commuting between Israel and Arab neighboring countries once there is peace in the Middle East. The route of the road is shown in Fig. 38.3. In the south the road will reach Beer Sheba. In the north the road will split at Yokneam, in order to serve both the western and eastern regions. The road will consist of 3–4 lanes in each direction.

38.4.3 Outcome In 2008 121 km (75.1 mi) were constructed with two lanes in each direction. The road almost reaches the city of Beer Sheba in the southern periphery, but reaches only Yokneam in the north. A whole set of east-west roads connect the Cross Israel Road to different metropolitan cities. Despite the fact that travel time from the South has been reduced significantly, the main economic impact of the road consisted in the industrial and urban developments flourishing around the main intersections of the Cross Israel Road expanding east of the metropolitan area. Thus far the government did not have to subsidize the consortium since the demand for the road meets predictions. The company continues to build the road, intending to finish the project according to plan.

38.4.4 Discourse The debate regarding the Cross Israel Road began in the early 1990s and expanded during the first decade of the new millennium. All players addressed economic, social, political and environmental impacts of the project, but camouflaged their real interests. The debate took place among formal institutions, such as the government, the Ombudsman, the Supreme Court and the Knesset. However, academics took an active role in the debate, with various scholars presenting divergent ideas based on research financed by different players in the debate. Notably, research results were debated widely in the media and several journalists wrote about the project reports in editorials. In this section we present the main pro and con arguments according to four main considerations: economic, social, political and environmental. 38.4.4.1 The Economic Discourse The main motivations of the government and the consortium of investors were economic, however, their economic justification was laconic. They referred frequently to the successful profitability test performed by the government road company. In their Internet site, the consortium contrasted their investment of more

38

How Discourse Concerning Megaengineering Projects

675

Fig. 38.3 Route of the cross Israel road. (Source: Thye Derech Eretz Internet site, www.kvish6. co.il)

than $US 1.25 billion in the road with the government investment of less than one billion, and highlighted their promise that after 30 years the road would be transferred to the government for free. They stressed that the profitability test proved that the significant reduction of driving time would engender considerable savings for the national economy. This opinion was backed by one of the more influential neoliberal economic journalists, Strassler, who wrote in Ha’aretz (1999): “There is a

676

I. Schnell and A. Rosenberg

clear association between the Cross Israel Road and economic growth, employment and welfare.” There were serious attacks on these economic evaluations. The Ombudsman wrote in his report (1997 report 47–48) “From the efficiency test performed by the company it appears that there is no such project in western countries and not even a professional report about a toll road on the scale of route 6 (Cross Israel Road) in which the payments cover all the construction and operation expenses.” Academics, journalists and NGOs articulated their doubts in four arguments. The first argument contested whether the road would indeed prove economically profitable. They pointed out “If it (the road) were competitive there would be no need for the government to ensure risks” (Rosen, 2000). They drew attention to the fact that “predictions of transportation loads were based on the assumption that drivers would not be required to pay tolls. Once they will have to pay tolls, transportation loads will be lower than predicted” (Zafrir, 2000b). A more comprehensive report published by the urban economist Borochov (Shir, 1994) argued that the calculations of the profitability tests were erroneous: transport loads and the economic value of time savings ($10 dollars/h) had been overestimated, whereas requisite compensations for confiscated lands had been underestimated and the loss of profit from two national parks in the vicinity of the road had not been taken into account. The second argument claimed that the road would stimulate industrialization along its route and the development of suburbs. In turn, these suburbs would damage the environment in the central region of Israel, strengthen dependency on private cars and thus, ultimately, create more transport congestion. These ideas were put forward by the Ombudsman, academics and the media and are summarized in this quotation from the Ombudsman’s report: The inter-relations between land uses and transportation systems are crucial, especially in a small country like Israel. Therefore, it is particularly important to expand the use of public transportation, which requires compact towns. If route 6 increases suburbanization its faults will overcome its benefits. There is a need to calculate the costs of the threat of transforming the central region into a suburbanized metropolitan area that relies on private car transportation. In the beginning, the road will reduce congestion but in the long run it will increase demands for cars as much as it will block the development of the northern and the southern periphery (The Ombudsman report, 1997: 47–48).

Dozens of articles and interviews touched on aspects of this argument during the early 2000s. The third argument related to the reduced motivation of the government to develop public transportation over the next 30 years, because any competition to the road would increase the likelihood that the government would be required to compensate the Derech Eretz consortium (Zafrir, 2000b). Finally the fourth economic argument against the road challenged strongly the prediction that the project would reduce unemployment. Dr. Sheiness foresaw that most of the workers would be cheaper foreign ones (Sheiness, 1998, 2000).

38

How Discourse Concerning Megaengineering Projects

677

38.4.4.2 The Social Discourse The social discourse was framed around three aspects: the contribution of the road in reducing discrepancies between central and peripheral Israel; the likelihood that the road would benefit primarily more wealthy suburban citizens; and, the risk that land acquisitions would incur suffering among the more vulnerable Arab population living along the road. The consortium argued that the Cross Israel Road would help close the gap between the national core and the periphery by providing residents of the periphery improved access to employment, culture and leisure centers (Hoze Israel Internet site). However, in July 2001 the spokesman for the consortium surprised audiences by announcing that initially only 90 km (60 mi) in the central region would be built, raising doubts whether the rest (210 km; 130 mi) would ever be built and negating their own argument that the road would connect the center to the peripheries. When responding to the challenge that the Cross Israel Road would benefit more wealthy citizens, the consortium countered that it would be the rich that bear the financial burden of the project as it is financed privately and only car owners pay tolls. Moreover, the consortium advocated that as the rich would be using the Cross Israel Road, the poor would experience less congestion on regular roads and public transport. Furthermore, they suggested that money saved by the government thanks to the Cross Israel Road should allow the government to invest in alternative transportation systems for the poor. Those opposed to the Cross Israel Road rejected the latter premise outright. As outlined in the economic discourse, they believed the government will be disinclined to develop public transport systems since these could reduce the profitability of the Cross Israel Road project (Assidon, 2000; Zafrir, 1997). Regarding the consortium’s declaration that the financial burden would be borne by the private sector, it was shown by social organizations that the government was in fact subsidizing the rich investors by at least $US 1.5 billion; money that the activists claimed should have been invested in improving life conditions for the poor. In their Internet site these social organizations claimed that the government was responsible for developing the intersections of the Cross Israel Road and several main roads connecting it to cities in the metropolitan area, highly expensive works. Moreover, activists claimed that the government, and not the consortium, compensated land owners along the route, spending thus about $US 1 billion. In light of such massive government spending on the Cross Israel Road, the activists asserted that the richest segments of Israeli society had succeeded in exploiting the government and in hiding this exploitation by arguing that the Cross Israel Road was financed by the private sector (Facts collection, The Movement for Social Justice from Below). The third facet of social discourse relating to Arab lands was particularly sensitive due to the history of how Arab lands had been acquired in the past. In the case of the Cross Israel Road, about 10% of the land was acquired from Arab citizens. While most of the Jewish landowners were compensated with money, the government company compensated Arab landowners with alternative lands in the

678

I. Schnell and A. Rosenberg

vicinity of their towns. Thus, they succeeded in avoiding any violent public protests by the Arab community. 38.4.4.3 The Environmental Discourse The most intensive debate surrounding the Cross Israel Road project focused on environmental issues. Most of the NGOs, demonstrators and activities were motivated by environmental concerns. The most prominent arguments put forward by those opposed to the road related to aesthetics. The road would cross about 15 km (9.3 mi) of park forests and other rich ecosystems, some of the last remaining open spaces in central Israel, referred to by some as the “Tuscany of Israel.” The neo-liberal journalist Shtrasler countered that the Cross Israel Road would expose people to nature. Accordingly, the Internet site of Hoze Israel advertises nature trips that can be taken by taking advantage of the Cross Israel Road. However, most of the opinions presented in the media decried the destruction of the few beautiful Israeli landscapes and recreation areas in central Israel (Assir-Ytzik, 2004; Mendelson, 2000; Sofer, 2006). The NGO Man Nature and Justice (2007) despaired that “those who reach the Israel valley will not experience anymore the existing pastoral space but huge hazardous intersections and endless spaces of asphalt.” Taking a historical spin, transportation consultant Daniel Morgenstern (2006) emphasized the expected destruction of the ancient Kishon River, where the Biblical prophetess Devorah won her battle. Several journalists and NGOs argued that the last natural landscapes of the central region would be destroyed to a degree that would force the authorities to close national parks in the area. They emphasized that the road itself will cover 55,000 km2 (21,070 mi2 ) of land in asphalt and that connecting roads and intersections, industrial zones and suburbs would cover much more land in asphalt (see Zafrir, 1995). Other prominent arguments put forward by those opposed to the road related to ethical aspects and focused on the poisoning of underground water and air and on the noise that the road would create. For example, Uri Sheiness (2000) reported that private cars create 100 times more pollution than a railroad system and Shir Roni (1994) quoted a research predicting that the Cross Israel Road would exacerbate damage to the ozone layer. There were two main arguments concerning underground water pollution, which led to involvement of the Supreme Court. The first focused on the asphalted areas causing reduced infiltration of water into the ground, thus indirectly affecting the quality of groundwater. The second related to a more immediate risk to the integrity of groundwater due to the washing of oil and metallic wastes from cars into the vulnerable groundwater reservoir of the coastal plain. “The road crosses the main reservoir of groundwater in Israel. Surveys prove the high vulnerability of groundwater to washed pollutions. Despite this, the consortium’s experts avoided this problem” (Cross Israel Road Conference, 2001). The high speed movement of trucks and other cars was expected to cause severe noise problems for 27 villages and towns close to the planned route. Environmentalists and social organizations dealt with this issue differently. While social organizations suggested distancing the road from existing towns (see the

38

How Discourse Concerning Megaengineering Projects

679

Internet site of the Movement for Social Change from Below), environmentalist NGOs preferred to construct the road close to built up areas in order to preserve open spaces. The consortium’s managers accused the Association for the Protection of Nature of favoring the well-being of nature above human well being (Zafrir, 1998). People in affected towns requested noise reducing technologies, as were implemented in many areas along the road, e.g. in Kfar Saba (Zafrir, 2000a).

38.5 Conclusions Four aspects summarize the two decision making processes under discussion: the players, the main discourse, the framing of the debate, and the decision itself. Only three players were involved in the Hachula decision making process, each populated by the Zionist elite. In contrast, the decision making process for the Cross Israel Road involved many players, including the government, the Supreme Court, the Ombudsman, the Parliament, the social and environmental NGOs, the media and thousands of activists. The bureaucracy worked under laws that formally regulate the public debate in a transparent way. Many important decisions concerning the Hachula project took place behind closed doors among people with no formal backing, whereas decisions about the Cross Israel Road were formally made and backed by the Parliament. The wider public did not participate in decision making concerning the Hachula project. In the case of the Cross Israel Road project, the players attempted to enlist the general public to their own standpoints. The main discourse guiding the debate over Hachula was a national one, saturated with Zionist pioneering narratives that eulogized the brave and a determined battle of humans against the wild. Suggesting this encounter not only redeems land but also generates the new Jew. In sharp contrast, the discourse concerning the Cross Israel Road lacked any traditional Zionist rhetoric. It developed as a debate between the government and the consortium’s economic interests inspired by neo-liberal ideology and between NGO’s inspired by an ideology of sustainability. The debate was framed by arguments relating to the social and environmental impact of the project on a large part of the population and by evaluations of economic benefits. These three aspects were debated in the media, Parliament and formal committees, so that all voices were heard. Despite differences in the players and the main discourse and the debate frame, the final decisions were similar for both megaengineering projects. In both cases the need for the project itself was barely discussed. In the case of the Hachula project, the greens succeeded in negotiating a compromise, whereby 4,000 dunams (1,000 acres) were preserved. In the case of the Cross Israel Road project, environmental activists managed to ensure that the consortium was accountable for the environmental impact of the project. Nonetheless, other critical differences between the two decision making processes enumerated above support the premise that Israeli society is changing from a hegemonic system to a model closer to deliberative democracy.

680

I. Schnell and A. Rosenberg

References Alon, A. (1956). About trees and stones, Hakibutz Hameuhad: Tel Aviv, in To Hachula before it Disappears, Karnenu, Issue C-D, p. 15. Alon, A. (1996). Hachula – past and present. Country and Nature, 42, 87, 90. Ashenden, S. (1999). Questions of criticism – Habermas and Foucault on civil society and resistance. In S. Ashenden & D. Owen (Eds.), Foucault contra Habermas (pp. 143–165). New York: Sage. Assir-Ytzik, Z. (2004). Cross Israel road – The Road in the middle, the logic – aside. – Aside. Man, Nature and Justice, November 10. Assidon, Y. (2000, April–May). The road that will cross Israel socially and politically. Green, Blue, White. Ben-Gal, M. (2003). The potential of framing analysis for environmental conflict resolution and management (pp. 16–20). University of Haifa, Faculty of Social Sciences, Department of Geography and Environmental Studies. Haifa, Istael. Ben Rafael, E. (2000). Collective identity in Israel. In H. Herzog (Ed.), Society in the mirror (pp. 489–514). Tel Aviv: Ramot, Tel Aviv University (Hebrew). Berachiahu, A. (1958). Hachula drainage in its final stage, Karnenu, Issue A, 2–5. Blass, S. (1950a). A Minister of Treasury, Letter to the Ministry of Agriculture, State Archives, 14 June. Blass, S. (1950b). Hachula Drainage Plan – General Layout, Ministry of Agriculture, Internal Report, State Archives, 12 November. Committee for Nature Protection. (1951). Scientific and Cultural Plan Implementation, Letter to the Government, State Archives. Cross Israel Road Conference on Economical and Environmental Aspects. (2001). Academic Conference, 21 January. Dar, M. (2000). The Virtual Hachula – Lake Hachula’s story. The Nature of Things, 55, 100–117. Ephraim, A. (1954). The peat. Karnenu, 31(Issue D), 6–7. Eagleton, T. (1991). Ideology: An introduction. New York: Verso. Foucault, M. (1977). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison. New York: Vintage Books. Goffman, E. (1974). Frame analysis: An essay on the organization of experience. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. In M. Ben-Gal (Ed.) (2003). The potential of framing analysis for environmental conflict resolution and management (p. 16). University of Haifa, Faculty of Social Sciences, Department of Geography and Environmental Studies. MA U.S.A. Gordon, B. (1999). Public discourse and decision making. Accounting, Auditing & Accountability Journal, 13(1), 27–64. Goren, A. (1995). The Hachula Lake will not become peat. Green, Blue, White, Issue 5, 22–24. Government Session Protocol (1950). March 29. Gramsci, A. (1971). Selection from the prison notebooks. In: Q. Hoare, & G. N. Smith (Eds.), Selection from the prison notebooks. London: Cambridge University Press. Granot, A. (1950). KKL approaching its 50th anniversary. Karnenu, Issue A–B, 3, 23. Gvirtzman, C. (2002). Water resources in Israel: Chapters in hydrology and environment (pp. 55–57). Jerusalem: Yad Ytzhak Ben-Zvi. Habermas, J. (1996). The inclusion of the other. Boston: MIT Press. Hachula (1950). Karnenu, Issue A-B, December, pp. 14–15 Hachula Drainage Committee. (1949). January 6. Horovitz, D. & Lisak, M. (1990). Hardships in utopia: Israel – A besieged society (pp. 125–141, 142–197). Tel Aviv: Am Oved. Hoze Israel Internet Site. Retrieved from http://www.hozeisrael.co.il I saw, I heard, Haaretz, May 9th 1954. Kaufman, S., & Smith, J. (1999). Framing and reframing land use change conflicts. Journal of Architecture, Planning and Research, 16(2), 164–180. KKL Board of Directors Session Protocol. (1950a). September 24.

38

How Discourse Concerning Megaengineering Projects

681

KKL Board of Directors Session Protocol. (1950b). November 11. Lights and Shadows. (1952). Yediot Ahronot, March 8. Livne, M. (1994). Hachula drainage – advantages and disadvantages. Ecology and Environment, 4(1), 27–36. Man, Nature and Justice Accomplishment – Tunneling Road 6 under the Carmel Mountain will be Considered (2007). July 5. Man, Nature and Justice Internet Site. Retrieved from http://www.yarok.org.il Mautner, M., Sagi, A., & Shamir, R. (1998). Thoughts on multi-culturalism. In M. Mautner, A. Sagi, & R. Shamir (Eds.), Multi-Culturalism in a Democratic and Jewish State (pp. 67–76). Ramot: Tel Aviv (Hebrew). Mendelson, A. (2000). July 13. Cross Israel Road – A new faze in the struggle. The Moose. Merom, P. (1961). The poem of the dying lake. Tel Aviv: Ministry of Defense. Movement for Social Change from Below. Retrieved from http://www.bdidut.com Morgenstern, D. (2006). Erase Israel Road, Yediot Ahronot, February 20. Observed and Heard. (1954). Haaretz, State Archives, The Zelkind File, May 9. Ombudsman Report. (1997–8). Segments 47–48. Ophir, A. (2001) The civil society in a Neversleeping City. In Y. Peled & A. Ophir (Eds.), Israel: From recruited society to civil society (pp. 113–130). Jerusalem: Van Leer Institute. Regev, O. (1993). Forty years of bloom: The Nature Protection Association, 1953–1993 (pp.18–19). Tel Aviv: Nature Protection Association. Reiskin, Y. (1955). The Nature Reserve in Hachula, Ministry of Agriculture, Letter to Gvati H., Ministry of Agriculture General Manager, State Archives. Rosen, B. (2000). Transport is for people, not for cars. Haaretz, April 25. Rosen, L. (2001). The notion of civil society. In Y. Peled & A. Ophir (Eds.), Israel: From recruited society to civil society (pp. 27–34). Jerusalem: Van Leer Institute. Schnell, I. (1997). Nature and environment in the Socialist-Zionist perceptions: Sense of desolation. Ecumene, 4(1), 69–85. Schnell, I. (1998). Transformations in the myth of the inner valleys as a Zionist place. Philosophy and Geography, 3, 97–118. Scott, L. (1995). Teledemocracy vs. deliberative democracy: A comparative look at two models of public talk. Journal of Interpersonal Computing and Technology, 3(2), 33–40. Shacham, G. (1994). The Hachula Project – Dynamics of human interference with nature. Ecology and Environment, 4(1), 76–89. Sheiness, U. (1998). Who wants the road. Haaretz, August 2. Sheiness, U. (2000). An amateur planning bordering on criminal negligence. Green, Blue, White, 31, 11–23. Shir, R. (1994). A way without way-out. Green, Blue, White, Issue 1, 7–12. Sofer, G. (2006). The pawed mountain air. Yediot Ahronot, December 1. Strassler, N. (1999). The swamp dragonfly. Haaretz, November 11. Weitz, J. (1936). Notes in the report on draining the Hachula Swamps, Zionist Archive 996725S. Yakobovitz, M. (1971). Water resources in Israel (pp. 73–76). Jerusalem: Shikmona Publishing Company Ltd. Zafrir, R. (1995). One step forward, One step backward. Haaretz, February 14. Zafrir, R. (1997). The blurred green line. Haaretz, February 5. Zafrir, R. (1998). Drawings in place of signposts. Haaretz, June 18. Zafrir, R. (2000a). A nuisance perfectly decorated. Haaretz, January 26. Zafrir, R. (2000b). Cross Israel Road was finally authorized and now specialists raise doubts. Haaretz, April 13.

Chapter 39

Built in a Field of Dreams? Spatial Engineering and Political Symbolism of South Africa’s Rapid Rail Link Development, Gautrain Ronnie Donaldson and Janis van der Westhuizen

39.1 Introduction Over a period of four decades, black South Africans were systematically marginalized, among others, in terms of accommodation, leisure, employment, and transport. The apartheid city model encapsulates the spatial outcomes of apartheid vividly. Spatial features of urban space prominent in all urban areas outside the former homelands included among many other issues. These included the spatial segregation of residential areas based on race, language and class, of which the black townships are mostly disadvantaged by being located on the periphery of cities; the use of buffer zones to separate different social groupings and land uses, the designing of black townships within a military framework of mind to control access points to and from the areas; and the restriction on homeownership and permanency in urban areas of black citizens. One of the greatest spatial challenges to overcome in the post-apartheid city therefore is the inequality and spatial inefficiency caused by apartheid planning. As a consequence of the above spatialities, South African cities in the aftermath of apartheid were characterized by low-density sprawl, fragmentation and separation, all which h contributed to the dysfunctional structure where privilege was racially determined (Donaldson & Van der Merwe, 2000). One megaengineering project that aims to restructure the apartheid city form is the Gautrain rapid rail link. An overarching aim of the Gautrain project is to restructure the urban form, creating a corridor of development around the railway line and establishing a good mix of land uses within this corridor. Given the dysfunctional nature of South African cities to achieve a new urban form, growth has to be deliberately directed, and densified in selected areas (www.gautrain.co.za). This chapter briefly refers to the post-apartheid planned response to undoing the urban form from a spatial point of view, focusing specifically on the Gautrain. After providing a brief background to the apartheid spatial legacy, two key points are R. Donaldson (B) Department of Geography and Environmental Studies, University of Stellenbosch, Stellenbosch, Western Cape Matieland 7602, South Africa e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_39,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

683

684

R. Donaldson and J. van der Westhuizen

made. First, that in terms of spatial engineering, the Gautrain and associated corridor city form is problematic for at least six reasons. Second, considerations of political symbolism seem to have played a decisive part in the decision to embark on an engineering project as massive as the Gautrain rapid rail link.

39.2 Restructuring the Apartheid Spatial Legacy After 1994 many policy documents aimed at the spatial integration of urban areas were formulated. The first piece of legislation that dealt with undoing the spatial legacy of urban forms was the Development Facilitation Act (DFA) of 1995. One of its aims was to override the existing apartheid planning legislation. The DFA was linked to those of the Reconstruction and Development Programme (RDP) in formulating and guiding planning legislation that would subordinate “local planning to metropolitan/district, provincial and national development planning (for example, by reducing the status of local plans which are automatically overridden by higher levels of planning).” The DFA would “serve to guide the administration of any physical plan, transport plan, guide plan, structure plan, zoning scheme or any like plan or scheme” (RSA, 1995). The principles of the DFA fall, according to Emdon (1994) into five categories: (1) restructuring of the spatial environment aimed at correcting the racial settlement pattern; (2) general city-planning principles that encourage the emergence of compact cities that would prevent further urban sprawl, a prominent characteristic feature of the South African urban landscape – and also encourage mixed land use and integrated land development; (3) promoting the creation of sustainable cities; (4) promoting stakeholder involvement that would be transparent to all involved during the process of restructuring; and (5) capacity building which would involve active public participation. Numerous policy documents and legislation related to urban form were subsequently formulated by numerous ministries such as the governmental departments of Transport (Moving South Africa), Land Affairs (White Paper on Spatial Planning and Land Use Management), Housing (Housing Act; Breaking New Ground), Department of Provincial and Local Government (Local Government White Paper; Municipal Systems Act) and in the Office of the President (National Spatial Development Perspective). To date, no coherent national urban development policy or legislation has been formulated. The above policy and planning guidelines point towards a compact city scenario as a solution for urban spatial inefficiencies in the apartheid cities. In this regard, development corridors are said to connect major nodes to create a purposeful interaction that would require high density development, both residential and commercial, along transport routes. It is meaningful from a theoretical point of view to postulate a corridor city development concept especially in a fragmented urban spatial setting such as the apartheid city (Green, Aberman, & Dominik, 2002; Harrison, Todes, & Watson, 1997; Tait et al., 1999). The likely outcomes of urban corridor development are well documented (Harrison et al., 1997: 49; Tait et al., 1999;

39

Built in a Field of Dreams?

685

Urban-Econ, 1997). Many South African municipalities have adapted their spatial plans to incorporate land use corridors as a planning tool for spatial, economic and social restructuring and integration (Donaldson, 2000; Green et al., 2002). Given the monofunctional land uses in South African cities, greater levels of economic efficiency and productivity could lead to more efficient utilization of infrastructure and resources and increased economic linkages. The integration of land-use and transport planning in turn can lead to increased accessibility and may discourage urban sprawl where it is expected that existing and new urban nodes will create a different form of development. This development is particularly important for low income areas, viz., the previously segregated black group areas, to use transport routes to integrate urban areas and to create activity spines that would enhance the economic potential of previously disadvantaged communities (Dewar, 1994; Green, Naude, & Hennessy, 1995). The process of undoing the apartheid urban form paved the way for restructuring a new urban form. Decentralized nodes that have developed since the 1970s as suburban shopping centers are becoming a characteristic feature in most South African cities. Compaction, mixed land use and urban infill are evident in these areas that are regarded as cities-within-cities. Absolute decentralized areas are thus far only occurring in the former white group areas of cities. These absolute decentralized areas are linked to each other by development corridors which indeed link all previously separated parts of the city. Along these corridors, mixed income and mixed land-use areas are contributing to the integration of urban society. Socially engineered policy such as gradual downgrading will specifically be implemented adjacent to the former white group area side of the city. Decentralized nodes in the former black, colored and Indian townships will develop differently to those of the former white areas. These areas are seen as areas of opportunity spaces because they lacked any normal form of urban development during apartheid. Here the degree of private-public initiative and investment (especially from black empowerment groups) will determine the degree of successful urban growth. Some of the successful examples are the shopping malls and hotels springing up in Soweto, the country’s largest “black township.” Structural deficiencies in the apartheid city, resulting from segregation and low density sprawl, created long distance work travel patterns. The dual nature of apartheid urban spatial planning is evident in the country’s transport system with “a car-based system in the most developed areas, where an American way of life generously distributes houses, malls, services and offices in such a way that automobile use is almost compulsory” and the “semi-managed system in the poorest areas, where people have to get by moving through various modes, from on-foot transportation or bikes, to buses, minibus taxis, commuter trains, and sometimes cars or trucks” (de Saint-Laurent, 1998 no pages). Amongst whites, 90% use a car as mode of transport in comparison to 11% of blacks (UNCHS, 1997: 154). Motor vehicle ownership patterns in South Africa are no different from the worldwide observation in that there is a strong relationship between growth in vehicle ownership and growth of per capita income (Richardson, Bae, & Baxamusa, 2000). In South Africa this is exemplified in a skewed pattern. It is thus not surprising that an improved transport

686

R. Donaldson and J. van der Westhuizen

and subsequent land use planning play a crucial role in reshaping urban form. And probably the best case study to illustrate this development is the megaengineering project called the Gautrain rapid rail link.

39.3 Gautrain Background Since the mid-1990s the Johannesburg–Pretoria corridor, and to a lesser extent the corridor to the Johannesburg International Airport, has been the fastest growing development area in South Africa. According to the provincial government, the need for the rapid rail link is threefold and is indeed seen as an essential tool for restructuring urban space. From a spatial point of view, the broad focus of the Gautrain corridor development is integration, coupled with economic development. Like many infrastructure related developments, the impact of the project on alleviating unemployment will mainly be experienced during construction: 18,000 people will probably be employed over a 20-year period. The project aims to construct a state-of-the-art rapid rail connection, which would be the first for South Africa. The total length will be approximately 50 mi (84 km), and the train will travel at speeds between 99 and 112 m/h (159 and 180 km/h) (Fig. 39.1). Travel time between Pretoria and Johannesburg is estimated to be 40 min (currently with congestion it can take up to 2 h by car), and an estimated 64,000 passenger trips per day is foreseen. The three anchor stations are to be the CBDs of the two cities and the Johannesburg international airport (Fig. 39.2). Another six stations are proposed at development nodes. The three anchor stations are in line with the national government’s urban renewal strategy that emphasizes inner city redevelopment. In February 2000 the provincial Premier announced the proposed development of a rapid rail system. The proposed “Gautrain” link has undergone an Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA) spanning a year-long period (2002–2003). The record of decision was published in January 2004 and the project was approved giving consideration to some important issues emanating from the EIA, including that the initial alignment would be extensively modified.

39.4 Spatial Engineering1 The planners for the Gautrain based their considerations for the alignment and subsequent high density developments on elements considered important to influence the feasibility and technical elements of mass rail transport. The main land use considerations for the alignments were the following: location of main population concentrations and main areas of employment; main movement patterns; natural environment; and, development trends in residential and employment areas. The Gauteng Province government’s aim to restructure a new urban form, through the creation of an intensive zone of development in a mixed land use

39

Built in a Field of Dreams?

687

Fig. 39.1 Gautrain route. (Cartography by Dick Gilbreath; map source: www.gautrain.co.za)

fashion along a linear corridor rapid rail line, is similar in idea to other developing cities of the world such as Hong Kong, Singapore and São Paulo. Gautrans aims to create an intensive zone of development along a linear corridor rapid rail line where station intensification in a mixed land use mode is to take place. The aim is to attract the potential riders (affluent and currently mainly white) of the train to live within walking distance to these stations or to make use of the feeder system. It is, however, necessary to consider the spatial legacy of apartheid and the reorganization of urban spaces in a democratic society when planning for a rapid rail transport corridor (Fig. 39.3). From a planning perspective, the thinking behind the Gautrain and the associated corridor city form is in this context problematic to us in six ways. First, the identification of the stations does not reflect the current urban developmental trends in the one anchor city, Pretoria. When residential and employment densities areas used as a variable to determine station location, the identified location for the Pretoria CBDs station is substantiated, while the

688

R. Donaldson and J. van der Westhuizen

Fig. 39.2 Sign depicting Gautrain construction. (Source: authors)

Fig. 39.3 Gautrain construction at Tambo international airport. (Source: authors)

second station at Hatfield is not. Second, the stated preference survey in combination with travel-origin patterns is not a realistic representation of reality. The fact that little emphasis was given to the stated preference survey during the EIA

39

Built in a Field of Dreams?

689

process is because many observers speculated that it would not be worth contesting the overall project, as most communities focused on their own local situations. Third, expecting the potential riders/commuters, primarily whites living in suburban houses, to relocate to live in the so-called zone of extensive development along the corridor or in the high-density node surrounding the stations (within 5 min walk), or making use of the park-and-ride facility, is optimistic. According to Kenworthy and Laube (2002: 18), densification and mixed land uses at station nodes are more effective globally than park-and-ride systems. The proposed park and-ride system is typically an American phenomenon and “is not favoured as a way of helping transit to improve its performance” (Kenworthy & Laube, 2002: 18). Fourth, social–cultural concerns were not taken into consideration, especially the belief of the communities that property values will deteriorate in the vicinity of the station and railway line. One of the essential principles in compact city development is based on the assumption that car ownership is negatively related to urban density and that a reduction in the use of car ownership is considered important (Cullinane, 2003). In the post-apartheid city, “South Africans have anti-urban values” that support low density mono-functional sprawl as opposed to higher density living (Schoonraad, 2000: 227). International experience also indicates that cultural preferences and lifestyles must be recognized when planning for densities around stations (Van Wee, 2002). Furthermore residents in Pretoria felt that heritage conservation and social aspects, such as place identity, have been ignored. In addition, of great concern to affected Pretoria residents are the planned interventions surrounding the stations and park-and-ride facilities, and the practical implications of the project. Most important, residents are concerned about the viability of the whole project, especially since the targeted riders are known to live in the eastern suburbs which the alignment will not reach in the first phase of planning. Fifth, the success or failure of urban transport planning will be measured in terms of the completeness of the system. There is no real evidence that through land use planning and developments, the poor will benefit. Gautrans justified the project in the context of the National Transport Act, which in turn, is based on the government’s policy of GEAR (Growth, Employment and Redevelopment). This policy stipulates that public transport should be a commercial and not a social service. From a social perspective, the most obvious criticism against the planned rail link is the mobility-related exclusion. The main target markets for the rapid link are current car owners and users. Overambitious and politically motivated statements in the Gautrans inception report argued that “it is possible that there may be some opposition from people who may be against the market focus, as it is not solely targeted at the poor. The fact remains that the poor will continue to suffer unless the public transport system is improved” (www.gautrain.co.za 2002). International research indicates that there is little evidence about the direct impact of metro projects on the urban poor. There is, however, consensus that the poor cannot afford to use metros, that jobs are created during construction but not thereafter, and that metros will increase land prices near stations, leading to the displacement of the poor, especially from the inner city (Fox, 2000).

690

R. Donaldson and J. van der Westhuizen

As a sixth point, the Corridor City development currently proposed by the Gauteng Government resembles Beavon’s (2000) argument, viz., a creation of a neo-apartheid spatial structure, based on socioeconomic class that is inherently coupled to race. That the project has been the object of criticism from such a varied constituency, including the middle as well as the working classes. The sheer costs involved as well as the relatively small numbers of passengers have certainly deflated the train’s symbolic salience. In fact, the risk may well be that the Gautrain becomes a symbol not only of modernity and affluence, but class-based exclusion, if it ultimately essentially transits the suburban middle class. Hence at the launch of construction on 28 September 2006, the Minister of Transport, Jeff Radebe (2006: 2) took pains to note that this is not about elite public transport but its about creating a mass transit system that caters for workers and business people, civil servants and scholars, shoppers and leisure seekers to get them where they want to be – safely, securely and affordably. Moreover, the train aims to “produce a mass transit system that will take Gauteng long into the future, with buses, taxis, pedestrians and commuter trains operating in a new context of rationalized subsidization and route determination hand in hand with Gautrain” (Radebe, 2006: 2). This anticipation is most evident given the lack of planned interventions in underdeveloped or decaying areas such as CBDs. Gautrans even accepts that the potential of creating a new urban form is obviously more likely in the developing areas, where intervention can more easily occur. In the South African situation where it is stated that the main aim of compaction is to reduce sprawl, but also to plan for the poor to be located near major transport corridors, it is likely that these areas near the station and along the corridor must cater to the low middle income groups in society because affluent people prefer suburbia. However, in line with the White Paper on Local Government, there is no clarity in the Gautrain proposal that not only mixed land use but also mixed income areas will be taken into consideration, especially when planning for high density residential development around the stations. The questions remain: what and how will the proposed developments surrounding the stations benefit the poor in terms of employment and housing remains uncertain, which is after all one of the aims of numerous government policies such as the Development Facilitation Act, Urban Development Framework, Transport Policy and White Paper on Local Government? In addition to the above six point, we argue below that megaengineering projects are often closely identified with the state and the government in power. Hence the notion of these ventures as “legacies” is to ensure considerable visibility and the demonstration of technological prowess.

39.5 Megaengineering Projects as Political Symbols2 Although Gautrain’s proponents primarily discuss the project in utilitarian terms, their descriptive discourse provides a glimpse into the high-speed train’s symbolic significance. At the launch of the Gautrain project, former Gauteng premier, Mbhazima Shilowa noted that a dedicated service for local and international air

39

Built in a Field of Dreams?

691

passengers will be created with decentralized check-in facilities available at Sandton station as is the case in London and Stockholm. The price of an air ticket will be able to include a train trip to and from Sandton and passengers will be able to weigh in baggage at Sandton. An air ticket will, therefore, also be able to stipulate, for example, London to Sandton or Sandton to Cape Town. The airport connection service will bring Gauteng in line with many major cities in the world where it is becoming common practice to link cities and international airports by rail. (Shilowa, 2006: 2). According to the then Premier, Gautrain would offer “the choice of a world-class public transport mode’, while pursuing ‘international best practices” and “is the world’s second biggest rail public–private partnership” (Shilowa, 2006: 3–4). For Jeff Radebe, the Minister of Transport, it “will bring a world-class rapid rail system to South Africa for the first time” (Radebe, 2006: 1). These sentiments are of course not unrelated to South Africa’s aspiration to be acknowledged as the leader of Africa and a noted spokesperson for the developing world. As Ignatius Jacobs, Gauteng provincial minister for public transport, roads and works remarked, Gautrain will be “Africa’s first high-speed train” (Joburg, 2006). Indeed, Jacobs wanted the Gautrain “to be a combination of what Amsterdam, London and Japan represented: diversity, multiple languages and a fusion of culture and art,” consistent with Johannesburg’s aspiration to be known as “the African global city.” In launching a competition for the public to vote for a Gautrain logo, the Gauteng minister noted that the brand had to reflect the major cities of Johannesburg, Ekurhuleni and Tshwane and be part ”of a world-class African hub.” State descriptions of these logos are by themselves interesting and may reveal the kind of identity proponents of Gautrain would like it to reflect about South Africa. The official press release emphasizes that a red line in one design represents the “aerodynamic and modern shape of the train,” while green and blue lines suggest the principle of “connection” as the trains travel in different directions (Fig. 39.4). The golden arc that grounds the logo represents the “richness of the Gauteng land” and “exudes worldclass status: it is fresh and modern . . . [to ensure] that the logo can “live” successfully for years to come” (Joburg, 2006). A second, “distinctively South African/African logo” represents Gauteng, “its heritage, its soul and its dreams of a golden future, with the abundant use of gold color for “The Gold Train,” reflecting the significance of the 19th century gold rush which gave rise to Johannesburg. In combination, these “powerful design shapes encompass all that the Gautrain has to offer: speed, efficiency and futuristic world-class design.”

Fig. 39.4 Logo promoting Gautrain. (Source: www.gautrain.co.za)

692

R. Donaldson and J. van der Westhuizen

Flagship megaengineering projects of monumental proportions are often adopted as part of a place-oriented strategy for aspiring global cities, besides the cultivation of cultural producers and consumers for the global city (a people-oriented strategy) and the creation of cultural products (a product-oriented strategy) to enhance a city’s attractiveness (Kong, 2007). Paradoxically, global cities in the advanced industrial world, and not the developing world, are the technological benchmarks, consistent with Johannesburg’s aspiration of being Africa’s premier global city. Hence, according to former Premier Shilowa (2006: 1, 3) the Gautrain is seen to “take us closer to our goal to make Gauteng a “smart” province” and “is critical to Gauteng’s success as a global city region.” In many ways, the Gautrain represents a symbolic demonstration of the kind of advances globalization and technological prowess set in motion and fulfils a fundamental role in signaling South Africa’s ascendance and that of Gauteng in the semiperiphery of the world economy in particular. That the Gautrain has been so closely associated with the preparations for the 2010 FIFA World Cup and the pre-eminence of the linkage to Africa’s biggest and busiest international airport are significant demonstrations of the external face of the country’s marketing power (Black and Van der Westhuizen, 2004). Notions of speed, connectivity and above all, modernity perform a highly strategic discursive role, not only in terms of urban boosterism, but also as a demonstration of South Africa being a part of the African continent. High modernity constitutes the abiding leitmotiv throughout these descriptions. Anchored in the conviction of scientific and technical progress associated with the industrial revolution in Western Europe and North America from the 1830s until the First World War, it has strongly informed notions of state development, though as a faith it was shared across a wide spectrum of political ideologies (Scott, 1998: 88). Promoted by the avant garde among planners, engineers, technocrats, architects, scientists and high level administrators, the temporal emphasis of high modernism is almost exclusively on the future. Although any ideology with a large altar dedicated to progress is bound to privilege the future, high modernism carries this to great lengths. The past is an impediment, a history that must be transcended; the present is the platform for launching plans for a better future. A key characteristic of discourses of high modernism and of the public pronouncements of those states that have embraced it is a heavy reliance on visual images of heroic progress toward a totally transformed future. To the degree that the future is known and achievable, a belief that the faith in progress encourages, the less future benefits are discounted for uncertainty. The practical effect is to convince most high modernists that the certainty of a better future justifies the many short term sacrifices required to get there (Scott, 1998: 95). In this regard, it is instructive to consider former President Mbeki’s intellectual project of an “African Renaissance.” Responding to allegations of Cabinet members’ connivance in governmental approval of the Gautrain, Mbeki lambasted critics for being racist and the assumption of the stereotype that black people are “inherently amoral and corrupt” (‘Mbeki’, 2006). Mbeki’s agitation at criticism of this and other state projects with symbolic value (the 2010 Cup, and possibly the national crime and HIV/Aids debate) may, in part, be driven by a frustration that Africa is being denied the modernity that has enabled other parts of the developing world to

39

Built in a Field of Dreams?

693

be included in the achievements of civilization. This argument raises the question regarding the Gautrain’s success in enhancing South Africa’s marketing power, particularly in relation to its internal or domestic dimension. Although Steinberg (1987: 332) contends that large scale infrastructural projects’ dependence on technological accomplishments serve as confirmations of modernity and are thus potentially neutral, unifying symbols in a divided polity, the Gautrain case seems decidedly more complex and the outcome uncertain. While South African political culture has historically favored a relatively strong central state, with regional rivalries relatively subdued, the post-apartheid state has seen the cities of Cape Town, Durban and Johannesburg competing against one another to draw international capital. In terms of megaprojects these rivalries have been most evident in the case of large international convention complexes, their respective bids for the 2004 Olympic Games and, high speed rapid rail systems. Within nine months of the Cabinet’s approval of the Gautrain, Kwa-Zulu Natal’s transport department unveiled plans for a high speed train between Johannesburg and Durban, expected to transport 3,000 passengers per day (‘Rail Link’, 2006). That same year, Cape Town also announced similar plans for a light rail connection between its downtown and the airport. It is also instructive that one opinion survey found that only 23% of Western Cape respondents considered the Gautrain a worthwhile initiative, given the investment it requires from national government, while a full 48% of Gauteng respondents were more supportive (Synovate, 2006). Whilst megaprojects thus may become symbols of national identity, they may also trigger regional rivalries. Once completed, the many questions about sustainability forgotten and enjoined with all the fanfare and signalling celebrations associated with 2010 and South Africa’s “arrival,” the Gautrain may well become the symbol its progenitors had intended. However, as with all megaprojects, the admonishment by Flyvberg, Bruzelius, and Rothengetter (2003) (cf. Siemiatycki, 2006: 72) remains prescient. It is not necessarily always the best megaprojects that get built, “but those projects for which proponents best succeed in conjuring a fantasy world of underestimated costs, overestimated revenues, undervalued environmental impacts and overvalued developmental effects.”

39.6 Conclusion Given the dual nature of apartheid urban spatial planning with its emphasis on segregation and low density sprawl, the challenge in the post-apartheid era is to integrate previously segregated parts of the city. The implications for transportation policy is the need to overcome long distance travel patterns with development corridors characterized by mixed income and mixed land use often seen as important means of urban integration. The Gautrain rapid rail link seeks to achieve or at least contribute towards this social urban process primarily by reducing private car usage on the heavily congested Johannesburg-Pretoria corridor. However, besides the cost factor involved, given the sheer scale of the infrastructure, the project remains marred

694

R. Donaldson and J. van der Westhuizen

by a number of spatial engineering deficiencies, the most notable being the extent to which the high speed train is unlikely to generate the kind of passenger figures its supporters believe will materialize. The megaproject is primarily targeted towards the suburban middle class who will not be living near the stations, while the poor may live next to stations providing services they are unable to afford. In the absence of the Gautrain thus making any major impact on the restructuring of the apartheid urban form, the significance of the megaproject, however, also needs to be understood in terms of its political symbolic significance. More specifically, the Gautrain underlines notions of speed, efficiency and most of all, the modernity which underlies South Africa’s ascendance as the leading African state.

Notes 1. This section draws upon Donaldson, R. Contesting the proposed rapid rail link in Gauteng. Urban Forum, 16(1), 55–62; Donaldson, R., & Williams, A. (2005). A struggle of an inner city community to protect its historical environment. The case of Clydesdale in Pretoria New Contree, 49, 165–180; and, Donaldson, R. (2006). Mass rapid rail development in South Africa’s metropolitan core: towards a new urban form? Land Use Policy, 23, 344–352. 2. This section draws upon Janis van der Westhuizen (2007). Glitz, glamour and the Gautrain: Mega-projects as political symbols. Politikon, 34(3), 333–352.

References Beavon, K. S. O. (2000). Northern Johannesburg: a part of the “rainbow” or neo-apartheid city in the making? Mots Pluriels, 13. Retrieved June 14, 2006, from http://www.arts.uaw. edu.au?MotsPluriels?MP1300kb.html Black, D., & Van der Westhuizen, J. (2004). The allure of global games for “semi-peripheral” polities and spaces: A research agenda. Third World Quarterly, 25(7), 1195–1214. Cullinane, S. (2003). Hong Kong’s low car dependence: Lessons and prospects. Transport Geography, 11(1), 25–35. de Saint-Laurent, B. (1998). Overview of urban transport in South Africa. Paper Presented at the Eighth CODATU conference, Cape Town, September 1998. Dewar, D. (1994). Planning for rural–urban interface: A case study of Transkei. DBSA, Policy Working Paper No. 9. Donaldson, R. (2000). Urban restructuring through land development objectives in Pietersburg: An assessment. Journal of Public Administration, 35(1), 22–39. Donaldson, R., & Van der Merwe, I. J. (2000). Urban restructuring outcomes during transition: A model for South African urban development in the 21st century? Africa Insight, 30(1), 45–57. Emdon, E. (1994). The development facilitation act. Urban Forum, 5(2), 91–96. Flyvberg, B, Bruzelius, N., & Rothengetter, W. (2003). Megaprojects at risk: An anatomy of ambition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fox, H. (2000). World Bank urban transport strategy review—Mass rapid transit in developing countries. Retrieved August 20, 2006, from http://www.worldbank.org/transport/utsr/ background_papers/uk_mass_transit_halcrow.pdf Green, C., Aberman, L., & Dominik, T. (2002). Sustainable corridors: Methodology for their planning and development. Paper Presented at the Planning Africa conference, Durban, September.

39

Built in a Field of Dreams?

695

Green, C., Naude, A., & Hennessy, K. (1995). Integrating South Africa’s low-income residential areas into the wider urban economic and social system. Urban Forum, 6(1), 139–155. Harrison, P., Todes, A., & Watson, V. (1997). Transforming South Africa’s cities: Prospects for the economic development of urban development. Development Southern Africa, 14(1), 43–60. Joburg. (2006). Public urged to vote for a Gautrain logo. Retrieved October 12, 2006, from http://www.joburg.org.za/2006/mar/mar8_gautrain.stm Kenworthy, J. R., & Laube, F. (2002). Urban transport patterns in a global sample of cities and their linkages to transport infrastructure, land use, economics and the environment. World Transport Policy and Practice, 8(3), 5–19. Kong, L. (2007). Cultural icons and urban development in Asia: Economic imperative, national identity and global city status. Political Geography, 26, 383–404. Radebe, J. ( ). Address at the launch of construction of Gautrain Rapid Rail Link, by Mr Jeff Radebe, MP, Minister of Transport, Marlboro, 26 September. Retrieved October 12, 2006, from http://www.gautrain.co.za/printpage.php?fid=9&pid=1202&tit=GautrainRapidRaiLL Richardson, H. W., Bae, C.-H., & Baxamusa, H. (2000). Compact cities in developing countries: Assessment and implication. In M. Jenks & R. Burgess (Eds.), Compact cities. Sustainable urban forms for developing countries (pp. 25–36). London: Spon Press. RSA. (1995). Development Facilitation Act, No. 67 of 1995. Government Gazette, Vol. 364, No. 16730. Pretoria: Government Printer. Schoonraad, M. D. (2000). Cultural and institutional obstacles to compact cities in South Africa. In: M. Jenks & R. Burgess (Eds.), Compact cities. Sustainable urban forms for developing countries (pp. 219–230). London: Fon Press. Scott, J. C. (1998). Seeing like a state: How certain schemes to improve the human condition have failed. Binghamton, NY: Yale University Press. Shilowa, M. (2006). Speech by Gauteng Premier Mbhazima Shilowa at the Launch of the Gautrain project 28 September 2006. Retrieved October 12, 2006, from www.gautrain.co.za/ printpage.php?fid=9&pid=1203&tit=Gautrain Siemiatycki, M. (2006) Message in a metro: Building urban fail infrastructure and image in Delhi, India. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 30(2), 277–292. Steinberg, G. M. (1987). Large-scale national projects as political symbols: The case of Israel, Comparative Politics, 19(3), 331–346. Synovate. (2006). Will the Gautrain serve its purpose? Retrieved June 13, 2007, from http://www.bizcommunity.com/PressOffice/PressRelease.aspx?I=478&ai=9879 Tait, A., Gough, D., Ferreira, A., Hendricks, M., McGaffin, R., & Tromplemann A. (1999). Providing for integrated functional cities in South Africa. The Whetton–Landsdowne–Phillipi corridor programme. Urban Forum, 10(2), 275–284. UNCHS (United Nations Centre for Human Settlements). (1997). Transport and Communications for Urban Development: Report of the Habitat 2 Global workshop, Nairobi, UNCHS. Urban-Econ. (1997). Mabopane-Centurion development corridor. Directorate Land Use and Transport Planning. Pretoria: Pretoria City Council. Van Wee, B. (2002). Land use and transport: Research and policy challenges. Journal of Transport Geography, 10(4), 259–271. www.gautrain.co.za—Inceptionreport.

Chapter 40

Manufacturing Consent for Engineering Earth: Social Dynamics in Boston’s Big Dig James P. McCarthy and Kate Driscoll Derickson

40.1 Boston’s “Big Dig” Boston, Massachusetts is an ideal place through which to consider the process of people engineering the earth to better suit their needs and desires. The city was originally built on a small peninsula in the 17th century, and as it grew, its inhabitants leveled hills, filled adjacent wetlands and bays, and confined tidal rivers to smaller basins cut off from the sea. As a result, roughly 70% of the modern city is on land created by filling in areas of water around the original peninsula. The attendant challenges of keeping alive and functioning a highly circumscribed and congested downtown, and of often building in, on, or under fill of various provenances and stability, have been major parts of Boston’s history. This chapter examines the “Big Dig,” the most recent project to attempt to address and work through these challenges. More properly known as the Central Artery/Tunnel or CA/T project, the Big Dig, as we will refer to it here, was a major infrastructure project built between 1992 and 2007. It had two major elements: it replaced an elevated interstate highway from that 1950s that ran north-south through the heart of downtown Boston (the Central Artery) with an underground highway along the same corridor, and it connected the state’s major east-west interstate highway more directly to the city’s airport through the construction of a major tunnel under the harbor (Fig. 40.1). Both were extraordinary feats of engineering, as we shall examine below. The Big Dig was by many measures the largest infrastructure project in the country during the years of its construction, eventually costing over $15 billion and becoming an exemplar of entitlements, pork barrel politics, cost overruns, and the difficulties of obtaining the legal and political consent for large new infrastructure projects in American cities at this point. The project also lasted longer than the 15 years of its actual construction: depending on whether one regards initial proposals, legal funding commitments, or the granting of essential permits as

J.P. McCarthy (B) Department of Geography, Penn State University, University Park, PA 16802, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_40,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

697

698

J.P. McCarthy and K.D. Derickson

Fig. 40.1 The central artery/tunnel project. (Map courtesy of Massachusetts Turnpike Authority)

its beginning, the project stretches back additional years and decades, into the 1980s and even the early 1970s. Key to the argument of this chapter is that the Big Dig came to include many other elements in addition to the two centerpieces above, many but not all of them falling into the category of mitigation measures. New mass transit routes and connections were established, significant pollution reduction measures were enacted, a landmark bridge was added to the city’s skyline, waterfront access and many acres of new parks and open spaces were created in one of the oldest and most congested downtowns in North America, and a highly polluted island in the city’s harbor was covered with fill from the excavations and transformed into the centerpiece of a new national park. Each development was the subject of fierce political contestation over years. It is thus the argument of this chapter that the transformation of built and natural environments in the city accomplished through the Big Dig was shaped at least as much by political contestation over collective environments as by the more visible technological capacities and constraints and considerations of technical efficiency involved in the project. In fact, such a division misses an important point, inasmuch as any major anthropogenic environmental transformation is necessarily a transformation of social relations as well (cf. Harvey, 1997; White, 1995).

40

Manufacturing Consent for Engineering Earth

699

40.2 Engineering Challenges in the Big Dig The Big Dig was an example of engineering earth on a monumental scale, which was challenging enough, but the greatest engineering challenges came from the fact that it was largely re-engineering earth that had already been transformed into a city. In short, the project had to be carried out in the center of an existing downtown with minimal disruption, allowing traffic to continue flowing while a massive new passageway was carved through a subterranean territory already crowded with subways tunnels, utility lines, building foundations, wharf pilings, and more. Moreover, it had to be built through an especially heterogeneous range of material that ranged from underwater bedrock below the harbor to relatively unstable fill below much of the city, some of it over three centuries old.

40.3 The Central Artery The most difficult part of the Big Dig in a physical sense was almost certainly putting the Central Artery section of I-93, the north-south interstate corridor, underground. The Central Artery was completed in 1959 and had been hated since before it was finished. A 3.7 mi (5.95 km) long wall of steel and concrete, 40 ft (12.1 m) high and 200 ft (60.9 m) wide and painted an unfortunate shade of green, it was known in Boston as, “The Green Monster” (Fig. 40.2). It was a classic example of dominant mid-twentieth century approaches to highway construction and urban renewal in densely built older cities, and it shared all of their failings: large

Fig. 40.2 The elevated central artery, 2001. (Author photo)

700

J.P. McCarthy and K.D. Derickson

swathes of tightly knit poorer neighborhoods and many small businesses and units of affordable housing were taken by eminent domain and razed for its construction; it separated the downtown and most of Boston from its waterfront and from one of its most vibrant ethnic neighborhoods; it drove down adjacent property values; and it was quickly overwhelmed by higher levels of traffic than its planners foresaw. Built to accommodate 75,000 vehicles cars per day, actual traffic levels quickly reached more than twice that number, and by 2000 the highway was carrying 200,000 vehicles per day, while anyone who could avoid it, did. Moreover, while it was part of the interstate system, it was designed prior to the Federal Aid Highway Act of 1956, and so it did not meet standard interstate requirements: it had no breakdown lanes, many exit and entry ramps close together throughout the downtown, and almost aggressively poor signage. Consequently, it was quickly and frequently clogged. Putting a newer, larger highway that met federal standards underground along the same corridor had obvious appeal: it would remove a physical block and eyesore, reconnect the city, create open or buildable space in the downtown, and hopefully speed traffic flows (Fig. 40.3). However, the obstacles were prodigious. Residents and businesses would only consent to the project if traffic could continue moving along the existing highway until the new one was ready, and if adjacent businesses could remain open and accessible throughout. Thus, digging and construction had to be done under an operating highway and in the existing narrow and congested corridor, without completely cutting off others’ access to most surface streets, either. The new tunnel had to be built largely in unstable fill, and it had to negotiate a not entirely mapped maze of existing utility networks, everything from

Fig. 40.3 The same area after project completion, 2008. (Author photo)

40

Manufacturing Consent for Engineering Earth

701

sewers to gas and electrical lines, and subway tunnels and stations. Construction also had to avoid destabilizing any of the adjacent buildings, many sitting on old foundations. These challenges were dealt with using some of the most cutting edge, and expensive, construction techniques in the world.1 Most accounts agree that slurry-wall construction was the key innovation here: narrow trenches were dug along the edges of the new highway corridor, the earth was dug out and replaced with a mixture of clay and water (the slurry), steel reinforcing rods were put in place in the mixture, and the slurry was then pumped out and replaced with concrete. In places, the earth where tunneling was being done was kept frozen solid through an elaborate system of pipes and refrigeration units circulating cold brine, keeping the ground essentially stable while huge new tunnels were pushed into place and thus preventing damage to existing structures above. Enormous hydraulic jacks were used to push pre-assembled sections of tunnel in laterally in some such places, where coming in from above was not an option – below existing subway lines, for instance. The deepest parts of the new tunnel had to be put 120 ft (36.5 m) below ground to accommodate existing subterranean structures. At one point, the new highway passes directly under a century-old subway tunnel, while a new bus transit route was built on top of the subway line and a new passenger station on top of that, all below street level. Ultimately, this north-south portion of the Big Dig came to include a stretch almost 5 mi (8 km) long, running from Roxbury in the south to the north shore of the Charles River, in Charlestown, and including the new cable-stayed Zakim/Bunker Hill Bridge, the widest cable-stayed bridge in the world, which replaced a severely outdated one.

40.4 The Harbor Tunnel The other central element of the Big Dig, the construction of a new tunnel under Boston Harbor to better connect the downtown, I-93, and the east-west I-90 to Logan Airport, which sits across the harbor from downtown Boston to the east, also posed major engineering challenges. Not only was the construction site under water, of course, but Boston Harbor is very busy and has historically been among the most polluted in the country, meaning that construction would take place in relatively tight quarters and almost certainly displace heavy metals and many other toxic materials in the sediment on the harbor floor. Roughly 900,000 cubic yards (688,100 m3 ) of rock, clay, and polluted silt had to be removed and carefully disposed of, then, before a three-quarter mile (1.2 km) long trench 100 ft (30.4 m) wide and 50 ft (15.2 m) deep could be dug into the floor of the harbor. Environmental requirements meant that a tremendously complex and expensive underwater sound system had to be used to scare fish away before blasting and digging occurred. The tunnel itself was constructed by assembling twelve enormous sections of steel tunnel built in Bethlehem Steel’s Baltimore shipyard and floated up to Boston; each was 325 ft (99 m) long and contained two tubes 40 ft (12.2 m) in diameter, for completely separated highway lanes. Much of the highway construction was done

702

J.P. McCarthy and K.D. Derickson

inside each section while it was on the surface, gradually adding weight; they were then towed to their places, sunk into the trench, and connected into a continuous tunnel. In the other direction, as the tunnel went through the Fort Point Channel to connect with the rest of the interstate highway system in Boston, enormous concrete tunnel sections were built almost in place because there was not room to float in prebuilt sections, and carefully maneuvered onto supports that would hold them over existing subway tunnels.

40.4.1 Spectacle Island All of this digging produced vast quantities of excavated material; the question of what to do with it led to a third major engineering accomplishment as part of the Big Dig: Spectacle Island, a small island in Boston Harbor (Fig. 40.4), was substantially reengineered using much of the material, undergoing a conversion from a toxic waste site to the centerpiece of a new national park. The Big Dig produced some 16 million cubic yards (12.2 million m3 ) of material that had to be put somewhere. It was distributed to many different locations in the Boston area, ranging from construction sites, to landfills in need of caps, to a deep ocean disposal site.

Fig. 40.4 Boston harbor. (Map courtesy of National Park Service)

40

Manufacturing Consent for Engineering Earth

703

But the most important single recipient was Spectacle Island, which received almost four million cubic yards (3 million m3 ). The island had historically been an important site for locally unwanted land uses in the Boston area: it had been, variously, the site of a quarantine hospital for immigrants, hotels and brothels, a horse rendering plant, a grease-extraction plant, and a city dump from the 1920s through the 1950s. So much refuse was dumped on it, in fact, that the island gained 36 acres (16 ha) in area and 100 ft (30.4 m) in elevation during its decades as a dump. Methane gas released from the waste caught fire and burned for years, and it was estimated the island was steadily releasing 22 mill gallons (83.1 million l) of toxic run-off into the harbor each year. The idea of entirely covering a small island in the harbor with barge load after barge load of excavate was thus more environmentally friendly than one might assume at first. In fact, the effort seems to have been a great success thus far, and is an impressive story of environmental engineering in its own right. Under the guidance of a local landscape architectural firm, the island was rebuilt in ways that reduce pollution into the harbor while adding a significant amenity to the city. First, an enormous wall was built to contain the old and new material on the island and protect it from erosion. Then, a drainage system was built to capture water running through the old waste material, keep it out of the harbor, and direct it to a recirculating wet well that sends it back through the new material on top in a slow but endless filtration cycle. After that was in place, a 60-ft 18.3 m) thick layer of clay and gravel was used to cap the waste site. The surface was then landscaped and a 5 ft (1.52 m) thick layer of organic material was put on top and some 28,000 trees, shrubs, and other plants were put in place to prevent erosion and attract wildlife. Finally, walking trails, a visitor center and pier, and other amenities were added for recreational users, and in 2003 it became part of the new Boston Harbor Islands National Park (Figs. 40.5 and 40.6).

Fig. 40.5 Site of future pier and marina on Spectacle Island. (Photo courtesy of Massachusetts Turnpike Authority)

704

J.P. McCarthy and K.D. Derickson

Fig. 40.6 Erosion control walls on Spectacle Island made with sections of central artery. (Photo courtesy of Massachusetts Turnpike Authority)

Wildlife has begun to repopulate the island, which now also has excellent views, having been built up so much that it is now the highest point in Boston Harbor.

40.5 Socializing Conditions of Production: The Social Negotiations of the Big Dig Thus far, this account has been primarily descriptive and has intentionally emphasized the physical, technological, and engineering aspects of the Big Dig. While far more could obviously be said about each of these, it is time to turn now to the central argument of this chapter, which is that the most significant challenges and achievements of the Big Dig, and of course its fundamental motivations, were social rather than physical. The fact that they are perhaps less immediately observable or readily quantifiable than the physical aspects should not lead us to overlook or underestimate them, or to fail to consider their dynamics. What follows, then, is an attempt to understand key aspects of the Big Dig’s genesis and evolution from vantage points in human geography.

40.5.1 Capital and Competition Any explanation of how and why the Big Dig came to be must be rooted in the economic dynamics of growth and competition. The project was a paradigmatic case of individual capitals organizing to compel the state to restructure urban space in ways that would facilitate the circulation and expansion of capital, as the infrastructure put in place during a previous round of investment became obsolete and more of

40

Manufacturing Consent for Engineering Earth

705

a hindrance to, than aid in, further growth. It is thus of a piece with, and exhibited many of the same dynamics as, the restructuring of Paris under Haussman as analyzed by David Harvey (2003), or many other well-known historic examples of such periodic urban reconfigurations during the history of capitalist development. Most notably, enormous investments in fixed capital in the form of infrastructure and amenities became essential conditions of production for future economic activity, and the expenses, risks, and coordination issues were so large that the state had to assume them in the name of increasing the economic competitiveness of capital within its territory, while large private capitals nevertheless enriched themselves from the public purse during the project. Support for this interpretation comes from the fact that the most consistent and essential voices and resources in support of the project came from the city’s business community. Business leaders saw both the perception and the reality of congestion and lack of connectivity to the airport and interstate system as hurting businesses located in Boston, as well as the overall economies of the city and state. Getting people and goods into, out of, or through the city was regarded as simply too timeconsuming and unappealing, whether for commuters thinking about jobs, businesses making location decisions or moving goods, or business visitors or tourists planning trips. While Boston has long been and remains the site of vital and growing industrial clusters in the areas of biotechnology, computers, finance, and education, among other industries, it is also true that competition in those and other industries is occurring among a much larger and more widespread set of cities than ever before, nationally and internationally, and the pressure to modernize the city’s infrastructure to enhance its competitiveness was intense. Local firms, the city of Boston and adjacent cities, and the state of Massachusetts therefore cooperated closely, albeit often contentiously as well, in envisioning, and securing federal funds for, the Big Dig. Once organized in support of the project, a coalition of the city’s business interests crossed party lines, worked connections at all levels of government vigorously, and rewarded or punished elected officials in part based on their commitment to completing the project (see Luberoff & Altshuler, 1996). As the project grew and national and international firms became deeply involved in its design and construction, they too used their influence to keep public dollars flowing to the project. While early plans formulated mainly by government officials and planners and business interests focused heavily on highly functionalist approaches to smoothing the flow of automobile traffic and other transit, with relatively little attention to aesthetics or amenities, the many environmental amenities that came to be part of the project must also be considered in the light of the dynamics of contemporary interurban competition. Boston, like many other cities, has come to rely increasingly on quaternary industries as its main economic engines, and those industries typically require highly educated and relatively mobile professionals as the heart of their productive workforce. Particular sorts of amenities, including healthy downtowns, open spaces, and waterfront access where possible, are often cited as features appealing to such workers. Thus, even many of the less transportation-oriented elements of the Big Dig can also plausibly be seen as parts of an effort to remake the city in ways that will enhance its economic competitiveness.

706

J.P. McCarthy and K.D. Derickson

40.5.2 The Need for Consent While the drive to update the city’s infrastructure in ways conducive to economic growth may be the bass line of the story of the Big Dig, it is far from the entire story. How such imperatives play out in actual politics is a highly contingent and complex question, typically involving many points of contact and negotiation between and within business interests and multiple levels and agencies of government. And all of that was certainly true of the Big Dig. A comprehensive work by Luberoff and Altshuler (1996) examines that history in great detail, focusing on the roles of elected officials and political appointees at the local, state, and federal levels. They emphasize the fact that the Big Dig relied upon incredibly persistent and effective political action at the federal level and the stringing together of creative and rather improbable forms of financing over decades, both centered on, in effect, squeezing the nose of one last megaproject in under the edge of the tent before the entitlement stream of the annual Interstate Cost Estimates was closed down, and then insisting for many years to come that ever-ballooning federal payments were necessary to follow through on the initial commitment. This chapter will not repeat their authoritative play-by-play of all of the relevant political machinations over many years. One of their critical points, however, demands further elaboration here. Reviewing the development of the Big Dig over time, it is very clear that a widespread and sustained consensus in support of the project at the metropolitan scale was an absolute precondition of its successful completion. Consensus and consent were required and secured at different points along the way via different means, often at great cost (cf. Burawoy 1982).2 First, at the very start of the project, consensus around the core of the project was formed in the local business and political communities by linking what were really two distinct projects, the depression of the Central Artery and the building of a new, third tunnel linking downtown Boston to the airport. Although they were quite separable technologically and in many other respects, and had disparate backers and opponents, firmly linking them together enabled a robust and resilient coalition in support of the overall project to form and persist. Second, Luberoff and Altshuler (1996) emphasize that a strong consensus at the local level was vital to securing the federal highway dollars that paid for the great majority of the Big Dig, and without which the project would have been out of the question. For that and a variety of other reasons we will examine below, a great number of actors at the local level, from communities to state agencies, could have very likely stopped or drastically curtailed the project at countless different points through protests, refusal of permits, negative publicity, and so on. In practice, this effective veto power meant that affected parties were able to place enormous social and environmental restrictions on the Big Dig as a megaproject: on its actual route, on how much it could affect the city during its construction, on what parks and other mitigation measures had to be folded into it, on what consultation processes had to be followed, and more. By some accounts, mitigation measures of one sort or another, mainly in response to community and environmental concerns, accounted for a third or more of the total cost of $15 billion, and made the landscape ultimately

40

Manufacturing Consent for Engineering Earth

707

produced by the Big Dig far different than it would have been otherwise. That point suggests that seeing the project as purely an instance of the state doing the bidding of local capitalists in remaking the city is hardly an accurate or sufficient explanation. In sum, these social restrictions on the planning and execution of the engineering projects described above were at least as constraining as the purely physical challenges. And, indeed, many of the superficially “physical” challenges were in fact social in origin: the narrowness of the corridor for excavation and construction, the need to keep the city immediately around and over the construction area accessible and functioning, the toxic runoff that had to be contained, even the unstable nature of the fill through which much of the digging occurred – all were direct outcomes of current or previous social relations.

40.5.3 The Roots of Opposition Robert Moses, the chief architect of most mid-century highway construction and devastating urban renewal projects in the New York metropolitan area, is probably best remembered for saying that, “[W]hen you build in an overbuilt metropolis, you have to hack your way with a meat ax.” That often-quoted line accurately encapsulates the dominant approach to urban planning, transportation, and redevelopment in the United States from the 1940s through the 1960s, and Boston was no exception. The Central Artery that the Big Dig sought to bury had been forced through the heart of the city between 1950 and 1959 using powers of eminent domain. More than 1,000 commercial and residential buildings were taken by eminent domain and razed, displacing over 20,000 residents and 900 businesses. Poorer, more affordable neighborhoods bore the brunt of the destruction, but the entire city suffered as the downtown was cut off from neighborhoods and the waterfront, shadows were cast on downtown streets, and adjacent property values fell. Growing criticism led the southern half of the artery to be put into a tunnel rather than elevated, but the damage was largely done. Similar approaches to urban renewal and expansion were taken elsewhere in the city, as, for instance, the airport steadily expanded into East Boston. And by the mid-1960s, plans were essentially complete for a proposed Inner Belt highway system that would have followed the same logic on a much larger scale, using eminent domain to take 3,800 homes, as well as businesses and parks, to build large, elevated highways through many of the poorest neighborhoods in Boston, Brookline, Cambridge, and Somerville, where they would have displaced many thousands more residents and businesses and functionally divided those cities as well (see Luberoff & Altshuler, 1996). Such approaches, all justified in the name of progress and the greater good, fit the pattern of excessively ambitious and selfconfident high modernist state planning analyzed by James Scott in Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improved the Human Condition Have Failed (1998). These dominant mid-century approaches to highway construction and urban redevelopment were subject to mounting criticism and opposition by the late 1960s. Critiques by Jane Jacobs (1961) and others received widespread attention as the apparent effects and planned extensions of such projects fueled the outrage of

708

J.P. McCarthy and K.D. Derickson

affected communities. The growing tide of resistance to Moses-style projects was thus a national phenomenon in many respects. But it was also a local one in critical ways, and Boston and Massachusetts hold a special place in the story of the growing tide of resistance against these destructive approaches in at least two respects. First, increasingly vocal and organized communities throughout the Boston metropolitan area succeeded in reversing a decades-long commitment to expansion of the highway system, and plans for the Inner Loop and a number of other major highway segments in and around Boston were formally abandoned by the early 1970s, even though funding and permits were in place. This was an extraordinary reversal, and it was the culmination of years of lobbying, organizing, including the formation of the umbrella group the Greater Boston Committee on the Transportation Crisis (Aloisi, 2004), direct protest actions including civil disobedience, and making the proposed highways a decisive issue in local and state electoral politics. Similar actions were taken with respect to other efforts at urban renewal and expansion, as when a group of mothers in East Boston famously used their baby carriages to block trucks to protest a proposed expansion of the airport into their neighborhood. When Republican governor Francis Sargent finally bowed to public pressure in February 1970 and declared that the Inner Belt would not be built and that there would be a moratorium on new highway construction in and around Boston, it was the first time that a large new interstate in an urban area was explicitly rejected, and it marked the end of an era not only in Boston, but nationally. Following directly from this decision, Massachusetts became the first state in the country to seek and win permission to use the copious flow of federal highway dollars to fund improvements in mass transit instead. These struggles were thus of more than local significance; indeed, they were important and under-appreciated wellsprings of the national environmental movement that was coalescing at the time, and of the associated passage of legislation requiring detailed environmental impact statements and permits for federally-funded projects, as well as for many state ones as well. But they were also of enduring local significance, becoming part of the city’s and state’s political culture and ensuring that no elected official in Boston or Massachusetts would risk championing another highway project that would provoke similar community opposition.

40.5.4 Social and Environmental Mitigation Given the history above and the potential for renewed mobilization against any new highway megaproject, as well as the need to secure the environmental assessments and permits that were now required of large infrastructure projects thanks in part to that earlier wave of citizen mobilization, an essential precondition for the Big Dig was that affected neighborhoods and communities had to accept and approve of the project. Therefore, not only could the project not repeat the mistakes of an earlier generation of urban redevelopment, it had to promise to actually repair some of their damage. In this light, it is perhaps not surprising that more than a third of the Big Dig’s $15 billion price tag went to mitigation efforts, including well over 1,500

40

Manufacturing Consent for Engineering Earth

709

individual mitigation agreements, designed to secure the consent of affected communities and other interested parties. The fact that the project provided thousands of local jobs and the usual multiplier effects over the many years of its construction also helped to create and maintain local support, of course. The first category of mitigation measures might be best understood as restrictions on the Big Dig rather than tangible benefits in the future; that is, they were harms the project’s planners committed to avoiding, whatever the additional effort and expense. Chief among these, perhaps, was that not a single home was taken for the project through eminent domain, and the very few structures that were taken were all from willing commercial owners. In a similar vein, there was a strong commitment that business could continue as usual around the project until it was completed: adjacent businesses could remain open, the existing Central Artery was kept open and running until the new one below it was ready to take traffic, and surface streets crossing under the elevated highway remained mostly open. While the project did, of course, affect life and traffic in the city for years, everyday life was able to carry on. Moreover, the project employed a staff of full-time community liaisons to respond to concerns, and maintained a monitoring center open 24 h a day to log complaints. On a similar note, one of the most contentious issues in the construction of the Big Dig turned out to the design of a new river crossing at the north end of the central artery. At various points, many different versions of a tunnel crossing, a bridge crossing, and a combination of the two were considered, and it took many years, many designs, and an exhaustive process of consultation with citizens’ groups, local governments, and other interested parties on both sides of the river before the design and even name of the eventual Zakim/Bunker Hill Bridge were decided. Building the Big Dig under all of these conditions, while remaining within a highway corridor that was too small in the 1950s, added greatly to the cost and difficulty, but it was the only way the project could have occurred. The second category of mitigation measures had to do with open space: the Big Dig is credited with creating some 300 additional acres (121 ha) of open space in and around Boston, mainly in the forms of parks, waterfront access, recreational areas, and open space in the downtown. Each of the communities most directly affected by new construction – Charlestown, Cambridge, Chinatown, the North End, South Boston, and East Boston – received substantial new parks or other open spaces. More generally, the project dramatically increased both the amount and the connectivity of recreational waterfront spaces in and around Boston. It added substantially to the existing system of parks and walkways along the edges of the Charles River and Boston Harbor, including some along historic seawalls rebuilt for the purpose. Even more significantly, perhaps, it connected those two networks of trails for the first time. One of the biggest questions related to the Big Dig was what to do with the 27-acre (12-ha) ribbon of open space through downtown Boston that would be created by putting the highway completely underground: at various points, both the city and state laid claim to that land, and open space, affordable housing, high-rise commercial real estate, and low-rise mixed-use development were all advocated as uses at various points. In one of the largest concessions made in the effort to secure consensus and required permits for the project, the state eventually ceded control

710

J.P. McCarthy and K.D. Derickson

of the land to the city, and directly to the Boston Redevelopment Authority, and accepted the Authority’s argument that open space should be the predominant use (see Luberoff & Altshuler, Chapter IV). While some future building is planned, most of that ribbon is now and will remain a series of parks, the Rose F. Kennedy Greenway (Fig. 40.7). This was not an unambiguous victory for the public. The greenway is governed by a private, non-profit trust similar in nature to the Central Park Conservancy in New York City, and is not a public park in the fullest sense of either word. Many argued that Boston’s need for affordable housing was even greater than its need for open space, and commercial property owners along the greenway corridor were eager to see their property values rise due to a park, and loathe to see them potentially fall if competing structures were allowed on that land. But it was an important concession, nonetheless. Similarly, in exchange for permission to build the Zakim Bridge, the architects of the project made very substantial concessions to the Metropolitan District Commission, a state agency charged with stewardship of the Charles River and its banks, as well as other groups, agreeing to fund the creation, expansion, or renovation of very large areas of parks, paths, and open space, as well as other recreational facilities, along the riverbanks.

Fig. 40.7 Portion of the Rose F. Kennedy Greenway through downtown Boston. (Photo courtesy of Massachusetts Turnpike Authority)

40

Manufacturing Consent for Engineering Earth

711

A third category of mitigation measures was even more explicitly environmental, providing not only amenities but measurable improvements in ecological functioning and quality. Two such measures were the re-engineering of Spectacle Island to reduce toxic runoff into Boston Harbor and the use of technology to protect aquatic life in the harbor during construction. These have already been discussed. The project also restored 18 acres (8 ha) of wetlands in Revere and Saugus, north of Boston, and daylighted and partially restored the Millers River between Cambridge and Charlestown. At a critical point in its development, seeking to avoid a lawsuit by the locally based and effective Conservation Law Foundation, project planners signed a wide-reaching Memorandum of the Understanding with the organization, in which the state committed to a wide range of measures designed to reduce the environmental impacts of automobile traffic in the Boston area – everything from further investment in mass transit to limitations on parking spaces in the city center and on future highway construction (Luberoff & Altshuler, Chapter V). Although subsequent officials did not regard the Memorandum of Understanding as legally binding, they nevertheless followed through on many of its commitments, and were ever-mindful that local environmental organizations were watching and ready to sue.

40.6 Conclusions The effects of the Big Dig on Boston, its landscape, its livability, and its economy, will have to be evaluated over many years to come. Many skeptics have been won over since the project was recently completed, construction has ended, and its benefits have become fully available. Others, though, have noted that the highway is still congested, and that the full costs of corruption and associated substandard construction are still revealing themselves, although they have already included substantial leaks and one death from a falling ceiling panel in the harbor tunnel. In the context of megaprojects, however, the Big Dig has probably received the most discussion in the context of what it might imply for the prospects of similar projects in other American cities. Seattle and other cities have considered putting old sections of elevated highway underground or simply removing them without replacing them, while other cities continue to contemplate grand infrastructure projects built from scratch. For many, the lesson the Big Dig is that the era of such projects is over. The federal government is unlikely to be willing or able to pay 80–90% of the costs of such projects at any time in the foreseeable future. Also the costs of the mitigation measures required to secure and maintain the consent of many interested parties, all able to sue on the basis of a host of procedural laws and regulations, are simply too great. Particularly as a project proceeds and the costs or possibility of not completing it become prohibitive, interest groups are essentially able to place extortionary demands on project planners, using project funds as a revenue stream for completely unrelated ends. Such interpretations often suggest or state that responsiveness to the demands of various groups within cities has gone too far, and hint at a desire to be able to wield the meat ax freely once again.

712

J.P. McCarthy and K.D. Derickson

The final argument of this chapter is that this is a largely mistaken interpretation of the role of the constraints and mitigation measures associated with the Big Dig. Instead, such dynamics should be understood both historically and dialectically. The fact that so much was spent on mitigation of one form or another during the Big Dig, in dollars, in space, in time, and in processes, was a direct result of tremendous antipathy and skepticism regarding overly ambitious high modernist projects from a previous era, and the precautions that had been put in place as a result, including state and federal legislation. The high water period of urban renewal and highway construction in 1950s and 1960s gave rise to much community organizing; high modernist projects such as the interstate highway system, but also the construction of enormous dams and other engineerings of the earth, contributed greatly to rise of modern environmental movement, which was then codified into strict laws requiring environmental impact statements and permits at the federal and state levels. These were in turn key leverage points for activists contesting the shape of the Big Dig. In short, the many constraints and mitigation measures associated with the Big Dig are better understood as a successful socialization of the production of conditions of production than as a resource grab by special interests, which is how they are sometimes portrayed. In other words, a broad array of citizens’ groups, with many different organizational structures and representing many different communities of place and interest, succeeded over time in substantially modifying the plans of the state and capital to modernize infrastructure, in ways that responded to the priorities of non-elite city residents, as expressed through contemporary and historical social mobilization and subsequent legislation and regulation. They thereby succeeded in producing a more livable and democratic urban landscape than would otherwise have emerged from the megaproject known as the Big Dig.

Notes 1. This section relies heavily upon information from the Massachusetts Turnpike Authority website regarding the project, as well as accounts by Aloisi (2004) and McNichol (2000). 2. Burawoy’s research on how consent to exploitation is maintained and fostered in particular sorts of workplaces examined a very different and specific set of dynamics than those here, of course; nonetheless, his overall theme of why and how people consent to participating in and reproducing capitalist social structures in which they are formally exploited does in fact resonate with the dynamics at issue here.

References Aloisi, J. (2004). The big dig. Beverly, MA: Commonwealth Editions. Burawoy, M. (1982). Manufacturing consent: Changes in the labor process under monopoly capitalism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Harvey, D. (1997). Justice, nature and the geography of difference. Oxford: Blackwell. Harvey, D. (2003). Paris, capital of modernity. New York: Routledge.

40

Manufacturing Consent for Engineering Earth

713

Jacobs, J. (1961). The death and life of great American cities. New York: Vintage. Luberoff, D., & Altshuler, A. (1996). Mega-Project: A political history of Boston’s multibillion dollar artery/tunnel project. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University, A. Alfred Taubman Center for State and Local Government. Revised edition. Massachusetts Turnpike Authority. (2009). Big Dig website. Retrieved April 17, 2009, from http://www.masspike.com/bigdig/index.html McNichol, D. (2000). The big dig. New York: Silver Lining Books. Scott, J. (1998). Seeing like a state: How certain schemes to improve the human condition have failed. New Haven: Yale University Press. White, R. (1995). The organic machine: The remaking of the Columbia River. New York: Hill and Wang.

Chapter 41

Impacts of The “Marmaray” Project (Bosphorus Tube Crossing, Tunnels and Stations) on Transportation and Urban Environment in Istanbul Recep Efe and Isa Cürebal

41.1 Introduction Geography and transportation intersect in terms of the movement of peoples, goods, and information. Transport creates valuable links between regions and economic activities, between people and the rest of the world (Rodrigue, Comtois, & Slack, 2009). In many cities, rapid growth in population has created problems in transportation (Greg & Ainsley, 2001). In recent years, problems in transportation have started to be solved by increasing the rail systems. Due to its use of underground, subway/metro is the most efficient and available transportation system. Transportation is an important issue in Istanbul which is one of the outstanding metropolitan cities of the world and the biggest metropolitan area in Turkey. One of the most important problems of Istanbul is the difficulty of transportation resulting from the rapid and uncontrolled population growth and the traffic jams. The heaviest traffic can be seen in on the bridges on the Istanbul Strait. The Strait connecting the two continents provides service for the vehicles with the help of two bridges and additional ferryboats. But these administrations are still inadequate and especially during the morning and afternoon rush hours, traffic can be gridlocked. In order to overcome these issues, Project Marmaray has been undertaken and is designed to provide service underground in the area between Sarayburnu and Üsküdar under the sea at Istanbul Strait (Fig. 41.1). Numerous projects have been implemented in the name of relieving the Istanbul’s traffic. Bridges have been built, sea transport has been enhanced, subway lines have been improved and metrobuses have been developed in last 35 years. Among all these projects, the most important step has been the intercontinental railway project Marmaray, which has been under construction since 2004 and that, will bring Asia and Europe together through an underwater tunnel. Üsküdar and Sarayburnu will be connected through a tunnel 58 m (190 ft) under the water surface.

R. Efe (B) Department of Geography, Balikesir University, Balikesir, 10145 Turkey e-mail: [email protected], [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_41,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

715

716

R. Efe and I. Cürebal

Fig. 41.1 The Bosphorus and immersed tunnel alignment (Belkaya, Ozmen, & Karamut, 2008)

41.1.1 Geographical Setting Istanbul is the only city in the world straddling two continents (Europe and Asia). As one of the great historic cities of the world, Istanbul is the chief city and seaport of Turkey as well as its commercial, industrial, and financial center. Istanbul has been a crossroads between East and West, North and South for centuries. It was the capital city of three empires, and a cosmopolitan “world city” throughout its history. The main part of the city, which is located at the southeastern tip of Europe, is separated from its suburbs in Asia by Bosphorus. Bosphorus is a strait that cuts through from the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara (Fig. 41.2). A series of plateaus, bounded by the sea in both north and south, known as the Thrace-Kocaeli peneplain surface extends in a west northwest-east southeast direction. The Bosphorus divides this plateau series into two parts. Relief on either side of this channel is asymmetrical. The rivers cut deep valleys on plateaus on both the European and Asian sides. A Transitional Marmara climate- mixture of Black Sea-Oceanic and Mediterranean climate – prevails in the vicinity of Istanbul. Mean annual temperature is 13.5◦ C (56◦ F). Average January temperature is 5◦ C (41◦ F), and July is 23.0◦ C (73◦ F). Prevailing wind direction is northeast. Relative humidity changes between 70 and 90%. Total annual precipitation is 700 mm (27.6 in), and distribution in the seasons is not even. In Bosphorus and its immediate area, various types of rocks exist that belong to different geological periods. Paleozoic sedimentary rock formations develop widely

41

Impacts of The “Marmaray” Project

717

Fig. 41.2 Location of the study area

along the project alignment which consists of a sequence of alternative layers of sand silt and mudstones. The Tertiary sedimentary formation consists of clayey sand containing gravels, sandy clay and stiff-to-hard clays. These sediments overlie the Paleozoic rocks and are distributed in the western part of the project where the tunnel runs through with a shallow ground cover. Quaternary marine sediments are distributed below the artificial fill, which is comprised of sandy and silty material with shell fragments (Sakaeda, 2005). Geomorphology, climate and vegetation are the most important natural factors that affect the urban development of Istanbul. The asymmetry in climate and vegetation between northern and southern parts of Istanbul affect the urban ecology of the city. The northern part is less populated due to the humid Black Sea (Oceanic) climate and dense vegetation. On the other hand, the 90% of the population live on the southern section along the coast of the Sea of Marmara where the topography, vegetation and climate are more convenient.

41.1.2 The Bosphorus (The Istanbul Strait) The Bosphorus Strait is one of the busiest sea lanes in the world. Approximately 50,000 major commercial ships pass through the strait every year. Furthermore, a vast number of smaller commercial ferries carry passengers and cars across the Bosphorus (Lykke & van de Kerk, 2005). The Bosphorus plays an important role in the development of Istanbul. It was a river valley in geological times is the straight between Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara. It divides Istanbul into two parts. The average depth of the Bosphorus at the center of its channel changes between 50 and

718

R. Efe and I. Cürebal

75 m (164–246 ft). It reaches a depth of 110 m (361 ft) near the south end. The current is stratified. The predominant surface current flows from the Black Sea to the Marmara Sea. At a depth of about 40 m (131 ft) there is a subsurface current. Non-saline water from the rivers leading to the Black Sea and general surface water flows normally in the upper layers of the Bosphorus from the Black Sea towards the Marmara Sea. Saline water is normally flowing in the lower layers in the opposite direction from the Marmara Sea towards the Black Sea (Lykke & van de Kerk, 2005).

41.1.3 Population Trends in Istanbul Istanbul is the largest city in Turkey with 12.8 million inhabitants. The population growth in the Istanbul is very rapid and it is one of the fastest growing metropolitan areas in the country (Fig. 41.3). Most of the population lives on the southern part along the coast of Sea of Marmara. The city forms a roughly triangular promontory bounded on the north by the Golden Horn, on the south by the Sea of Marmara, and on its landward side by its new developing suburbs. Istanbul is also a megacity, as

16

14

POPULATION (million)

12

10

8

6

4

2

YEARS

Fig. 41.3 Population change in Istanbul, 1927–2010. (TUIK, Turkish Statistical Institute)

2010

2005

2000

1995

1990

1985

1980

1975

1970

1965

1960

1955

1950

1945

1940

1935

1927

0

41

Impacts of The “Marmaray” Project

719

well as the cultural and financial center of Turkey. It is located on the both sides of Bosphorus Strait on two continents, Europe and Asia. It shares the problems of other such megacities around the world, such as rapid and unplanned growth, air pollution, and traffic congestion. High migration rates are producing massive suburban sprawl on Istanbul’s outskirts. It is expanding rapidly in the east, west, northeast and northwest directions. In 1950 s only 20% of Istanbul’s population lived on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, in 2009 this rose to 40% as a result of improved access via the new bridges and modern ferries. Trade and industry are centered on the European side, which have always accounted for a high proportion of Istanbul’s population. The population of Istanbul rose from 1 million in 1945 to 10 million in 2000 and 12.8 million in 2009 (Fig. 41.4). Transport has emerged as one of the major challenges which affect the sustainability of the city. Traffic congestion remains a major problem which needs solution to meet social expectations. Due to the heavy use of the two Bosphorus bridges, traffic jams are a normal occurrence in the large connecting areas on both the European and Asian sides of the city.

100 European Side

90

Asian Side 80

RATE (%)

70 60 50 40 30 20 10

2010

2005

2000

1997

1990

1985

1980

1975

1970

1965

1960

1955

1950

1945

1940

1935

0

YEARS

Fig. 41.4 Population change in Asian and European sides of Istanbul: 1935–2010. (TUIK, Turkish Statistical Institute)

720

R. Efe and I. Cürebal

41.1.4 Transportation in Istanbul One-fifth of Turkey’s economic production occurs in Istanbul and 90% of passenger transportation in the city is handled by cars. The contribution of railroad transportation to the total transportation mix is 3.6% and transportation through the sea adds only 5%. Out of the 14 million vehicles in Turkey, 2.8 million are in Istanbul. The number of vehicles that pass through the two bridges of Bosphorus daily is approximately 400,000. Most of the business and trade sections of the city are in the European side. The Asian parts mostly have a residential character. Traffic density is very dense on both continents (Fig. 41.5). Traffic density contributes to a waste of time and also consumes much fuel. Two bridges cross the Istanbul Strait (Bosphorus), the Bosphorus Bridge, is 1,074 m (3523 ft) long and was completed in 1973. The second, Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge, is 1,090 m (3576 ft) long, and was completed in 1988 about 5 km (3.1 mi) north of the first bridge. The two bridges on the Bosphorus do not contribute to a decrease the traffic density. Because of this reason, high capacity public transportation projects are needed in order to solve the problems in Istanbul transportation. Plans for a third bridge, which will allow transit traffic to by-pass the city traffic, have been approved by the Ministry of Transportation. This bridge will be part of the “Northern Marmara Motorway,” which will be further integrated with the existing Black Sea Coastal Highway. It is very important in preparing these types of projects to pay attention to the sustainable city concept. The cars also cause considerable air and noise pollution which threatens the health of inhabitants. The projects should be prepared in accordance with the natural, historical and cultural characteristics of the city and not create environmental pollution. The projects should also help reduce dependence on highway networks and individual transportation trends. Marmaray project has been prepared with these points in mind and is expected to have a positive and considerable contribution to traffic problems in Istanbul.

Fig. 41.5 Traffic congestion in Istanbul is getting worse with increasing car ownership and lack of efficient public transportation network (Ministry of Transportation)

41

Impacts of The “Marmaray” Project

721

41.2 The Marmaray Project The Marmaray Project is a sustainable public transport system and a suitable model that best fits Istanbul’s socioeconomic development goals and geographic constraints. The project connects the railway tracks in both sides of the Istanbul Strait to each other through a railway tunnel connection under the Bosphorus.

41.2.1 Background The idea of crossing the Istanbul Strait under the sea was first suggested and sketched in 1860 during the period of Sultan Abdülmecid (Fig. 41.6). Later in 1902 a similar project idea was developed in the period of Sultan Abdülhamid II. In this tunnel project called Tünel-i Bahri (The Sea Tunnel) it was planned to build a tunnel under the sea on a platform with 16 stands which would house immense water pipes. But conditions of this era did not allow further work in the project. The first scientific research regarding railroad transportation in order to cross the Istanbul Strait was initiated by the Ministry of Transportation and undertaken in the years 1985–1987 by an international consortium (IRTC-Istanbul Rail Tunnel Consultants). Factors such as urban land use characteristics, social, economic structure, characteristics of transportation, pollution, noise, water resources, ecosystems, historical and ecological resources, visual and aesthetical quality were considered in the research. The existing and future urban structural and transportation characteristics of the city were identified by a computerized design and several alternatives were developed with combinations of different transportation systems. After a multidimensional assessment regarding the alternatives, the Topkapı-Levent Metro and Bosphorus Railway Pass were given top priority due to the technical, economic and social advantages and benefits they provided to the city’s transportation systems.

Fig. 41.6 The plans of Bosphorus tunnel planned during the reign of Sultan Abdülmecid in 1860. (Source: Ministry of Transportation)

722

R. Efe and I. Cürebal

The project called for building the infrastructure of the immersed tube tunnel that will go underground and improvement of related railways which started in 2001. The project is being supervised by the General Directorate of Railways, Harbors and Airports Construction (DLH)-part of the Turkish Ministry of Transportation and Communications. The Engineering and Consultancy Services Contracts were signed in 2001 and in 2004 the “Railway Bosphorus Tube Tunnel Construction: Tunnels and Stations” was opened for bids and the manufacturing started.

41.2.2 Goals The Marmaray Project represents one of the major transportation infrastructure projects in the world at present. When introducing major infrastructure projects such as the Marmaray Project, it is important to realize that it will influence not only the daily traffic pattern of Istanbul, but also the development of the city and the region. It further provides an upgrading of the commuter rail system in Istanbul, connecting Halkalı on the European side with Gebze on the Asian side with an uninterrupted, modern, high capacity commuter rail system (Fig. 41.7). The Marmaray project is expected to be complete by 2013 and will connect the Asian side to the European side of Istanbul from Halkalı to Gebze. The main structures and systems include the immersed tube tunnel, bored tunnels, cut-and-cover tunnels, at – grade structures, three new underground stations and 37 surface stations. The total length of the project is 76.3 km (47.4 mi) long of which 13.6 km

Fig. 41.7 Alignment of the Marmaray project

41

Impacts of The “Marmaray” Project

723

Fig. 41.8 The Bored tunnel under construction in Marmaray project (Source: Ministry of Transportation)

(8.4 mi), are underground. Underground section are mainly consisting of 1387 m (4549 ft) of immersed tube, 9.8 km (6.1 mi) of bored tunnels, 2.4 km (1.5 mi) of cut and cover tunnels (Fig. 41.8). After completion, rail transportation use in Istanbul is predicted to rise from 3.6 to 27.7%, which would see the city’s percentage as the third highest in the world, behind Tokyo (60%) and New York City (31%). The total number of trips per day in year 2015 is estimated to approximately 1,500,000 passengers. The maximum number of passengers per hour per direction using the system will be about 65,000 in 2015. It has been calculated that the total time savings will be 36 million h when the capacity of the systems is fully utilized (ERQ, 2004). The cost of the project is a US$ 2.3 billion of which US$ 1.2 billion is allocated simply to the design and engineering of the 76.3-km (47.4 mi) line that will connect Halkalı to Gebze and everything in between. The Marmaray Project will also improve the environment in the city of Istanbul. It is a fact that the capacity of the Project to move people from one place to another will be twelve times as high as the capacity of one bridge crossing the Istanbul Strait. This means that the increasing problems related to road congestion in the old city can be reduced, as can the increasingly adverse effects on the environment of Istanbul. It will also make railway transport much more reliable, safe and comfortable. Also it will decrease the volume of dependence on highways and individual transportation; it will also use electric power that is not dependent on foreign resources and create a contemporary transportation system that forms the basis of a modern civic life.

724

R. Efe and I. Cürebal

The Project will reduce other negative environmental problems currently affecting Istanbul, such as noise and dust, due to the installation of modern and efficient environmental techniques. It is estimated that the amount of pollutants and greenhouse gasses (CO, NOx, NMHC) will reduce 15,000–25,000 tons, in 2010 and 2025 respectively. CO2 reduction will be reduced by 225,000 tons in 2010, and by 400,000 tons by the year 2025 (Belkaya et al., 2008). The overall goal of this project is to improve transportation conditions and provide better living conditions for people in the metropolitan area.

41.2.3 Objectives The major objectives can be summarized as follows: provide a long-term solution to the current urban transportation problems of Istanbul; relieve existing operating problems on the mainline railway services; provide direct connection of railway system between Asia and Europe; Increase capacity, reliability, accessibility, punctuality and safety on the rail services; reduce railway length and travel time; and reduce air pollution.

41.2.4 Benefits The perceived benefits are: it will contribute environment protection, since it is the most friendly type of transport mode; will reduce road density as well as the problems, namely accidents, air pollution etc. that will be experienced; this railway line will be constructed according to high speed railway technology that will improve Turkey’s connections with Asia and Europe; the high speed line will provide interoperability with Europe. In addition, despite of high speed and comfort of the new railway line, passenger transport rate on railways will increase; and it will affect positively the development of a main railway corridor between Turkey and other countries in Europe and Asia. A considerable amount of staff and workers will be required to establish the Marmaray Project which will likely increase employment in the area with a considerable amount. At peak construction time some 6.000–8.000 people will be directly employed and double that amount with subcontractors and suppliers. The workers will mainly come from Turkey, but engineers will come from Japan, Germany, Turkey and the U.S.

41.2.5 Impacts on Istanbul’s Transportation System The benefits of the Project are considered to include the following: the number of people who travel with Rail System will increase from 3 to 27.7%; it will allow operation of domestic and international passenger and freight train services during

41

Impacts of The “Marmaray” Project

725

off-peak hours through tunnel; it will make a contribution to the protection of Historical and cultural heritage; travel time for the passengers using the Marmaray Project will be considerably decreased; there will be a reduction in average travel times and time saving (this time saving also have some economic value and permit residents to use time for social and cultural activities); the traffic will decrease over both the Bosphorus and Fatih Sultan Mehmet bridges; there will be an improvement in air quality as reduced highway vehicle kilometers will reduce transport air pollution in the metropolitan area; the project will also cause reduction in airborne diseases (it is estimated that the saving of release of green-house gases will be in the order of 6,400 tons/year); the project will attract international professional interest in the form of tourism and conference activities; the project will provide easy, convenient and quick access to business and city’s cultural centers; it will increase the capacity of the line from present 10,000–12,000 passengers/h/direction to 75,000 with 2 min headway services at the peak period in the year 2015; the number of total daily passengers is expected to increase, approximately to 1.5 million in 2015; it will reduce pressures for converting urban land to roads, junctions and car parks, support urban development; it will provide for the reduction in highway passenger (and vehicle) kilometers and increase in rail passenger kilometers (this diversion from highway to rail systems will result from a reduction in accidents and related costs); and there will be fewer accidents with fewer hours spent for repair and bureaucratic procedures such as insurance and accident reporting (a reduced number of accidents with injuries saves days lost because of medical treatments and fatal accidents). The city’s historic district, due to its cultural and historic values, has been included in the “World Cultural Inheritance Literature.” This project will provide for limited motor vehicle access to reserved cities and also reduced exhaust gases will contribute to acid rain. Also bus and minibus feeder services and park-andride facilities will allow more passengers to have greater accessibility to a fast, safe, and clean rail transport service; all stations will be environmentally compatible; new vehicle fleets will be restructured and short secondary lines will be established in Gebze and Halkalı; the communications and signaling systems will be improved and a control center will set up in Maltepe, and finally, the Yenikapı Station will be designed according to transfers from Tunnel, Subway, Light Metro, Sea Bus. So it will help connections with other transportation alternatives (Fig. 41.9).

Fig. 41.9 Cross-section of the tunnels and stations between Yedikule and Sö˘gütlüçe¸sme (Kadıköy)

726

R. Efe and I. Cürebal

41.3 Technical Features and Route of the Marmaray According to the Project plans, commuter rail systems in both sides of Istanbul will be connected to each other through a railway tunnel that will be built under the Istanbul Strait. The line goes underground after Kazlıçe¸sme Station and continues through Yedikule, Yenikapı and Sirkeci, passes under the Istanbul Strait, connects to the Üsküdar and emerges at Sögütlüçesme. That way, the Project will provide an upgrading of the commuter rail system in Istanbul, connecting Halkalı on the European side with Gebze on the Asian side with an uninterrupted, modern, high capacity commuter rail system. Some specifics: total length of the commuter rail system: 76.3 km (47.4 mi); surface metro 72.7 km (39 mi); European side 19.3 km (12 mi); Asian side 43.4 km (27 mi); total length of tunnels 12.6 km (7.8 mi); immersed tube tunnel 1.387 m (4549 ft); bored tunnel 9.8 km (6.1 mi); cut and cover tunnel 2.4 km (1.5 mi); maximum depth of immersed tunnels 58 m (190 ft); existing stations 37; number of stations to be upgraded and rebuilt 37; new underground stations 3; length of platform (minimum) 225 m (738 ft); type of platform center; capacity of existing commuter rail system (10,000 passengers/h/direction); capacity of upgraded commuter rail system 75,000 passengers/h/direction; maximum inclination 18 0%; maximum operational speed 100 km/h (62 mph); expected average speed 45 km/h (28 mph); time between trains: 120–600 s; number of new vehicles 440; travel time in current commuter rail system (185 min between Halkalı and Gebze); travel time in new, upgraded and uninterrupted commuter rail (104 min between Halkalı and Gebze).

41.4 Funding and Contracts Funding the project was provided by the Japan Bank for International Cooperation (JBIC), the European Council Development Bank (CEB), and the European Investment Bank (EIB). The loan covers the costs for the engineering and consulting services, including supervision, and the construction costs for the Istanbul Strait Crossing portion of the Project that is, the tunneling works, the deep stations and some related Electro and Mechanical Works and Commuter Rail Systems. The Project is managed under four separate packages. 1. Engineering and Consultant Services. The organization responsible for the Engineering and Consultant Services was selected via competitive bidding. Avrasyaconsult was the successful bidder. This organization is now the Employer’s Representative on the construction sites and reports to the DLH (General Directorate of Railways, Harbors and Airports Construction). Avrasyaconsult is an international team that consists of four partners (Pacific Consultants International- PCL, Yüksel Proje Uluslararası A. S., Oriental Consultants and JARTS) from Turkey and Japan; it receives assistance from international consultants from the U.S. and local consultants from Turkey.

41

Impacts of The “Marmaray” Project

727

Pacific Consultants International (PCI) from Japan is the lead partner of Avrasyaconsult and among the largest consulting companies in the world. Yüksel Proje Uluslararası A.S. Oriental Consultants from Japan brings as partner extensive experience on immersed tunnel experience into the team. JARTS from Japan brings as a partner extensive experience in railway expertise into the team. These four partners form the Joint Venture which is in association with Parsons Brinckerhoff International, Inc. (PBI) from the U.S.; it brings special expertise related to immersed tunnels and electrical and mechanical tunnel installations into the team. Furthermore, the Joint Venture is in association with Terziba¸sıo˘glu Mü¸savirlik Mühendislik Ltd. Sti. (TMM) and Yerbilimleri Etüd ve Mü¸savirlik Ltd. Sti. ¸ (SIAL), both from Turkey which have special expertise in underground structures and geotechnical engineering. 2. The Bosphorus Crossing Contract (BCI). This contract covers the construction of tunnels and stations. Commuter rails, the immersed tube, and tunnels for stations and tunnels will be built by Taisei-Gama-Nurol firms. A contract was signed in May 2004 with the contractor consortium TKGN JV for building the first phase structures between Kazlıçe¸sme-Ayrılıkçe¸sme, which are also called Marmaray BCI (immersed tube tunnel, tunnels and stations). The joint venture was formed by four partners from Turkey and Japan: Taisei Corporation from Japan, which is the lead partner of the joint venture and recognized as one of the largest construction companies in the world with experience in tunnelling works. Kumagai Gumi Co. Ltd., also from Japan, is involved in many tunnel and underground structures in Japan and Asia. GAMA from Turkey is one of the leading construction companies with international experience in building similar structures; Nurol, also from Turkey has similar experience (Lykke & Belkaya, 2005; TKGN, JC 2004). 3. The Commuter Rail Infrastructure and Systems Contract (CRI). The renovation and upgrading of Gebze-Haydarpa¸sa, Sirkeci-Halkalı commuter rails and construction of structures and mechanical systems are other phases of the project. The improvement of existing commuter rails and electro-mechanical systems construction (RI)- comprise the second phase of the Project. These projects were contracted to AMD Rail (Alstom-Marubeni-Do˘gu¸s) Group on 28 March 2007. Work started 21 June that year. The scope of the contract includes the following: the renovation and upgrading of commuter rails and turning them into a surface metro; upgrading of the 36 stations; and increasing the number of tracks from two to three and renovating the entire infrastructure. The commuter trains will work on two tracks (CR); the third track will be used for interurban freight and commuter trains. The approximate distance between stations will be 1–1.5 km (0.62–0.93 mi). When commuter trains are in operation, it will take 18 min to travel between Kazlıçe¸sme to Sö˘gütlüçe¸sme and105 min for the Gebze-Halkalı route. The 30 existing bridges on the route will be preserved and 21 new ones will be built. Also 157 structures (pedestrian subways, vents, crossing, and overpass) will be rebuilt. The technical information of the stations and systems in this contract is as follows: total number of stations (37), new stations (3), and stations to be rebuilt (33), stations not to be used (5), transfer stations (7), and protected

728

R. Efe and I. Cürebal

historical buildings (10). The system will include 300 km (186 mi) of electrification, 300 km (186 mi) of line works, 2 km (1.24 mi) of signaling system, 11 transformers, 138 escalators, 98 elevators, and 750,000 tons of ballast. 4. Rolling Stock Contract (CR2). This contract covers the manufacturing of railway vehicles and tools. The contract was signed on 10 November 2008 with Hyundai Rotem of South Korea, the firm which provided the most suitable technical and financial solutions. The company will be responsible for the 440 railway vehiclemodern rolling stock (34, 10-car trains and 20, 5-car train sets). The contract calls for: design, procurement, and delivery of rolling stock, installation, and labor; training of the personnel; ensuring all parts of the system operate correctly; testing before and after termination of the project; procuring all backup and substitute parts and tools; five years of job maintenance on all work completed, and maintenance of and procuring all backup and substitute parts for the vehicles.

41.5 Historical Heritage Istanbul is a world famous historical city and represents a mixture of influences from the early Roman Empire, the Byzantine Empire, the Ottoman Empire and the modern state of Turkey. It is a city whose heritage derives from many different civilizations. The old city was founded on seven hills surrounded by walls. The original city was established on the site between Hagia Sophia and Sultan Ahmed Mosque (Blue Mosque). The area outside of the city wall was inhabited by people who moved into the city from other cities in Turkey in the second half of last century. During construction work and excavations undertaken as parts of Project Marmaray, some archaeological relics and ruins were unearthed in the vicinity of Yenikapı, Sirkeci, Üsküdar, Ayrılıkçe¸sme and Yedikule. During excavations in Yenikapı, an antique Theodosius harbor was excavated. This harbor was built in the 3rd century AD. From the 11th century AD., 32 ships have been uncovered thus far. Among these commercial ships of varying sizes, small fishing boats and some with long oars have been found. During the excavations, at another level a human skeleton about 8500 years old has been discovered. These findings prove that the history of Istanbul date back not 2700 years, but 8500 years. The port was built between 379 and 395 AD by the Roman Emperor I. Theodosius. The port was one of the most important trade centers in the region at the time. The Byzantine Empire imported wheat and grains from Egypt during this period. The Langa port, which was built along with warehouses to store grain, later lost its appeal in the 7th century when wheat and grain imports stopped. In later periods, when the port was not in use, the alluvium brought in by the Bayrampa¸sa (Likos) River filled the area and caused most parts of the port to fall into disuse. However, some parts of the port were still used as a stopover for ships and vessels and sank in a major gale that took place in the 11th century. These ships and vessels from the Yenikapı excavations

41

Impacts of The “Marmaray” Project

729

Fig. 41.10 One of the ships that were excavated in Yenikapı (Source: Ministry of Transportation)

were used to carry grains and oil, crockery, earthenware and ceramic goods; they finds also include silver and gold coins that were in circulation at the time. Also found were quantities of wooden combs, leather sandals, Nicea ceramics, gold and silver coins and long spouted water pitchers. Thirty-two ships and vessels from the 4th to the 11th centuries were discovered in the excavations (Fig. 41.10). Recording and removing the excavated items as well as conservation, maintenance and reconstruction are still being undertaken by teams from Texas A and M University and Istanbul University. During the construction of a shaft in Sirkeci, a 13 m (42.6 ft) cultural fill layer was encountered and excavated by archaeologists. In the upper layers are architectural findings from the Ottoman period were encountered. The subsequent layer contained structures and small artifacts from the Byzantine period. Underneath of this layer Roman architecture and artifacts were also unearthed. The findings uncovered during the archaeological excavations in the Üsküdar station area are very significant, particularly with regard to the Byzantine history of Üsküdar. The plans and materials of the structure are believed to be the foundation of a religious building dating back to the 12th–13th century A.D. More than 25 skeletons were found inside the building and between the building and the Temenos Wall (Belkaya et al., 2008). Excavation work was also done in Ayrılıkçe¸sme (Fountain) that was built in 17th century which is in Kadıköy along the Marmaray route. The area is known to be the place where the Ottoman sultans said their farewells when they left with their armies for battle. In addition to Langa Port and sunken vessels, more than 3,000 major historical artifacts have been found in the excavations in the past 2.5 years. In the excavations in Yenikapı, many Byzantine and Ottoman artifacts from the 3–15th century were unearthed. A total of 68 archeologists and 300 workers work in Marmaray archeological excavations in Yenikapı, Sirkeci and Üsküdar and 50 of them work on a voluntary

730

R. Efe and I. Cürebal

basis. Excavations at these sites continue. Those in Ayrılıkçe¸sme (Kadıköy) and Yedikule have been finalized. As a result of these excavations many artifacts can shed light on the history of Istanbul and will shed light on the city’s cultural heritage this way. Although these are invaluable, the excavations still cause delays in the project.

41.6 Environmental Impact Assessment Issues 1. Seismicity. Istanbul is situated near the North Anatolian Fault line, which runs from northern Anatolia to the Marmara Sea. Two tectonic plates, the Anatolian and the Eurasian, push against each other here. This fault line has been responsible for several deadly earthquakes in the region throughout history. In 1509 a catastrophic earthquake caused a tsunami which broke over the seawalls of the city, destroying over 100 mosques and killing 10,000 people. In 1766 the many buildings in the city were largely destroyed. The 1894 earthquake caused the collapse of many parts of the Grand Bazaar. A devastating earthquake on 17 August 1999, with its epicenter in Gölcük, left 18,000 dead and many more homeless (Efe, 2000). http://www.answers.com/topic/istanbul-cite_note-23#cite_note-23 In all of these earthquakes, the devastating effects are a result of the high building density and the poor construction of many buildings. Seismologists predict another earthquake, possibly measuring magnitude M > 7.0, occurring before 2025. The alignment of the Project and tunnels are only 20 km (12.4 mi) away from the seismic fault system in the Marmara Sea. Segments of the North Anatolian Fault Zone stretch from the east to the southwest along the Marmara (Prince Islands) Islands. Four earthquakes with magnitudes M > 7.0 have occurred in the region since beginning of 16th century (Efe, 2000). According to the earthquake history in the region we assume that the Istanbul region will most likely experience a seismic event of up to 7.5 magnitude sometime during the lifetime of the Project. Due to the existence of loose sediment along 470 m (1542 ft) of the immersed tunnel alignment, liquefaction and liquefaction induced ground deformations have also been taken into consideration in constructing the immersed tunnel design. The potentially liquefiable area was improved by compaction grouting (Belkaya et al., 2008). The tunnels within this project have been designed and constructed to resist an earthquake with M = 7.5 magnitude on the Richter scale. 2. Fish migration through Bosphorus. Fish migration is another important environmental issue. Migration through the Istanbul Strait usually takes place during the spring from March 15 to June 15 and during the autumn from September 1 to November 1 every year. In order for construction to reduce the impacts of fish migration, a Feedback Monitoring Program was undertaken which was prepared by Dokuz Eylül University Institute of Marine Science and Technology.

41

Impacts of The “Marmaray” Project

731

The Ministry of Agriculture and Rural Affairs were contacted for legal permission for this application on 9 August 2004. The Feedback Monitoring Program was undertaken with assistance from this ministry and advice from Dokuz Eylül University. The program started between the dates of March 15 and June 15, 2005 and it continued during from September 1 to November 1 the same year. Istanbul University continued the study during 2006. The Feedback Monitoring Program was designed to reduce the turbidity which results from the dredging that was necessary for the Strait Immersed Tube Tunnel (BC1) and which affected fish migration. This program permitted scientists to observe the environmental parameters (sea water temperature profiles, the quantity of migrated fish on either side of the Strait etc.) in order to make decisions regarding the timing of the construction under water. The immersed tube tunnel is 1387 m (4549 ft) long and construction work is completed along some parts of the route. Thus, the strait is not closed to fish migration completely. 3. Ground improvement and disposal sites. Detailed ground surveys, drilling and sampling were undertaken along portions of the route of the immersed tunnel that are under water. As a result of this, ground restoration work was carried out in the 460 m2 (6,016 yards3 ) area in Üsküdar coast section which faced the risk of liquefaction. Ground resistance was increased by injecting a cement mixture in the ground for the 2778 columns in April 2005.

In order to place the tubes, a ship equipped with a conveyer belt (Kanyu) started dredging along the Strait in August 2005. Approximately 1,000,000 m3 (1,307,900 yards3 ) of clean material consists of soft soil, gravel and sand have been removed and transported to Çınarcık Ditch in the Sea of Marmara with permission of Ministry of Environment. The contaminated material of 1–3 m (3.3–9.8 ft) thickness recovered between 7+300 and 7+900 km (4.3+0.4 and 4.3+0.9 mi) of Strait Tunnel Route as a result of the dredging was dumped in a confined site in Kurtköy which was specially designed for this project. The amount of contaminated material is 136,700 m3 (178,790 yards3 ) and it was taken out from the seabed in the Strait. This area was selected because of distance from nearby settlements. Furthermore, according to environmental laws, municipalities are responsible for finding areas within their province limits to excavate and operate these systems. The collection, temporary storage, recycling, reuse, transportation and destruction of excavated material and construction waste are controlled by Environmental Law Number 2872 (Ocak, 2009). The Ministry of Environment was consulted regarding the issue and the procedures to discard the contaminated material were finalized in 30 December 2005. Treatment process was started just after disposal of the material in the site. The Immersed Tube tunnel which is 1,387 m (4,549 ft) long was placed under the strait. Construction inside the tunnel continues. In order to assist with these works, a temporary port has been built in Üsküdar. The assembly portion of the bridge, which will provide connection between the port and access shaft, has been

732

R. Efe and I. Cürebal

completed. Transportation to the shaft itself from land has been possible with the construction of a transportation port of 300 m (984 ft) long. A report was prepared regarding the dumping of materials from excavations on land and under the sea. According to this report and the requirements of the Ministry of Environment, a monthly monitoring assessment has been done on the quality of water in the dump site. The monthly reports include the period of pre, during and post-dumping procedures which includes the three months following the completion of the process. These monitoring assessments have been reported to the related governorships and ministries. These monitoring assessments which have been undertaken in connection with the EIA (Environmental Impact Assessment) report prepared by the Istanbul Technical University and the Gebze Institute of Technology.

41.7 Conclusions It is difficult to operate massive construction in cities where the population numbers and densities are high. The area in which the Marmaray project is constructed has very dense settlement. In addition to this, many and invaluable historical artifacts exist in the area. Because of this reason, construction work should take the natural, cultural and historical characteristics of the area into consideration. When completed the Marmaray project will definitely ease the traffic congestion in a metropolis of more than 13 million inhabitants. Meeting the needs of today and tomorrow without compromising the past or nature involves special challenges. This Project is massive with interfaces affecting various stake holders and third parties, a situation which brings with it a real risk of delays and cost increases; these are among the many major challenges facing the project (Belkaya et al., 2008). The Marmaray project is important not only at national but also at international scales. The operation of the project will permit greater mobility in terms of transportation and will improve the rail systems along the Europe-Asia-Middle East axis. Once these projects are finalized, the city’s traffic problem itself is likely to be substantially improved. It will also provide benefits in terms of the integration of the intercity rail systems and contribute an increase in the quality of life in Istanbul by reducing the traffic on existing highways and bridges.

References Belkaya, H., Ozmen, I. H., & Karamut, I. (2008, 2–4 July). The Marmaray project: Managing a large scale project with various stake holders. Proceedings of the World Congress on Engineering 2008 (Vol. 2), London. Efe, R. (2000). Gölcük and Düzce Earthquakes–1999. Istanbul: Fatih University Publication, no.8. ERQ. (2004). Employer’s requirement. Contract BC1: Railway bosphorus tube crossing, tunnels and stations. Ankara, Turkey: Republic of Turkey, Ministry of Transportation, General Directorate of Railways, Harbours and Airports Construction (DLH).

41

Impacts of The “Marmaray” Project

733

Greg, T., & Ainsley, J. (2001). Sustainable transport for Asia-Pasific megacities. Foresight, 3(5), 419–427. Lykke, S., & Belkaya, H. (2005). Marmaray project: The project and its management. Tunnelling and Underground Space Technology, 20, 600–603. Lykke, S., & van de Kerk, F. (2005). Marmaray project: Marine operations, the bosphorus crossing. Tunnelling and Underground Space Technology, 20, 609–611. Ocak, I. (2009). Environmental problems caused by Istanbul subway excavation and suggestions for remediation. Environmental Geology. Online, doi:10.1007/s00254-008-1662-9, January 2009. Rodrigue, J.-P., Comtois, C., & Slack, B. (2009). The geography of transportation systems. New York: Routledge. Sakaeda, H. (2005). Marmaray project: Tunnels and stations in BC contract. Tunnelling and Underground Space Technology, 20, 612–616. www.ita-aites.org. www.marmaray.com. www.marmaray.com.tr. www.tacsgmbh.de. www.unece.org.

Chapter 42

Scandinavian Links: Mega Bridges Linking the Scandinavian Peninsula to the European Continent Christian Wichmann Matthiessen and Richard D. Knowles

Mega engineering projects can be spectacular and of high architectural quality. Many are not. Motorways, railroads, harbors, airports, tunnels, dikes, or windmill parks seldom present themselves as aesthetic elements of the landscape. Transmission lines, military installations, and power plants are often considered grim and ugly, with some hydroelectric power plants as possible exceptions. Skyscrapers, monuments, and religious buildings can often be of high architectural quality. But bridges are almost always of aesthetic and architectural quality. Nearly all bridges are simply beautiful, and large bridges (Table 42.1) are inevitably of excellent aesthetic and architectural quality, and most people consider their object of creating interaction as praiseworthy. Until 1997 Sjælland (Zealand), with the metropolitan city of Copenhagen, the Danish capital (1.8 million inhabitants), was an island. The Danish island was connected to the European continent with very strong and efficient ferry lines (Fig. 42.1). Westward to continental Denmark, large ferries carrying trains and cars departed every hour and the crossing time over the Storebælt (the Great Belt) was 1 h (26 km between harbors for train ferries and 19 km for car ferries) plus embarkation and disembarkation time of 20 min. Eastward to Sweden from metropolitan Copenhagen to the 3rd largest Swedish city of Malmö (0.5 million inhabitants) and the 10th largest city of Helsingborg (0.1 million inhabitants), large ferries for trains and cars crossed four times per hour, ferries for cars only three times per hour and passengers ferries and hydrofoils completed the picture with direct city core to city core twice an hour. The large ferries crossed Øresund (Oresund or the Sound) at the shortest distance (4 km between harbors) some 45-km away from central Copenhagen and took 20 min plus embarkation, disembarkation, customs, and passport clearing time of 30 min. The hydrofoils took 50 min (distance of 35 km) plus embarkation, disembarkation, customs, and passport clearing time of 10 min. To the south between Denmark and Germany on the route from Copenhagen to Hamburg, large ferries for trains and cars departed every hour and the crossing time C.W. Matthiessen (B) Institute of Geography and Geology, University of Copenhagen, 1350 Copenhagen K, Denmark e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_42,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

735

736

C.W. Matthiessen and R.D. Knowles Table 42.1 The world’s biggest bridges as measured by free span

Bridge name and country

Year completed

Span, meters (feet)

Akashi-Kaikyo, Japan Xihoumen Bridge, China Great Belt East Bridge, Denmark Runyang South Bridge, China Humber Bridge, United Kingdom Jiangyin Bridge, China Tsing Ma Bridge, China Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, United States Golden Gate Bridge, United States Yangluo Bridge, China

1998 2007 1998 2005 1981 1999 1997 1964 1937 2007

1,991 (6,529) 1,650 (5,414) 1,624 (5,328) 1,490 (4,888) 1,410 (4,626) 1,385 (4,543) 1,377 (4,518) 1,298 (4,260) 1,280 (4,200) 1,280 (4,200)

Source: www.forbes.com

Fig. 42.1 The Scandinavian links, indicating average traffic per day. (The fixed links are owned by Sund & Bælt Holding A/S, which is owned by the Danish State. A/S Storebælt (Great Belt fixed links) and Femern Bælt A/S (coming Femern Belt fixed link) are owned 100% and Øresundsbro Konsortiet (Oresund fixed link) 50%—the other 50% is owned by the Swedish State.) (Source: Øresundsbro Konsortiet)

over the Femern Bælt (Femern Belt) was 1 h (20 km distance between harbors, or 60 km on an alternative, more easterly route) plus embarkation, disembarkation, customs, and passport clearing time of 20 min. During the night, departures were fewer due to lower demand.

42

Scandinavian Links

737

Ferries were bottlenecks to traffic, especially when everybody wanted to use them (e.g., Friday and Sunday evening and in tourism peak time). Travelers had to plan for the crossing and book passage in peak hours. The price of crossing created another bottleneck, not so much for passengers ($3–10 USD per trip) as for cars ($50 USD per trip). Other barriers were especially notable when border crossing was part of the trip. Different cultures and languages—although not so much between Denmark and Sweden (Danish and Swedish languages are rather similar and cultural differences are not that dissimilar) as between Denmark and Germany—created barriers for interaction. Scandinavians understand each others’ languages with little difficulty, and intermarriages are as unproblematic as other marriages. Danish and German are two different languages and cultural differences are notable. Major barriers however are more deeply rooted in differences in legal systems and regulations. Thousands of paragraphs spanning from taxation through social security systems to labor market regulations presented hindrances to interaction. In conclusion, ferries separated systems (Matthiessen, 2004).

42.1 The Missing Links of Europe Transport networks remain much more extensive within than between European Union (EU) member countries despite the EU’s part-funding of strategic crossboundary Trans-European Transport Network (TEN-T) infrastructure. This EU investment includes motorways, high-speed trains, bridges, and tunnels (Knowles & Matthiessen, 2009). The European Round Table of Industrialists set the TEN-T agenda in the late 1980s by identifying missing transport networks and links as key deficiencies and bottlenecks holding back the development of the Single Market. TEN-T aims to reorganize the dynamics between spaces, cities, and regions, and release the latent potential for transnational mobility. Cross-border bridges and tunnels across short-sea barriers have particularly significant meaning as they allow large-scale commuting and daily interaction between locations which previously took too long to access. Many international fixed links cross river boundaries (such as the Rhine between France and Germany), or tunnel through mountain barriers (such as the Alps between France and Italy). On a much larger scale, the Channel Tunnel was Europe’s first international fixed link to cross a major strait with its twin rail tunnels linking Great Britain and France since 1994 (Knowles, 2006). Three of the 14 missing European links were located at the coasts of Zealand: (1) the Great Belt link, (2) the Oresund link, and (3) the Femern Belt link. The first is an internal Danish link, the other two cross-national borders from Denmark to Sweden and Germany. Their local settings are different. The Great Belt link is located in an average Danish setting with adjacent small cities and rural landscapes. The Oresund link is located right in the center of the Nordic countries’ largest population and economic concentration, and the Femern Belt is the neighbor to thinly populated peripheral regions. Two of the links are no longer missing, and the third has been decided upon.

738

C.W. Matthiessen and R.D. Knowles

42.1.1 The National Bottleneck: The Great Belt Link The 18-km fixed link between the Danish islands of Zealand and Funen (connected to the Jutland peninsula by bridges) across the Great Belt consists of a road suspension bridge (the East Bridge, Figs. 42.2, 42.3, and 42.4) and railway tunnel (the East Tunnel) between Zealand and the mid-way island of Sprogø, as well as a box girder bridge (the West Bridge) between Sprogø and Funen for motorway and railroad. The link had been discussed for more than a century and was finally decided in 1986 and building commenced in 1988. The tunnel-bridge was opened for railroad traffic in 1997 (the reason for sending the trains through a tunnel was technical, due to weight and grade of approach ramps), and the motorway crossing the two bridges opened one year later. The West Bridge has a length of 6,611 m on 62 piers with the longest span of 110 m and clearance below of 18 m. The East Tunnel has a total length of 8,024 m and goes down to -75 m. The East Bridge has a length of 6,790 m with a free span of 1,624 m between the two 254-m high pylons and a clearance below of 65 m over the international waterway between the Atlantic Ocean and the

Fig. 42.2 The Great Belt East Bridge. [Owner and builder of the two bridges and the railroad tunnel: A/S Storebælt. Main architects: Dissing & Weitling in partnership with landscape architect Jørgen Vesterholt. The East Bridge was built by Great Belt Contractors (a consortium of Danish, German, and Dutch companies) and East Bridge Consortium (Italy, USA). The West Bridge was built by European Storebælt Group (joint venture between Danish, Dutch, British, and Swiss companies). The tunnel was built by MT Group (Danish, French, German, and USA companies). The West Bridge and the tunnel opened for traffic in 1997 to give mass transport a competitive advantage. The East Bridge opened for traffic in 1998. Building the three links took almost 10 years and at peak years 4,000 people worked directly at the construction site. 75% of the workforce was Danish, but also Italian (cables), Spanish (girders), and British (tunnel) were part of the workforce on the site. Overall the project created 66,000 man-years of labor.] (Photo: Femern Belt and A/S Storebælt)

42

Scandinavian Links

739

Fig. 42.3 The Great Belt’s East Bridge under construction. (Photo: Søren Madsen/Øresundsbro Konsortiet and A/S Storebælt)

Baltic Sea. To keep the cables in tension, anchorage structures are placed on each side of the span below the deck. Additionally, 19 pillars carry the approach deck. Construction and subsequent operation has been done by A/S Storebælt, which is a state-owned limited company. The price of bridges, tunnel, and approach motorways and railroads plus interest until the opening has been 51 billion DKR in 2008 prices (38 billion DKR, plus interest until opening for traffic of 13 billion DKR). The construction period was financed by state guaranteed loans on the international market, and pay back by tolls on traffic was stipulated to take 30 years, but has been cut shorter due to underestimates of traffic. The fixed link has reduced travel time from around 90 to 10 min, has taken away the land-sea barrier, but kept the price barrier. The psychological effect of 24/7 availability, no queue, and no pre-booking is hard to gauge. This represents a system change, which has had effects both for domestic interaction, where the networks were at hand in the form of family, business, and public ties across Denmark. The Great Belt fixed link has changed Denmark in many ways. Logistics now operate in a single system, domestic air traffic has decreased because the fixed link offers a

740

Fig. 42.4 The Great Belt’s East Bridge under Winther/Øresundsbro Konsortiet and A/S Storebælt)

C.W. Matthiessen and R.D. Knowles

construction.

(Photo:

Jan

Kofod

competitive alternative, and one-day visits have replaced overnight visits. In short, fixed links unite systems. Prior to the opening 8,000 vehicles used the ferries every day. In 2008 the figure is 30,000.

42.1.2 The International Bottleneck: The Oresund In 1992, the Danish and Swedish governments decided to build a 16-km-long fixed link across Oresund (Figs. 42.5, 42.6, and 42.7). Construction began in 1995 and the fixed link opened for traffic in mid-2000. The decision on the investment was based on regional economic considerations although long-distance traffic was also a concern. The objective was to integrate the Malmö-Lund metropolitan region in Southern Sweden with Greater Copenhagen in East Denmark and to develop a metropolitan border region (2.5 million inhabitants) where the commercial profile could be specialized on the basis of the total volume, thus strengthening the city in the global competition. The Oresund link also related to international transport and the advantage of developing the South Scandinavian metropolis into the most important cross-point in Northern Europe, with all the associated locational advantages. In the direction of Denmark-Sweden, the fixed link consists of a 4,050-m-long immersed tunnel for motorway and railroad under the international waterway linking the Atlantic Ocean to the Baltic Sea, a 4,055-m-long artificial island, and a 7,845-m-long cable-stayed bridge (upper level motorway, lower level railroad) with a free span of 490 m between the two 204-m pylons and a clearance below of 57 m. Additionally, 51 pillars carry the approach deck. The Danish landing is directly

42

Scandinavian Links

741

Fig. 42.5 The Oresund Bridge, which opened for traffic in 2000. [Owner and builder: Øresundsbro Konsortiet. Main architect Georg K. S. Rotne. The bridge was built by Sundlink Contractors HB, which was a Danish-Swedish-German company and the bridge girders were Spanishmade. The tunnel under the international waterway was built by Øresund Tunnel Contractors, a Swedish-French-British-Dutch-Danish company. Waterworks were done by Öresund Maritime Joint Venture, a Dutch-Danish-USA company. Construction took five years and during peak construction years around 5,000 people worked directly at the construction site, most of the workforce was Danish or Swedish, but also a sizeable contingent of Dutch and British personal took part. In total, construction created 42,000 man-years of labor.] (Photo: Søren Madsen/Øresundsbro Konsortiet)

742

C.W. Matthiessen and R.D. Knowles

Fig. 42.6 The giant crane, Svanen (the Swan) is placing a bridge girder at the Oresund Bridge. (Photo: Pierre Mens/Øresundsbro Konsortiet)

into Copenhagen Airport, which is the most important air traffic hub in the entire Baltic Sea Region. Bridge to city distance is around 6 km on both sides. The fixed link itself draws other direct investments as it, for example, was necessary to build rail and motorway connections, and therefore also to Copenhagen Airport, which became much more accessible. Construction and subsequent operation has been done by Øresundsbro Konsortiet, which is a two-state-owned limited company. The price of bridges, tunnel, and approach motorways and railroads plus interest up to the opening has been 36 billion DKR in 2008 prices (32 billion DKR plus interest until opening for traffic of 4 billion DKR). The construction period was financed by state guaranteed loans on the international market (50% Danish guaranteed and 50% Swedish guaranteed), and pay back by tolls on traffic is stipulated to take 30 years. The integration process was slower than expected due to the national border barrier (Knowles & Matthiessen, 2009). The networks between Danish and Swedish families and business were initially very weak and between local governments were almost non-existent, and the toll charges presented an additional barrier. But with a certain delay of 3–5 years, integration developed—mostly due to price differences, but also due to real integration of markets.

42

Scandinavian Links

743

Fig. 42.7 Construction of caissons for the Oresund Bridge at Malmo North Harbor. (Photo Pierre Mens/Øresundsbro Konsortiet)

42.1.3 The Last Missing Link: Femern Belt The most direct line between the Scandinavian Peninsula and Germany crosses the western Baltic Sea at the Femern Belt. Construction of a 20-km-long fixed link was finally decided upon in 2009. It presents the direct connection between Copenhagen-Malmö and Hamburg and will reduce the transport time between these two metropolitan hot spots from 4.5 to 3 h—and with high-speed trains, down to less than 2 h. The two metropolitan areas will have the possibility of daily interaction, and their crossroads location will be enforced. In the regions adjacent to the coming fixed link the development of a “real” border region is on the agenda, and international traffic between the Scandinavian Peninsula and Germany will be concentrated on that corridor. The Femern Belt link (Fig. 42.8) is going to be built and operated by Femern Belt A/S, which is a Danish state-owned limited company, and the price is estimated at 42 billion DKR. On the Danish side electrifying and rebuilding 119 km of railway from single to double track is needed and on the German side a new bridge at Fehmarn Sound (1,000 m), 20 km of motorway, and 89 km of new double track electrified railroad are needed.

744

C.W. Matthiessen and R.D. Knowles

Fig. 42.8 One of several propositions for a bridge solution over the Femern Belt. The fixed link has been finally agreed upon by the governments and parliaments of Denmark and Germany and is stipulated to open for traffic in 2018. (Computer graphics: Femern Belt A/S)

42.2 Environment Environmental considerations have been an integral part of the construction project of the fixed links, and have been of decisive significance for the choice of alignment and determination of the design of the construction. Environmental considerations were the reason the Great Belt A/S and later Øresundsbro Konsortiet established environmental monitoring programs and initiated cooperation with authorities and external consultants on the definition of environmental concerns during the construction work and the professional requirements for the monitoring program. Three environmental features were considered problematic: (1) the water balance between the Atlantic Ocean and the Baltic Sea, (2) the changes of traffic flows and the creating of economic growth due to the new effective traffic lines, and (3) the question of threats to nearby bird protection areas. First, the question of threatening water flow between the Atlantic Ocean (incoming cold saltwater) and the Baltic Sea (out-flowing warmer brackish water). The Baltic Sea receives a net surplus of water from precipitation and rivers, minus evaporation of the order of 1 m per year. This water must exit, whereas the Atlantic water does not have to flow in. The Atlantic water is very important for marine life and ecosystems in the Baltic Sea and thus for the fishing industry and tourism. It creeps in at the bottom of the Danish straits and this in-creeping was feared to be threatened by the pillars of the bridges. By a series of modeling and tests it was shown that the major inflow of Atlantic water takes place during special high-energy storm situations, which are only active with a 5–10 years time span. The bridges would not influence the storm situations. The potential blocking of in-creeping bottom water was also considered a problem and it was decided to comply with a zero-solution. This has been achieved by deepening parts of the Great Belt and the Oresund, so

42

Scandinavian Links

745

that the water flow cross-section was extended to compensate for the blocking effect caused by the bridge pylons and approach ramps. Second, the most economic building line for the Oresund Bridge cut directly through one of Scandinavia’s largest bird protection areas, namely the salt marsh island of Saltholm, which is a Ramsar area (see www.ramsar.org). Thousands of eider and waterfowl nest there and the area has long been under natural preservation with restricted admission. To protect this island it was decided to curve the Oresund Link so that the bridge was constructed 1 km south of the island at an extra cost of $130 million USD. Third, fixed links generate increased traffic volume due to their effect on efficiency and economic growth. This in itself creates increased air pollution. The increase in pollution from new traffic is in some way compensated by significant savings in energy consumption by switching from ferries to the fixed links. Train and car ferries consume much energy for propulsion. High-speed ferries consume large amounts of energy at high speeds. Also, air transport is highly energy consuming. These types of traffic were expected to decrease after the opening of the bridges.

42.3 Conclusion Ferries connect systems, whereas fixed links unite systems. The changing potential of strategically located fixed links should not be underestimated. This becomes clear when analyzing the development of strait crossing traffic on the two Scandinavian links connecting the Danish island of Zealand with the European continent and the Scandinavian Peninsula with the rest of Europe. On the Danish-Danish Great Belt link, traffic increased immediately by 130% and on the Danish-Swedish Oresund link the traffic jump was a bit slower but increased by 70%. Figure 42.9 illustrates

Fig. 42.9 Diagram showing the traffic measured by vehicles per year 1990–2008 crossing the straits around the Danish island of Zealand

746

C.W. Matthiessen and R.D. Knowles

the changing traffic on the links. The upper curve is the Great Belt traffic on different ferry lines and since 2000 on the bridge and the remaining ferry-lines. The curve demonstrates how the fixed link 1997–1998 accelerated traffic on the Great Belt. The decrease in the middle curve on Oresund 1992–1994 is due to fall in border retail because of devaluation of the Swedish krone. The increase from 2000 onwards is the effect of the fixed link. The bottom curve counts ferry traffic only on the Femern Belt. The Danish-Danish link profited by the fact that many networks are national and just needed the possibility of increased interaction to react. These bridges are beautiful mega engineering projects that are impressive and very visible. They are liked by most people because of that, but also due to their function, which is to connect people and economies and increase interaction. Geographers are concerned about their potential regional development impact. Forecasting this is often done by looking at their effect by taking away the land-sea bottleneck and by reducing transport time in a forecast model. But their system effect should be looked into much more by professional geographers and economists, because the dynamic effects of fixed links, which take the place of ferry links, can be very dramatic. Traffic on the Scandinavian links has not just presented a jump, but also an unexpected lasting new growth regime. The Scandinavian links are good examples not just of mega engineering projects but also of system effects.

References Knowles, R. D. (2006). Transport impacts of the Øresund (Copenhagen to Malmö) fixed link. Geography, 91(3), 227–240. Knowles, R. D., & Matthiessen, C. W. (2009). Barrier effects of international borders on fixed link traffic generation: The case of Øresundsbron. Journal of Transport Geography, 17, 155–165. Matthiessen, C. W. (2004): The Öresund area: Pre- and post bridge cross-border functional integration: The bi-national regional question. Geojournal, 61, 31–39.

Chapter 43

The Qinghai–Tibetan Railroad: Innovative Construction on Warm Permafrost in a Low-Latitude, High-Elevation Region Stuart A. Harris

43.1 Introduction The extremes in elevation and harsh climate, rather than the presence of permafrost, have tended to limit the number of incursions into and excursions out of the Qinghai–Tibetan Plateau (QTP) area during the past many centuries. When the recently proclaimed People’s Republic of China (1st October 1949) tried to firmly establish its southwestern border in the early 1950s, it faced formidable communication and transportation problems. The first attempt at a solution was to extend the Xining-Golmud Highway (QTH), following a natural north-south corridor (QTEC) from Golmud, Qinghai Province to Lhasa, Tibetan Autonomous Region, a distance of 1,120 km (696 mi), during the early 1960s. The most recent was the construction and extension of the 815 km (566 mi)-long Xining-Golmud Railway during 2001–2006 for an additional 1,120 km (696 mi) to Lhasa, generally paralleling the QTH within the QTEC. The Xining-Golmud Railway section had been completed in 1984, largely to transport the large tonnage of natural salts found in the saline playas in the proximity of Golmud. Now, there was an additional requirement to transport military cargo, troops, and meat products and for the economic development, including tourism, within the Tibet Autonomous Region. The extent and conditions of the permafrost zones within the QTEC were known from the QTH maintenance operations as well as research by the Department of Highways at Fenghoushan, and the engineering design in anticipation of the need for construction of the railway had been completed. The project had also risen to a priority status as viewed by the Central Government for the further development of western China. This chapter will explain how the technological problems were solved and what is planned for the future.

S.A. Harris (B) Department of Geography, University of Calgary, Calgary, AB T2N 1N4, Canada e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_43,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

747

748

S.A. Harris

43.2 The Physical Setting The Tibetan Plateau occupies a very large (1.3 M km2 ) area, generally with elevations of over 4,000–5,000 m (13,123–16,404 ft) with three east–west trending mountain ranges, viz., the Kunlunshan in the north, the Fenguoshan in the middle, and the Tanggulashan in the south (Fig. 43.1). Much of the intervening areas consist of semiarid, gently rolling pastoral-type grasslands (Miehe Miehe, & Dickoré, 2002). Biodiversity is immense (see Wu Cheng-yih, 1985–7), particularly in the southeastern part, and is still crucial in the biodiversity and evolution of ecosystems in Eurasia (Miehe et al., 2002). It has been suggested that the region is the one in which much of the Eurasian flora evolved during the Tertiary period (Hulten, 1971). The engineering and environmental problems on the Qinghai–Tibet Plateau (QTP) are unique due to climatic changes ranging from the Southern Asian monsoonal-impacted bamboo forests in the southeast to the harsh, very dry deserts in the west. A naturally-occurring north–south, relatively low relief corridor, 5–10 km (3.1–6.2 mi) wide, is found in the central area of the QTP, going from Golmud in the north to Lhasa in the south. This natural corridor was used for the routing and construction of the Qinghai–Tibet highway (QTH) beginning in the mid 1950s, the Oil Products Pipeline from Golmud to Lhasa in the mid 1970s, the Lanzhou-Xining-Lhasa Fiber-Optics cable in 1997, an 110-kv electrical transmission line in 2005–2006, the modern Qinghai–Tibet Railroad during 2001–2006, and has also been proposed as the route for an express highway in the near future. All these engineering construction and supporting activities are located within the

Fig. 43.1 Location of the Qinghai–Tibet railroad (see also Fig. 43.2)

43

The Qinghai–Tibetan Railroad

749

Fig. 43.2 Permafrost distribution and mean annual ground temperatures along the higher parts of the Qinghai–Tibet Engineering Corridor. (Modified from Jin, Wei, Wang, 2008)

narrow corridor, some impacting on one another and all affecting the environments traversed in various ways and to varying degrees. The corridor has been designated the Qinghai–Tibet Engineering Corridor (QTEC). The central area of the QTP, including the QTEC, experiences a continental climate with cold (down to –30◦ C (–22◦ F)) winters with blowing snow as well as warm (to +25◦ C; 77◦ F) summers. Annual precipitation is 400–500 mm (15.7–19.7 in), mostly from the Southern Asian Monsoons during May–August, with occasional flash floods. The QTEC is essentially treeless and subjected to almost continuous windy conditions. The vegetation cover consists of sparse, low-stature (10–15 cm; 3.9–5.9 in) vegetation with numerous bare, sandy and salinized areas. The area is subject to frequent, strong earthquakes as the Plateau continues to rise, as well as

750

S.A. Harris

landslides. A number of hot springs are found in the southern area. The total length of the QTEC from Golmud to Lhasa is about 1,120 km (696 mi), of which 670 km (416.3) is impacted by permafrost.

43.3 Warm Permafrost Permafrost is defined as being ground that remains below 0◦ C (32F) for more than two years (Associate Committee on Geotechnical Research, 1986; Muller, 1946). Johnston (1981) and Harris (1986) give details of its properties and some of the problems it creates for engineering. There is always an active layer (ground whose temperature rises above 0◦ C (32◦ F) in summer but drops below 0◦ C (32◦ F) in winter) overlying the surface of the permafrost (called the permafrost table). In warm, unstable permafrost, the average temperature of the ground just below the permafrost table remains above –1◦ C (30◦ F), that is, its temperature can readily be raised so that the permafrost thaws. Large areas of the QTEC are in this category (Fig. 43.2) The stability of permafrost is dependent on a constant mean annual temperature and precipitation regime, together with a lack of surface disturbance. The soil moisture in the active layer gradually accumulates in the surface layers of the permafrost, either as lenses or blocks of ice. Ice contents in the permafrost on the Plateau can exceed 20–70% by volume. Increased moisture in the active layer tends to cause increased accumulation of ice with consequent heaving of the ground surface. If the active layer becomes deeper, there is thawing of the ice in the former surface layers of permafrost, resulting in subsidence of the ground surface. The amount of thermal disturbance also depends on the nature of the soil, for example, permafrost tends to be found under peat, which is rare along the rail corridor though it occurs to the east on the Plateau, and beneath layers of stones and rocks (Harris, 1996) which are common on slopes along the QTEC. An additional problem is climatic change, and Qin (2002) has predicted that the mean annual air temperature on the Plateau will rise by 2.2–2.6◦ C (36–36.7◦ F) by 2050 A.D. A small change in climate will alter the thickness of the active layer, though not necessarily the temperature of the surface layers of the permafrost (Brewer & Jin, 2008). However, it needs to be remembered that the direction of climatic change can and does reverse periodically in ways we cannot presently predict. Although extensive ice masses are typical of permafrost in more humid, lowelevation regions, they are essentially absent along the QTEC. Only small ice-wedge casts have been observed in a few places.

43.4 Recent History of the Tibetan Plateau The Qinghai Hu (lake in Chinese) or Koko Nor (lake in Mongolian) has been regarded as part of China since 1724 when the Ch’ing dynasty took it over from the Mongolian overlords. The northern part of the central Qinghai–Tibetan Plateau

43

The Qinghai–Tibetan Railroad

751

was established as the Qinghai Province of China in 1928 with Xi’ning as its administrative centre. Subsequently, a sparse road network was built and paved to link the mineral-rich deserts of the Koko Nor with the capital city. It was this network connection to Golmud, the second largest city in Qinghai Province, together with a national defense road (QTH) south onto the northern part of the Plateau that provided the access for the Chinese from the north in 1950. This represents the easiest route into and out of Tibet, provided that the problems associated with the presence of warm, unstable permafrost on the Tibetan Plateau can be overcome. Access was needed to and from Tibet for both freight and people, and the ideal and most economic method is by rail. However, a road is easier to build, maintain and repair, and this was used for the remainder of the 20th century. Building a road across the desert to the north was primarily a problem of money and labor. However, once the road reached the higher parts of the Kunlun Shan, warm permafrost was encountered. Disturbance of the ground surface resulted in changes to the thermal properties of the soil and the ground ice started to thaw (Cheng, 2005b). Paving the road caused even more thawing and resultant subsidence (Wang & Mi, 1993), and there had to be road maintenance camps every few kilometers on the Plateau. Keeping the road open was very costly. By 1984 a railway line was completed from Xi’ning to Golmud, a distance of 815 km (526.4 mi). This only crossed some isolated areas of permafrost, so its construction could be carried out using conventional methods. Freight carried on this railway then had to be placed on trucks and transported south by road. Likewise, goods and people had to be brought north to Golmud by road before they could be loaded on to the more energy-efficient railcars for transport to the rest of China. To supply fuel to Tibet, an 1,120 km (696 mi), 159 mm (6.26 in) diameter pipeline (the Golmud to Lhasa Oil Products Pipeline) was constructed between 1972 and 1977 paralleling the road. It was laid in a trench between 1.2 and 1.4 m (3.9–4.6 ft) deep with the spoil being mounded on top. Frost hazards and cathodic corrosion, etc., necessitated rehabilitation or relocation of about 300 km (186.4 mi) of the pipe between 2001 and 2004 at a cost of 326 million yuan (c. $US 41 million). The former Northwestern Institute of the China Railway Academy of Sciences (Lanzhou) established a research station at Fenghuo Shan in 1963 at about 4,800 m (15,748 ft) on the north side of the Tanggula Mountains. This research station is still in use, and a series of experiments were carried out to evaluate various methods of stabilizing slopes on a short, improvised rail bed that lacked the ballast and rails of the real thing. Over 20 years of data were obtained before the railway was designed. The Chinese Academy of Sciences (CAS) former Lanzhou Institute of Glaciology and Geocryology (LIGG) was responsible for studying and solving the overall permafrost problems; it built the Qinghai–Tibet Plateau Research Station at Golmud in 1987. It focused on the long term monitoring of 13 weather and ground temperature stations distributed between Xidatan and Nagqü (see Fig. 43.2). This work was intensified after 1995. The cooling effect of coarse rocks under natural conditions, e.g., in block fields, screes, kurums, talus and even mine tailings, has been known for a long time (see for example, Cheng, 2004; Delaloye, Reynard, Lambeil, Marescot, & Monnet, 2003;

752

S.A. Harris

Gorbunov and Seversky, 2001; Sawada, 2003). The Skovorodino Permafrost Station of the former All-Union Railway Institute showed this effect based on field observations made in 1969 and 1970 (Mikhailov, 1971). In 1973 the former CAS LIGG built a 2.7 m (8.85 ft) high experimental embankment of coarse rocks (0.3 m; 11.8 inch diameter) over an ice-rich permafrost section at the Reshui Coal Mine in Qinghai Province (Cheng & Tong, 1978; Cheng, Tong, & Luo, 1981). An obvious cooling effect was observed. Subsequently, the Department of Mechanical Engineering of the University of Alaska at Fairbanks completed a series of computer simulations on heat convection in porous media. An experimental embankment demonstrated the cooling effect and the Alaska Department of Transportation named it the “air-cooled embankment” (Georing, 2003; Georing & Kumar, 1996). However, the processes causing the cooling were not examined until the mid 1990s. In October 1988, Professor Guodong Cheng (Head of CAS LIGG) invited selected scientists from Canada and the US to visit China and take part in the Third Chinese Permafrost Conference. Afterwards, a Canadian scientist visited the northern part of the Plateau, staying at the Fenghuo Shan and was impressed by the active block streams that are rarely seen elsewhere (Harris, 1994). When he returned to study them, he found that ground temperatures under a thin layer of blocks were significantly lower than in the surrounding soils (Harris, 1996). A year-long experiment was then conducted at Plateau Mountain in Southwest Alberta, comparing ground temperatures in a block field with those in the soil profile, 10 m (32.8 ft) away, with measurements every 10 min for a year. The results showed that the mean annual ground temperatures were about 6◦ C (10◦ F) cooler beneath the blocks at comparable depths (Harris and Petersen 1998). The authors were able to find evidence for four main processes causing this, and they suggested that blocks of rock could be used for cooling foundations in human-made structures. The processes identified as causing the colder temperatures included the Balch effect. Climatologist E. S. Balch (1900) pointed out that cold air is denser than warm air and therefore tends to displace the warmer air in the interstices of coarse blocky materials. This process is most effective in regions with low winter snowfall such as the Tibetan Plateau (Cheng, Sun, & Nui, 2008) and where there are large connecting spaces between the blocks. The second process is the chimney effect, first suggested by von Wakonigg (1996), based on field observations in unexpectedly cold boulder fields in the eastern Alps. Where there is a deeper snow cover, warmer air tends to be displaced from between the blocks by cold air entering wherever there are holes in the snow cover. This appears to be rather common at the base of scree and talus slopes in the maritime parts of the Swiss Alps (Lambiel & Pieracci, 2008). The air rises up slope through the spaces between the blocks, escaping through holes in the upper part of the slope. Summer time evaporation or sublimation of water and/or ice in the blocky deposits absorbs latent heat from the surface of the blocks in the upper layers of the blockfield, cooling them (von Wakonnig, 1996). This process is most effective in regions with dry summer air such as southern Alberta and the Tibetan Plateau.

43

The Qinghai–Tibetan Railroad

753

Fourthly, there can be a continuous air exchange between the interstitial air and the overlying air mass (Harris & Petersen, 1998). This is particularly common in block slopes on the mountains of southern Alberta where strong winds aid the process. Since there are about eight months with mean daily air temperatures below 0◦ C (32◦ F) as opposed to 4 months with warmer air temperatures, this process results in overall cooling of the surface of the blockfield. Although there are strong winds on the Tibetan Plateau, there are fewer slopes so this process is less important there. In the Alps, the winter snow cover largely inhibits this process. In any one area, all four processes may act at different times of the year when the weather permits. Unfortunately, the QTEC tends to have constant, strong winds, and since there are many areas of fine-grained, bare soils, the winds transport a lot of material including snow which can rapidly fill up cracks and crevices, even when the stones are carefully placed. This is a potential problem for a long linear structure such as a railroad.

43.5 Full-Scale Rail Bed Experiments Academician Cheng took these results to the Chinese Academy of Sciences and obtained funds for a full-scale experimental rail bed 14 km (8.7 mi) in length, that was constructed near Fenghuo Shan, as well as the Beilu’he Permafrost Research Station (built in 2000) to monitor the experiments (Cheng et al., 2008). Different configurations of blocks, including those of varying sizes, were used together with various other techniques, e.g., thermosyphons, culverts and reflective coverings, to determine the amount of cooling each treatment produced (Jin & Brown, 2007; Jin, Chang, & Wang, 2007). In addition, the Chinese monitored numerous crosssectional measurements of ground temperatures and moisture content along the proposed railway route and also across the highway. The Tibetan Plateau has a combination of low latitude and high elevation, resulting in some of the highest values for solar radiation found on the surface of the Earth. Kondratiev (1996) had suggested the use of awnings to shade the side slopes of rail beds and the Northwest Research Institute of the Chinese Academy of Railway Sciences tested this method. The strong winds on the Plateau shredded the awnings. Instead, the Key State Laboratory of Frozen Soil Engineering, Ministry of Science and Technology tested a shading board for the slopes of the rail bed (Feng, 2002; Yu, 2006). At the Beilu’he site, ground temperatures at a depth of 2.5 m (8.2 ft) were 3–5◦ C (5–9◦ F) lower than those without shading boards after only one year (Feng & Ma, 2006). This also reduced the repeated freeze-thaw cycles that weaken the embankment fill. However, the use of shading boards and awnings is better for use on small engineering projects rather than along long, linear engineering structures such as railroads. Crushed rocks, ventilation ducts and thermosyphons were tested as controls on the convection patterns in the embankment (see the discussion in Cheng et al., 2008). A combination of field experiments, laboratory tests and computer simulations

754

S.A. Harris

Fig. 43.3 The four main embankment configurations of blocks used for cooling the rail-bed over permafrost on the Plateau

confirmed that these could greatly reduce the temperature of the underlying rail bed. Four main configurations of blocks are used (Fig. 43.3). Rock-based embankments involved emplacing the rocks underneath the 2.5 m (8.5 ft) soil layer on which the track is laid. It produced significantly lower ground temperatures, provided that the overlying soil is not thicker than 5.5 m (18.5 ft) (Wang, Ma, & Wu, 2005). Crushed rock revetments covering the side-slopes significantly reduced the temperature in the underlying rail bed (Fig. 43.4). A modification of this was used to compensate for the aspect of the slope, since Lai, Zhang, Zhang, and Xiao (2006) showed that doubling the thickness of the rock cover on south-facing slopes produced a symmetrical form for the isotherms in the rail bed. Experiments with rocks of different

Fig. 43.4 Crushed rock revetments in various configurations showing experimentation with different sizes of blocks (Author)

43

The Qinghai–Tibetan Railroad

755

sizes showed that coarse blocks (40–50 cm (15.7–19.7 in) in diameter) gave a greater overall cooling effect than finer blocks. This appears to be due to wind-forced air exchange (Cheng et al., 2008: 248). U-shaped embankments gave better protection than revetments or interlayer configurations of the blocks. This is, therefore, used widely over warm permafrost. Where the underlying permafrost is cold, the main problem is stabilizing the toes of the side slopes (Harris, 1986: 118–120). The use of protective toe berms was found to largely solve this problem (Fig. 43.5). Use of transverse ventilation ducts with automatic shutters at one end, placed halfway up the embankment (Fig. 43.6) also aided in cooling the embankment (Nui, Ma, & Lai, 2003). Thermosyphons can also help, but they have to be placed at a maximum spacing of 3 m (9.8 ft) along the side of the embankment (Pan, Zhao, Xu, Yu, & Ma, 2003). Some 18,200 thermosiphons were used in high-risk permafrost areas. Numerical modeling suggests that installed thermosyphons should be able to prevent permafrost degradation under the rail bed over the next 50 years, assuming a 1◦ C (33.8◦ F) rise in mean annual temperature where it is currently –3.5◦ C (2◦ F) (Sheng, Wen, Ma, & Wu, 2006). If a layer of insulation is installed at the base of the slopes, the permafrost is predicted to withstand a 2◦ C (4◦ F) change (Wen, Lui, Ma, Qi, & Wu, 2005). These measures can be used in various combinations to stabilize the rail bed, especially when used in conjunction with permafrost (dry) bridges (Fig. 43.7). The latter are essentially raised viaducts over unstable permafrost terrain that shade the underlying ground and permit the movement of vehicles and animals underneath the structure. Because of the high angle of the sun on the Plateau, there is a net cooling of the shaded ground (Zhao, Lai, Zhang, Yu, & Zhang, 2004).

Fig. 43.5 Protective toe berms with thermosiphons stabilizing the slopes of the embankment in areas subject to flooding (Author)

756

S.A. Harris

Fig. 43.6 Transverse ventilation ducts with automatic shutters (at right) placed halfway up the side of the embankment (Author)

Fig. 43.7 A section of railroad constructed on top of a permafrost (dry) bridge. The bridge shields the ground from direct insolation (Author)

These results were used in the design of the rail bed (Cheng, 2005a; Cheng et al., 2008) and the experiments are still being monitored. They also have been used in subsequent studies of the changes in frozen ground conditions (Jin, Wei, Yu, et al., 2008; Jin, Wei, Wang, et al., 2008).

43

The Qinghai–Tibetan Railroad

757

43.6 Design of the Railroad Across the Tibetan Plateau It was decided to design the rail bed to have a stable life of 100 years, allowing for estimated climatic changes. This meant that the varying microenvironments along the route had to be identified as accurately as possible. The design is for trains traveling at speeds up to 120 km/h (75 mph) in non-permafrost areas and up to 100 km/h (68 mph) over permafrost (Fig. 43.8). To obtain a suitable, stable rail bed, it is necessary to induce the permafrost to extend up into the base of the embankment. Measures also need to be taken to ensure stability of the side slopes. The mean annual air temperatures measured by the various agencies, together with ground temperatures in boreholes along the route, were used to determine the presence of permafrost. From this, a map was made of the railway corridor showing the distribution of permafrost of various temperatures (see Jin, Wei, Wang, et al., 2008). A design was then drawn up using the results of the experiments at Fenghoushan to ensure that the rail bed in the areas with permafrost would not thaw unless there was a major climatic warming. Altogether, the blocks and other cooling devices are used for over 500 km (311 mi) of the 1,100 km (683.5 mi) railway. It is hoped that these precautions will minimize the amount of failure of the rail bed, which in the case of the Baikal-Amur-Manchuria (BAM) rail bed in Siberia resulted in approximately 25% having to be rebuilt after failure. In the case of the QTH, 60% of the paved section had serious problems with thawing of the underlying permafrost in areas with “warm” permafrost (Wang & Mi, 1993). Approximately 85% of the damage to the highway embankment was due to thaw settlement (Wu et al., 2007). Some failures may occur due to local conditions and climatic changes. Cooling tends to result in accumulation of ice, resulting in localized heaving, while warming

Fig. 43.8 A passenger train traveling along the Qinghai–Tibet railroad (Author)

758

S.A. Harris

results in some thawing of the ground ice and consequent subsidence of the rail bed. Some minor changes can be corrected by adjusting the rail shoes, as in the case of the Anchorage-Fairbanks railroad (Fuglestad, 1985), but the magnitude and geometry of the changes will determine whether reconstruction may have to take place. If the permafrost table remains within the raised rail bed, these effects should be minimal, but the climate is being carefully monitored to provide information on any changes occurring. Thermistor strings were placed in the rail bed to monitor any long-term changes that may be occurring, so as to warn of any impending failures. Trains cannot turn as sharply around bends as cars and trucks, and the radius of curvature is also dependant on the speed at which the trains will travel. Unlike roads, railways have to be laid out so that the gradients on the steep mountain slopes are not too steep, and tunnels have to be used so that the rail bed can be maintained at a suitable grade and turning radius. The highest rail tunnel in the world (the Fenghuoshan tunnel, Fig. 43.9, 1,338 m (0.831 mi) long at 4,905 m (16,092 ft) above sea level) is constructed in permafrost, as is the tunnel on the north slope

Fig. 43.9 Northern entrance to the Feghoushan tunnel at 4,906 m (16,092 ft) (Author)

43

The Qinghai–Tibetan Railroad

759

of the Kunlunshan. However the longest tunnel (the Yangbajing tunnel, 3,345 m (10,974 ft) long), 80 km (49.7 mi) north of Lhasa, is in unfrozen ground. To minimize the effects of the railroad on wildlife, thirty-three overpasses (usually extensive dry bridges) were built to try to aid in migration of animals. This was aimed to reduce any adverse effects on the Tibetan antelope, which is regarded as an endangered species.

43.7 Construction The construction of the 1,142 km (709.6 mi) Golmud-Lhasa section of the railroad was begun officially on 29 June 2001. It was completed on 12 October 2005, though signal work and testing of the track continued for another 8 months. Tracklaying was tackled from both directions, with that at the highest point of the railroad (Tanggula Pass at 5,072 m (16,640 ft) above sea level) being laid on 24 August 2005. Some 20,000 laborers were involved, together with over 6,000 pieces of equipment. It is regarded as one of the greatest Chinese accomplishments of the 21st century. Forty-four railway stations are to be built, including one at the Tanggula Mountain Pass (elevation 5,068 m; 16,627 ft) which will be the highest in the world. Of these stations, only seven are actually manned, the remainder being monitored remotely in Xi’ning. More than 960 km (596.8 mi) (80%) of the Golmud-Lhasa railway is above 4,000 m (13,123 ft) above sea level. It has 675 bridges with a total length 159.88 km (99.3 mi) and 550 km (341.7 mi) of track was laid on permafrost. Bombardier Transportation built 361 high altitude passenger carriages which are oxygen-enriched and have UV-protection systems. Fifty-three are luxury sleeper carriages for the tourism industry. The trains use 78 General Electric transportation NJ2 locomotives, as well as Qishuyang Locomotive Factory DF8CJ 9000 series locomotives (similar to the Bombardier Transportation-GE Transportation Blue Tiger diesel electric locomotives).

43.8 The Tibetan Railroad After the opening on 1 July 2006, three passenger trains were run in each direction each day. This was increased to 5 pairs of passenger trains in October 2006 due to the high demand. There is a maximum capacity of eight pairs a day, since additional freight trains also use the line. There are connections to and from Beijing, Chengdu, Chongqing, Shanghai and Guangzhou. The shortest trip (Beijing-Lhasa) takes three days. Operational speeds on the new line are 120 km/h (74.5 mph) on the areas free of permafrost which is reduced to 100 km/h (62 mph) when the rail bed is built on permafrost. Liquid and solid wastes are collected in two vacuum containers in each car. These are taken out and emptied after arriving at the terminus to avoid further damage to the fragile environment on the Plateau.

760

S.A. Harris

43.9 Future Extensions At least six new extensions are planned by the People’s Republic of China by the year 2020 (China Economic Review 18 August 2008). These include extensions from Lhasa to Nyingchi and Shiagatse within the Autonomous Region of Tibet, as well a line connecting Golmud (Qinghai Province) with Dunhuang (Gansu Province). There is also to be a line from Lhasa to the Nepalese border at Khasha. This was requested by the Nepalese Government on 25 April 2008 in order to boost trade and tourism. Another line will connect Golmud with Kuerle in the Xinjiang Uygur Autonomous Region. Golmud will be connected to Chengdu (Sichuan Province) while Xining will be connected to Zhangye in Gansu Province.

43.10 Economics The construction could only begin when the Government had amassed sufficient funds. Total cost was US$3.86 billion. Less than one million tons of goods could be transported along the road each year before the railroad was built. The railway should cut the transportation costs of both goods and passengers substantially, while greatly increasing the volume transported. The cost per tonne-kilometer will be reduced from 0.38 to 0.12 yuan. It is anticipated that by 2010, at least 2.8 million tons will be carried to and from Tibet, with over 75% being carried by rail. This increase should boost the economy of Tibet.

43.11 Potential Problems 43.11.1 Health Considerations This has been a major concern before, during, and after construction. One basic problem is the fact that water boils at too low a temperature on the Plateau to kill bacteria. This can be overcome by using pressure cookers, though these were rare until 20 years ago. The lack of water is a serious limitation, while potable water can only be found in or near the major rivers and glaciers. The air at the elevations on the Plateau contains 35–40% less oxygen than at sea level. Pulmonary edema can occur at 3,000 m (9842.5 ft) elevation at Golmud for people who have come from near sea level. The abrupt rise to 4,000–5,000 m (13,123–16,404 ft) in a short time can even cause problems for people from Golmud, which is why the passenger trains are sealed, pressurized, and have added oxygen for the comfort of travelers. When tourists were crossing the Plateau to Lhasa by bus, they were required to travel nonstop for 24 h to minimize the risk of injury or death. Most healthy people will have altitude sickness at these elevations until they have acclimatized.

43

The Qinghai–Tibetan Railroad

761

During construction, hospitals were located at Fenghuo Shan (4,779 m; 15,679 ft) and Kekexili (Hoh’xil) (4,505 m; 14,763 ft), and the workers in these areas were studied in order to determine the effects of working at high altitudes (Wu et al., 2007). There was a 0.49% incidence of gastrointestinal bleeding in the 13,502 workers studied. Symptoms appeared in most patients within 3 weeks of arriving at high altitude; they were most common in those who consumed large amounts of alcohol, aspirin or dexamethasone. Those who previously suffered from peptic ulcers or high altitude polycythemia were particularly at risk. This is a lifethreatening problem that requires early diagnosis and evacuation to lower altitudes if the patient is to recover. No workers actually died during construction of the railroad. Obviously, those migrating to or visiting Tibet need to be aware of these problems. A Passenger Health Registration Card is required for passengers taking the train, and the individual traveler must read the health notice for high-altitude travel, signing the agreement on the card prior to embarkation. Deaths have occurred on the train in spite of these precautions.

43.11.2 Environmental Concerns Shen, Zhang, and Zou (2005) and Jin, Wei, Yu, et al. (2008) have discussed these. As noted above, there has been considerable damage to the vegetation and soils along the transportation corridor. If the mean annual air temperature increases by 1–2◦ C (33.8–35.6◦ F), the natural plant biodiversity could decrease by over 30% (Klein, Harte, & Zhao, 2004; Walker, Wahren, & Hollister, 2006). At present there has been considerable rangeland degradation by overgrazing after an explosive increase in the number of animals along the corridor (Wang, Nui, & Zhao, 2003; Zhou, Wang, & Zhao, 2001). This increases soil erosion and moisture loss, resulting in desertification. Ma, Chen, and Peng (2004) studied the recovery of vegetation in disturbed areas such as gravel pits along the corridor. The alpine grasslands take 20–30 years to recover their ecological structure and original biodiversity, whereas the alpine meadows may need 45–60 years. Even then some changes in species composition may be irreversible. A major problem is that the increased access has encouraged increased concentration of flocks and herds of animals adjacent to the corridor, and current restrictions prevent Tibetan herdsman from roaming over large tracts of the landscape. Suitable legislation is sorely needed to protect the corridor. An additional potential problem is the tectonic instability of the rocks along the corridor. A 1,000 km (621 mi) long scarp developed after a recent earthquake in the Kunlun Shan (14 November 2001 measuring 8.1 on the Richter scale) and similar but more extensive fault scarps can be seen cutting across alluvial fans in the southern part of the corridor. It is probable that the rail bed could be damaged from time to time by a major earthquake, with resultant disruption in service. Another problem will be changes in climate. Climate is always fluctuating, and this may alter the thickness of the active layer and depth to the permafrost table. Thawing of ground ice produces subsidence, while freezing of the ground may cause

762

S.A. Harris

accumulation of ice with consequent heaving. Warmer winters result in the permafrost temperatures gradually rising without any increase in active layer thickness, whereas warmer summers result in increased active layer thickness (Brewer & Jin, 2008). Changes in precipitation regime also affect the thickness of the active layer and the temperature of the permafrost. Klein et al. (2004) report a decrease in the area of alpine meadows in Qinghai Province, while wetlands have been decreasing in area along the corridor (Jin, Wei, Yu, et al., 2008). Finally, the actual construction of the railroad has altered the permafrost situation. In places, the method of construction is stabilizing the permafrost. Thus low level dry bridges (elongated concrete trestles up to several kilometers long) shade the ground from the summer sun, while the concrete piers aid in cooling the ground in winter. Poured-in-place concrete structures add heat to the ground that may take 6 years to dissipate (Yuan, Guo, & Qui, 2002). In warm permafrost, the frozen ground may actually thaw. The interference in drainage also alters the distribution of permafrost. Hence the success of the rail-bed is at least partly controlled by the design and the construction of the railway.

43.12 Recent Results The railroad bed continues to be closely monitored. There is the inevitable compaction of the bed, which is more substantial in sediments containing ice, but is partly counteracted by the upward migration of the permafrost into the rail bed (Zhang, Ma, & Zheng, 2008). This causes water to turn into ice, producing some uplift. Provided that the movements are consistent along the rail bed, this should not cause problems. Zhang et al. (2008) calculate that there should be a settlement of about 40 cm over the next 50 years due to these processes. Apart from this, the rail bed appears to be functioning well.

43.13 Conclusion There is no doubt that the Qinghai–Tibetan Railway will solve many of the transportation problems for the Chinese People’s Government, potentially bringing economic growth to Tibet. There will undoubtedly be periodic problems such as earthquakes and minor rail bed failures, but there should be no major catastrophes of the magnitude of the potential failure of the Three Gorges Dam. It represents another stage in the improvement of communications between Eastern China and the relatively undeveloped and mineral-rich Western Provinces. As such, it is the forerunner of additional railways, though the new ones will not always have the problem of traversing warm permafrost. The biggest limitation remains the altitude, which should make the region less attractive for migration, though the latter may be affected by political policies.

43

The Qinghai–Tibetan Railroad

763

From an international point of view, the railroad represents an important milestone in the development of methods of construction on “warm” permafrost. The experience gained by this project will undoubtedly have far-reaching effects on the design of future engineering projects in this type of environment. Acknowledgements Max Brewer provided a most valuable critique of an earlier draft of this paper. Shawn Mueller drew the maps and line drawings. The photographs are by the author.

References Associate Committee on Geotechnical Research. (1986). Glossary of permafrost related ground ice terms. National Research Council of Canada, Associate Committee on Geotechnical Research, Permafrost Subcommittee, Ottawa. Technical Memorandum #142. Balch, E. S. (1900). Glaciers and freezing caverns. Philadelphia: Allen, Lane and Scott. Brewer, M. C., & Jin, J. (2008). Proceedings of the 9th international conference on permafrost (Vol. 1, pp. 189–194). Fairbanks, AK: University of Alaska. Cheng, G. D. (2004). Influences of local factors on permafrost occurrence and their Implications for Qinghai-Tibet railway design. Science in China, Series D: Earth Sciences, 47(8), 704–709. Cheng, G. D. (2005a). A roadbed cooling approach for the construction of the Qinghai- Tibet Railway. Cold Regions Science and Technology, 42(2), 169–176. Cheng, G. D. (2005b). Permafrost studies in the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau for road construction. Journal of Cold Regions Engineering, 19(1), 19–29. Cheng, G. D., Sun, Z., & Nui, F. (2008). Application of the roadbed cooling approach in QinghaiTibet railway engineering. Cold Regions Science and Technology, 53(3), 241–258. Cheng, G. D., & Tong, B. L. (1978). Experimental research on an embankment in an area with massive ground ice at the lower limit of alpine permafrost. In: Proceedings of the 3rd international conference on permafrost (Vol. 2, pp. 199–222). Ottawa, ON: National Research Council of Canada. Cheng, G. D., Tong, B. L., & Luo, X. B. (1981). Two important problems of embankment construction in the section of massive ground ice. Journal of Glaciology and Geocryology, 3(2), 6–11 [in Chinese]. Delaloye, R., Reynard, E., Lambeil, C., Marescot, L., & Monnet, R. (2003). Thermal anomaly in a cold scree slope. Proceedings of the 8th International Conference on Permafrost, Lisse, Balkema, 175–180. Feng, W. J. (2002). An application of crushed-rocks and awning for roadbed engineering in the Qinghai-Tibet plateau permafrost areas. Journal of Glaciology and Geocryology, 3(2), 6–11 [in Chinese with English abstract]. Feng, W. J., & Ma, W. (2006). An experimental study of the effect of awning along the QinghaiTibet railway. Journal of Glaciology and Geocryology, 28(1), 108–115 [in Chinese with English abstract]. Fuglestad, T. C. (1985). The Alaskan Railroad between Anchorage and Fairbanks. Guidebook 6. 4th International Conference on Permafrost, Fairbanks. Georing, D. J. (2003). Passively cooled railway embankments for use in permafrost areas. Journal of Cold Regions Engineering, 17(3), 119–133. Georing, D. J., & Kumar, P. (1996). Winter-time convection in open-graded embankments. Cold Regions Science and Technology, 24(1), 57–74. Gorbunov, A. P., & Seversky, E. V. (2001). Influence of coarsely fragmental deposits on permafrost formation. Extended Abstracts, International Symposium on Mountain and Arid Land Permafrost (pp. 24–25). Ulanbatator: Urlah Erdam Publishing. Harris, S. A. (1986). The permafost environment. Beckenham: Croom Helm. Harris, S. A. (1994). Climatic zonality of periglacial landforms in mountain areas. Arctic, 47, 184–191.

764

S.A. Harris

Harris, S. A. (1996). Lower mean annual ground temperatures beneath a block stream in the Kunlun Pass, Qinghai Province, China. Proceedings of the 5th Chinese Permafrost Conference, Lanzhou, 227–237. Harris, S. A., & Petersen, D. E. (1998). Thermal regimes beneath coarse block materials. Permafrost and Periglacial Processes, 9, 107–120. Hulten, E. (1971). Dicotyledons. The circumpolar plants 2. Kungliga Svenska Vetenskapsakadiens Handlingar, Series 4, 13. Stockholm. Jin, H. J., & Brown, J. (2007). Great challenges of and innovative solutions to the unstable permafrost in Central and High Asia under a warming climate. Episodes, 30(1), 54–55. Jin, H. J., Chang, X. L., & Wang, S. L. (2007). Evolution of permafrost on the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau since the end of the Pliestocene. Journal of Geophysical Research, 112, F02509. doi: 10.1029/2006JF000521. Jin, H., Wei, Z., Yu, Q., Lü, L. Z., Wang, S. L., & Wu, Q. B. (2008). Changes in permafrost environments along the Qinghai-Tibet engineering corridor induced by anthropogenic activities and climate warming. Cold Regions Science and Technology, 53(3), 317–333. Jin, H., Wei, Z., Wang, S., Yu, Q., Lü, L. Z., Wu, Q., et al. (2008). Assessment of frozen-ground conditions for engineering geology along the Qinghai-Tibet highway and railway, China. Engineering Geology, 101, 96–109. doi: 10.1016/j.enggeo.2008.04.001 Johnston, G. H. (Ed.). (1981). Permafrost engineering design and construction. Associate Committee on Geotechnical Research, National Research Council of Canada, Ottawa, ON: Wiley (Canada). Klein, J. A., Harte, J., & Zhao, X. Q. (2004). Experimental warming causes large and rapid species loss, dampened by simulated grazing, on the Tibetan Plateau. Ecology Letters, 7(120), 1170–1179. Kondratiev, V. G. (1996). Strengthening railroad base constructed on icy permafrost soil. Proceedings of the 8th International Conference on Cold Regions Engineering, University of Alaska, Fairbanks, 688–699. Lai, Y. M., Zhang, S. J., Zhang, L. X., & Xiao, J. Z. (2006). Adjusting temperature distribution under the South and North slopes of embankments in permafrost regions by the ripped-rock revetment. Cold regions Science and Technology, 39, 67–79. Lambiel, C., & Pieracci, K. (2008). Permafrost distribution in Talus Slopes located within the alpine periglacial belt, Swiss Alps. Permafrost and Periglacial Processes, 19(3), 293–304. Ma, S. Z., Chen, G. C., & Peng, M. (2004). Restoration processes of alpine grasslands in the soil pits along the Qinghai-Tibet Highway. Journal of Chinese Environmental Science, 24(2), 188–191 [in Chinese]. Miehe, G., Miehe, S., & Dickoré, W. B. (2002). Alpine deserts in High Asia. In X. P. Yang (Ed.), Deserts and Alpine Environments. Advances in Geomorphology and Palaeoclimatology, dedicated to Professor Jürgen Hövermann on the occasion of his 80th birthday (pp. 59–79). Beijing: China Ocean Press. Mikhailov, G. P. (1971). Temperature regime of embankment consisting of coarse rock on permafrost. Transportation Construction, 12, 32–33 [in Russian]. Muller, S. W. (1946). Permafrost. Ann Arbor, MI: Edwards. Nui, F. J., Ma, W., & Lai, Y. M. (2003). Preliminary analysis on engineering effect of a ventilated embankment at the Beilu’he testing section of Qinghai-Tibet Railway. Chinese Journal of Rock Mechanics and Engineering, 22(Suppl 2), 2652–2658 [in Chinese with English abstract]. Pan, W. D., Zhao, S. C., Xu, W. Z., Yu, S. S., & Ma, W. D. (2003). Application of thermal probe to enhance thermal stability of roadbeds in plateau permafrost areas. Journal of Glaciology and Geocryology, 25(4), 433–438 [in Chinese with English abstract]. Qin, D. H. (Ed.). (2002). Environmental change evaluation of western China. Beijing: Science Press [in Chinese]. Sawada, S. (2003). Monitoring of ground-ice formation in a block slope at Mt. NishiNupukashaushinupuri, Hokkaido, Japan. Proceedings of the 8th International Conference on Permafrost, Lisse, Balkema, 1001–1005.

43

The Qinghai–Tibetan Railroad

765

Shen, W. S., Zhang, H., & Zou, C. X. (2005). Prediction and assessment of ecological impacts of the Qinghai-Tibet Railway. Beijing: China Environmental Science Press [in Chinese]. Sheng, Y., Wen, Z., Ma, W., & Wu, J. C. (2006). Three-dimensional nonlinear analysis of thermal regime of the two-phase closed thermosyphon embankments of Qinghai-Tibet Railway. Journal of the China Railway Society, 28(1), 125–130 [in Chinese with English abstract]. von Wakonnig, H. (1996). Unterk˜uhlte Schuthalden (Undercooled talus) (Vol. 33, pp. 209–223). [In German]. Graz: Arbeiten aus den Instutut f˜ur Geographie der Karl-Franzens Universität. Walker, M. D., Wahren, C. H., & Hollister, R. D. (2006). Plant community responses to experimental warming across the tundra biome. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the USA, 103, 1342–1346. Wang, A. G., Ma, W., & Wu, Z. J. (2005). Thickness of overlying sand and gravel layer and cooling effect of crushed rocks on roadbeds. Chinese Journal of Rock Mechanics and Engineering, 24(13), 2333–2341 [in Chinese with English abstract]. Wang, S. L., & Mi, H. Z. (1993). Changes of permafrost after the pavement of asphaltic surface along the Qinghai-Tibet Highway. Journal of Glaciology and Geocryology, 15(4), 566–573 [in Chinese]. Wang, S. L., Nui, F. J., & Zhao, L. (2003). Thermal stability of roadbed in permafrost region along the Qinghai-Tibet Highway. Cold Regions Science and Technology, 37(1), 25–34. Wen, Z., Lui, Y. Z., Ma, W., Qi, J. L., & Wu, J. C. (2005). Analysis on effect of permafrost protection by two-phase closed thermosyphon and insulation jointly in permafrost regions. Cold Regions Science and Technology, 43, 150–163. Wu Cheng-yih (Wu Zhengyi). (1985–7). Flora Xizangica (Vols. 1–5). Beijing: Science Press [in Chinese]. Wu, T. Y., Ding, S. Q., Liu, J. L., Dai, R. C., Zhu, D. C., Liang, B. Z., et al. (2007). High-altitude gastrointestinal bleeding: An observation in Qinghai-Tibetan railroad construction workers on Mountain Tanggula. World Journal of Gastroenterology, 13(5), 774–780. Yu, Q. H. (2006). Study on the heat conduction process of roadbeds in permafrost region and new control methods. Ph. D. thesis, Cold Regions Environmental and Engineering Research Institute, Chinese Academy of Sciences [in Chinese with English abstract]. Yuan, S. C., Guo, D. X., & Qui, G. Q. (2002). Impacts of the hydration heat of concrete culvert foundations on the thermal regimes of permafrost roadbeds along the Qinghai-Tibet Railway. Proceedings of the 7th Chinese Rock Mechanics and Engineering Conference, Beijing, Science Press, 48–53. [in Chinese]. Zhang, J., Ma, X., & Zheng, B. (2008). Experimental study on mechanism of subgrade deformation in permafrost regions along the Qinghai-Tibetan railway. Proceedings of the 9th International Conference on Permafrost, Fairbanks, 2, 2043–2048. Zhao, J. Z., Lai, Y. M., Zhang, X. F., Yu, W. B., & Zhang, S. J. (2004). Three-dimensional temperature character analysis of a dry bridge on the Qinghai-Tibet Railway. Journal of Glaciology and Geocryology, 26(4), 426–434 [in Chinese with English abstract]. Zhou, X. M., Wang, Q. J., & Zhao, X. Q. (2001). Kobresia meadows in China (pp. 1–118). Beijing: Science Press [in Chinese].

Part VI

Construction Companies and Corporation Strategies

Chapter 44

A Network Perspective on Mega-Engineering Projects Ajay Mehra, Daniel J. Brass, Stephen P. Borgatti, and Giuseppe (Joe) Labianca

44.1 Introduction About 60 miles North of Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, where the desert meets the Red Sea is a hyper-modern metropolis in the making. Construction cranes crowd the sky. Hundreds of workers labor under the sun, turning sand and dirt into palm-lined promenades, bubbling fountains, and glass covered skyscrapers. The first phase of the project, which involves the construction of a seaport, an industrial zone, and a residential city district, is close to completion. When fully finished, in 2025, King Abdullah Economic City (KAEC: http://207.5.46.159/en/Home/index.html) will stretch over 70 square miles, house some 2 million people, and offer one of the most competitive economic investment destinations in the world. KAEC is only one example of what is an increasingly familiar feature of our times: The mega-engineering project (MEP). The Channel tunnel, Hong Kong’s Chek Lap Kok airport, Sydney’s harbor tunnel, and China’s Three Gorges Dam are just a few examples of projects that require multi-billion dollar investments and the technical and organizational expertise of a large network of government and private organizations. Given the massive consequences that MEPS can have for the economy of nations, the migration of people, and the environment of vast regions, it is not surprising that MEPs are currently being studied from a number of different theoretical and disciplinary perspectives, from decision making and public policy to economics and cultural studies. What has been largely missing from this rich and growing literature, however, is a direct emphasis on the social structure of MEPs. This, we believe, is a missed opportunity because the social structure of systems can powerfully influence the actions and performance of those systems. MEPs are by definition large and complex. They typically involve a variety of governmental and nongovernmental organizations tied to each other through a mix

A. Mehra (B) LINKS, International Center for Research on Social Networks in Business, Gatton College of Business and Economics, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_44,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

769

770

A. Mehra et al.

of economic, interpersonal, and institutional relationships. The structure of this network of relationships deserves greater scrutiny. We call for the adoption of a network perspective because it offers two distinctive advantages for the study of MEPs. First, it offers a rich toolkit for precisely quantifying and analyzing the structure of MEPs. Second, it supplies a theoretical logic connecting these structural characteristics with the conduct and performance of MEPs. We provide a brief introduction to the social network perspective (see Freeman, 2004, for a detailed history); and we attempt to show how this perspective could be fruitfully applied to three broad questions: (1) what is the network structure of an MEP? (2) How does the structure of the network influence the performance of MEPs and their member organizations? And (3) how does network structure drive the composition and structure of MEPs over time?

44.2 A Very Brief Introduction to Networks 44.2.1 Origins The origins of social network analysis can be traced to Jacob Levy Moreno, a Viennese psychiatrist who immigrated to New York in the 1930s (for a detailed history, see Freeman, 2004). Moreno viewed human groups as systems of interconnected individuals. He created a methodology, “sociometry,” to capture the feelings of each individual in a human group regarding every other group member; and he then used graphs, consisting of nodes, which represented people, and lines, which represented feelings, to represent the resultant network (Fig. 44.1, for example). Moreno reasoned that the ties connecting individuals in a network were important because they channeled emotion, influence, and ideas between people. The network

Fig. 44.1 A hand-drawn social network: Positive and negative sociometric choices in a football team. Note: The nodes are team members; lines represent positive and negative feelings towards specific others. (Moreno, 1934: 213)

44

A Network Perspective on Mega-Engineering Projects

771

of relations surrounding an individual influenced how the individual felt, thought, and behaved. Moreno viewed his approach as a kind of “social cartography” that could be used to map the invisible structure of human groups (Moreno, 1934). From the 1940s to the 1960s, social network analysis largely disappeared from view. Its most enthusiastic promoters during this period were a group of British anthropologists who used network analysis to represent the social structure of families and small communities (e.g., Barnes, 1954; Bott, 1957). It was not until the 1970s that social network analysis became a more generalized theory—thanks in small part to a group of mathematically oriented sociologists associated with Harrison White who published a series of sophisticated quantitative models and analyses of social structure that have since become exemplars of network research (e.g., White, Boorman, & Breiger, 1976). In the 1980s, network research was increasingly being applied to the study of economic relations between firms and industries (see Mizruchi & Schwartz, 1987). It is around this time that network analysis seemed to have become an established field within the social sciences, with a professional organization (“INSNA”: http://www.insna.org/), an annual conference (“SUNBELT”: http://www.insna.org/sunbelt/), specialized software (e.g., UCINET: http://www.analytictech.com/) and its own journal (“Social Networks”: http://www.elsevier.com/). As Fig. 44.2, shows the number of social network articles has continued to rise steeply since the 1980s. Figure 44.3 shows a similar pattern when it comes to citations to social network articles in the “web of science.” In 2007 alone, almost 1200 social network articles and reviews have been published in the database’s journals.

Fig. 44.2 Number of social network articles published over time (values on the y-axis represent number of articles published in a given year; values on the x-axis represent years). Note: The data come from the “Science Citation Index (1900-present)” and the “Social Sciences Citation Index (1975-present),” which are both covered by the “ISI Web of Knowledge” database. To be counted as a social network article, the piece had to contain the phrase “social networks” in the title, abstract, or keyword. The database turned up 9,852 social network articles and review pieces (we excluded book reviews, proceedings, and editorials)

772

A. Mehra et al.

Fig. 44.3 Number of citations to social network articles over time (values on the y-axis represent number of citations received by social network articles in a given year; values on the x-axis represent years). Note: The data come from the “Science Citation Index (1900-present)” and the “Social Sciences Citation Index (1975-present),” which are both covered by the “ISI Web of Knowledge” database. To be counted as a social network article, the piece had to contain the phrase “social networks” in the title, abstract, or keyword. The database turned up 9,852 social network articles and review pieces (we excluded book reviews, proceedings, and editorials)

These articles, moreover, have appeared in a range of disciplines, with the vast majority being published in sociology, anthropology, organizational studies, epidemiology, and, more recently, physics and biology. It is noteworthy that social network analysis is one of the rare theoretical approaches in modern history to have spread from the social to the physical sciences (and then back to the social sciences). In the late 1990s, Duncan Watts and Steve Stograty (1998), two physicists, revived interest in the “small world problem,” which had initially been studied by Ithiel de Sola Pool, a political scientist, and Manfred Kochen, a mathematician (1978), and then popularized by Stanley Milgram (1976), a psychologist. Since the publication of the Watts and Stograty article, hundreds of network studies on the small world problem have been published in physics and biology journals, and this has sparked renewed interest in the topic among social scientists (e.g., Uzzi & Spiro, 2005).

44.2.2 Networks are About Structure Why is social network research enjoying such wide inter-disciplinary reception? A key reason is that networks can be, and have been, used to represent the structure of a wide variety of systems, from the neural structure of C. elegans, a nematode that is about 1 mm in length, to the network of informal relations in work organizations. Networks can be used to represent a wide variety of systems because they strip social systems down to “nodes,” which are treated as more or less indistinguishable and

44

A Network Perspective on Mega-Engineering Projects

773

Fig. 44.4 Two representations of the “kite” network. (Source: Krackhardt, 1990)

interchangeable in terms of their intrinsic properties, and, crucially, the structured pattern of “ties” connecting the nodes. Consider the “kite” network depicted in Fig. 44.4. This network shows 10 “nodes” and the connections between them. What the connections consist of is unspecified. Each connection in this network is bi-directional (though it need not be). The identity of the nodes, too, is unspecified: nodes could represent individuals, groups, organizations, even nations. Knowing only this, could one answer the question: Which node is most influential? The answer from the network perspective is a resounding “yes.” The network tells us about structure; and structure determines who or what is influential. Network analysis offers a rich array of methods (with accompanying theoretical rationales) for capturing variance in network structure. One commonly used set of methods focuses on the “centrality” of a node within a network (Bonacich, 1972; Freeman,

774

A. Mehra et al.

1979; for some recent extensions, see Everett & Borgatti, 2005). A social network analyst might argue that influence is a function of the extent to which a node is connected to many other nodes in a network. The more connected a node, the more the node has the opportunity to exercise influence. This reasoning could be operationalized in terms of the commonly used “degree” measure of centrality (see Appendix for descriptions, including mathematical formulas, of commonly used network centrality measures). A different line of network reasoning might contend that influence is a function of occupying a position between other parties. The occupant of a bridging position can control the flow of resources and would have an enhanced opportunity to learn of new and different ideas, which could lead to the node gaining influence. This is the basic reasoning behind the “betweenness” measure of network centrality. Based on this structural logic, H would be the most influential node in the network. One might also suggest that F and G are the most influential nodes in the kite network. These two nodes can reach all the other nodes in the network in the fewest number of lengths. They are closest to all other nodes. This logic is operationalized as “closeness” centrality. Of course, all this is rather abstract. Even the dullest of minds would quickly protest: You have not specified what the nodes represent, nor, for that matter, what the ties represent! But different theoretical perspectives look at phenomena at different levels of aggregation. Network theory sacrifices local detail to focus on structure—and it is this focus on structure that has given the network perspective its broad generality and scope. In network research in organizational studies, for example, the same structural positions have been linked to superior performance, both when the nodes in the network represent people in a company and the ties represent friendship relations (e.g., Mehra, Kilduff, & Brass, 2001) and when the nodes represent firms in an industry and the ties represent strategic business alliances (see the review in Gulati, 2007). Although a variety of different kinds of nodes and ties have been examined in network studies (for a taxonomy, see Borgatti, Mehra, Brass, & Labianca, 2009), the main focus of social network research is on the structure of the network rather than on the identity of nodes or the content of network ties.

44.2.3 Levels of Analysis Before moving on to discuss network theory, we want to draw attention to the distinction between “whole networks” and “ego networks.” Consider the larger network on the left in Fig. 44.5. This is a trust network from a small high-tech firm. Each node represents an individual employee. Each line represents a trust relation. A line between A and B means that A and B independently identified each other as someone they trusted. The data were gathered using a network survey (see Cross & Parker, 2007: 143–166, for detailed description of how to design and administer network surveys). The network on the left in Fig. 44.5 is referred to as a “whole network.” It represents the full set of ties among all the members of a bounded group (of course, it is up to the researcher to define where the boundary lies), which, in

44

A Network Perspective on Mega-Engineering Projects

775

Fig. 44.5 Three commonly used indexes of whole network structure

this case, is an entire organization. On the right hand side of Fig. 44.5 are two “ego networks.” The ego network represents the immediate neighborhood around a focal node. Just as one can use network indexes (e.g., the measures of centrality discussed above) to describe the structural position of a node in a whole network, one can also describe the structure surrounding a node within an ego network. In addition to structural measures of position within whole and ego networks, there are also a number of measures that describe the overall structural properties of a network (whether a whole network or an ego network). Figure 44.6 shows two illustrative networks and reports three commonly used structural measures for each: density (which assesses the total number of ties relative to the total number of possible ties); size (which is a count of the total number of ties in a network); and network centralization (which assesses the extent to which the ties within a network are shared across nodes versus centralized in a few nodes). For precise mathematical formulas and more detailed explanations of the logic behind these and the many other graph-theoretic measures—such as core-peripheriness, clumpiness, scale-freeness—we refer the interested reader to Wasserman and Faust (1994) and Carrington, Scott, and Wasserman (2005). Finally, network research offers a number of measures at the dyadic level of analysis that can be broadly distinguished into two families: dyadic cohesion and structural equivalence. Cohesion refers to a set of concepts that capture the social closeness of a pair of nodes using such measures as geodesic distance (the length of the shortest path from one to the other), or multiplexity (the number of different kinds of relations that bind a pair of nodes). Equivalence refers to the extent to which pairs of nodes occupy similar structural positions in the network (Burt, 1987). Network analysis therefore offers a number of different levels of analysis for the examination of network structure. The question of which level or levels of analysis

776

A. Mehra et al.

Fig. 44.6 A whole network (left) and two ego networks (top and bottom right). Note: Each node represents a firm employee. Each line represents a reciprocated trust relation between two employees. The ego networks at top right and bottom right are derived from the whole network on the left. The whole network shows all the nodes in a network and the ties among the nodes. Ego networks are a subset of whole networks. They show only the ties among a focal node and the nodes to which it is directly connected. (Source: Mehra, 1998)

a particular study should adopt will, of course, depend upon what a given study is trying to explain, and the theoretical logic it is using in its explanation.

44.2.4 Kinds of Questions In the physical sciences, a key aim of social network research has been the formulation of universal characteristics of non-random networks, such as the property of a having a “scale-free” degree distribution (Watts, 1999). In the social sciences, by contrast, the primary focus of network research has been on the consequences of networks. Although a number of different outcomes have been studied, they can be distinguished into two broad categories: homogeneity and performance. By homogeneity we mean the similarity of actors with respect to their behaviors or internal structures. For example, network research has been used to predict which firms adopt the same governance structures (e.g., Davis & Greve, 1997). By performance we mean a node’s outcome with respect to some desirable good. For example, network researchers have shown that the occupancy of central positions in a firm’s friendship network is related to higher supervisory performance ratings (e.g., Mehra et al., 2001) and faster promotions (Burt, 1992).

44.2.5 Mechanisms in Network Theory If mechanisms are the underlying processes that account for relationships among variables (Elster, 2007), what kinds of mechanisms are at work in network theory?

44

A Network Perspective on Mega-Engineering Projects

777

Here we describe three canonical mechanisms that seem most relevant to the study of MEPs: Transmission. A mechanism invoked in network analysis involves direct transmission from node to node. The thing transmitted could be something tangible, like money; or it could it be something more intangible, like an innovative idea. The basic idea is that something flows along a network path from one node to the other, with an end result that the two nodes share the same state. Adaptation. The adaptation mechanism states that nodes become homogeneous as a result of experiencing and adapting to similar social environments. If two nodes have ties to the same (or equivalent) others—the property known in social network analysis as structural equivalence—they face the same environmental forces and are likely to adapt by become increasingly similar. This mechanism can be used to explain how relational roles affect outcomes (e.g., why two firms may adopt the same governance structures at about the same time even when they do not directly compete or collaborate with each other). Binding. According to the logic of binding, network ties can bind nodes together in such a way as to construct a new entity whose properties can be different from those of the constituent nodes. Binding is one of the mechanisms behind the performance benefits of “structural holes.” A structural hole refers to the absence of a tie among a pair of nodes. A well-established finding in social network analysis is that nodes with lots of structural holes in their ego networks (the node in the top right network in Fig. 44.6) tend to outperform those with fewer holes (the node in the bottom right network in Fig. 44.6). The absence of structural holes around a node means that the node’s contacts are “bound” together—they can communicate and coordinate so as to act as one, creating a formidable “other” to negotiate with. In contrast, a node with many structural holes can play unconnected nodes against each other, dividing and conquering (Burt, 1992).

44.3 Networks and MEPs: 3 Broad Research Questions What does the network perspective have to offer scholars interested in MEPs? Here we point to three broad questions that could help set an agenda for network research on MEPs.

44.3.1 What is the Network Structure of MEPs? An obvious first step in the adoption of a network perspective on MEPs is the description and analysis of MEPs in terms of their underlying network structure. The nodes might represent the set of organizations that make up a given MEP. The fact that this number could be in the hundreds for some MEPs poses no difficulty for

778

A. Mehra et al.

network analysis. Existing network software can easily handle thousands of nodes in a network. Indeed, network analysis can be especially helpful in the discernment of patterns in large and complex networks. For example, network analysis can be used to identify densely connected “cliques” within a broader network; or it could be used to reduce the overall structure into underlying structural blocks containing nodes with similar patterns of ties from and to other firms within the network (see Wasserman & Faust, 1994, for a detailed discussion of these and other techniques for describing network structure). There are, of course, a number of different types of ties between the members of a given MEP that could be studied. MEP members are tied to one another by patterns of resource flows, supplier and buyer relationships, and interlocking directorates. Each of these ties has been examined in the research on inter-organizational networks, but any single study has tended to focus on one or a very limited set of ties at a time. The specific tie or ties one included in the analysis depends, of course, upon the specific aims of a study. But they also depend more practically upon the relative ease and fidelity with which data can be collected. Researchers interested in studying MEPs could, following the lead of researchers studying interorganizational networks, rely on publicly available information about alliances, supplier-buyer relationships, and board memberships to gather data on MEP ties among the set of organizations that make up the MEP. Once such data are gathered, they can be represented in graphic format for visual inspection and matrix format for algebraic manipulation and analysis. As discussed earlier, network structure can then be examined at various level of analysis (“whole network”; “ego network”; “dyadic”). The choice of level, like the choice of which ties to include within the network, will have to depend upon the particular goals and interests of particular studies.

44.3.2 How Does MEP Network Structure Influence Performance? The question of what influences variance in MEP performance is of obvious importance. From a network perspective, a crucial predictor of system performance is system structure. Future research should examine the relationship between the structure of MEPs and their relative performance. It could be hypothesized, for example, that MEPs with denser network structures will outperform those with sparser network structures because network density can increase the flow of information and resources and enhance trust and coordination among system members. There is convergent support for this line of reasoning from prior work on human groups in the laboratory (Shaw, 1964), social capital in human communities (e.g., Coleman, 1988), and work on the U.S. auto industry (Gulati & Lawrence, 1999). In addition to studying the performance of MEPs, network theory and analysis could be used to understand relative performance among the members of a given MEP. The position of an MEP member within the network of the MEP could powerfully influence the performance of that MEP member. For example, drawing on the logic of the binding mechanism described above, it could be hypothesized that firms

44

A Network Perspective on Mega-Engineering Projects

779

that occupy a position connecting otherwise unconnected others can play the firms they are connected to against one another for their own profit and influence. Support for this line of reasoning is strong and comes from divergent settings and sources (see the summary in Burt, 2005). Whether the reasoning applies to MEPs is an empirical question, but we believe that network theory offers a plausible hypothesis for future testing. A related set of hypotheses could focus on the relationship between network structure and firm behaviors, such as the adoption of new or innovative method by an MEP for managing its effects on the natural environment. The logic behind the transmission mechanism could be used to explain the pattern of diffusion of innovative environmental practices within and across MEP networks. Alternatively, the logic of adaptation could be used to test the competing hypothesis that the adoption of innovative practices may result not from a process of network transmission but instead may be a result of firms adapting similar innovations in response to their facing similar structural forces. Network theory and methods offer a number of different ways for conceptualizing and analyzing the links between network structure, performance, and action.

44.3.3 How Does Network Structure Drive the Composition and Structure of MEPs Over Time? Network ties are important in part because they can be conduits for needed resources, such as financial funding, or technical knowhow. But network ties formed in one period can also influence the new ties a firm forms or does not form in a future period. Contracting hazards loom large in economic exchanges (Williamson, 1985). Connecting with new firms involves risk, uncertainty and the possibility that a partner could behave opportunistically. Ties between firms allow them and third parties to gather information about each other. In the language of organizational economics, network ties can reduce informational asymmetries. Ties between firms at one point in time can influence the ties that the firm develops at a future point in time. Building on this logic, one could examine the network factors at play in the formation of MEPs. What influences which firms are brought into and which firms are left out of a given MEP? Are firms with connections to high-status MEPs at one point in time more likely to be selected to work on other MEPs in the future? These questions have been tackled in the literature on inter-organizational networks (for a review, see Gulati, Nohria, & Zaheer, 2000) but are yet to be examined in the context of MEPs.

44.4 Conclusion Our goal in this essay has been to present a brief introduction to network research and theory, and to make an initial case for how it might be fruitfully applied to the study of MEPs. We have argued that MEPs are, among other things, complex,

780

A. Mehra et al.

relational systems made up of a complex web of inter-related firms. The network perspective is well suited to the study of MEPs because network theory and methods focus on the structure of systems and how these structures are related to system outcomes. To help set an agenda for future research on MEPs from a network perspective, we have suggested three possible research questions: (1) what is the network structure of an MEP? (2) How does the structure of the network influence the performance of MEPs and their member organizations? And (3) how does network structure drive the composition and structure of MEPs over time? We are optimistic that the use of network theory and methods will provide new answers and, no doubt, pose new questions for scholars interested in MEPs.

Appendix: 4 Commonly Used Measures of Network Centrality 1. Degree: The number of vertices adjacent to a given vertex in a symmetric graph is the degree of that vertex. For non-symmetric data the in-degree of a vertex u is the number of ties received by u and the out-degree is the number of ties initiated by u. In addition if the data is valued then the degrees (in and out) will consist of the sums of the values of the ties. The normalized degree centrality is the degree divided by the maximum possible degree expressed as a percentage. maximum degree cenFor a given binary network with vertices v1 . . . vn and  trality cmax, the network degree centralization measure is (cmax –c(vi )) divided by the maximum value possible, where c(vi ) is the degree centrality of vertex vi . 2. Closeness: The farness of a vertex is the sum of the lengths of the geodesics to every other vertex. The reciprocal of farness is closeness centrality. The normalized closeness centrality of a vertex is the reciprocal of farness divided by the minimum possible farness expressed as a percentage. As an alternative to taking the reciprocal after the summation, the reciprocals can be taken before. In this case the closeness is the sum of the reciprocated distances so that infinite distances contribute a value of zero. This can also be normalized by dividing by the maximum value. In addition the routine also allows the use user to measure distance by the sums of the lengths of all the paths or all the trails. If the data is directed the routine calculates separate measures for in-closeness and out closeness. For a given network with vertices v1 ....vn and maximum  closeness centrality cmax, the network closeness centralization measure is (cmax –c(vi )) divided by the maximum value possible, where c(vi ) is the closeness centrality of vertex vi . 3. Betweenness: Let bjk be the proportion of all geodesics linking vertex j and vertex k which pass through vertex i. The betweenness of vertex i is the sum of all bjk where i, j and k are distinct. Betweenness is therefore a measure of the number of times a vertex occurs on a geodesic. The normalized betweenness centrality is the betweenness divided by the maximum possible betweenness expressed as a percentage. cenFor a given network with vertices v1 . . . vn and maximum betweenness  trality cmax, the network betweenness centralization measure is (cmax –c(vi ))

44

A Network Perspective on Mega-Engineering Projects

781

Table 44.1 Centrality scores for nodes in the Kite network (generated by the network program UCINET [Borgatti, Everett, & Freeman, 2002]) Degree

Closeness

Betweenness

Eigenvector

44.444 44.444 33.333 66.667 33.333 55.556 55.556 33.333 22.222 11.111

52.941 52.941 50.000 60.000 50.000 64.286 64.286 60.000 42.857 31.034

2.315 2.315 0 10.185 0 23.148 23.148 38.889 22.222 0

49.810 49.810 40.423 68.027 40.423 56.242 56.242 27.699 6.799 1.579

divided by the maximum value possible, where c(vi ) is the betweenness centrality of vertex vi . 4. Eigenvector: Given an adjacency matrix A, the centrality of vertex i (denoted ci), is given by ci = a Aij cj where a is a parameter. The centrality of each vertex is therefore determined by the centrality of the vertices it is connected to. The parameter ? is required to give the equations a non-trivial solution and is therefore the reciprocal of an eigenvalue. It follows that the centralities will be the elements of the corresponding eigenvector. The normalized eigenvector centrality is the scaled eigenvector centrality divided by the maximum difference possible expressed as a percentage. For a given binary network with vertices v1 . . . vn and maximum eigenvector  centrality cmax, the network eigenvector centralization measure is (cmax – c(vi )) divided by the maximum value possible, where c(vi ) is the eigenvector centrality of vertex vi (Table 44.1).

References Barnes, J. A. (1954). Class and committees in a Norwegian island parish. Human Relations, 7, 39–58. Bonacich, P. (1972). Factoring and weighting approaches to status scores and clique identification. Journal of Mathematical Sociology, 2, 113–120. Borgatti, S. P., Mehra, A., Brass, D. J., & Labianca, G. (2009). Network analysis in the social sciences. Science, 323, 892–895. Borgatti, S. P., Everett, M. G., & Freeman, L. C. (2002). UCINET VI for Windows: Software for social network analysis. Cambridge, MA: Analytic Technologies. Bott, E. (1957). Family and social network. London: Tavistock. Burt, R. S. (1987). Social contagion and innovation, cohesion versus structural equivalence. American Journal of Sociology, 92, 1287–1335. Burt, R. S. (1992). Structural holes. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Burt, R. S. (2005). Brokerage and closure: An introduction to social capital. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press.

782

A. Mehra et al.

Carrington, P. J., Scott, J., & Wasserman, S. (Eds.). (2005). Models and methods in social network analysis. New York: Cambridge University Press Coleman, J. S. (1988). Social capital in the creation of human capital. American Journal of Sociology, 94, S95–S120. Cross, R., & Parker, A. (2004). The hidden power of social networks: Understanding how work really gets done in organizations. Boston, MA: Harvard Business School Publishing. Davis, G. F., & Greve, H. R. (1997). Corporate elite networks and the governance changes in the 1980s. American Journal of Sociology, 103, 1–37. Elster, J. (2007). Explaining social behavior: More nuts and bolts for the social sciences. New York: Cambridge University Press. Everett, M. G., & Borgatti, S. P. (2005). Extending centrality. In P. J. Carrington, J. Scott & S. Wasserman (Eds.), Models and methods in social network analysis. New York: Cambridge University Press Freeman, L. (1979). Centrality in networks: I. Conceptual clarification. Social Networks, 1, 215–239. Freeman, L. (2004). The development of social network analysis: A study in the sociology of science. BC, Canada: Empirical Press. Gulati, R. (2007). Managing network resources: Alliances, affiliations, and other relational assets. Oxford, UK: Oxford Unversity Press. Gulati, R., & Lawrence, P. (1999). Organizing vertical networks: A design perspective. Paper presented at the SMJ Special Issue Conference, Northwestern University. Gulati, R., Nohria, N., & Zaheer, A. (2000). Strategic networks. Strategic Management Journal, 21, 203–215. Krackhardt, D. (1990). Assessing the political landscape: Structure, cognition, and power in organizations. Administrative Science Quarterly, 35(2), 342–369. Mehra, A. (1998). Who gets ahead? Self-monitoring, social networks, and success. Doctoral thesis, Smeal College of Business, Pennsylvania State University. Mehra, A., Kilduff, M., & Brass, D. J. (2001). The social networks of high and low self-monitors: Implications for workplace performance. Administrative Science Quarterly, 46, 121–146. Milgram, S. (1976). The small world problem. Psychology Today, 22, 61–67. Mizruchi, M. S., & Schwartz, M. (1987). Intercorporate relations: The structural analysis of business. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Moreno, J. L. (1934/1953). Who shall survive? Beacon, NY: Beacon. Pool, I. S., & Kochen, M. (1978). Contacts and social influence. Social Networks, 1, 5–51. Shaw, M. E. (1964). Communication networks. In L. Nerkowitz (Ed.), Advances in experimental social psychology (Vol. 1, pp. 111–147). New York: Academic. Uzzi, B., & Spiro, J. (2005). Collaboration and creativity: The small world problem. American Journal of Sociology, 2, 447–504. Wasserman, S., & Faust, K. (1994). Social network analysis: Methods and applications. New York: Cambridge University Press. Watts, D. J. (1999). Networks, dynamics, and the small-world phenomenon. American Journal of Sociology, 105, 493–527. Watts, D. J., & Strogratz, S. H. (1998). Collective dynamics of “small-world” networks. Nature, 393, 440–442. White, H. C., Boorman, S. A., & Breiger, R. L. (1976). Social structure from multiple networks I: Blockmodels of roles and positions. American Journal of Sociology, 81, 730–781. Williamson, O. (1985). The economic institutions of capitalism. New York: Free Press.

Chapter 45

Bechtel: The Global Corporation Jason Henderson

45.1 Introduction Bechtel is the largest builder of megaprojects in the United States and one of the largest globally. For over a century Bechtel has designed, built, and managed megaprojects in hydroelectricity, oil and gas pipelines, refineries, power plants, roads, railways, airports, nuclear energy, weapons programs, military infrastructure, communications, and environmental cleanup. Notable signature projects include the Hoover Dam, World War Two military contracts, and the Bay Area Rapid Transit system (BART) in San Francisco. More recently the company managed the controversial “Big Dig” roadway tunnel project in Boston and was awarded lucrative no-bid contracts rebuilding Iraq between 2003 and 2005. Some of these recent megaprojects have drawn high profile political acrimony towards the company, but overall Bechtel has a dignified reputation for engineering megaprojects. In 2007 Bechtel was in the fifth straight year of growth, with revenues of $27 billion and newly-booked work valued at $34.1 billion (Bechtel, 2008a; Hoover’s, 2008). In its 2008 Annual Report Bechtel states that 2007 was the best year in the company’s history. With the onset of a global economic recession in 2008 and continuing into 2009, Bechtel’s profits and growth may have peaked but it is too early to make that conclusion. Overall the heavy-construction industry saw a 9% drop in employment in 2008, but the Wall Street Journal reports that in 2009 many contractors expect an economic stimulus package to kick start construction (Karp, 2009). A look at the map of significant 2008 projects and a scan of the company’s website suggests business remains good for Bechtel (Fig. 45.1). The company has continuing lucrative business in U.S. Department of Energy’s nuclear research and waste cleanup projects, and is also positioned to build new energy production facilities in “clean” coal, liquefied natural gas (LNG), oil shale, and nuclear power generation, all of which have undergone significant reinvigoration in U.S. energy policy discourses recently. Bechtel also benefits from J. Henderson (B) Department of Geography, San Francisco State University, San Francisco, CA 94132, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_45,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

783

784

J. Henderson

Fig. 45.1 Map of significant Bechtel projects in 2008

government expenditure on civilian public works. Notably Bechtel works in intercity high-speed rail and urban rail transit in an era of increased government response to global warming, congestion, and volatile oil prices. Bechtel built the first new significant rail project in the United Kingdom in decades and Engineering NewsRecord ranked Bechtel as one of the world’s largest mass transit contractors in 2007 (Buckley, 2008). In addition, Bechtel has been involved with most modern U.S. urban rail transit projects (Jane’s Information Group, 2008). As the U.S. considers reorienting and reinvesting in its built environment and energy infrastructure, Bechtel will be a company to watch. In this chapter I outline Bechtel’s company history, discuss some of Bechtel’s controversial business relationships, and then explore how Bechtel might be poised to be a leader in building critical megaprojects of the future. The emphasis will be on Bechtel’s role in significant transportation projects, which is getting much attention as the Obama administration considers public works investment.

45.2 History of Bechtel Bechtel’s early history was tied to the megaprojects of the times: railways, roads, and dams. Its founder, Warren A. Bechtel, started in the late 1890s as a subcontractor with a scraper and two mules grading railroad beds in the Midwest. Moving to Northern California, Warren Bechtel worked in the Southern Pacific engineering department building rail lines in the Sierra Nevada Mountains and Great Basin. Bechtel acquired crucial engineering skills and established a reputation for being capable of building in any environmental conditions. Warren Bechtel was also an estimator for Southern Pacific, acquiring business acumen, while learning to operate

45

Bechtel: The Global Corporation

785

steam shovels on construction sites. Initially based in Oakland (later moving headquarters to San Francisco), Bechtel subcontracted on many Bay Area and Northern California railroad projects and was embedded in Southern Pacific’s aggressive expansion through the West. In tribute to the early years, an old railcar stands in front of Bechtel headquarters on Beale Street in downtown San Francisco. This car was said to be used by Warren Bechtel as living quarters for his family on job sites. As with the US economy in the 1920s the construction business boomed and Bechtel expanded into roads and hydroelectricity. Bechtel obtained the first U.S. Bureau of Public Roads contract in California for the Klamath River Highway in 1919. It then built new roads in the San Gabriel Mountains north of Los Angeles, built roads to Yosemite and Sequoia National Parks, and constructed key bridges on the Pacific Coast Highway including a prominent one at Coos Bay in Oregon. In road building Bechtel began an intimate partnership with Henry Kaiser, who would later partner on the Hoover Dam and other signature Depression-era and World War Two projects. With Kaiser the Bechtel Company established a pattern of nurturing close relationships with business allies and government, having no doubt learned from its business with Southern Pacific. The company established close relationships with San Francisco-based Pacific Gas and Electric (PG & E), which contracted Bechtel to build hydroelectric dams in the Sierras and Standard Oil of California (later Chevron), building pipelines and refineries. Bechtel also organized a Northern California chapter of the Association of General Contractors, and recruited Kaiser to help promote engineering education and research in the Bay Area. Later University of California, Berkeley and Stanford University would receive generous endowments from Bechtel. By the late 1920s Warren Bechtel was worth $30 million, and lived in a luxurious high rise on Lake Merritt in Oakland (McCartney, 1988). But it was huge government contracts during the 1930s New Deal and then in World War II that would propel Bechtel to global megaengineering fame. The Hoover Dam, completed in 1935, is probably the most famous megaproject in the world. In 1998 Bechtel held a ceremony at Hoover Dam for its 100th birthday, stating that it was the most “ambitious civil engineering project in the U.S. to date” (Bechtel, 1998). The dam was a pivotal project for Bechtel because it put the company on the national scene as a major builder, but it also ensconced Bechtel in an intimate relationship with the U.S. government that solidified during World War II and continued throughout the company’s history. Led by Bechtel, the dam was built by multiple construction firms involved in a consortium named the “Six Companies” after the San Francisco Chinatown tribunal which sorted out grievances amongst rivals in the Chinese-American community (Reisner, 1993). During the New Deal, Bechtel and its partners in the Six Companies exemplified cooperation between business and government (Wiley & Gottlieb, 1982). Bechtel got many contracts throughout the New Deal, including partnering with its allies in the Six Companies on the Moffett railway tunnel in the Colorado Rockies and various dams.

786

J. Henderson

The success of Bechtel would also come with contracting troubles. On the Hoover Dam project, for example, Wiley and Gottlieb (1982) and McCartney (1988) recount how there was much labor tension. Bechtel and its partners in the Six Companies paid workers in script only good at company stores and kept two sets of books to cover-up pay irregularities and abuse. There was a Federal investigation which concluded that the builders had 70,000 labor violations; the consortium was fined $350,000. The consortium put out media releases promoting the greatness of the project, influencing public opinion enough to have the fine reduced to $100,000. Meanwhile, in foreshadowing of the infamous controversy over the cost inflation and faulty work on the Big Dig, Bechtel became mired in a messy tunnel project in the Bay Area during the 1930s. In that episode, Bechtel underestimated the geologic conditions for what became the Caldecott Tunnel linking Oakland to what later became suburban Contra Costa County. Bechtel lost $4 million and had to dewater the tunnel, while ally Henry Kaiser attempted to use political connections to bail out Bechtel (McCartney, 1988). The project would eventually be finished by another contractor and left the company embarrassed, but also seasoned in the pitfalls of difficult engineering projects. Nevertheless, while World War II transformed the U.S. into a global power, it also transformed Bechtel into a global engineering and construction giant. It led Bechtel into military contracts that would be more profitable than traditional public works like dams or bridges (Wiley & Gottlieb, 1982). By the late 1930s Eastern shipbuilding firms were at capacity rebuilding the US merchant marine fleet and gearing up for a possible war. Bechtel, along with Kaiser and other Six Company partners, would take the lead in the military-industrial build-up on the Pacific Coast. Incredibly, with no experience in shipbuilding, Bechtel built 560 vessels, up to 20 ships a month, between 1941 and 1945. It oversaw major shipbuilding at Terminal Island in Los Angeles and Marinship in Sausalito, near San Francisco, building Liberty Ships and oil tankers for the Navy (Tassava, 2003). Bechtel also built a massive aircraft modification plant in Birmingham, Alabama, and an oil pipeline from Canada’s Yukon to the Alaska panhandle meant to provide fuel for the Pacific Fleet. Bechtel would continue pipeline work under the direction of the US War Department in Venezuela, Mexico, and Bahrain, before moving to one of its signature projects in Saudi Arabia, the Trans-Arabian Pipeline in 1947. Petroleum infrastructure would become the lubricant of Bechtel’s globalization. Most significantly, Bechtel was central to the special relationship between the US and Saudi Arabia after World War II. In 1943 the U.S. Navy forecasted great need for more oil and contracted Standard Oil of CA (Chevron) to supply oil from Saudi Arabia. Standard Oil in turn contracted Bechtel (Wolf, 1996). Bechtel developed a special relationship with Saudi Arabia’s Royal family and established a lasting presence in Saudi Arabia and throughout the Middle East. After World War Two Bechtel built pipelines, ports, refineries, offices, highways, railways, and airports throughout Saudi Arabia and other Middle East nations during the 1950s (Wiley & Gottlieb, 1982). Bechtel also built pipelines in Iraq, and petroleum projects in Kuwait and

45

Bechtel: The Global Corporation

787

Bahrain. In the later 1950s Bechtel became involved with projects in Libya as the Suez Crisis of 1956–1957 blocked tankers from the Persian Gulf, making Libyan oil more attractive (McCartney, 1988). Much of this oil would flow to the United States and Europe. Back in the U.S. Bechtel branched into providing the energy infrastructure for the postwar Sunbelt boom. Having had 100,000 employees in shipbuilding during World War II, the company was able to pick from the best of managers and craftworkers and redirect them towards building the critical infrastructure of fossil fuel-oriented growth in the Southwest (Wolf, 1996). Building powerplants, pipelines, and refineries, Bechtel was a key player in California and the West’s growth machine, enabling the rapid sprawl growth of Los Angeles and the Bay Area, as well as enabling the Sunbelt boom in Phoenix. By 2008 the company had been involved with over 350 fossil fuel plants, including a vast network of pipelines across western North America. This included a key 805-mi (1,296 km) natural gas pipeline built for Pacific Gas Transmission and PG & E to carry natural gas from Canada to California. That pipeline was further expanded in 1993 to accommodate California’s explosive growth (Bechtel, 1998; Blackwood, 1993). While Bechtel was a key cog in the development of the fossil fuel palimpsest, it was also pivotal in the development of nuclear power. Bechtel’s involvement with nuclear energy spans the entire gamut of U.S. nuclear programs. Bechtel was involved with the military’s Manhattan project during World War II and in 1952 Bechtel fabricated the infamous doomsday town in the Nevada desert which was used to assess the damage of an atomic weapon on a small city. With major utilities and other builders, Bechtel created the Nuclear Power Group in the 1950s, a trade organization that lobbied for the creation of commercial nuclear power in the U.S. Bechtel went on to build 45 nuclear powerplants (40% of all commercial plants), including the first operational plant, Dresden, Illinois. Bechtel was also involved in the first big anti-nuclear protest, against the proposed Bodega Bay Nuclear Plant north of San Francisco. Proposed by Bechtel’s partner PG & E, the plant was canceled in the late 1950s, foreshadowing a new environmental politics springing out of the Bay Area (Walker, 2007). With the widespread opposition to nuclear power firmly entrenched in the late 1970s, Bechtel turned to clean-up. One of the first jobs was Three Mile Island, and Bechtel was the chief contractor at the Savannah River Plant, responsible for overall direction and environmental restoration. In the late 2000s the company was building a waste treatment plant at Hanford, Washington, involved in remediation at Oak Ridge in Tennessee, managed the Nevada Test Site and Yucca Mountain north of Las Vegas, and jointly ran the U.S. Department of Energy’s Lawrence Livermore and Los Alamos labs with the University of California. In 2007 Bechtel helped reinvigorate civilian nuclear power generation, restarting the Browns Ferry Nuclear Plant in Alabama, the 1st new reactor for electricity generation to open in 10 years. Bechtel was recently selected to complete the Tennessee Valley Authority’s 1,200MW Watts Bar 2 nuclear plant in Spring City, Tennessee (construction was halted on the plant in 1985).

788

J. Henderson

45.3 Friends in High Places? Bechtel has a long history of nurturing close relationships with government and business elites. Some claim the relationships went too far, and that the company’s interests are deeply interwoven with oil companies, Republican Presidents, and the CIA (Corpwatch et al., 2003; McCartney, 1988). Others note that the implication of corruption is unfair (Wolf, 1996). They argue that nurturing friendships is simply part of doing business and that many other honorable companies do the same thing. Bechtel’s official statement is: “When you engage in thousands of projects, inevitably a few will draw controversy” (Bechtel, 2008b). The first significant expose on Bechtel’s intimate relationships with government was a book titled Friends in High Places, the Bechtel Story: The Most Secret Corporation and How It Engineered the World by Laton McCartney.1 On the book’s front cover, a statement by the San Francisco Chronicle promoted the book as “a first rate job of investigative reporting,” and on the back cover the Washington Post called the book “enlightening.” The book was released just as Bechtel was being investigated as part of a broader Federal probe of the Reagan Administration’s secretive dealings in Iraq. McCartney described how Bechtel nurtured personal relationships as the centerpiece of its business strategy, participating in secretive elite clubs like Bohemian Grove, where the nations’ business and political elite gathered annually to conduct business by association rather than by impersonal contract. The idea of the Bohemian club, which Bechtel has long been a part, is to spend three days among corporate and government peers informally, opening doors, and making it easier to negotiate contracts. Much of the company’s infamy surfaced publicly in 1982 during Senate confirmation hearings for Ronald Reagan’s Secretary of State, George Shultz. Schultz ran Bechtel for 8 years, had previously worked in the Nixon Administration, and drew Bechtel into an intimate relationship with Ronald Reagan during his campaign against Jimmy Carter in 1980. The confirmation hearings made Bechtel a household word, according to McCartney, and the blemish was deepened with McCartney’s book-length laundry-list of cronyism that was published in 1988. Friends in High Places was dismissed by Bechtel as “fabrication, falsehood, and innuendo woven into an inaccurate account of Bechtel’s history.” Bechtel successfully pressured the publisher to force revisions to the book. In a review of the revised book in the New York Times however, it was suggested that whether or not the book had some mistruths, the fact was that Bechtel was one of the most networked companies in the world (Labaton, 1988). By the early 2000s Bechtel was in at least a half dozen high profile controversies. In 2000–2002 Bechtel was embroiled in a symbolic battle over the World Bank’s policies towards neoliberal privatization of resources, in this case in Cochabamba, Bolivia. Bechtel was awarded a special 40-year exclusive contract in Bolivia to own and manage water in Cochabamba. When prices for water spiked sharply in 2000, riots broke out and the country expelled Bechtel (San Francisco Chronicle, 2002). Bechtel sued Bolivia for $25 million in the World Bank Claims Court and in 2006 the issue was settled but Bechtel’s reputation was stained. Bechtel was also involved

45

Bechtel: The Global Corporation

789

in controversial privatization of the London Underground Tube system and in 2001 Bechtel lobbied for the contract to clean up the World Trade Center site. Unionized city workers protested and the work stayed in-house. Bechtel had trouble with the infamous “Big Dig” tunnel megaproject in Boston and was sued by the state of Massachusetts after a scathing account of cost overruns, faulty construction, and political graft was published in the Boston Globe in 2003 (Lewis & Murphy, 2003). In early 2008 Bechtel and its partner Parsons Brinckerhoff settled with the state. Bechtel was required to pay $357 million in “management errors” because of tunnel leaks and a ceiling panel collapse that killed a motorist in 2004. According to Engineering News-Record (2008) Bechtel could have fought the charges, but decided to settle because if it did go to trial the company would likely have been found criminally negligent and thus potentially disbarred from federal contracts. Perhaps the most scrutinized Bechtel controversy was the relationship to the George W Bush administration and no-bid contracts in Iraq from 2003 to 2006. That drew protests in front of the company’s world headquarters in downtown San Francisco during the wider anti-war protests of 2003 (Corpwatch, Public Citizen, and Global Exchange, 2003). The no-bid contracts resulted in congressional inquiries about the Bush Administration’s cozy relationship with huge contractors like Bechtel, Halliburton, Flour, and Washington Group (now URS). Bechtel was also one of the companies that met secretly with the Bush Administration over energy policy (Sandalow & Wildermuth, 2002). Then in 2005 President Bush appointed Riley Bechtel, great grandson of Warren Bechtel and currently chair and chief executive of Bechtel, on his Export Council. This agency oversees lending for global investments in infrastructure which Bechtel can presumably obtain contracts to build. Bechtel also had close ties with the Bin Laden family in Saudi Arabia (Mayer, 2003). The relationship is obvious because as noted above, since World War II Bechtel had a significant presence in Saudi Arabia. The Bin Laden Group is the largest construction company in Saudi Arabia. Suspicion and distrust of Bechtel may derive, at least in part, from the somewhat secretive and closed nature of the company. The company does not trade on Wall Street and does not have to report its profit, so its annual reports are rather skimpy: the 2008 Annual report is 16 pages, the 2007 report 10 pages. The company and its executives are known to be elusive, granting few interviews or public speaking engagements. Salaries of executives and directors are not disclosed, and Riley Bechtel, continuing the family tradition, even created an obscure foundation to handle his private donations rather than attract attention (Wallack, 2003). Moreover, most of the board of directors rose from within the ranks of Bechtel and exhibit disciplined loyalty to the firm. Meanwhile another source of distrust of Bechtel might derive from being located in San Francisco, a bellwether for leftist critiques and known for protests against large corporations, war, and global capitalism. Through simple proximity Bechtel is an easy company to protest and draw embarrassing attention. One cannot imagine sustained protests, for example, in Houston, or even in San Ramon, a suburb of San Francisco where Chevron fled in the 1980s. Furthermore, Bechtel has had a tenuous

790

J. Henderson

relationship with its home base. This relationship is worth exploring because it has implications for how Bechtel might interact with possible future civilian public works investments in the U.S.

45.4 Megaengineering the Bay Area After World War Two Bechtel was key a member of an interlocking network of business elites in the Bay Area, a loosely organized growth machine (Mollenkopf, 1983; Whitt, 1982). Bechtel was a founding member of the Bay Area Council (BAC), a “private regional government” made up of Bank of America, Wells Fargo, PG & E (the nation’s largest utility at time), Southern Pacific, Levi-Strauss, Del Monte, Standard Oil of CA (Chevron), Lockheed Missiles and Space (Silicon Valley), Hewlett-Packard (Silicon Valley), Foremost-McKesson, Folgers coffee and the paper and timber conglomerate Crown-Zellerbach (Hartman, 2002). This informal group organized the Bay Area planning agenda by forming local planning think tanks and pro-business advocacy organizations, and most notably, promoting the creation of the Bay Area Rapid Transit system (BART). BART was part of a larger vision of Bechtel and the BAC to build airports, freeways, bridges, and heavy industry (including a cluster of refineries that Bechtel would build), while making downtown San Francisco a Pacific-rim finance and corporate headquarters agglomeration. Wolf (1996), chronicling Bechtel, says that no project was more important or closer to home for Bechtel than BART. Like the Hoover Dam, Bechtel considers BART a signature project, stating Among megaprojects BART is considered an engineering achievement of immeasurable importance. It has been honored with designation as a National Historic Mechanical Engineering Landmark by the American Society of Mechanical Engineers and is in the company of the Golden Gate Bridge, Panama Canal, and Hoover Dam as one of the American Public Works Association’s Top Ten Public Works Projects of the 20th Century. (Bechtel, 2008c)

BART was the first wholly new mass transit system built in the US since Philadelphia completed its subway 60 years earlier (Whitt, 1982). Bechtel and the BAC first lobbied for the creation of BART in 1949. It then initiated the establishment of the BART commission in 1951, which undertook the preliminary study (Hall, 1982). In 1953 a preliminary report on BART was presented to the California Legislature urging that mass transit was needed in Bay Area, and that subway builder Parsons Brinckerhoff, Hall, and MacDonald (PBHM) be hired to consult on rail transit. In 1959 Bechtel was hired by the BART district along with PBHM, and the smaller local Tudor construction company, which combined came to be known as (PBTB). Upon completion of the study, Stephen Bechtel, son of Warren Bechtel and now head of the company, steered the BAC in a political campaign to get public bonds for BART. In the 1962 BART referendum, the BAC led the bond campaign

45

Bechtel: The Global Corporation

791

and Bechtel contributed $15,000. According to Hall (1982) there was little organized opposition to BART, and the BART concept was supported by the incumbent governor Pat Brown, his opponent in the 1962 governor’s race, Richard Nixon, all four major Bay Area newspapers, most civic groups, and 61% of Bay Area voters. Next, the new BART district gave a no-bid contract to Bechtel and its partners, with little public oversight (Hall, 1982; Whitt, 1982). The three firms then privately divided the work amongst themselves, with Bechtel placing itself at the head of the joint venture, managing all construction, designing many stations, designing the performance criteria for the railcars, undertaking all cost estimates, conducting most of the electrical work, and building the famous tunnels under San Francisco Bay, called the Transbay Tubes (Wolf, 1996). The contract was immediately targeted in a lawsuit charging that it was an inside job and an open-ended illegal contract for the powerful Bechtel family (Whitt, 1982). Bechtel soon learned that unlike refineries, powerplants, or pipelines this project would be under daily scrutiny of a watchful public. As one historian explained, the public’s streets were being torn up, the famous San Francisco freeway revolt was underway, taxes were increasing, and inflation was rapidly increasing the project cost (Wolf, 1996). Public debates emerged about the architecture of BART lines and stations. San Francisco Chronicle architecture critic Allan Temko (1993) detailed public fights over the design of BART stations in Berkeley, and how Berkeley fought successfully to have BART underground, further annoying Bechtel and its partners. Later BART faced many technical problems including flaws in the control system which meant trains went slower than planned, and the system experienced many breakdowns and component failures, along with long construction delays. BART was supposed to be completed in 1971, but the important Transbay tubes underneath San Francisco Bay were not done until 1974 and with major cost overruns (Hall, 1982). In 1972 the California Legislature investigated BART contracts with Bechtel. The legislative analyst concluded that BART’s board was not adequately overseeing the contracts, instead the contractors themselves were running everything. As the lead on the project, Bechtel controlled all contracting and subcontracting and had free-reign on planning and supervision. As a parody, in 1972 the San Francisco Bay Guardian, a leftist weekly, put a comic illustration of Steve Bechtel as a baron playing with a toy BART train set on the front cover (Fig. 45.2) (San Francisco Guardian, 1972). Defenders of BART and Bechtel rebuked criticism, stating that the rail system was eventually successful (in 2008 ridership nearly reached capacity), and there was nothing unusual about the fees and profits relative to other megaprojects. A 1976 Congressional report dismissed a conspiracy theory that Bechtel and other industrialists built BART solely to enrich themselves. Instead, the report summarized that business elites combined interest with planners and tapped into a broader Bay Area political culture that held an appreciation of rational planning (U.S. Congress Office of Technology Assessment, 1976). BART was politically successful by merging the interests of business elites and modernist planners. At the time, there was no federal funding, little state funding, and lots of skepticism towards transit. There was also no local transit advocacy political arm, nor a concerted grassroots politics promoting

792

J. Henderson

Fig. 45.2 Parody of Bechtel and BART on the cover of the San Francisco Bay Guardian in 1972. (Source: San Francisco Bay Guardian, with permission)

transit as is found in the Bay Area today. BART needed a benefactor and that was the business elite, who hammered through deals to get bridge tolls and pass sales taxes and property taxes in the BART counties. It was able to survive the political process due to a broader coalition linked to unions, urban renewal, land development, and regional economic growth. Even before BART was finished, the Bechtel-led PBTB was being sought out by Atlanta and Washington D.C. Bechtel withdrew from the Atlanta rapid transit project over contracting disputes in 1975, but became the lead firm on the Washington DC Metro Project, although not without another round of controversy. According to McCartney (1988), Bechtel got the Metro contract in 1971 because of connections to Nixon. In the later 1970s Bechtel was accused by the U.S. Department of Transportation of wrongdoing for having lavish meals in a harshly worded report that, nevertheless, did not criticize Bechtel for engineering, rather for management lapses (Wolf, 1996).2 By the late 1970s and early 1980s the ambition to build new urban rail transit in the U.S. was stifled by ideological opposition to rail in favor of roads, but Bechtel went on to build many rail transit systems around the world, including metros in Caracas, Venezuela, São Paulo, Brazil, and later Athens Greece. Bechtel remained a major player in the further development of BART leading the studies calling for BART extensions further into the East Bay suburbs and to San Francisco International Airport in the 1980s and then building them in the 1990s and 2000s.3 In an analysis by the San Francisco Examiner in June 1996, BART’s elected board of directors was exposed as having some cozy financial relationships with contractors such as Bechtel (Williams, 1996). Bechtel was listed as giving

45

Bechtel: The Global Corporation

793

$15,000 to BART directors’ elections campaigns and $40,000 to a key champion of the BART in the California legislature. Yet despite all of this exposure, in 2000 Bechtel was awarded a $105 million contract to engineer seismic upgrade for BART and in 2005 BART was awarded the full $1.5 billion seismic retrofit contract. Bechtel’s involvement in San Francisco development politics was not limited to BART. Chester Hartman (2002), chronicling San Francisco’s contentious land use politics from the 1970s to the 1990s, referred to Bechtel as part of the downtown business interests that financed local political campaigns. For example Bechtel joined with other large SF interests to defeat a recall of then mayor Diane Feinstein in the early 1980s (Hartman, 2002). Previously, Bechtel also supported efforts to return citywide elections to the Board of Supervisors after the assassination of Supervisor Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone in the late 1970s. In 1996 Bechtel was among other downtown elites that contributed to the campaign to build a new baseball stadium and redevelop the area around China Basin and Mission Bay. In 2000 Bechtel joined with the Gap Corporation, San Francisco’s Building Owners and Management Association (BOMA), Forest City Development Company, Chevron, and other companies to contribute “soft money” to a group of pro-business candidates running on a slate for Board of Supervisors (the legislative body of San Francisco). That year was a pivotal year in San Francisco politics, as pro-business mayor Willie Brown fought to keep his majority on the board. Bechtel contributed cash for signs, billboards, mailings, and opposition research under the guise of San Franciscans for Sensible Growth (Hartman, 2002). The scheme put money into independent expenditure committees with paid political consultants. Bechtel, Willie Brown, and the downtown business elite lost control of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors that year despite their efforts. The new progressive majority on San Francisco’s Board of Supervisors would stifle Bechtel. Immediately, the new Board sought to cancel Bechtel’s contracts to study and manage rebuilding the City’s prized Hetch-Hetchy water system, which provides water for 2.4 million people in the Bay Area, is municipally-owned and unionized, and has aqueducts spanning 150 mi (241 km) to Yosemite National Park. This $4.6 billion megaproject renovation included 200 separate projects, from replacing pipes to rebuilding reservoirs, and was estimated to take 10 to 12 years to complete. Bechtel’s study stated that the City did not have the in-house capacity to manage the project. The progressive board opposed what it saw as incremental privatization and de-unionization of its water system and the controversy became conflated with broader neoliberal privatization debates such as Bechtel’s Bolivian controversy. The City Budget office had analyzed how outsourcing would save money and concluded that in-house work was actually more efficient (Epstein, 2000a, 2000b; Finnie & Sward, 2002). In 2002 San Francisco rescinded the Bechtel contract after evidence of overbilling was presented. The Editorial board of the San Francisco Chronicle (2002), sympathetic to Bechtel, called it a “political ambush” but scorned Bechtel, charging that the company’s obliviousness to the nuances of local politics squandered their chance at the multi-billion dollar contract. Meanwhile two progressive supervisors joined protests against the ongoing Bolivian water

794

J. Henderson

privatization controversy in front of Bechtel Headquarters. One supervisor called Bechtel “one of the worst corporate citizens in all the world” (Finnie & Sward, 2002). Smarting from the loss of Hetch-Hetchy, Bechtel donated to the campaign of the pro-business mayoral candidate, Gavin Newsom, in the 2003 election cycle (Wildermuth & Gordon, 2003). Yet it was evident that Bechtel was also retreating from local politics. By 2007 Bechtel discontinued sponsorship of the San Francisco Planning and Urban Research association (SPUR), a developer-oriented think tank, citing that it was no longer really a San Francisco-based company. Bechtel had been one of the original founders of SPUR, which evolved out of the BAC. In 2008 Bechtel did not even have an executive on the BAC Board of Directors (Bay Area Council, 2008). San Francisco’s leftist political climate no doubt impeded Bechtel’s ambitions in the Bay Area, but globalization also drew the corporation away from the city. Since the 1950s Bechtel initiated a policy to seek half of work overseas (to shelter from U.S. recessions and slow-downs) and by the early 1960s had a presence in 22 countries on 5 continents (McCartney, 1988). Today Bechtel has a scattered, decentralized global reach. The company is organized around a network of “engineering hubs,” global industry units focused on specific types of projects tied together by the internet. San Francisco remains the company’s headquarters but only 1,400 of Bechtel’s 42,500 employees worked in San Francisco in 2007. Over 10,000 employees worked in the city a decade before. In 2008 more employees worked in Frederick, Maryland, where the company’s military, nuclear, and environmental cleanup unit is headquartered to be proximate to the Federal agencies that issue the contracts. Similarly, its oil and gas unit is in Houston, and civil infrastructure work is based in London where the company has large contracts upgrading rail systems. Other locales with a Bechtel presence include the usual suspects of global cities: New York, New Delhi, and Shanghai. Bechtel also has a major presence in Australia and Canada. Yet while Bechtel is highly globalized, roughly 60% of its new work in the 2005–2008 was still in North America, led by its fossil fuel energy projects, its contracts with the U.S. military and contracts for environmental mitigation of nuclear sites like Hanford (Bechtel Annual Reports, 2006, 2007, 2008).

45.5 Bechtel and the Critical Infrastructure of the Future Through its specialization in fossil fuel and nuclear infrastructure Bechtel has been inextricably bound with the built environment of the U.S. and with American globalization. Yet as the convergence of concern over global warming, volatility of energy resources, and economic recession emerge, is Bechtel poised to be part of an effort to re-orient the US economy towards sustainable development? Here I provide some thoughts on how a company like Bechtel may be able to help megaengineer America away from fossil fuels and towards realistically reducing carbon emissions. Specifically, the company has strength in building the type of mass transit

45

Bechtel: The Global Corporation

795

Fig. 45.3 BART extension to Dublin-Pleasanton in San Francisco’s East Bay suburbs, 2003. (Source: Jason Henderson)

systems that the Obama administration might consider as part of an economic stimulus package and as part of the six-year reauthorization of U.S. federal transportation policy in 2009 (Lowy, 2008). The current U.S. rail transit projects in which Bechtel participates are shown in Fig. 45.3. Bechtel could be poised to participate in developing high speed rail in the U.S. In November 2008 California voters approved public bonds to build a system between Los Angeles and San Francisco, while about a dozen other proposals are developing from the Middle West to the Southeast (Fig. 45.4). While there is no evidence of Bechtel involvement in promoting these projects, and construction contracts are several years away, Bechtel does have noteworthy experience in high-speed rail. Bechtel took over managing the famous Channel Tunnel Project when the original Anglo-French consortium ran into trouble during the late 1990s. The tunnel carries high-speed trains between London and Paris beneath the English Channel. More recently, Bechtel completed work on the Channel Tunnel Rail Link to London in 2007. Known as “High-Speed 1,” the project is the UK’s first truly high speed rail line and the first major rail project in the UK in 100 years. Bechtel led a consortium responsible for design, project management, and construction management of High Speed 1, which included the renovation of a major Victorian-era rail station, St Pancreas, as well as tunnel approaches beneath London (Fig. 45.5). Meanwhile in 2002 Bechtel was awarded management of the upgrade of the West Coast Main Line, a $15 billion modernization and track expansion project that may include high speed tilt train technology when completed. Faster trains were running to Scotland by 2005. Bechtel also managed the Seoul-Pusan Korean high speed rail project, built between 1991 and 2002, and was involved with building high speed rail in Spain.

796

J. Henderson

Fig. 45.4 Bechtel rail projects in the US

Fig. 45.5 St Pancreas Station, London – Barlow Shed. (Source: http://www.stpancras.com/)

45

Bechtel: The Global Corporation

797

Bechtel also has a long history with urban rapid transit systems, beginning with the BART system described above. From BART Bechtel went on to help build the Washington DC Metro, and worked on metro systems in Caracas, Venezuela and São Paulo, Brazil. In Greece, Bechtel led a consortium of 22 companies to build 17 miles, 28 stations, and two new lines for the Athens Metro. Completed in 2004, in time for the summer Olympics, the system is said to have replaced the need for 200,000 cars a day in Athens. In London, Bechtel completed the first major Tube project in 30 years, the Jubilee Line Extension to the Docklands in 1999, and in 2001 contracted in a joint venture to renovate over 300 capital projects on 3 tube lines (Picadilly, Northern, Jubilee lines) over a 30-year period. Back in the U.S. Bechtel is part of a public-private joint venture to extend Washington DC’s Metro to Dulles Airport. The $ 2.6 billion, 23-mile rail extension has been approved by the Federal Government and funding identified and appropriated. In urban light rail, Bechtel has been involved with many U.S. projects, including Dallas, Los Angeles, Portland, and San Diego. Significantly, Bechtel led the U.S. first public-private light rail partnership in the US with the Portland, Oregon MAX extension to the city’s airport (Engineering News-Record, 1998) (Fig. 45.6). Known as Airport MAX, Bechtel built a 5.5-mi (8.85 km) light-rail leg to Portland International Airport in exchange for a design-build contract and an 85-year lease to 120 acres (53.6 ha) of airport commercial land. Completed in 2001, the light rail extension grew out of the kind of personal relationships that characterized Bechtel’s business approach. The idea for the extension was hatched over dinner between Bechtel’s vice president, Neil Goldschmidt (former mayor of Portland and governor

Fig. 45.6 Portland MAX light rail extension to airport, 2008. (Source: Jason Henderson, June 2008)

798

J. Henderson

of Oregon) and the director of the airport (Smith, 2001). The three men were friends seeking to get light rail to the airport. Goldschmidt had been mayor of Portland when the city redirected its transportation policy away from freeways and to light rail in the 1970s. However, as in the 1960s when Bechtel steered the construction of BART, federal funding for transit was not readily accessible because the project did not qualify for stringent federal funding criteria. Bechtel proposed a partnership whereby Bechtel would be paid $125 million by the local authorities (including airport funds raised from landing fees) and get long- terms leases on land adjacent to the airport. In turn Bechtel designed and built the extension. Since the right of way for the extension was already owned by the local government, costs were kept down. Bechtel retained Goldschmidt as its agent on the deal (Hamilton, 2001). Bechtel then entered into a real estate deal with Trammel Crowe in retail, office, and industrial development called Cascade Station. The Portland MAX Airport extension harkens back to the days when electric traction titans built networks of streetcars paid for by land sales of property made accessible by the rail system. This hybrid approach to building transit systems might be worth exploring in other cities as demand for transit projects outpaces the availability of federal commitments to transit. Yet given the aforementioned controversies over BART, Bechtel’s political conflicts in the City of San Francisco, and the most recent politics around the Big Dig, it is understandable that Bechtel would proceed cautiously in civilian public works. In the US there is a strong thread of democratic planning that can complicate megaprojects. For Bechtel, building a liquefied natural gas terminal or nuclear clean-up site is conducted in a very predictable manner with intimate relationships with large energy corporations or federal bureaucracies like the military and Department of Energy. But public works megaprojects proceed in a very constrained manner (see Altshuler & Luberhoff, 2003 for a good analysis of the politics of U.S. transportation megaprojects). For local and state governments in the U.S., megaprojects are non-routine and require special funding, authorizations, and land acquisition. They usually involve multiple levels of government and are usually controversial. They proceed slowly and require a political base to hold firm over a long period of time. In short they require a public-private growth machine of the sort that enabled BART to evolve in the 1950s and 1960s. That may be at odds with Bechtel’s more footloose and transcendent corporate organization. While Bechtel may land a contract or two for civilian infrastructure in the forthcoming economic stimulus, and while Bechtel has a clearly impressive record in constructing urban metros and rail systems, it is unclear if the company will engage in the kind of political endeavors characterized in the BART planning era.

45.6 Conclusion In a 1998 interview with Time Magazine, an elder Steve Bechtel Sr. stated that “We’ll build anything for anybody, no matter what the location, type or size” (Church, 1998). For almost a century Bechtel has been at the center of producing the

45

Bechtel: The Global Corporation

799

infrastructure of the American economy and has maintained intimate relationships with key government agencies and political figures. In 2008 some of the signature projects of the company included major U.S. Department of Energy contracts for nuclear-waste cleanup and managing nuclear research labs, a slew of liquefied natural gas (LNG) projects around the world, new “clean coal” powerplants, and new refineries. This reflects the zeitgeist of the last century, centered on the cheap atomic and fossil fuel resources that undergirded the sprawl development pattern in the U.S. As energy prices rose and destabilized both sprawl and the global economy, newer, more expensive energy infrastructure was contracted to Bechtel, such as extraction of oil from sands, rebooting nuclear power and investing in newer types of coal and natural gas facilities. These are investments meant to sustain the development pattern of the last century. With the convergence of factors such as global warming and volatile and insecure oil resources, the palimpsest of the American economy, particularly the fossil fuel economy, is poised to be reoriented and rescaled. Barring any unforeseen change in the company, Bechtel could be part of major new investments in high speed rail and urban rail transportation, but only if the company embraces the nature of megaproject planning in the U.S.: democratic, public, deliberative, and politically complicated. Bechtel did it once with BART, and may yet have the nerve to engage again. In the meantime, it seems Bechtel finds the expansion of nuclear power, new private wireless and broadband communications systems, and emerging “clean” coal and natural gas systems as the way to go. Regardless, in terms of the future of megaprojects, Bechtel is a company to watch.

Notes 1. McCartney completed a similar book in 2008 on the infamous Teapot Dome Scandal of the Harding Administration. 2. At around the same time Bechtel was also fired from the famous Alaska pipeline project, also for management lapses. 3. Tutor-Saliba/Slattery, from Sylmar CA, actually built the BART extension, although Bechtel was lead consultant (Radulovich, 2008).

References Altshuler, A., & Luberoff, D. (2003). Mega-projects: The changing politics of urban public iInvestment. Washington, DC: Brookings Institution Press. Bay Area Council. (2008). Bay Area Council annual report. San Francisco Bay Area Council: 12. Bechtel (1998). Building a Century: Bechtel 1898–1998. Kansas City: Andrews McNeel Publishing. Bechtel. (2006). The Bechtel report 2006. San Francisco, Bechtel 12. Bechtel. (2007). The Bechtel report 2007. San Francisco, Bechtel 10. Bechtel. (2008a). The Bechtel report 2008: 110 years and building. San Francisco, Bechtel 16. Bechtel. (2008b). Building a century: An updated version of the definitive history of Bechtel. Retrieved January 14, 2009, from http://www.bechtel.com/BAC-online.html Bechtel. (2008c). Bechtel signature projects: Bay area rapid transit. Retrieved January 14, 2009, from http://www.bechtel.com/bay_area_rapid_transit_system.html

800

J. Henderson

Blackwood, F. (1993). Private firms profit in global markets. San Francisco Business Magazine, 28, 14. Buckley, B. (2008). Funding uncertainty puts chill on future transportation projects; Although current demand continues, firms fear slowdown Engineering News-Record, 70. Church, G. (1998). Stephen Bechtel: Only a man who thought on the grandest scale could build the world’s biggest engineering projects Time Magazine, 152. Corpwatch, Public Citizen, and Global Exchange. (2003). Bechtel: Profiting for destruction. Washington, DC: Corpwatch, 39. Engineering News-Record. (1998). Portland light rail line in line for boost from Bechtel. Engineering News-Record, McGraw-Hill Companies, Inc., 248, 16. Engineering News-Record. (2008). Legal settlements obscure an urban marvel. ENR: Engineering News-Record, 64–64. Epstein, E. (2000a). Hetchy Bid: S.F. activists attack rights record. San Francisco Chronicle. San Francisco A21. May 10th. Epstein, E. (2000b). S.F. Board OKs Hetch Hetchy Pact: Bechtel-led consortium to renovate water system. San Francisco Chronicle. San Francisco A11. Finnie, C., & Sward, S. (2002). City ousts Bechtel, putting Hetch Hetchy repair at risk. San Francisco Chronicle. San Francisco A1. Hall, P. (1982). Great planning disasters. Berkeley: University of California Press. Hamilton, D. (2001). Three men, one dream. The Tribune. Portland, A1. Hartman, C. (2002). City for sale: The transformation of San Francisco. Berkeley: University of California Press. Hoover’s Business Profiles. (2008). Bechtel group. Jane’s Information Group. (2008). Jane’s world railways 2008–2009. Surrey, UK. Karp, J. (2009). Construction Industry Counts on Obama Wall Street Journal. New York. Retrieved January 14, from http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123189688607679781.html? mod=googlenews_wsj#articleTabs%3Darticle Labaton, S. (1988). Government by Bechtel. New York Times Book Review. New York, 39. Lewis, R., & Murphy, S. (2003). Special report: Easy pass: Why Bechtel never paid for its Big Dig Mistakes. Boston Globe. Boston. Retrieved January 14, 2009, from http://www.boston.com/news/specials/bechtel/ Lowy, J. (2008). Transportation plays central role in Obama plan. Washington, DC: Associated Press. Mayer, J. (2003). The Contractors. New Yorker, May 5, 35. McCartney, L. (1988). Friends in high places, The Bechtel story: The most secret corporation and how it engineered the world. New York: Ballantine Books. Mollenkopf, J. H. (1983). The contested City. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Radulovich, T. (2008, July 9). Personal interview with Tom Radulovich, San Francisco: Bay Area Rapid Transit Board of Directors. Reisner, M. (1993). Cadillac desert: The American West and its disappearing water. New York: Penguin Books. Sandalow, M., & Wildermuth, J. (2002). President’s energy plan lambasted: Documents show industry’s hand. San Francisco Chronicle. San Francisco A3. March 27th. San Francisco Bay Guardian. (1972). BART Steve Bechtel’s $2 Billion Toy, a special Guardian probe. San Francisco Bay Guardian. San Francisco 1. February 14th. San Francisco Chronicle. (2002). Bechtel’s Bolivian debacle. San Francisco Chronicle. San Francisco B6. April 22nd. Smith, P. K. (2001). Financing the airport light rail line in Portland, Oregon: A case study of public-private partnership. Journal of Structured Finance, 7(2), 54. Tassava, C. (2003). Multiples of six: The six companies and West Coast industrialization, 1930– 1945. Enterprise and Society, 4(1), 1–12. Temko, A. (1993). No way to build a ballpark and other irreverent essays on architecture. San Francisco: Chronicle Books.

45

Bechtel: The Global Corporation

801

U.S. Congress, Office of Technology Assessment. (1976). The Assessment of Community Planning for Mass Transit: Volume 8 – San Francisco Case Study. Washington, DC: Office of Technology Assessment, 52. Walker, R. (2007). The country in the city: The greening of the San Francisco Bay Area. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Wallack, T. (2003). Why some big-time donors like to stay under wraps: When discretion is the better part of philanthropy. San Francisco Chronicle. San Francisco I1. December 14th. Whitt, J. A. (1982). Urban elites and mass transportation. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Wildermuth, J., & Gordon, R. (2003). Newsom pulls in twice the cash of foes: In S.F. mayoral campaign, top fund-raiser brings in $1.5 million. San Francisco Chronicle. San Francisco A1. August 2. Wiley, P., & Gottlieb, R. (1982). Empires in the Sun: The rise of the new American West. New York: G.P. Putnam and Sons. Williams, L. (1996). BART’s contractors finance campaigns: Examiner analysis reveals businesses involved in transit contribute heaviest come election time. San Francisco Examiner. San Francisco A1. June 16th. Wolf, D. E. (1996). Big dams and other dreams: The six companies story. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press.

Chapter 46

Chinese Construction Industry: Governance, Procurement and Culture Jian Zuo, George Zillante, and Zhen-Yu Zhao

46.1 Industry Performance 46.1.1 Introduction The Chinese construction industry is one of the largest and fastest expanding construction markets in the world. China’s construction market is forecast to grow at a rate of 15–30% over the next five years and by 2010 the market is expected to be worth $US 1.7 trillion (TACO, 2002) It is vital for China, especially for the development of public infrastructure. In 2004–2005, the total production of the construction industry reached RMB 3455.2 billion (US$ 417.3 billion), contributing 7% to the Gross Domestic Product (GDP) (NBSC, 2006). The industry achieved a rapid increase of 19.1% from the previous year’s RMB 2902.1 billion. Construction enterprises numbered 53,309 by the end of 2004, employing 25,579,000 people (more than 3.4% of the total labor force). There is a steady increase of floor space, both completed and under construction from 2000 to 2005 as evidenced in Fig. 46.1. In 2005 the completed floor space was 1,594,062 thousand sq m (17,152,107 thousand ft2 ) while the floor area under construction reached 3,527,447 thousand sq m 37,955,329 thousand ft2 ). The 2008 Olympic Games had a significant impact on the construction industry. The games alone are responsible for the spending of RMB 135 billion on construction and upgrading of sporting venues, hotels and other urban infrastructure (Xinhua News Agency, 2004).

46.2 Industry Structure The sectors of the building and construction industry cover five broad areas of activity (NBSC, 2005): building, civil engineering, construction installation, construction decoration and other construction. In 2005 building and civil engineering sectors J. Zuo (B) School of Natural and Built Environments, University of South Australia, Adelaide, SA, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_46,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

803

804

J. Zuo et al.

Fig. 46.1 Floor space of building construction 2000–2005. (Source: NBSC, 2006)

Fig. 46.2 The sectors of the Chinese construction industry. (Source: NBSC, 2005)

contributed RMB 2,988 billion, which is more than 86% of the whole industry (Fig. 46.2). The Chinese government encourages foreign firms to enter the construction market in order to promote the development of the construction industry. In 2004 there were 3,861 foreign invested enterprises with a total of US$ 25.5 billion registered capital in the construction industry. These companies bring not only advanced

46

Chinese Construction Industry

805

technology but also new management expertise that helps to strengthen the competitive ability of the Chinese construction industry. Capital brought in by foreign firms helps to resolve the “shortage of money” problem, which is one of the major bottlenecks to the development of the construction industry.

46.3 Mega-Infrastructure Projects In recent years there has been rapid economic development in China which has created a massive construction market. The construction industry contribution to GDP has experienced a steady growth of 8–10% per year. The Chinese government has introduced a number of fiscal policies aimed at increasing investment in fixed assets and to accelerate the infrastructure development. Some examples of megainfrastructure projects are listed in Table 46.1.

46.4 Participating Organizations Generally, the construction industry involves the organizations or companies or institutes that provide the following activities: survey and design, construction, installation of materials and facilities, maintenance, project and construction management, quality supervision and consultancy of various building and civil engineering projects.

46.4.1 Design Institutes Basically, the design institutes in China play a role similar to the architect/engineer (A/E) in the construction industries in the Westy, not only in public sector projects but also in private sector projects. The functions these institutes provide have expanded from only focusing on the preparation of preliminary and detailed designs to the explanation of design solutions and supervision during the construction phases of a project. Normally there is a team of designers from the design institute to provide these various functions in a major project. China has a very wellestablished system of design institutes. In 2004 nearly 13,328 design institutes employed 912,171 staff and 24% of these staff members have a senior title (NBSC, 2005). The number of employees in these institutes has increased by nearly a third since 2000. Forty-four per cent of the employment in this field is under the administration of central ministries while the rest is managed by provincial and municipal governments.

46.4.2 Contractors The contractors in China are responsible for implementing construction projects. That is, they have the same role as contractors in the West. The duties include

5. To balance the distribution of China’s energy 1. To build a 4,200-km pipeline laid to transfer the rich natural gas from western Xinjiang and other regions to energy-short Shanghai and other eastern areas 2. Can transfer 12 billion cubic meters of gas annually to the Yangtze River Delta and other regions

1. to host 2008 Beijing Olympic Games 2. 31 venues in Beijing and 5 venues in other cities, e.g. 1. National Stadium (Bird’s Nest) 2. National Aquatics Centre (Water Cube) 1. strategic restructuring of water resources of China’s Yangtze and Yellow river valleys; 2. relief China’s drought-ridden north by diverting water from the Yangtze River; 3. comprised of three water diversion routes: Western Route Project (WRP) and Middle Route Project (MRP) and Eastern Route Project (ERP); 4. will divert water from upper, middle, and lower reaches of Yangtze River respectively, to meet the developing requirements of Northwest and North China 5. 38 billion to 48 billion cubic meters of water will be transferred yearly to the areas with a population of 300 million 1. The dam, the hydropower station, the two-lane 5-stage navigation locks and the single-lane vertical ship lift 2. The largest hydropower project, which can be used for flood control (improved from that of 10-year flood control to that of 100-year flood control), power generation (to Chongqing, East China and Central China) and navigation (increased the annual navigation capacity from 10 million tons to 50 million tons) 3. The dam is 2,335 m long and 185 m high 4. The normal water storage level of the reservoir is 175 m 5. The total water capacity of the reservoir is 39.3 billion m3, of which the flood control capacity is 22.15 m3 6. Generate 84.7 billion kWh annually 1. To balance the distribution of China’s energy 2. Satisfy the power demand for the eastern region development 3. Format of a north-middle-south route power transmission pattern 4. Compromised of three routes: the north route; the middle route and the south route

Source: BOCOG, (2008); NSBD, (2008); Xinhuanet, (2008); Zhao, (2006)

West–East natural gas transmission

West–East electricity transmission project

Three Gorge Dam

South-to-North water diversion

Olympic venues

Brief introduction

Table 46.1 Examples of mega infrastructure projects in China

More than 526.5billion yuan (excluding Three Gorge project) 2001–2010 146.3 billion yuan 2002–2004

90.09 billion RMB yuan on the basis of the prices of 1993

500 billion RMB First stage: 2003–2010 Second stage: 2010–2020 Third stage: 2020–2050

US$ 2 billion 3 years

Budget and schedule

806 J. Zuo et al.

46

Chinese Construction Industry

807

the management of the construction site and of the contractors’ own resources, including labor and construction plants. Contractors in China’s construction industry can be divided into five distinctive categories; state-owned (SOE), collective-owned, funded from Hong Kong, Macao or Taiwan, Foreign Funded and others. SOEs undertook most of the construction projects in the past, however, their relative share is now declining. The state-owned enterprises have a different culture from that of private firms. At present, Chinese project contractors are ranked according to their contracting abilities in the following categories (Fang, Li, Sik-wah Fong, & Shen, 2004): special class (highest rank); first class; second class; and third class. The classes are determined by registered capital, net assets, annual income and track record of professional practice. For example, the special class is awarded to those contractors whose: enterprise’s registered capital is more than RMB 300 million; net assets are more than RMB 360 million; and average annual project income balance is more than 1.5 billion in the most recent three years. They must also meet other conditions of the first class enterprise (MoC, 2001).

46.4.3 Supervision Engineer (Construction Supervision Unit) The position of a Supervision Engineer has been a legal requirement for all types of government-financed construction projects in China since the implementation of Provisional Construction Supervision Ordinance in 1988. The project supervision system was initially implemented in China’s hydropower construction field and has been gradually extended to the whole construction industry (Wang, Liu, & Huang 2007). Normally the supervision engineers are employed by construction supervision units. The introduction of project supervision represents a significant step towards independent professional construction management services. As an independent third party, a construction supervision unit is responsible for supervising the works of a construction project (for example, quality and schedule) from the inception phase to the completion. For instance, the supervision engineer will monitor whether or not the bidding process (e.g., invitation, submission and evaluation) is under the principles of openness, fairness, justice, honesty and credit worthiness. By monitoring various aspects of construction works, a construction supervision unit is meant to bridge the gap between the functions provided by design institutes and contractors. The functions of the supervision engineer may cover the inception phase, design stage, tendering stage, construction phase to defects liability period (Bajaj & Zhang, 2003). However, now these functions are limited just to the construction stage, viz., to ensure construction quality (He, 2003). It is not unusual that for supervision engineers to get a chance to get involved in the inception and design phase. There is thus some imbalance between responsibility, rights and benefits of the supervision engineer (Wang, 2007). These services overlap with those provided by the project management consultants and may cause much confusion to the rest of the project team.

808

J. Zuo et al.

46.5 Role of Government As one of the major sectors of the national economy, China’s construction industry is under the overall control of the central government. The Ministry of Construction (MoC)1 and National Development and Reform Commission (NDRC) share the leadership of administration of the construction sector. The MoC was established at the end of the 1980s to take the lead role in implementing the new strategies for developing the industry. The MoC’s comprehensive responsibilities include formulating policies, preparing development programs, monitoring implementation, training personnel, improving construction technology and managing standards, surveys, design and construction institutions (Chen, 1998). There is a branch of the Construction Commission in every Province, Municipality and Autonomous Region, each with an organizational structure that reflects that of the central agency. The National Development and Reform Commission (NDRC), an amalgamation of the former State Planning Commission (SPC) and State Reform Commission (SRC), is a macroeconomic management agency under the State Council. It formulates policies for economic and social development, manages macroeconomic policy, and guides overall economic restructuring. With the responsibility for preparing long-term investment plans, the NDRC also has a key role in approving all major projects of the line ministries and municipal governments. Also NDRC has the responsibility for macroeconomic reforms as it coordinates with the MoC and other line ministries to facilitate reforms in the construction industry. The principal functions of the NDRC are to formulate and implement strategies for national economic and social development, long term plans, annual plans, industrial policies and price policies, to monitor and adjust the performance of the national economy, to maintain the balance of economic aggregates and to optimize major economic structures. Also it examines and approves major construction projects, as part of the broad responsibilities outlined above. The Chinese government has been developing and revising various regulations in order to guide reforms in its construction industry. It has started to introduce regulations to set the basic ground rules and to provide enterprises with the flexibility to operate as “commercial entities” (Han & Ofori, 2001). The governance of the construction industry is illustrated in Fig. 46.3.

46.6 The Procurement System in China 46.6.1 Traditional Approach Traditionally, a “Project Headquarters” (PH) is established to take charge of the entire project process on behalf of the Government for all government-funded projects. It is a temporary organization, which is established at the inception of the project and is dissolved after the project has been commissioned. The role of

46

Chinese Construction Industry

809 The National People’s Congress (NPC)

The Standing Committee of the NPC

Supreme People’s Court

Supreme People’s Protectorate

The State Council

The National Development and Reform Commission

Ministry of Construction

Central Government

Central Military Commission

Provincial Committee of Construction

Provincial People’s Congress and The Standing Committee

Provincial Committee of Development and Reform

Municipal Committee of Construction

Municipal People’s Congress and The Standing Committee

Municipal Committee of Development and Reform

Municipal Fire Fighting Bureau

Municipal Engineering Bureau

Municipal Environmental Protection Bureau

Municipal Commission of Urban Planning

Municipal Tendering Office

Other Municipal Bureaus

Provincial Government Construction Activities Municipal Government

Fig. 46.3 The legal framework of the Chinese construction industry

the PH during the project process is to act as the project owner on behalf of the Government. CEIN (2006) cites a series of issues that derive from such an approach and process: 1. The managers of the project often have a general management background. While they may not have the skills and knowledge of contract law, construction economics and contract administration are essential for the successful management of the project. 2. There are a series of competing and overlapping (in function) temporary organizations established for the project. Also, the knowledge and lessons learned from the project cannot be retained or be transferred to future projects as the PH is dissolved right upon completion of the project. 3. It is not unusual for project outcomes to exceed both the original scope and budget of the project. 4. The government, through its representative organization is responsible for all aspects of the project ranging from the investment strategy through to construction, management and the sourcing of an end user. This precedent results in a complex process which is not always transparent and can lead to corruption at various stages of the process. It should be noted that under the old planned economy system, it was very common to procure a construction project via a traditional government assignment approach.

810

J. Zuo et al.

46.6.2 Development of Procurement Approaches in China Since 1978 the government has gradually transformed the planned economy system to a market-oriented system. The previous centralized government assignment system has been replaced by one with competitive bidding and tendering approaches, for example, open tendering, selective tendering, negotiated tendering (Shen & Song, 1998). Since the introduction of Bidding Law in 1999, state-owned and international funded projects have been procured through a competitive tendering process. The contract is normally awarded to the tenderer with the lowest tender price. The Lubuge Hydropower plant in Yunan province, a 1980 World Bank financed project, was the first project to use international bidding for the procurement of construction works. Since then, more and more projects have used competitive tendering approaches during the procurement of works (Shen & Song, 1998). Both the international bidding and the competitive tendering were innovations from the traditional approach. In many cases, the commercial banks are responsible for assessing the project’s risk and hence decide whether or not to release the loan to finance the project. The government is mainly responsible for developing and revising various regulations in order to guide the reform of its construction industry. In the past, construction enterprises used the “direct labor” approach. The stateowned enterprises (the owners) implemented their capital projects using their own labor force and providing the supervision, materials and equipment themselves. The owners sometimes elected to subcontract the entire project, taking the responsibility of coordinating and supervising the work of the subcontractors (Lu & Paul, 2001). But nowadays the majority of construction enterprises use subcontracted labor and mainly focus on providing coordinating and construction management services. In addition to the traditional design-bid-construction contracts, there have emerged other procurement approaches such as Engineering, Procurement and Construction (EPC), design and build, turnkey and build-own-transfer (BOT). These procurement approaches are called “Gong Chen Zong Ceng Bao” (GCZCB), which means the contractor is responsible for the delivery of this project, including both the design and construction phases (Xu, Smith, & Bower, 2005). For instance, the first capital project concession granted to a foreign firm as a BOT contract was the Laibin Power Plant B, which was built in the Guangxi Zhuang Minority Autonomous Region in 1995. In 2003, the Ministry of Construction issued a document to encourage the industry to push developer clients to engage a Project Management Consultant (PMC) to manage the whole project on behalf of the client (MoC, 2003). In contrast to the supervision engineer, the PMC is directly employed by the client to manage the whole project from its inception to completion. This kind of procurement approach is called Dai Jian Zhi in Chinese, which means that there is another entity (the PMC) to manage the project fully on behalf of the client. The process of DaiJianZhi projects is illustrated in Fig. 46.4. Acting on behalf of the client, the PMC is authorized to control the project process to ensure the objectives can be achieved (Fig. 46.5). In most projects that are funded by the government, the appointment of a PMC is mandated. In such cases,

46

Chinese Construction Industry User unit

811

Raise the requirements; develop the project proposal; submit the proposal to MCDR for approval

MCDR

Approve the project proposal; state clearly that DaiJianZhi will be adopted in the approved project

MCDR

Choose the Agent via tendering

MCDR; Agent; User Unit

Agent

MCDR; DUP; DoC, and other relevant authorities Agent

MCDR; DUP; DoC and other relevant authorities; User unit

Sign the DaiJianZhi contract

Choose the surveying firm via tendering; the surveying firm conducts the preliminary design

Approve the preliminary design and the estimation of budget

Choose the firms to be responsible for the construction, the supervision and supplying of major equipments and materials

Legend

Final check and acceptance of the completed project according to the contract and relevant laws and regulations

DUP: Department of Urban Planning

MCDR: Municipal Commission of Development and Reform

DoC: Department of Construction

Fig. 46.4 The process of DaiJianZhi projects

Client Supervision Engineer Project Management consultant OR GCZCB Contractor

Design Institute

Subcontractors

Suppliers

Fig. 46.5 Organization chart illustrating the use of the PMC/GCZCB approach in China

the government will only be responsible for funding the project and finalizing its commissioning. The government delegates all other phases to the PMC. As a result, the PMC takes all risks from the client. Normally, there are clear incentive schemes for the PMC. For instance, the PMC can be paid a certain percentage of an incentive pool if the skills of the PMC result in cost savings. This motivates the PMC to ensure that the project objectives are achieved. Other project participants might be rewarded as well if there is a reward scheme in place. But in many cases the poor reward system leads to de-motivation of participants (Zeng, Tam, Wang, & Deng, 2003).

812

J. Zuo et al.

46.7 Weaknesses of the Chinese Construction Industry China’s construction industry has been criticized of producing works of poor quality, delay and cost overrun with low efficiency and effectiveness (Chan & Chan, 2002; Chen, 1998). This has been an ongoing concern (Ding, Smith, & Yan, 2007). Construction quality control, risk assessment and the delegation of responsibilities are essential issues. Government intervention is a very common phenomenon in the Chinese construction industry. The role of the government in China is still all-pervasive by acting as a client, financier, and regulator (Chen, 2001). This kind of multidimensional intervention has resulted in many drawbacks such as serious local protectionism, uncertain responsibilities, immunity from competition, etc. (Stewart & Jiang, 2004). Xu, Tiong, Chew, and Smith (2005) documented the government intervention issues as follows: The government administrative influence powerfully shapes the enterprises’ internal management. The government is not regulating the construction enterprises in a macro way that empowers the construction enterprises, but instead government authorities are directly involved in the construction enterprises’ business most of the time. . . . they (the government) interfere with the normal functioning of the market and activities of the enterprises, engendering greater complexity and difficulties for the construction enterprises’ business. (2005: 845)

Zeng et al. (2003) identified the immature procurement system as one of the key problems of the Chinese construction industry. These include (1) evasion of the use of the procurement system and sometimes even using false procurement and (2) contract transferal and illegal sub-letting. Some contractors and design institutes illegally lease their licenses or subcontract their jobs to unqualified firms in order to seek profits (Stewart & Jiang, 2004). Stewart and Jiang’s study (2004) of the first three quarters of 2000 found that approximately 2% of the total projects were identified with the above issues. Compared with developed countries, Chinese construction enterprises are large and unwieldy (Zeng et al., 2003). Normally there are four levels of organizational structure: group, firms, sub-firms and project departments. There is no formalized division of work and economic relationship, but administrative links, between levels. The liability of the leader in a firm for the performance of firm is different from project managers’ liability. This is likely to tempt project managers to take high-risk decisions and actions. . . this structure is less responsive to the external changing environment. (Zeng et al., 2003: 358)

Productivity is measured by output per employee in the Chinese construction industry is low and much lower than that in the US, Japanese and UK construction industries (Xu, Smith et al., 2005). For example, the output per person in the Chinese construction enterprises was approximately 23 times less than that of their US counterparts in 2000. China’s construction enterprises are still labor-intensive and have low labor productivity (Stewart & Jiang, 2004). The enterprises are short of

46

Chinese Construction Industry

813

professionals with rich knowledge and experiences in international contracting practices. Stewart and Jiang’s research (2004) found that even though these professionals have had tertiary training, they have had little chance to receive formal professional training in international commercial management as part of their tertiary education. Sha and Jiang (2003) pointed out that the state of human resources in China’s construction industry presents significant problems for the national economy and for the efficiency of the construction industry. The existing problems associated with the large rural workforce in construction include: low quality outputs, inefficient working arrangements, low wages, poor living and working conditions, and high mobility due to a lack of any formal job training (Sha & Jiang, 2003). Other issues associated with the Chinese construction industry are: a poor rewarding system that leads to de-motivation, delay in payments from clients, poor quality equipment and the leaders’ lack of sense of ownership to the enterprises (Xu et al., 2005; Zeng et al., 2003). These issues threaten the sustainable development of the Chinese construction industry (Zeng et al., 2003).

46.8 Culture In an effort to learn more about the culture of the Chinese construction industry, Zuo (2008) interviewed some 43 executive managers and senior construction managers of the major construction companies in specific cities (Beijing and Shenzhen) in China and some government officers. They were approached for their comments on project culture issues and the impacts of these cultural issues on the performance of construction projects. The results revealed several common theme of the construction project culture, including the following: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

Satisfying the client’s needs (Making the client happy), Establishing good interpersonal relationships (Guanxi), Support coming from the senior management, Clearly defining each party’s responsibilities, power and benefits, Rewards for cost savings, Consideration of others, and Building mutual trust and respect.

46.9 Open Market Along with its admittance to the World Trade Organization (WTO) in 2001, China is fulfilling its promise to open its market to the world. Accordingly the Chinese government is encouraging foreign firms to enter the construction market in order to promote the development of the construction industry. As a result, the number of “foreign invested” enterprises has increased significantly since then. For

814

J. Zuo et al.

Fig. 46.6 Construction sectors promoted for foreign investment

instance, in 2004 there were 3,861 “foreign invested” enterprises with a US$ 25.5 billion registered capital in the construction industry. These companies bring new management expertise along with advanced technology which helps strengthen the competitiveness of the Chinese construction industry. In order to attract foreign investment to China, the Chinese government has identified a number of business sectors that are considered more suitable and attractive to foreign business. A list of construction sectors that are promoted to attract foreign investment is shown in Fig. 46.6.

46.10 An Analysis of CICs’ Strength and Weakness The past decade has witnessed the steady growth of Chinese International Contractors (CICs) who have become important and influential players in the international market. Zhao, Shen and Zuo (2009) adopted a SWOT approach to analyze the CICs’ strengths, weaknesses, opportunities and threats (SWOT) in international construction markets. The comparatively low productivity is identified by Zhao, Shen and Zuo (2009) as one of major weaknesses of CICs. This is because: 1. A large percentage of labor of CICs comes from rural areas and is highly unskilled (Liu & Jin, 2007). 2. CICs are thirsty to attract trained and experienced professionals who have the knowledge about the contract administration, risk management, claim management and international project management practice (Yan, 2005; Zhu, 2006). The low salaries and poor working conditions are responsible for the unattractiveness of the construction industry to well trained people. 3. Insufficient expenditure on machinery and equipment affects the labor productivity negatively. In 2005 the equipment fee accounts for less than 7% of total project fee in China while it accounts for 20% in US. The official statistics

46

Chinese Construction Industry

815

revealed that in 2006: (1) overall Labor Productivity in terms of Value-added was Chinese Yuan 25,741 per person; (2) value of Machines per Laborer was Chinese Yuan 9,109 per person; and (3) Power of Machines per Laborer was 4.9 kW per person. All these figures are very low, compared with the Western construction industries. However, CICs benefit from the following strengths which entitle them to perform well in the international markets: 1. Lower Workforce Cost. The workforce cost in the Chinese construction industry is significantly lower than that of other construction industries. For instance, the annual average salary of the staff in the Chinese construction industry in 2004 was less than US$1,600 (CSYB, 2005), which is around one-half of their American counterparts (SAUS, 2004), and is around one-third of their Japanese counterparts (JSY, 2004). As another example is the annual average salary of the Chinese designers and consultants is only 5% of that in the US (MOC, 2005). Also the labor cost in construction industry is lower than that in other industries in China. Chinese workforces are general willing to work in poor conditions. They are also generally well motivated and well trained to work in different working environments. 2. Lower Price of Construction Materials and Equipment. The Chinese leading state-owned contractors have their own plants and material manufacturing bases (Chen & Mohamed, 2002). Zhu (2006) pointed out that the prices of construction materials, products and equipment made in China are significant lower than those made in Western countries. The prices of some mechanical and electric equipment or components (such as turbine, generators, transformers and circuit breakers) made by the Chinese manufacturers are generally about 70% of those made in the West. Thus, it is not unusual for CICs to choose China-made materials, products and equipments in order to reduce both the bidding price and the cost to run projects. This is particularly true when competing for the projects in the countries near to China, which induces low freight fees. 3. Experience on Large Scale and Complex Projects. After two decades of participating in the global market, Chinese contractors have increased their technology, management, design and financing capabilities (Lambertson, 2008). With a fast and massive recent economic development, China has seen a number of high profile projects completed or are on-going in the domestic market. These include: the Three Gorges dam, the transportation of power from western to eastern regions, the transportation of water from southern to north regions, Olympic venues, and the Qinghai-Tibet Railway. All these projects are built by Chinese contractors, bute foreign practitioners were involved as well. In order to target the large scale of complex nature of these projects, advanced technologies are adopted. The cooperation with foreign firms facilitates the Chinese construction companies’ learning about international construction practices (Liu, Fellows, & Fang, 2003).

816

J. Zuo et al.

4. Specialty Expertise. Having a special expertise is one of the major strengths for a company that looks for opportunities in the international market (Gunhan & Arditi, 2005). For instance, there are thousands of hydroelectric power plants worldwide while 50% of them are located in China. One expertise of CICs is to build high quality hydroelectric power plants within a tight schedule. CICs have paid attention to adopt the technologies and methodologies that are generally easier to be transferred to the local industry. Initially most of CICs choose the low-level technology which is relatively easy for African construction companies to emulate (Centre for Chinese Studies, 2006). Nowadays more and more CICs are adopting more sophisticated methods and technologies whereas comparatively cheap equipment is utilized. This equipment is easy to be accessed by local firms. Finally, the government’s support and its diplomatic relationships with developing countries are helping CICs to keep performing well in international markets.

46.11 Conclusion The last decade has witnessed massive developments in China’s economy. A large number of mega-infrastructure projects have been completed or are being constructed. Three Gorge project, South-to-North Water Diversion, WestEast Electricity Transmission Project, and West-East Natural Gas Transmission just named a few. This is a huge market and there are a number of opportunities for foreign firms to expand their business in China. This study provides a review of the Chinese construction industry, particularly on its governance, procurement and culture. In addition, a brief analysis of the strengths and weakness of Chinese contractors is included. Future research opportunities exist to investigate the feasibility and strategy of implementing innovative procurement approaches in China. The relationship contracting (alliancing) has been proved to be very successful in constructing the megaprojects in western countries, e.g., Australia and UK. However, currently no project in China has used the relationship contracting as the procurement approach, at least not adopted formally and systematically. The mega-infrastructure projects being undertaken in China can serve as the “showcase” implementing such an innovative procurement approach. Similarly, a study can be undertaken to understand the best way that western practitioners can work efficiently and effectively with local practitioners on Chinese megaprojects.

Note 1. The Ministry of Construction (MoC) has been re-structured and re-named to Ministry of Housing and Urban-Rural Development (MOHURD) in March 2008.

46

Chinese Construction Industry

817

References Bajaj, D., & Zhang, R. (2003). Managing construction industry development in China. The AACE International Transactions 2003, AACE Annual Conference 2003, Morgantown, WV. BOCOG. (2008). Olympic venue distribution, The Beijing Organizing Committee for the Games of the XXIX Olympiad. Retrieved online, August 18, 2009, from http://en.beijing2008.cn/venues/ CEIN. (2006). The legal issues in government-funded projects, Chinese Construction Engineering Information Network 2006. Retrieved online (in Chinese), July 8, 2006, from http://www.cein.gov.cn/news/show.asp?rec_no=11837 Chan, E. H. W., & Chan, A. T. S. (2002). Development of professional system in the construction industry of China. Journal of Construction Research, 3(2), 271–284. Chen, J. J. (1998). The characteristics and current status of China’s construction industry. Construction Management and Economics, 16(6), 711–719. Chen, B. G. (2001). Analysis of the impact on the construction industry after WTO accession. Shanghai, China: Tongji University. Chen, L., & Mohamed, S. (2002). China’s foreign economic cooperation development: exporting Chinese construction services. CIB W107 1st International Conference on Creating a Sustainable Construction Industry in Developing Countries, November 2000, Stellenbosch, South Africa. Ding, G. K. C., Smith, P., & Yan, L. (2007). The cost management system in China – The impact of social and economic reforms in the construction industry. The 12th International Research Symposium on the Advancement of Construction Management and Real Estate, Coogee Bay Hotel, Coogee Beach, Sydney Australia, 8–13 August 2007. Fang, D., Li, M., Sik-wah Fong, P., & Shen, L. (2004). Risks in Chinese construction market-contractors’ perspective. Journal of Construction Engineering & Management, 130(6), 853–861. Gunhan, S., & Arditi, D. (2005). Factors affecting international construction. Journal of Construction Engineering and Management, 131(3), 273–282. Han, S. S., & Ofori, G. (2001). Construction industry in China’s regional economy, 1990–1998. Construction Management and Economics, 19(2), 189–205. He, B. S. (2003). Position and development of engineering and construction supervision in China. Construction Supervision, 3(2), 10–11 (in Chinese). Lambertson, G. (2008). Chinese contractors a small but growing presence in U.S. Retrieved June 10, 2008, from http://www.constructionequipmentguide.com/story.asp?story=10408 Liu, A., Fellows, R., & Fang, Z. (2003). The power paradigm of project leadership. Construction Management & Economics, 21(8), 819–829. Liu, G. W., & Jin, Z. G. (2007). An overview report on the international competitiveness of China’s construction industry. Journal of International Economic Cooperation, 2007(7), 26–30 (in Chinese). Lu, Y. J., & Paul, W. F. (2001). The construction industry in China: Its image, employment prospects and skill requirements. Geneva: International Labour Office. MoC. (2001). Qualifications of contractors in China, Beijing, China, Ministry of Construction. Retrieved September 1, 2006, from http://www.cin.gov.cn/manage/file/200307040101.htm MoC. (2003). The policy to develop EPC and D&B contractor firms and the project management consultant firms in the construction industry. Beijing, China. NBSC. (2005). Year Book China 2005. Beijing, P.R.China. NBSC. (2006). Year Book China 2006. Beijing, P.R.China. NSBD. (2008). Brief introduction of the South-to-North Water Diversion project. Retrieved September 2, 2008, from http://www.nsbd.gov.cn/zx/english/20080902/ Sha, K., & Jiang, Z. (2003). Improving rural labourers’ status in China’s construction industry. Building Research & Information, 31(6), 464–473. Shen, L., & Song, W. (1998). Competitive tendering practice in Chinese construction. Journal of Construction Engineering and Management, 124(2), 155–161.

818

J. Zuo et al.

Stewart, R. A., & Jiang, Z. (2004). China’s construction industry after WTO accession: Opportunities, challenges and strategies. International Symposium on Globalisation and Construction AIT Conference Centre. Bangkok, Thailand. TACO. (2002). Sector overview. Government of Alberta, Alberta, Canada. Wang, G. (2007). Research on business environment of construction supervision in China. The CRIOCM2007 international symposium on advancement of construction management and real estate, Sydney, Australia, 8–13 August 2007, 649–659. Wang, J., Liu, J., & Huang, L. (2007). Study on the professional liability insurance system of the supervision engineer in China. Construction Management and Economics, 25(7), 801–810. Xinhuanet. (2008). Three Gorges Project – An overview. Retrieved online, March 12, 2009, from http://news.xinhuanet.com/ziliao/ Xu, T., Smith, N. J., & Bower, D. A. (2005). Forms of collaboration and project delivery in Chinese construction markets: Probable emergence of strategic alliances and design/build. Journal of Management in Engineering, 21(3), 100–109. Xu, T., Tiong, R. L. K., Chew, D. A. S., & Smith, N. J. (2005). Development model for competitive construction industry in the People’s Republic of China. Journal of Construction Engineering & Management, 131(7), 844–853. Yan, Z. K. (2005). Human resource management under the strategy of Chinese construction enterprise going overseas. Railway Construction Technology, 2005(4), 12–20 (in Chinese). Zeng, S., Tam, C., Wang, H., & Deng, Z. (2003). Overcoming problems associated with sustainable development of the construction industry in China. Architectural Science Review, 46(4), 353–361. Zhao, J. (2006). “West to East Electric Power Transmitting” Strategy in China, The China National Association of Engineering Consultants. Retrieved October 26, 2006, from http://www.cnaec. org.cn/DOWNLOAD/Speech_zhaojie.doc Zhao, Z. Y., Shen, L. Y., & Zuo, J. (2009). Performance and strategy of Chinese contractors in the international market. Journal of Construction Engineering and Management, 135(2), 108–118. Zhu, Y. (2006). Making the international contraction enterprise. Journal of Construction Economy, 2006(1), 70–72 (in Chinese). Zuo, J. (2008). Project culture in the Australian construction industry: Lessons for China. PhD thesis, University of South Australia, Department of Natural and Built Environments.

Chapter 47

An Overview of the Gulf Countries’ Construction Industry Alpana Sivam, Sadasivam Karuppannan, and Kamalesh Singh

47.1 Introduction The construction industry is a multidisciplinary interface and multidimensional field. It plays a role for multiple actors. It provides building for the owner, the employer or the client (Oyegoke, 2006). The construction supply chain depends mostly on public and private sector owners because they are the people who commission and finance the projects (TEKES, 1992 quoted in Oyegoke, 2006). Oyegoke (2006) argues that the building industry is an open organization where different components/disciplines are interchangeable and intervening according to the existing situation and work environment. The industry involves many different sectors, including the construction of individual houses and residential developments, commercial and industrial projects, and the social and physical infrastructure complexes and buildings for power plants, industrial plants, roads, bridges, highways, dams, transmission lines and the maintenance of all kinds of work. The construction boom has hit most Asian countries, particularly India and China. The Arab world is another part of the world experiencing high rates of growth in the construction industry. Countries of the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) are trying to diversify their economy away from the oil sector. As part of their diversification growth strategy, the governments are making large investments in infrastructure, including the construction of roads and ports (OBS, 2008). The aim of the Arab world is to build a world class city to attract tourists and improve their economic growth in other sectors than oil. Millions of dollars are being spent to build the world city. Bagaeen (2007) says that Dubai, a city in the UAE, is spending billions of dollars to build an amazing modern city nearly from scratch in fifteen years. To date US$ 100 billion worth of real estate is under construction or in the pipeline. Also the government has introduced a number of investor-friendly laws,

A. Sivam (B) Institute for Sustainable Systems and Technologies (ISST), School of Natural and Built Environments, University of South Australia, Adelaide, SA, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_47,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

819

820

A. Sivam et al.

one of the most significant is allowing foreigners to purchase property. This program has enhanced the construction activities in the GCC. Dubai is not the only city is experiencing the construction boom; others include Doha, Qatar, Oman, and Bahrain (Bagaeen 2007). Bagaeen considers this of development an “instant cities” or “cities within the cities” which become the focal points of governments’ effort to promote real estate development (Bagaeen, 2007: 173). Dubai has been diversifying its economy beyond the oil sector, which now contributes only 6.1% to the emirate’s GDP. The construction and real estate sectors together account for 22.6% of GDP (AME Info, 2005). In February 2006, Oman Royal allowed foreigners and expatriate workers to own real estate in integrated tourism complexes in Oman. This chapter provides an overview of the construction industry and practices in the Gulf Corporation Countries and includes examples from various countries. The chapter is based on literature review that newspaper articles and relevant construction statistical data. As we learned in preparing this paper, there is very limited detailed information available on the construction industry in GCC countries. The first part of the chapter provides a background to the GCC. The second part covers practices in the construction industry and role of the public and private sectors in the construction market. The third section discusses the impacts of the industry on construction and labor markets. The chapter concludes with an assessment of the weakness and advantages of the construction industry in GCC countries.

47.2 Background Gulf Cooperation Council consists of six countries: Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Kuwait, Oman, Qatar and the United Arab Emirates (UAE) (Fig. 47.1). Saudi Arabia was the prime actor in setting up the Gulf Corporation Council (GCC) in 1981. A GCC common market was instigated on 1 January 2008. The population of the region is about 3.8 million who live on 2.66 sq km (1 million mi2 ) of land. 31% of the Gulf’s total population and 65% of the workforce consist of expatriates. The composition of the expatriate workforce population in GCC countries is presented in Fig. 47.2. The highest percentages of expat workers are in UAE and Qatar and the fewest in Oman. Additional specific demographic and area details for each GCC countries are presented in Table 47.1. The table reflects that Saudi Arabia has the maximum and Bahrain has the minimum population of in six countries of GCC. The GCC is one of the most active trade communities in the world. It has the fourth highest GDP per capita among trade communities. Overall the GDP of the GCC in 2007 was $1,112 billion, which was expected to increase to $1210 billion by the end of 2008 (OBS, 2008). All member countries aim to increase economic growth in other sectors rather than oil sector. In Dubai oil sector only accounts for 7% of GDP (Bagaeen, 2007). The construction industry is one of the largest and fastest expanding construction markets in the world. The Gulf’s construction market is forecast to expand at a rate of 15–30% over the next five years and by 2010 the

47

An Overview of the Gulf Countries’ Construction Industry

821

Fig. 47.1 Gulf corporation council countries. (Source: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/ commons/0/0d/Persian_Gulf_map.png)

Fig. 47.2 Expatriate workforce population as a percentage of total workforce 2006. (Source: GulfTalent, 2007a)

market is expected to be worth $US 1.7 trillion. One of the prime examples is Oman where the construction industry contributed $4.7 billion in 2007 to the country’s economy, an increase of 21.6% from the 2006 figure of $3.9 billion (OBS, 2008). At the end of June 2007 the construction industry accounted for one-third of Oman’s GDP (OBS, 2008).

822

A. Sivam et al. Table 47.1 GCC member countries and their capital, population and area Member countries

Capital

Population

Area km2

Bahrain Qatar Kuwait Oman Saudi Arabia United Arab Emirates Total

Manama Doha Kuwait Muscat Riyadh Abu Dhabi

1, 046, 814 1, 307, 229 2, 460, 000 2, 534, 000 26, 417, 599 4, 588, 697 38, 354, 339

716 11, 437 17, 818 309, 500 2, 240, 000 83, 600 2, 663, 071

47.3 Construction Industry Overview This section provides an overview of growth of the construction sector; the workers themselves, and the role of both public and private sector in the construction industry.

47.3.1 Growth of Construction Sector The Gulf’s construction sector has been growing at an incredible speed in the past three years (Figs. 47.3 and 47.4). Industry reports demonstrate that the projects planned or already under development in the region are anticipated to be in excess

Fig. 47.3 Construction site Oman. (Source: Author)

47

An Overview of the Gulf Countries’ Construction Industry

823

Fig. 47.4 Construction site in Oman. (Source: Author)

of $1 trillion in value, making the Gulf the site of some of the largest projects market globally on a per capita basis (GulfTalent, 2006). The major rationale for this growth has been chiefly favorable economic conditions, immigration, high oil revenues, and the introduction of new property laws. Other factors that added to the trend include high government capital spending, the easy availability of credit and the establishment of real estate funds investing in the region (GulfTalent, 2006). The UAE and Qatar are witnessing the largest construction activities in GCC region. The relaxations in regulatory requirements and strong and confident growth plans have been drivers of the construction boom in UAE. In Qatar the 2006 Doha Asian Games provided the momentum to the construction sector’s growth. Kuwait has also seen a significant expansion in the construction sector (GulfTalent, 2006). The construction boom is not only limited to building activities. It includes a very diverse mix of residential, commercial and industrial development as well as infrastructure and services (Fig. 47.5). The sector’s growth has attracted many players from the Arab world as well as from other countries, particularly in the contracting segment of the market. In this region many firm have expand their limit beyond

Fig. 47.5 Ajman international airport (left); and Dubai metro (right). (Source: http://www. constructionweekonline.com)

824

A. Sivam et al.

their home countries (GulfTalent, 2006). For example, many UAE and Lebanese companies now participate in the Qatar construction market (GulfTalent, 2006). Next we present describe several major projects to illustrate the scale and variety. 47.3.1.1 The Pearl Qatar Pearl Qatar is one of the major projects in the GCC (Fig. 47.6). The total area of this artificial island is 4 million m2 (43 million ft2 ). The total estimated cost is $USD 5 billion. This development will accommodate 40, 000 residents. The project will include three 5 star luxury hotels with the total room capacity of 800, four marinas and multiple retail spaces. This development has buildings ranging from high-rise towers to 4-storey buildings villas. The project is under construction and is estimated to be completed by 2011. United Development Company (UDC), which is country’s largest private sector shareholding company, is developing this project. This same company also works on various types of projects, including infrastructure, energy – intensive industries, hydrocarbons downstream, urban development construction, and environmentally related businesses. 47.3.1.2 The Dynamic Tower Dubai The world’s first building in motion, called the Dynamic Tower, will become a symbol of Dubai (Fig. 47.7). The height of the building will be 420 m (1,380 ft). Apartment sizes ranges from 124 m2 (1,334 ft2 ) to Villas of 1,200 m2 (12,917 ft2 ) with a parking space inside the apartment. This project is mixed use development.

Fig. 47.6 The Pearl Qatar. (Source: http://www.constructionweekonline.com/projects-55-the_ pearl_qatar/)

47

An Overview of the Gulf Countries’ Construction Industry

825

Fig. 47.7 The dynamic tower Dubai. (Source: http://malaysiacity.wordpress.com/2008/06/25/thedynamic-tower-dubai/)

Floors 1–20 will consist of office space, floors 21–35 will be luxury hotel, and floors 36–70 will be residential apartments. The top tier of 10 floors will be luxury villas. The developer for this project is Rotating Tower Dubai Development Limited of Dynamic Group. Construction is scheduled to be completed in 2010. This will be most prestigious building in the city because of its unique character.

47.3.1.3 Al-Madina Azarqa (Blue City) Al Madina Azarqa (Blue City) is located in Al Sawadi, west of Muscat. Al Madina Azarqa (Blue City) is a very big residential development in Oman (Fig. 47.8).

Fig. 47.8 Al Madina Azarqa (blue city). (Source: http://www.constructionweekonline.com/projects66-al_madina_azarqa_blue_city/)

826

A. Sivam et al.

The city will cover 34 km2 (13 mi2 ) and accommodate around 200,000 residents. Blue City will include residential, commercial and business clusters; and a university for 10,000 students. The master planner of the Blue City project is Foster and Partners. Hyder Consulting Middle East Limited is the infrastructure Consultant. In addition, Clifford Chance and Shearman & Sterling are legal advisors. The project will be built in 12 phases and is expected to be completed in 2020. Site construction of Phase 1 started in 2005 and expected to be completed in 2012. The total cost of the project is US$ 20 billion. 47.3.1.4 Ajman International Airport, United Arab Emirates The Ajman International Airport is 5 km2 (1.9 mi2 ). It will serve at least 1 million passengers a year and handle a minimum of 400,000 tonnes of cargo (Fig. 47.9). The design of airport and the feasibility study were completed by Booz Allen Hamilton Company and ICTS International N.V. The construction will be done by Grupo Inmobiliario Whitelake. The airport will be built in two phases. The 18-month phase will cover the construction of the basic buildings and runway, while the 36-month phase will cover the related facilities. The Client of this project is the Government of Ajman and the estimated cost is US$ 1.5 billion (Construction Week, 2009). These projects illustrate that the construction industries in GCC countries are not limited to residential development but are looking to promote their cities as one of the best and most modern city of the world. These projects reflect that projects in Dubai and elsewhere in the in the Gulf world have planned to rebuild and enhance their cities’ image as world class cities (Bagaeen, 2007; Hall & Hubbard, 1998).

Fig. 47.9 Ajman international airport. (Source: http://www.constructionweekonline.com/pictures/ gallery/Projects/ajman_airport_web.jpg)

47

An Overview of the Gulf Countries’ Construction Industry

827

Some researchers (Avraham, 2004; Burgess, 1982; Eben Saleh, 2001; Hall, 1998) argue that the influence of governments creates positive images as part of economic regeneration. There is no question but that governments are actively behind these massive and important construction developments.

47.3.2 Workers’ Recruitment Procedures and Facilities International workers are recruited by recruitment agencies in their own countries. In general the workers are recruited through agencies in India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal, China and Philippines. Some GCC companies also travel to these countries to recruit workers. The facilities for laborers (blue collar) are provided by construction companies at construction sites and in line with local rules and regulations. Companies provide furnished accommodations called labor camps; they are not for families. Labor camps are provided with electricity, a water supply and food facilities (Figs. 47.10

Fig. 47.10 Labor camp at Muscat. (Source: Author)

828

A. Sivam et al.

Fig. 47.11 Labor accommodations and Dubai migrant workers in a room. (Source: Gulf News 24 April 2009 and http://shamelazmeh.wordpress.com/2009/03/30/the-two-sides-of-the-global-citythe-story-of-dubai/)

and 47.11). The residential areas are not separated by nationality as all nationalities workers live in same camp. At the blue collar level, there are no contacts with women. Laborers are given two month leaves after every two years and fifteen days in case of emergencies. If there is a fatal casualty due to an accident on the job, the company has an insurance policy to cover these accidents. These regulations are similar in all GCC countries. A BBC TV program was broadcast a program in 2009 that reported expatriate workers were forced to live and work in poor conditions (Issa, 2009a). However, the UAE Minister of Labour stated said that “The UAE has a legal and moral commitment towards its temporary expatiate workforce and therefore it is not possible to accept any practice that violates the rules” (Issa, 2009a). The Minister of Labour asked a team of member to inquire the claim made by the BBC program. This statement demonstrates that government conducts interventions in the living standard of labor camps. An example of overcrowded conditions is shown in Fig. 47.11. Another example of government intervention is projected by the news reported by Menon (2009) that “Dubai stop overcrowding in rooms at labor accommodations or face heavy penalties”, said Hussain Lootah, Director – General of Dubai Municipality (Menon, 2009). Laborers in camp reported that conditions in their campus have improved from what it used to be ten years ago (Menon, 2009). In Dubai there are health inspectors from the General Health and Safety Department at the municipality who ensure that employers provide reasonable living standards for their workers (Issa, 2009c; Menon, 2009). They check everything from soaps in toilet to overcrowding in rooms. White collar workers with families are provided with furnished houses by the construction. Mostly companies provide a vehicle to worker at higher levels along with free petrol. The accommodations provided to white collar workers are in same place for all nationality workers. Since 1988 some of the GCC countries have

47

An Overview of the Gulf Countries’ Construction Industry

829

included women in the construction industry, but mostly at offices not on construction sites. Even though they have allowed women at white collar workers in construction industries, that percentage is small. White collar workers are given one month leave with air tickets to their home country every year for the entire family. Medical facilities are provided to the families of both blue and white collar workers. Blue color workers are not provided with family accommodations and are discouraged from bringing their families. Both white and blue collar workers are given a work permit, which is temporary in nature. When their work permits expires they have to return to their respective countries. They cannot become citizen because these countries do not have immigration policies. The employees do have legal rights to buy properties in Gulf countries. Even though workers will spend their most of the life working in these countries, but they do not have any rights or opportunities to become citizens. There is considerable displeasure in the industrial sector, which includes both developers and consulting firms, due to the shortage of technical professional as well as increases in salaries and relaxations in the employment rules. This is somewhat similar to the 1970s economic performance of construction industries in other part of the world due to the rapid escalation in wages and other costs, declines in efficiency in production, extensive work delays due to labor shortages and strikes (Mills, 1970). The shortage of skilled labor in this region is not only the result of the construction boom in this region, but also due to construction boom worldwide particularly in India and China. Construction booms have affected not only a skilled labor shortage, but also shortages in commodities and raw materials including steel, copper and cement. Construction booms have resulted in a shortage of key professional staff needed to implement large projects (GulfTalent, 2006). The development boom in India has led a significant shortage of professional and materials because India has traditionally been the central source of engineers and mid-level managers. India is experiencing rapid growth in its own construction sector. Property development has boosted construction industry in India since 2002. Many foreign firms in India continue to invest in the IT sector. These have resulted in increased demands for office space; the demand in India has almost doubled. With growing employment opportunities and good salary packages to Indian professionals in their own home countries, the Gulf based contractors are facing problem to attract a significant number of professionals (GulfTalent, 2006). The China construction boom is attracting western expatriates with more attractive packages. In this process some of the Gulf companies are losing these same expatriates. The supply of engineering and managerial talent is not keeping up with the demand of the Gulf countries because all most all Gulf countries are involved in major construction work. Skilled worker shortages are generally are in the fields of structural specialists, quantity surveyors, planning engineers, project directors, design specialists/managers, contract administrators, urban designing and planners. Middle East countries are seeing for the first time the balance of the power changing from employers to employees. The shortage of blue collar workers is not as challenging as that for white collar professionals. This is partially due to improved employment opportunities in

830

A. Sivam et al.

India and better packages for western professional in the Chinese construction sector (GulfTalent, 2006). Another issue which has an impact on labor shortage is government regulation. Many contractors face limits on how many laborers they can employ from another country. Saudi Arabia and Qatar are among the countries that are very particular about the number and nationality of the workers (GulfTalent, 2006). Qatar has placed limits on number of workers from India in order to force many employers to look for workers from alternative countries such as from Nepal, Egypt, Vietnam, and Indonesia. Bahrain is in the process of imposing visa fees of around US $3000 per year per expatriate employee. The governments will then use this money to develop the skills of Bahraini nationals (GulfTalent, 2006). This policy will result in an increase in the cost for employers to employ expatriates. In short, the construction boom has an incredible impact on the shortage of blue and white collar workers, which in turn has led to changes in the employment trends in these countries.

47.3.3 Employment Trends Due to the shortage of workers in Middle East countries, the balance of power, as noted above, is shifting from employers to employees. The salary levels are also increasing. Because the short supply of the workers from traditional markets such as India and Egypt is shrinking, employers are looking at other labor markets such as Eastern Europe and Latin America. But they are not able to attract top talent because their pay level is not sufficiently high to attract these highly talented professionals. They have extended their search to other countries like Turkey, Poland, Brazil, and Chile, where they never looked previously (GulfTalent, 2007a, 2007b). Because of the many construction activities in the GCC, salary increases are highest in the construction sector followed by banking and oil and gas. In the construction industries there are no salary standards. Employers are paying top money to attract the professionals. The salary increase in one year (2005–2006) for those in the construction industry was from 8.9 to 12.8% whereas for all sectors the increases were from 7 to 7.9% (GulfTalent, 2006). Salary increases were higher for regional than international firms, even though the salaries for international firms are higher. The construction boom is playing a vital role in reducing the salary gap between regional and international firms. There are pay increases in Gulf countries for workers from all nationalities; however, the increase is not the same as it varies from country to country. There was a 9.7% increase in the salary in 2007 for Asians and 9.5% for non-Gulf Arab. These two are more or less same, followed by 8.25% increases for westerners. Banking salaries were in second place which reflects the expansion of the market. Engineers enjoy higher salary increases because of the construction boom and the shortage of professional workers. Salary increases reflect the growing demand for technical and professional experts in various sectors including construction, power and energy (GulfTalent, 2007a). Salary increases also vary across countries. Salary increase run from a maximum of 11% in Oman followed by UAE 10.7% and Qatar

47

An Overview of the Gulf Countries’ Construction Industry

831

10.6%. UAE and Qatar salary increases are close to Oman’s. In addition to shortages of workers in key skills, the recent liberalization of restrictions on changing jobs within the UAE and Oman has increased attrition among mid-level and seniors professionals in the construction sector and also contributed to increases as firms struggle to retain their employees (GulfTalent, 2006). Asian markets have experienced rapid economic growth especially in India and China. There are 14% pay increases in India, which is the maximum among China, Philippines and India (GulfTalent, 2007a). India is one of the main suppliers of the professional workers to the Gulf countries, however due to reductions in salary packages between India and the Gulf, the situation is making it difficult for Gulf country- based employers to attract Indian professionals. This change has resulted in increased salaries for those in Gulf countries. Another problem in attracting a workforce in the Gulf Countries is six-day work week; this is common in the construction sector in most GCC countries. Many professionals prefer to work in the countries where there is a five- day work week. This trend is forcing Gulf employers to change their work time from 6 day to 5-day work week. However, due to the heavy work pressure, the majority of employers have not introduced a 5-day week. At present, Qatar is the only country where many construction firms work a 5-day week (GulfTalent, 2007a). A No Objection Certificate (NOC) rule prevailed in all the GCC countries until 2007 and it is still exists in most of GCC countries. Under this rule the employee cannot change jobs without the permission of the current employer. This rule favors the employer because it prohibits the employee changing jobs without the employer’s permission. Thus foreign workers are left with two choices: either leave the country or stay on the job unhappily. Many GCC countries are in process of removing the NOC rule because of pressure from the Western world, international organizations and human rights groups to bring the labor market in GCC countries in line with international practices. However, removal of NOC in Oman has resulted in highest increases in wages for the overseas employees. This decision shows that in order to retain the workers employers have to provide adequate compensation.

47.3.4 Industry Performance The construction industry is vital for Gulf countries, especially in the development of public infrastructure and buildings. Saudi Arabia leads in the construction industry among Gulf countries; the total value of all projects now reaches about $US $1.9 trillion. The Gulf’s biggest nation now accounts for 2% of all construction projects in the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) countries (INTODAY, 2008). The major banks involved in financial transactions are the National Bank of Dubai (NBD), Emirates Bank, Mashreqbank, Dubai Islamic Bank, and Central Bank. There are also a number of large private sector banks such as HSBC, ICICI, and the Royal Bank of Scotland. There are 50 banks operating in Dubai and serving only 1.8 million population. These are national banks which fund the megaprojects: Bank Muscat, Bank Dhofar, Sohar Bank, Oman International Bank, and the National

832

A. Sivam et al.

Bank of Oman. In 2007 banks profits were in range of 25–40%, which is difficult to comprehend. Now in mid-2009 and the global financial crisis, many banks such as HSBC and Mashreqbank started lay off employees.

47.3.5 Industry Structure The construction and building sector comprises three broad activity areas: building, infrastructure, and other construction. The building sector comprises 60%, infrastructure 20%, and other, also 20%. Infrastructure sector includes roads, bridges, transmission lines, sewer line etc. Other construction includes installation of power plant, industries etc. The Gulf countries’ attitudes towards the inclusion of overseas firms in construction projects vary from countries to countries. For example, in Oman the government only permits overseas company to design or construct very prestigious building such as the Palace; otherwise the government prefers local consulting firms and construction companies. In Dubai there is much more involvement of overseas design and construction companies, more than their local companies. Overseas companies help to secure the experts and professionals in the building and construction fields, which are often bottlenecks in the construction industry itself.

47.3.6 Participating Organizations In general the construction industry is a multidimensional sector and that involves the organization of consultants, including supervisors and contractors. Many local and international firms are active in construction industries. 47.3.6.1 Consulting Firms There are many consultants involved in the construction industry. There are those responsible for designing and providing service plans and supervision of constructions. Consultants are generally comprised of planners, architects, civil engineers, services engineers, surveyors and quantities surveyors. Their functions range from the preparation of preliminary and detailed designs to the explanation of design solutions and supervision during the actual implementation of the project. Gulf countries include both domestic and overseas companies. In a few countries the proportion of overseas consulting firms has increased such as in Dubai. The number of professionals in consulting has increased over time. More than 50% of the professionals hired by these consulting companies are generally expats. Administrative staffs are generally comprised of locals. Supervisory engineers are part of consulting groups or firms. There are also legal requirements for all types of construction that funded by those in both the public and private sectors. The tasks of these engineers include the following: reviewing the project feasibility study; helping in finalizing budget estimates; auditing and

47

An Overview of the Gulf Countries’ Construction Industry

833

reviewing design documentation; reviewing pre-tender estimates; preparing tender documentation; assisting the client to select the most appropriate procurement method; appraising tenders and making tender recommendations; assisting in drafting contract conditions and negotiating contracts with the selected construction enterprises; verifying subcontractors nominated by the general contractor; reviewing the work method statement by the construction enterprises and advising on any improvement; conducting site inspections; examining construction quality and maintaining safety standards; auditing design variations; monitoring construction progress and certifying payments; administrating the contract; organizing final project completion inspection; and auditing project final accounts.

47.3.6.2 Contractors The contractors in Gulf countries are responsible for the implementation of projects as they are in other western and most developing countries. They are responsible for management of the construction site and the resources required to undertake construction such as labor, materials and construction plants. There are both local and overseas contractors. However, as noted above, the percentage of overseas contractors varies from one GCC country to another. Major projects by various Property developers in GCC are presented in the Table 47.2.

Table 47.2 Major projects by various property developers in GCC countries Property developers Emaar Nakheel

Dubai Holding

Projects Dubai Marina, Arabian Ranches, Emirates Hills, the Meadows, the Springs, the Greens, the Lakes, the Views and Emaar Towers and Burj Dubai Nakheel, one of the United Arab Emirates’s leading property developers, currently has $30 billion worth of projects under development. When complete, these developments, which include the Palms projects, will have added 1,500 km (9332 mi) of waterfront to Dubai, once limited to 70 km (43 mi). Dubai Holding currently has 19 companies operating in a variety of sectors ranging from health, technology, finance, real estate, research, education, tourism, energy, communication, industrial manufacturing, biotechnology and hospitality. These companies include: Dubai Internet City, Dubai Media City, Dubai Healthcare City, Dubailand, Dubai International Capital, Dubai Industrial City, Dubai Properties, Dubai International Properties, Dubai Investment Group, Dubai Energy, Dubai Knowledge Village, Dubai Outsource Zone, International Media Production Zone, E-Hosting Datafort, Empower, SamaCom, Jumeirah Group, Dubiotech and Dubai Studio City. Jumeirah Beach Residences and Dubailand are two flagship projects of Dubai Holding.

Source: Bagaeen (2007: 188–196)

834

A. Sivam et al.

47.3.7 The Procurement System in the GCC The competitive system or negotiated tendering that is commonly used in western construction industries is the common phenomena in GCC. All construction projects have to be allotted by the tendering for both the public and private sectors. Public sector project tendering goes through the government organization responsible for tendering, whereas for the private sector they are generally calls for tender and a minimum three tenders need to be issued. Out of three, they select one. The contract is generally awarded to the tender with the lowest tender price bid. In Oman all tenders have to go through the Government Tender Board. In many cases commercial banks are responsible for assessing the project risk and hence decide whether or not to release the loan to the project finance. In public sector project government is responsible for the assessing the project risk as one of the criteria for awarding tenders for the construction of projects. The government is primarily responsible for developing and revising various regulations in order to guide any reforms along with the construction company.

47.4 Role of Government Government interventions in construction industries are both direct and indirect. The governments of Gulf countries have increased their investments in infrastructure, land distribution and more investments to friendly ownership regulations in order to boost the construction sector. Many GCC countries have also liberalized property laws and have made laws whereby foreigners can buy freehold properties. As part of the GCC countries’ economic diversification strategies, government also have committed themselves to more investments in basic infrastructure, such as the construction of new airports, roads and ports (OBG, 2008). Governments control the labor standards and rules of work permits/visas. There are, for example, interventions of the government in Dubai and its General Health and Safety Department to check that employers provide reasonable living standards for their labors (Issa, 2009a). In Dubai the Ministry of Labour is also introducing the rules for labor accommodation standards and a mechanism to ensure the payment of salaries to protect workers’ rights and to improve living standards (Issa, 2009b). The Dubai government is setting a rule whereby companies have to pay salaries through banks so that the ministry will be able to check whether workers are paid on time and fairly (Issa, 2009b). We have discussed above the role of the government and the NOC rule.

47.5 Impacts of Global Financial Crisis on GCC Construction Industry The GFC (Global Financial Crisis) or global economic slowdown/recession is having an effect on the construction sectors in GCC countries. But the impacts are not the same across all Gulf countries. Dubai is most negatively affected, whereas Abu

47

An Overview of the Gulf Countries’ Construction Industry

835

Dhabi and the sultanate of Oman and Bahrain are less affected. Dubai’s construction industries are dominated by foreigners especially in residential sector. Due to the GFC, the buyers’ capacities have been reduced and affected the real estate market of construction industries. Dubai leads in house price declines in the world followed by Latvia (36%) and Singapore (23.8%); since the first quarter of 2008 prices have come down 30–50% (Brass 2009). Brass states that Dubai prices have dropped 32% in the last year and 40% alone in the last quarter (Ferris-Lay & Bowman, 2008). Bladd (2009) states that 52% of UAE’s construction projects worth $US 582 billion have been suspended. The impact of the global financial crisis is not very clear. Despite of the global economic crisis we find that the situation in the majority of the emirates (including Abu Dhabi) is not that much affected. Rather real estate and infrastructure projects are going ahead to make this an ultra-modern and world-class city such as New York, London etc (Kumar, 2009a). Another example of a continuing project is the huge construction project Khalifa City of Abu Dhabi (Fig. 47.12). It is expected to be completed by 2030 (Nelson, 2009). No one knows precisely how serious the 2008–2009 financial crisis has been to the Gulf, though it is clear that tens of thousands or workers have left, real estate prices have crashed and scores of Dubai’s major construction projects have been

Fig. 47.12 Khalifa city, Abu Dhabi. (Source: http://i27.tinypic.com/2h6v8zl.jpg)

836

A. Sivam et al.

suspended or cancelled. The government appears unwilling to provide data on the financial crisis and its impact on construction industries. In some countries, such as Dubai many work permits were cancelled, however, this is not the situation across the Gulf. The Sultanate of Oman, Bahrain and Qatar, which were proceeding at a slower pace than Dubai, are not as severely affected by the global financial crisis. Some facts are clear. For example, real estate prices, which rose dramatically during Dubai’s six-year boom, have dropped 30% or more in early 2009 in some parts of the city. There are also many used luxury cars for sale, sometimes being sold for 40% less than the asking price. Some analysts believe “the crisis is likely to have long-lasting effects on the seven-member emirates federation, where Dubai has long played the role of a rebellious younger brother to oil-rich and more conservative Abu Dhabi. Dubai officials, swallowing their pride, have made clear that they would be open to a bailout, but so far Abu Dhabi has offered assistance only to its own banks” (Worth, 2009: 1). But Dubai, unlike Abu Dhabi or nearby Qatar and Saudi Arabia, does not have its own oil, and had built its reputation on real estate, finance and tourism. Now, many expatriates in Dubai talk about Dubai as though it were a con game all along. The Palm Jumeira, an artificial island in Dubai that is one of this city’s trademark developments, is reported to be sinking. These observations have impacts on the job markets too. One newspaper article reported that previously there used to be many jobs in engineering and with salaries of 15,000 dirhams, but now maximum salary is 8,000 dirhams (or about $US 2000) (Kumar, 2009b). On 22 February 2009 Dubai was elevated out of its financial difficulty by its oil-rich neighbour, Abu Dhabi. The central bank for the United Arab Emirates (UAE) bought US$10 billion-worth of Dubai’s five-year bonds (The Economist, 2009). However, most of the bank did well in the first quarter of the year 2009 and their assets have risen (Husain, 2009). The performance was much better in the first quarter of 2009 than the same period in 2008. There were 405,000 work permits cancelled from October 2008 to March 2009, whereas 662,000 work permits were issued during the same period (Issa 2009b, 2009d). The figures show an increase in the number of expatriate workers. Thus it is clear that there the GFC is having an impact on the construction industries in GCC countries. But the intensity of the crisis is not the same and the Central Bank of the UAE demonstrates that Gulf countries are coming out of crisis (Husain 2009). Recently Abu Dhabi announced a number of new projects whose cumulative cost is Arab Emirates Dirhams 30 billion (approximately US$ 8.16 billion). This fact illustrates that collectively the UAE is less affected by the global financial crisis (Kumar, 2009a).

47.6 Conclusions The Gulf construction sector is growing very fast but it is facing a shortage of skilled workers and materials. The Gulf’s biggest country now accounts for 25% of all construction projects in the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) countries. Due to a limited

47

An Overview of the Gulf Countries’ Construction Industry

837

supply of skill workforce, there is intensive competition for these specialists. There is no shortage of blue collar labor but there is for white collar workers, primarily because of the current construction boom in other Asian countries, particularly India. India was traditionally the market for both white and blue collar workers in the Gulf countries. Currently the most acute shortages of professionals are structural specialists, quantity surveyors, planning engineers, project directors, design managers, contract administrators, and urban planners. The shortage of these workers has also changed the construction employment market. Earlier Gulf market was employer directed whereas now it is employee-directed. The liberalization in labor law and visa conditions by various GCC governments illustrates that the monopoly that construction employers once had is vanishing. The adoption of new visa rules and work permits by countries for construction professionals is forcing employers to ferret out new sources of talent market such as Egypt where there are new graduates and less experienced workers. The impacts of the global financial crisis are not the same across the Gulf world. While Dubai is most affected and their construction industries are slowing down, massive and new construction projects in the Sultanate of Oman and Bahrain are proceeding.

References AME Info. (2005, 7 September). Dubai diversifies out of oil. Retrieved March 10, 2009, from http://www.ameinfo.com/66981.html Avraham, E. (2004). Strategies for improving an unaffordable city image. Cities, 21(6), 471–479. Bagaeen, S. (2007). Brand Dubai: The instant city, or the instantly recognizable city. International Planning Studies, 12(2), 173–197. Bladd, J. (2009). 52% of UAE’s construction project suspended. Arabian Business, 5 February. Brass, K. (2009). Dubai leads the world in price declines. The New York Times, 26 May. Burgess, J. A. (1982) Selling places: Environmental images for the executives. Regional Studies, 16(1), 1–17. Construction Week. (2009). Ajman international airport. Retrieved March 30, 2009, from http://www.constructionweekonline.com/projects-162-ajman_international_airport/ Ferris-Lay, C., & Bowman, D. (2008). Property prices on Palm Jebel Ali fall by up to 40%. Arabian Business, 6 November, Dubai. GulfTalent. (2006). Construction sector employment trend, Dubai. Retrieved May 10, 2008, from http://www.GulfTalent.com GulfTalent. (2007a). Gulf compensation trends. Retrieved May 10, 2008, from http://www. GulfTalent.com GulfTalent. (2007b). Oman labour law. Retrieved May 10, 2008, from http://www.GulfTalent.com Hall, J. (1998). Urban geography. London, Routledge. Hall, J., & Hubbard, P. (Eds.). (1998). The entrepreneurial city. Chichester, Wiley. Husain, S. (2009). First quarter performance of most UAE banks ‘better than last year’. Gulf News, 20 April, Dubai. INTODAY. (2008). Gulf construction industry now valued at $1.9 trillion. Indo-Asian News Service, 10 June, Dubai. Issa, W. (2009a). Arabtec organises accommodation tour for reporters to set record straight. Gulf News, Nation section, 17 April, Dubai. Issa, W. (2009b). A learning trip with a workers’ accommodation inspector. Gulf News, 23 April, Dubai.

838

A. Sivam et al.

Issa, W. (2009c). Ministry to investigate claims of labour violations. Gulf News, 9 April, Dubai. Issa, W. (2009d). New rules aim to protect workers. Gulf News, 27 April, Dubai. Kumar, H. M. (2009a). Abu Dhabi builds the future. Gulf News, 20 April, Dubai. Kumar, H. M. (2009b). Abu Dhabi makeover on course. Gulf News, 19 April, Dubai. Menon, S. (2009). Lootah warns against overcrowding in rooms. Gulf News, April 24, Dubai. Mills, D. Q. (1970). The construction industry. Labor Law Journal, 21(8), 498–505. Nelson, L. (2009). New cities, island resorts and communities still under way in the UAE capital despite global slowdown. Gulf News Supplement, 19 April, Dubai. OBG. (2008). The report, Oman 2008. London: Oxford Business Group. OBS. (2008). Emerging Oman 2008. Annual Business Economic and Political Review: Oman. Muscat: Oxford Business Group. Oyegoke, A. S. (2006). Construction industry overview in the UK, US, Japan and Finland: A comparative analysis. Journal of Construction Research, 7(1 and 21), 13–31. Saleh, M. A. E. (2001). The changing image of Arriyadh city: The role of socio-cultural and religious traditions in image transformation. Cities, 18(5), 315–330. The Economist. (2009). Dubai’s bail-out: The outstretched palm. The Economist, 26 February. Worth, R. F. (2009). Laid-off foreigners flee as Dubai spirals down. New York Times, 11 February.

Chapter 48

Exploring the Role of Governance in Sustainable Franchised Distribution Channels Robert Dahlstrom, Arne Nygaard, and Emily Plant

48.1 Introduction Although one can question whether science accurately identifies influences of climate change, it is unquestionable that sustainability efforts are ubiquitous in the global economy. Sustainability is essential to industries with high brand exposure, large environmental influences, natural resource dependence, and substantial potential for regulation (Esty & Winston, 2006). Furthermore, organizations recognize substantial returns available to firms that engage in efforts to foster sustainability. Sustainability refers to “development which meets the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs,” (Brundtland, 1987: 24). Sustainability efforts in the retailing sector enable firms to use renewable energy sources, create less waste, and offer consumers access to sustainable products (Ruben, 2006). The Washington state-based Burgerville restaurant chain, for example, invests in wind farms and other renewable energies (Levin, 2006). McDonald’s engages in a variety of efforts to reduce waste and currently converts used cooking oil into biodiesel for delivery trucks in the United Kingdom and Hawaii (Rogers, 2008). Hook Seafood of Washington, D.C., exemplifies a growing number of restaurants that are trying to support the world’s aquaculture by supporting the use of sustainable seafood (Elan, 2008). To retailers and their partners in supply chains, the question is not whether to engage in these sustainability efforts, but how much effort to dedicate to environmental concerns (Duff, 2006). Advantages accrued through environmental efforts likely yield trade-offs to the firm with respect to economic performance as well as the social performance within the supply chain (Gladwin, Kennelly, & Krause, 1996). The retailing community and channel theory would benefit from research that examines mechanisms employed to foster sustainability and their influences on multiple facets of performance. Research to date, however, has not engaged in this activity. R. Dahlstrom (B) Gatton College of Business and Economics, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_48,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

839

840

R. Dahlstrom et al.

The purpose of this study is to examine governance mechanisms employed to foster sustainability and their influences on organizational performance. We also provide the first examination of influences of franchisor monitoring activities on franchisee sustainability efforts. We incorporate logic from agency theory (Bergen, Dutta, & Walker, 1992; Eisenhardt, 1989) to propose influences of monitoring on discrete facets of performance. We augment this discussion with logic drawn from the resource-based view of the firm (Barney, 1991) that considers the efficacy of interfirm collaboration. Recognizing that firms rarely employ monitoring or collaboration in isolation, we investigate the combined influence of these mechanisms as determinants of performance. Our perspective provides the opportunity to contribute to retailing practice and channel theory. The contribution to practice stems from offering insight into action that yields desired eco-conscious outcomes at the retail level. We not only illustrate antecedents to environmental outcomes, but we also indicate how they influence other goals of the firm. The contribution to theory lies in the simultaneous consideration of monitoring and collaboration on channel outcomes. We present logic examining the combined use of these mechanisms and their simultaneous influences on performance. The remainder of the manuscript focuses on achieving these objectives. We begin by developing the theoretical model and by discussing the implications of our research for retailing practice and channel theory.

48.2 Theoretical Framework Our theoretical model offers a perspective on the relationship between retail management and franchisee outcomes. Agency theory (Bergen et al., 1992; Eisenhardt, 1989) and the resource-based view of the firm (Barney, 1991) are the focal theoretical perspectives. Agency theory uses the metaphor of a contract to examine situations in which one party (a principal) relies on another party (an agent) to act on behalf of the first party (Eisenhardt, 1989). Individuals designing contracts from this perspective determine the extent to which control of the agent focuses on assessing action or outcomes of this action (Bergen et al., 1992). Salesforce compensation systems, for instance, rely on assessing sales representatives’ activity (e.g., number of sales calls) or sales figures ostensibly derived from sales personnel efforts (John & Weitz, 1989). Research examining principal-agent relationships addresses the pre-contractual conditions that favor outcome versus behavioral-based contracts (Lal & Staelin, 1986) or the post-contractual administration of contracts previously developed (Dahlstrom & Nygaard, 1995). In established franchised distribution channels, a primary source of control lies in the extent to which the principal attempts to monitor the action of agents (Gal-Or, 1995). Agency theory (Eisenhardt, 1989) and transaction cost analysis (Williamson, 1985) offer evidence that investments in monitoring limit opportunism and raise

48

Role of Governance in Sustainable Franchised Distribution Channels

841

relationship quality. Once the principal has commissioned a franchisee to represent the brand in a territory, monitoring serves as a primary mechanism to ensure the franchisee operates in accordance with franchisor directives (Keating, 1987). Monitoring refers to the effort made by one party to measure the performance of another (Heide, Wathne, & Rokkan, 2007). Note that this definition stands in contrast to the extent of formalization operating in the channel (Dwyer & Oh, 1988). Formalization refers to the extent to which procedures have been codified, yet monitoring refers to the extent to which one party oversees the action of another. This distinction is highly germane to format franchising given that as these systems evolve, substantial effort focuses on constructing operating procedures designed to facilitate brand delivery (Keating, 1987). Franchisor representatives vary, however, in the degree to which they regulate retail operations. Our model of monitoring effects implicates franchisor control efforts as antecedent to performance. Because sustained achievement of ecological goals cannot continue without achievement of other objectives, our study addresses multiple organizational outcomes. Prior analyses of sustainability efforts recognize that sustainable development entails achieving economic, social, and environmental returns (Gladwin et al., 1996). Sales revenues, profits, and return on investment capture aspects of economic performance, whereas relational satisfaction and strong working relationships embody dimensions of social performance. Environmental returns address the extent to which the firm limits solid waste production, air emissions, and water emissions (Ryan, 2007; Vachon & Klassen, 2008). The sustainable resource investments made by a firm should influence relational satisfaction within and outside the firm. When a firm possesses a strong environmental stance, it becomes a part of the organizations image and identity and may guide the actions of firm employees. When a firm’s environmental stance matches the values of the employee, the employee may be more willing to work for that firm. Firms who have a poor environmental record may find it difficult to recruit and retain high caliber staff (Dechant & Altman, 1994; Dutton & Dukerich, 1991). Investment in sustainable resources also affects the relational satisfaction of the company’s trading partners. The resources of a firm have been shown to affect consumer quality perceptions, which in turn affect satisfaction Baker and Crompton (2000). Consumers are increasingly sensitive to environmental issues when making purchasing decisions, and a breadth of green products are now available as alternatives to traditional chemicals such as laundry detergent and household cleansers. Environmentally motivated purchasing decisions have been facilitated by independent rating programs such as the “Green Cross” and the “Green Seal” that provide necessary information for consumers to make environmentally sensitive purchases (Russo & Fouts, 1997). Investment in sustainable resources can also affect environmental performance. A firm may choose to meet the standards of mandatory environmental compliance or commit more fully to pollution prevention. Greater pollution prevention necessitates increased investment in sustainable resources. The firm may simply purchase pollution-filtering devices, or they may opt to integrate environmental issues into the strategic planning process. Design and production that focus on

842

R. Dahlstrom et al.

sustainable resources enable firms to become more environmentally responsible (Russo & Fouts, 1997). This proactive approach necessarily changes the internal processes of the firm, and employees accumulate environmental expertise. Consequently, the level of pollution prevention increases and the potential for adverse environmental effects decreases (Dean & Brown, 1995; Srivastava, 1995). Sustainable resource investments should also positively affect firm financial performance. Russo and Fouts (1997) and Judge and Douglas (1998) show a positive relationship between environmental performance and economic performance. The relationship between emissions reduction and firm performance for S&P 500 firms was examined by Hart and Ahuja (1996) who found that environmentally-oriented actions results in increased performance within a few years of implementation. Innovation may be triggered by well designed environmental standards which more than offset the costs of complying with the new more strict standards, leading to increased financial performance. These environmental innovations may lead to a source of competitive advantage if they are not easily duplicated by competing firms. Although the deployment of sustainable resources has the potential to raise organizational performance, the influence of these resources is mitigated by control structures operating in the distribution channel. Anderson and Oliver (1987) distinguish efforts to monitor outputs and behavior. Output monitoring refers to measuring the consequences of action. A recent example of output monitoring can be seen in the construction of the 2008 Beijing Olympic Village. Buildings represent the most accessible, immediate, and impactful opportunity to improve corporate sustainability. The benefits of green building improvements include reduced operating costs and increased revenues. The Olympic Village used solar cells and geothermal heat pumps to supply energy to the buildings. The buildings featured solar heat, solar hot water, solar thermoelectric cogeneration, and intelligent control devices. These building were estimated to consume just 3% of the energy consumed by conventional buildings (Environmental Leader Online, 2008). Research by Heide et al. (2007) indicates that output monitoring enables an exchange partner to select the processes by which to achieve objectives. When an agent has the opportunity to implement a personal program to achieve outcomes, the agent maintains a sense of control over the action (Deci & Ryan 1987). Consequently, the agent retains a sense of autonomy that yields heightened satisfaction with the principal (DeCarlo & Agarwal 1999). Monitoring of waste and emissions should heighten the agent’s assessment of these costs and therefore lead to improved environmental performance. Similarly, monitoring of retail waste and emissions should yield lower cost of inputs that yield greater financial efficiency. Therefore, the following is proposed: H1: Output monitoring of environmental practices raises: (a) relational satisfaction, (b) environmental performance, and (c) financial performance.

Behavioral monitoring refers to efforts by the principal to regulate the action taken by an agent. An example of behavioral monitoring can be seen by Dynamic Marketing Systems, a provider of web-enabled marketing resource management

48

Role of Governance in Sustainable Franchised Distribution Channels

843

solutions. They provide the ability for companies to reduce paper, printer, warehouse costs and distribution costs by monitoring company printing activities. Approximately 31% of marketing materials produced annually are thrown away. Monitoring of inventory and production processes, however, results in a reduced carbon footprint, reduced printed inventory items, and more precise measurement of marketing expenditures. Xerox has a program whereby they manage supplier manufacturing processes through a common database system to guarantee that products sold throughout the world contain raw materials sourced solely from certified sources. This monitoring, however, comes with a price. The principal’s efforts to monitor the action undertaken by agents should limit the agent’s sense of autonomy (Perrow, 1986), and therefore yield lower satisfaction in the relationship with the principal (Heide et al., 2007). Behavioral monitoring should influence the outputs and inputs associated with financial performance. The oversight of agent action is viewed as intrusive and produces negatives attitudes toward associated relationships. By contrast, regulation of environmental action should enable the agent to focus efforts to achieve the sustainability goals of the firm. Control of agent environmentally-based action should similarly result in heightened environmental outcomes for the retailer. Therefore, the following is proposed: H2: Behavioral monitoring of environmental practices: (a) lowers relational satisfaction and (b) raises environmental performance.

Note that our presentation of H2 does not incorporate an association between behavioral monitoring and financial performance. Esty and Winston (2006) also indicate that pursuit of ecological goals is unlikely to be a primary factor in decision making by most buyers. Thus, the influence of monitoring of environmental behavior on revenues is likely to be weak. Alternatively, the influence of behavioral monitoring on agent inputs may be substantial as subscribing to principal requirements ordinarily leads to higher labor and material costs (Keating, 1987). Given these contrasting influences, we do not speculate on the influence of behavioral monitoring on financial performance. The resource-based view (RBV) of the firm provides additional insight into influences of control mechanisms. RBV maintains that the resources possessed by a firm enable the organization to develop capabilities that provide competitive advantage (Hunt & Morgan, 1995; Varadarajan, Jayachandran, & White, 2001). Morgan, Kaleka, and Katsikeas (2004) offer evidence that resources and capabilities influence positional advantage in export markets, whereas Fang, Palmatier, Scheer, and Li (2008) use RBV to implicate resource investments, coordination, and responsiveness as antecedent to performance. Dyer and Singh (1998) use similar logic to illustrate the development of resources within a supply chain rather than exclusively within the firm. Consistent with this perspective, Chen, Paulraj, and Lado (2004) illustrate that enhanced supply chain integration yields heightened operational performance (ROI profits). In order for a resource to serve as a source of competitive advantage, it must be valuable, rare, and imperfectly imitable (Barney, 1991). Ambiguity in the relationship between resources possessed by the firm and competitive advantage confound

844

R. Dahlstrom et al.

competitor efforts to imitate their rivals. For example, Cisco coordinates order management through five contract manufacturers (Carbone, 2000). Although Cisco’s competitors can establish alliances with these firms, the relationship between these agreements and Cisco’s competitive advantages in order management and product deliveries is not well understood. The social complexity of the resources also complicates efforts to replicate them. Complexity derives from internal relations among managers, relationships with customers, and corporate culture. For example, the retail manager community in quick service restaurant networks is an elaborate alliance among internal and external agents and the principal, and members of the network participate in decision making associated with multiple local, regional, and national promotions (Bradach, 1998). Examination of RBV with explicit consideration of the environment recognizes that an ecologically-oriented management strategy can be a source of competitive advantage. In one of the first studies with this natural resource-based view, Sharma and Vredenburg (1998) indicate an association between an aggressive environmental strategy and increased stakeholder integration. Similarly, Klassen and Whybark (1999) use RBV in their analysis of furniture manufacturers to illustrate that firms investing in pollution prevention technologies enjoy better manufacturing and environmental performance. Christmann (2000) adopts similar logic in an analysis of chemical manufacturers and offers evidence that firms with pollution protection technologies and innovative solutions to ecological issues earn cost advantages relative to their competitors. Bassuk and Carroll’s (2002) analysis of success in franchising underscores Dyer and Singh’s (1998) recognition that the interorganizational network can yield a competitive advantage. The degree to which the principal and agent collaborate in efforts to achieve sustainability should influence organizational outcomes. Environmental collaboration refers to “the direct involvement of an organization with its suppliers and customers in planning jointly for environmental management and solutions” (Vachon & Klassen, 2008: 301). Collaboration requires a willingness to learn about one another’s operations and to plan and set goals for sustainability. Interfirm collaboration is manifest in co-determination of appropriate environmental behaviors. In their analysis of antecedents to opportunism, Heide et al. (2007) recognize that output control in conjunction with mutual agreements about outcomes limits negative action by agents. Similarly, outcome collaboration in conjunction with the monitoring of environmental practices provides a context in which agents can act autonomously. Co-determination of appropriate outcomes in conjunction with monitoring of organizational outcomes should yield heightened levels of environmental performance. Although monitoring alone yields ecological performance advantages, collaboration fosters a proactive environmental management orientation (Bowen, Lamming, Cousins, & Faruk, 2001). Similarly, collaboration on environmental outputs calls attention to financial inputs and enables the agent to manage economic outcomes more effectively. Therefore, the following is proposed: H3: Output monitoring of environmental practices in the presence of collaboration over appropriate outcomes raises: (a) relational satisfaction and (b) environmental performance, and (c) financial performance.

48

Role of Governance in Sustainable Franchised Distribution Channels

845

H3 suggests that the output collaboration exacerbates the influence of output monitoring on multiple forms of effectiveness. In contrast, the influence of behavioral monitoring mitigates the direction of the influence of monitoring on relational outcomes. Although behavioral monitoring limits the relational satisfaction of the agent, the influence on autonomy should be modified due to collaboration about appropriate behaviors. Principal-agent collaboration on appropriate environmental action provides a social contract that promotes positive relational factors such as relational satisfaction (Heide et al., 2007). In addition, the social context fostered via collaboration over environmental tasks should catalyze influences of behavioral monitoring on environmental performance. Therefore, the following is proposed: H4: Behavioral monitoring of environmental practices in the presence of collaboration over appropriate behaviors raises: (a) relational satisfaction and (b) environmental performance.

48.3 Discussion The goal of this study has been to provide a preliminary analysis of antecedents to environmental performance in retail distribution channels. We implicate monitoring and collaboration as determinants of multiple facets of performance. One limitation in our analysis is the treatment of environmental performance based on conservation of resources (air, water). Esty and Winston (2006) frame recycling, reuse, and reduction in material usage as traditional pollution priorities, but they further call for research examining new priorities of redesign and re-imagining product development. Although our conceptual model examines the traditional priorities, it does not examine the new priorities. Given the importance of innovation for firm survival, future research should consider how control structures foster creativity in the product development process. A second opportunity for research is to examine the multiple, technology-based forms of monitoring available to management. This research provides a contribution to channel theory focused on determining the role of governance structures in exacting performance. The study augments the groundbreaking study of monitoring and opportunism developed by Heide et al. (2007). In contrast to their focus on miscreant agent behavior, we examine a broad group of outcomes germane to retail management. Moreover, we complement their examination of the influence social contracts as modifiers of monitoring. This research also provides an initial marketing channel analysis of sustainability practices. Despite seemingly ubiquitous industry reports of the emerging importance of green marketing (Esty & Winston, 2006), scant channels research has focused on this issue. Given that restaurants use five times more energy per square foot than any other commercial buildings (Rogers, 2008), this industry is ripe for environmental analysis. Our research offers evidence of procedures that influence sustainability and other important forms of organizational effectiveness. Finally, our study underscores two control mechanisms that management can employ to regulate agent performance. In many long term contractual arrangements, these activities serve as primary mechanisms to achieve performance

846

R. Dahlstrom et al.

goals. Moreover, we illustrate how combined use of these mechanisms can yield better environmental, economic, and social performance. We hope that our treatment of monitoring and collaboration offers insight to retail management and channels research.

References Anderson, E., & Oliver, R. L. (1987). Perspectives on behavior-based versus outcome-based salesforce control systems. Journal of Marketing, 51(3), 76–88. Baker, D. A., & Crompton, J. L. (2000). Quality, satisfaction and behavioral intentions. Annals of Tourism Research, 27(3), 785–804. Barney, J. B. (1991). Firm resources and sustained competitive advantage. Journal of Management, 17(1), 99–121. Bassuk, H., & Carroll, C. (2002). The characteristics of great franchise leaders. Franchising World, 34(1), 10–11. Bergen, M., Dutta, S., & Walker, O. C., Jr. (1992). Agency relationships in marketing: A review of the implications and applications of agency and related theories. Journal of Marketing, 56(July), 1–24. Bowen, F., Lamming, R., Cousins, P., & Faruk, A. (2001). The role of supply management capabilities in green supply. Production and Operations Management, 10(2), 174–189. Bradach, J. (1998). Franchise organizations. Boston: Harvard University Press. Brundtland, G. (1987). Our common future, the world commission on environment and development. New York: Oxford University Press. Carbone, J. (2000). Internet is key to Cisco outsourcing model. Purchasing, 128(8), 103–104. Chen, I. J., Paulraj, A., & Lado, A. (2004). Strategic purchasing, supply management, and firm performance. Journal of Operations Management, 22(5), 505–523. Christmann, P. (2000). Effects of ‘best practices’ of environmental management on cost advantage: The role of complementary assets. Academy of Management Journal, 43(4), 663–680. Dahlstrom, R., & Nygaard, A. (1995). An exploratory investigation of interpersonal trust in new and mature market economies. Journal of Retailing, 71(4), 339–362. Dean, T. J., & Brown, R. L. (1995). Pollution regulation as a barrier to new firm entry: Initial evidence and implications for future. Academy of Management Journal, 38(1), 288–303. DeCarlo, T. E., & Agarwal, S. (1999). Influence of managerial behaviors and job autonomy on job satisfaction of industrial salespersons. Industrial Marketing Management, 28(1), 51–62. Dechant, K., & Altman, B. (1994). Environmental leadership: From compliance to competitive advantage. Academy of Management Executive, 8(3), 7–20. Deci, E. L., & Ryan, R. M. (1987). The support of autonomy and the control of behavior. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 53(5), 1024–1037. Duff, M. (2006). Retailing takes on environmental measures. Retailing Today, (August 21), 1, 8, 29. Dutton, J. E., & Dukerich, J. M. (1991). Keeping an eye on the mirror: Image and identity in organizational adaptation. Academy of Management Journal, 34(3), 517–554. Dwyer, F. R., & Oh, S. (1988). A transaction cost perspective on vertical contractual structure and interchannel competitive strategy. Journal of Marketing, 52(2), 21–34. Dyer, J. H., & Singh, H. (1998). The relational view: Cooperative strategy and sources of interorganizational competitive advantage. Academy of Management Review, 23(4), 660–679. Eisenhardt, K. M. (1989). Agency theory: An assessment and review. Academy of Management Review, 14(1), 57–74. Elan, E. (2008). Seafood choices alliance holds European summit; Experts say catch consumer interest, sustain seas. Nation’s Restaurant News, February 18, 26. Esty, D. C., & Winston, A. S. (2006). Green to gold. New Haven, CT: Yale Univesity Press.

48

Role of Governance in Sustainable Franchised Distribution Channels

847

Fang, E., Palmatier, R. W., Scheer, L. K., & Li, N. (2008). Trust at different organizational levels. Journal of Marketing, 72(2), 80–98. Gal-Or, E. (1995). Maintaining quality standards in franchise chains. Management Science, 14(11), 1774–1792. Gladwin, T., Kennelly, J. J., & Krause, T. L. (1996). Shifting paradigms for sustainable development: Implications for management theory and research. Academy of Management Review, 20(4), 874–907. Hart, S. L., & Ahuja, G. (1996). Does it pay to be green? An empirical examination of the relationship between emission reduction and firm performance. Business Strategy and the Environment, 5, 30–37. Heide, J. B., Wathne, K. H., & Rokkan, A. I. (2007). Interfirm monitoring, social contracts, and relational outcomes. Journal of Marketing Research, 44(3), 425–433. Hunt, S. D., & Morgan, R. M. (1995). The comparative advantage theory of competition. Journal of Marketing, 59(2), 1–15. John, G., & Weitz, B. (1989). Salesforce compensation: An empirical investigation of factors related to use of salary versus incentive compensation. Journal of Marketing Research, 26(1), 1–14. Judge, W. Q., & Douglas, T. J. (1998). Performance implications of incorporating natural environmental issues into the strategic planning process: An empirical investigation. Journal of Management Studies, 35(2), 241–262. Keating, W. J. (1987). Franchising advisor. Colorado Springs, CO: Shepard’s/McGraw Hill. Klassen, R. D., & Whybark, D. C. (1999). The impact of environmental technologies on manufacturing performance. Academy of Management Journal, 42(6), 599–615. Lal, R., & Staelin, R. (1986). Salesforce compensation plans in environments with asymmetric information. Marketing Science, 5(3), 179–198. Levin, A. (2006). Burgerville. Foodservice equipment and sales, October, 52–54. Morgan, N. A., Kaleka, A., & Katsikeas, C. (2004). Antecedents of export venture performance: A theoretical model and empirical assessment. Journal of Marketing, 68(1), 90–108. Perrow, C. (1986). Complex organizations: A critical essay. New York: Random House. Rogers, M. (2008). Sustainable returns. Chain Leader, March, 22–33. Ruben, A. (2006). Sustainability has potential to spur change. Retailing Today, (August 20), 6. Russo, M. V., & Fouts, F. A. (1997). A resource-based perspective on corporate environmental performance and profitability. Academy of Management Journal, 40(3), 534–559. Ryan, T. (2007). Retailers go green. SGB, 40(8), 28–30. Sharma, S., & Vredenburg, H. (1998). Proactive corporate environmental strategy and the development of competitively valuable. Strategic Management Journal, 19(8), 729–744. Srivastava, P. (1995). The role of corporations in achieving ecological sustainability. The Academy of Management Review, 20(4), 936–960 Vachon, S., & Klassen, R. D. (2008). Environmental management and manufacturing performance: The role of collaboration in the supply chain. International Journal of Production Economics, 111, 299–313. Varadarajan, P. R., Jayachandran, S., & White, J. C. (2001). Strategic interdependence in organizations: Deconglomeration and marketing strategy. Journal of Marketing, 65(1), 15–28. Williamson, O. E. (1985). The economic institutions of capitalism. New York: The Free Press.

Part VII

Megafacilities, Designs and Architecture

Chapter 49

Intermodal Terminals, Mega Ports and Mega Logistics Jean-Paul Rodrigue

49.1 Introduction Economic globalization has been accompanied by a growing spatial imprint of freight distribution on the landscape, particularly for intermodal terminals such as ports, airports and railyards, but also for logistical activities, namely distribution centers. Among economies that have relied on globalization to promote growth, China been the most eloquent example. It has relied extensively on major intermodal terminal projects, particularly ports (Rimmer & Comtois, 2009). All over the world, terminals and their surrounding areas face mounting pressures to accommodate large freight flows which are increasingly containerized. Containers are standard units that have been designed for simplicity and functionality which is reflected in the intermodal function of container terminals (Levinson, 2006). There is thus the setting of a “mega logistics” framework ensuring a continuous circulation of intermodal freight between clusters of production and major consumption markets. The reasons why intermodal terminals and ports in particular can be considered mega infrastructure projects involve three points: 1. They are heavy consumers of space since they require land for terminal operations, such as space for storing containers within a port terminal. No other single form of land use consumes such a large amount of space and this amount has increased substantially with containerization. They are large but functionally simple spaces. 2. Their construction and maintenance requires massive capital investment and a noticeable transformation of the landscape, particularly along the coastline with piers, docks and basins. For many ports, dredging is also a megaproject required to improve their accessibility to maritime shipping and maintain their operating conditions (siltation).

J.-P. Rodrigue (B) Department of Global Studies & Geography, Hofstra University, Hempstead, NY 11550, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_49,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

851

852

J.-P. Rodrique

3. Their equipment is commonly massive in scale by its size and throughput, such as cranes and, most importantly, containerships. It is not uncommon to have an intermodal port terminal generating 1,000 to 5,000 truck movements per day. In the last decade, intermodal equipment has become even larger and capital intensive. Yet, in spite of this impressive accumulation of infrastructure and space consumption for freight terminal activities, intermodal terminals remain an underrepresented dimension of the geography of transportation. Mechanized freight transportation is a capital intensive activity that does not require much labor with the notable exception of trucking. Intermodal terminals, particularly, require little labor and thus the spaces they consume, in spite of being substantial, are not much part of the collective experience and spatial representation since very few individual ever see such locations. This underrepresentation can consequently be readily explained by the low labor intensiveness of terminals in spite of their intensiveness in traffic and added value activities. For instance, while the Newark Liberty international airport and the Port Newark Container Terminal are directly adjacent to one another and both are under the jurisdiction of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, few people have any familiarity with the container terminals which are larger than the airport site. While about 36 million passengers transited through the airport in 2008, only employees and truck drivers have access to the intermodal terminals. In addition to the infrastructure and equipment required for intermodal operations, an ownership and management structure that reflects well the emergence of mega-terminals has been established. Like the industrial sector, the terminal operation business has seen a significant consolidation in the hands of a few global terminal operators. They maintain a global portfolio of terminal assets located at strategic gateways and intermediary locations. Thus, the global intermodal freight industry has become mega in its modes, terminals ownership and operations.

49.2 Major Drivers of Intermodal Terminal Development 49.2.1 Drivers of Growth Intermodalism and its consumption of large amounts of space through mega terminal facilities is the outcome of two main driving forces. The first and most obvious is the growth in volume of containerized traffic which is correlated with terminal volume and the incentive to add to existing terminal capacity and develop new terminals when suitable. On par with traffic growth came an extension of the geographical scale at which flows were taking place. This involved additional terminal capacity and an array of intermediary locations such as intermediary hubs and inland terminals (Notteboom & Rodrigue, 2009). Thus, for a similar amount of traffic, a larger number of terminal facilities and distribution center are required

49

Intermodal Terminals, Mega Ports and Mega Logistics

853

to handle transport sequences taking place over longer distances and with more inventory in transit. The second driving force concerns the functional specialization of terminals that has required a growing spatial separation of modal activities within the terminal itself with space allocated for ship, truck and rail intermodal operations. This specialization also required a substantial buffer (storage space) to synchronize the service sequence and the flow volumes of respective modes. Thus, within intermodal terminals larger amounts of space were required to ensure an interface between the different modes since each has its own capacity and temporal characteristics. Containerized traffic growth requires particular attention. Global trade has grown both in absolute and relative terms, particularly after 1995 where global exports surged in the wake of rapid industrialization in developing countries, particularly China. The value of global exports first exceeded $US 1 trillion in 1965, and by 2005 more than $US 10.3 trillion of merchandise was exported. During the same period, the share of the world GDP accounted for exports almost doubled; from 7.6 to 14.7%. This trend was accompanied by a sharp growth in international containerized transportation (Fig. 49.1). From the early 1990s to the early 21st century, containerized throughput has tripled to surpass 500 million TEU (Twenty-foot Equivalent Unit)1 for the first time in 2008. This surge is concomitantly linked with the growth of international trade in addition to the adoption of containerization as the privileged vector for maritime shipping and inland transportation. This growth was on par with the growth of container traffic handled by the world’s largest ports (Fig. 49.2) which underlines the intricate relationship between export-oriented ports (e.g. Shanghai and Shenzhen),

500

400

World Traffic World Throughput Full Containers Transshipment

Million TEU

Empty Containers 300

200

100

0 1980

1985

1990

1995

2000

2005

2010

Fig. 49.1 World container traffic and throughput, 1980–2008. (Source: Drewry Shipping Consultants)

854

J.-P. Rodrique

Bremen/Bremerhaven Tanjung Pelepas New York/New Jersey Tianjin Port Klang Guangzhou Antwerp Ningbo Long Beach Qingdao Los Angeles Hamburg Dubai Rotterdam Kaohsiung Busan Shenzhen Shanghai Hong Kong Singapore

0

5,000,000

10,000,000

15,000,000

20,000,000

25,000,000

Fig. 49.2 Traffic handled by the world’s 20 largest container ports, 2007. (Source: Containerization International)

import-oriented ports (e.g. Los Angeles/Long Beach) and intermediary hubs (e.g. Singapore and Dubai). Like their size, the ownership and operations of the major port terminal complexes is dominantly assumed by a limited number of global port operators. The top five handled about 50% of the global container throughput, underlining asset portfolios that span the globe. For instance, the Port of Singapore Authority (PSA) has several terminals in Singapore as its main assets, but also operates terminals in other major ports such as Antwerp and Busan. The Singapore/Tanjung Pelepas cluster (mainly owned by the A.P. Moeller–APM–group which is a subsidiary of Maersk, the world’s largest maritime shipper) is the world’s major hub with about 90% of its traffic being transshipped between different shipping routes. The Chinese operator Hutchison Port Holdings (HPH) has a solid asset base in Hong Kong and has expanded along the Chinese coast (e.g. Shanghai), in Europe and Latin America. Incidentally, the Hong Kong/Shenzhen cluster is the world’s largest gateway system with a container traffic volume that dwarfs any other region. In comparison with Singapore the same mega facilities thus perform completely different functions. Dubai Ports World (DPW) is also a major player with a portfolio that began in the Middle East and expanded in South Asia, Europe and Latin America. Put together, APM, DPW, HPH and PSA have stakes in 181 container terminals around the world accounting for 11,350 ha (28,045 acres; 113.5 km2 ; 43.5 mi2 ) of land.

49

Intermodal Terminals, Mega Ports and Mega Logistics

855

49.2.2 The Need for Storage Space A feature of most intermodal freight activity is the need for storage, which requires a significant amount of space, most of which as simple paved areas where containers can be stacked and retrieved with a set of cranes, straddlers and holsters. Assembling bundles of goods to be loaded into containers may be time-consuming and thus some warehousing space may be required. Containerization, because of its large volumes, has forced a significant modal and temporal separation at terminals as well as a variety of transloading activities in the vicinity of terminals. Intermodal terminals are thus much more space intensive than conventional freight terminals. Due to congestion, capacity, and availability of inland transportation, containerization contributed to a significant buffer in the form of large stockage areas (Notteboom & Rodrigue, 2009). Each transport mode received a specific area on the terminal, so that operations on vessels, barges, trucks and trains could not obstruct one another. Each transport mode follows its own time schedule and operational throughput. Since rail, road or barge modes have completely different operational characteristics, namely capacity and sequence, a large buffer is required within the terminal’s facilities. Under the indirect transshipment system, the terminal stacking area functions as a buffer and temporary storage area between the deep sea operations and the land transport operations that take place later in the process. As a consequence, and in spite of higher turnover levels, the space consumed by container terminals increased substantially. In turn, these space requirements changed the geography of ports and the migration of terminals to new peripheral sites where such space was available. Europa Terminal, a facility of 72 ha (178 acres) in the port of Antwerp, is managed by the terminal operator PSA and is only one of the seven major container terminal complexes within the port. It is a good example of the modal separation in space that characterizes modern container terminals and the large handhold required for various container terminal operations (Fig. 49.3). While terminal space reserved for rail and truck operations are directly adjacent to the buffer (container storage) of deep sea services, locational constraints have placed the barge terminal in a nearby location behind the locks linking the port’s basin (upper part) to the river Scheldt (lower part). The synchronization between elements of the intermodal terminal varies according to the geographical setting and its related inbound or outbound logistics. For instance, the export-oriented manufacturing clusters of China are adjacent to major port terminal facilities and the bulk of containerized exports arrive by truck. The assembly of container shipping loads for exports brought in by trucks thus requires a large amount of terminal storage space. In North America, many port terminals have access to double-stack rail corridors with inland terminals enabling a higher turnover volume that proportionally reduces pressures on port terminal facilities to relocate them inland where land is much less scarce. A similar situation applies to Western Europe, but with barge services linking main gateways to inland terminals in addition to single stack rail services.

856

J.-P. Rodrique

Fig. 49.3 Europa container terminal, port of Antwerp. (Source: Notteboom & Rodrigue, 2009)

49.3 Intermodal Terminal Facilities 49.3.1 Container Port Terminals The container port terminal is the intermodal facility that has the most substantial spatial imprint since it consumes large amounts of waterfront real estate, which is always scarce. It also requires intensive connections to the inland transport system through rail and road infrastructures. Figure 49.4 depicts the standard configuration of a large port container terminal and is a synthesis of the Port Elizabeth container terminal, one of the four main container terminal complexes within the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey (operated by APM) and one of the first container terminals to be built in the 1950s. A port container terminal occupies a substantial area, mainly because of storage requirements, even if this storage is short term. The main elements are: Docking area. Represents a berth where a containership can dock and have technical specifications such as length and draft. A standard post-panamax2 containership requires about 325 m (99 ft) of docking space as well as a draft of about 13 m (45 ft). Some terminals have separate facilities for handling barges, although most barges are handled alongside the deep sea quays. Container crane (Portainer). Represents the interface between the containership and the dock and commonly the most visible structures of a port terminal (Fig. 49.5). Cranes have technical specifications in terms of number of movements per hour, maximum weight, and lateral coverage. A modern container crane can have a 18–20 wide coverage, implying that it can service a

49

Intermodal Terminals, Mega Ports and Mega Logistics

857

Rail Road

Container crane

Administration

Gate

Repair / maintenance Truck loading / unloading Chassis storage

1 km

Loading / unloading area

Fig. 49.4 Port container terminal facility. (Source: Author)

containership having a width of 18–20 containers. A gantry crane can perform about two movements (loading or unloading) per minute. The larger the number of cranes assigned to the transshipment process the faster it can take place. However, significant portside capabilities must be present to accommodate this throughput. Loading/unloading area. Directly adjacent to the piers and under the gantry cranes, it is the zone of interaction between the cranes and the storage areas where containers are either brought in to be lifted on the containership or unloaded to be immediately picked up and brought to storage areas. This is mainly done with straddlers or holsters. In the case of straddlers, the containers are left on the ground while with holsters the containers are loaded from or unloaded to a chassis. Container storage. Represents a temporary buffer zone where containers are left while the assigned containership is available to be loaded or while picked up for inland distribution. It is the component that consumes the largest amount of space. The larger the containerships handled by a port, the larger the required container storage area. Container storage can be arranged by shipbound (export) and landbound (import) stacks of containers. Stacks are

858

J.-P. Rodrique

Fig. 49.5 Panamax containership, port of Le Havre. (Source: Author)

commonly up to three containers in height which is the maximum for loaded containers and also enables straddlers to operate on top of them. Specific storage areas are also attributed to empties, which can be stacked up to 7 or 8 containers in height. Stacking areas tend to be linear since an overhead gantry crane is circulating over a row of containers. Gate. This is the terminal’s entry and exit point and is able to handle in many cases up to 25 trucks at once. This is where the truck driver presents proper documentation (bill of lading) for pick up or delivery. Most of the inspection is done remotely with cameras and intercom systems where an operator can remotely see for instance the container number of an existing truck and verify if it corresponds to the bill of lading. For a delivery, the truck is assigned to a specific slot at the truck loading or unloading area where the chassis holding the container will be left to be picked up by a holster or a straddler. For a pick up, the truck will be assigned to a slot in a waiting area while the container is been picked up from a storage area, put on a chassis (if the truck does not bring its own chassis) and brought to the proper slot. The truck will then head out of the terminal, be inspected to ensure that the right container has been picked up, and head inland. If well managed, the container will already be available for pick up (on a chassis in the truck loading/unloading area). However, delays for pick up can sometimes be considerable (hours) when a large containership has just delivered a significant batch of containers and there is a “rush” to be the first to pick them up. Chassis storage. Area where empty chassis are stored while waiting to be allocated to a truck or a holster. These areas can also be outside the terminal

49

Intermodal Terminals, Mega Ports and Mega Logistics

859

facilities. In inland freight distribution, there are on average three chassis available per container. Administration. The management facility of the terminal, often having a control tower to insure a level of visibility of the whole terminal area. This is where many complex logistical functions are performed such as the assignment of delivered containers to a storage space location as well as the location and the loading or unloading sequence of containers by straddlers and holsters. Additionally, the complex task of designing the loading and unloading sequence of a containership is performed. On dock rail terminal. Many large container terminals have an adjacent rail terminal to which they are directly connected. This enables the composition of large containerized unit trains to reach long distance inland markets. Repair/maintenance. Area where regular maintenance activities of the terminal’s heavy equipment is performed. A sample of more than 296 container terminals reveals that the median size is around 30 hectares while the median depth is around 14 m (4.27 ft) (Fig. 49.6), enabling the average terminal to handle a post-panamax containership of 5,000 or 6,000 TEU. However, there is also a prevalence of mega-terminal facilities above the 80 ha (197 acre) threshold that act as major hubs for terminal operators and maritime shipping companies. 36 facilities were found to have more than 120 ha (296 acres). In addition to the impressive land consumption at the port terminal itself, nearby areas tend to have a high concentration of activities linked to freight distribution such as distribution centers, empty container storage depots, trucking companies and large retailers. All of these activities amount to a substantial land take among the world’s most valuable locations.

Fig. 49.6 Depth and surface distribution of a sample of container port terminals (N = 296). (Source: Author)

860

J.-P. Rodrique

49.3.2 Intermodal Rail Terminals An intermodal rail container terminal is commonly composed of the following elements (Fig. 49.7), each performing a specific function: Intermodal yard. The core of the terminal where unit trains are loaded and unloaded by cranes (or lifts). In North America, they can be more than 2 km (1.2 mi) in length due to the large size of container unit trains (100 cars) while in other parts of the world they are much shorter. In many cases, unit trains are broken down in two parts in the yard, which leaves a midway corridor for the circulation of chassis within the yard (otherwise movements between the storage area and unit trains would be much longer). Containers are brought trackside or to the storage area by hostlers. While older generations of intermodal yards (or those with small volume) worked on a one-to-one basis (one trackside space available for loading or unloading for each car), new intermodal yards tend to operate on a two-to-one basis (one trackside space for loading and one trackside space for unloading). Storage area. Acts as a buffer between the road system and the intermodal yard. It often covers an area similar in size than the intermodal yard as modern rail intermodal yards are heavy consumers of space. Unlike a maritime terminal, it is uncommon that containers will be stacked. They are simply left stored on a chassis, waiting to be picked up for delivery of brought trackside. To optimize truck pickup and delivery, chassis are parked at about a 60◦ angle so they can be stored closer to another. Classification yard. Can be present if the terminal has been upgraded from a regular freight to a container terminal, but for most modern intermodal rail terminals the classification yard will be absent. Its function is mainly related to the assembly and break down of freight trains. This is necessary because each rail car can be bound to a different destination and can be shunted on

Classification Yard

tion Yard

Classifica Gate/Administration

Intermodal Yard Container/Chassis Pick

Up/Drop Off/Storage

Repair/maintenance

Chassis storage 1 km

Rail Track Operations

Storage Yard Operations

Fig. 49.7 Intermodal rail facility. (Source: Author)

Gate Operations

49

Intermodal Terminals, Mega Ports and Mega Logistics

861

several occasions. This assignment mainly takes place at the origin, destination or at an intermediary location (such as Chicago or North Platte). Classification yards are often operated independently from the intermodal yard. Gate, chassis storage and repair/maintenance. Perform a similar function to that of the maritime terminal.

49.3.3 Freight Distribution Clusters Another fundamental and often neglected component of the terminal space is the distribution center, which has seen several technological changes impacting their location, design and operation (Hesse, 2008). From a locational standpoint, distribution centers mainly rely on trucking, implying a preference for suburban locations with good road accessibility and land availability. They have become one-storey facilities designed more for throughput than for warehousing with specialized loading and unloading bays and sorting equipment. The growth in freight volumes has been proportional with the growth of the size and the number of distribution centers. Another tendency has been the setting of large freight distribution clusters where an array of distribution activities agglomerate to take advantage of shared infrastructures and accessibility. If coupled with a rail or a barge terminal, they take the form of an inland port logistically linked with port terminal facilities.

49.4 Economies of Scale in Transport Modes and Terminals 49.4.1 Distortions in Scale Relationships The principle of economies of scale has served transportation well with, for instance, larger containerships and larger port facilities. However, this is not without causing intense pressures on locations to handle the modes and flows of global trade. In general terms, there is a relationship between the size of a port and the size of the metropolitan area where it is located, particularly for coastal cities having good port sites. Conventionally, because of high inland transport costs, city size and port size tended to converge. Maritime activities were a direct driver of urban growth. Containerization has however changed this relationship by supporting the establishment of much larger port terminals and by expanding hinterland access. This change permitted a higher level of possible divergence between the level of port activity and city size. Intermediate hubs are the most notable example of such a process since little, if any traffic, is bound to the hinterland. The port size can thus be completely unrelated with city size. The setting of gateways also contributes to the divergence between port size and city size since they service vast hinterlands. For instance, European gateways, such as Antwerp and Rotterdam, are salient examples of medium sized cities where the port area is larger than the metropolitan area. The rationale of maritime container shipping companies to have larger ships becomes obvious when the benefits, in terms of lower costs per TEU, increase

862

J.-P. Rodrique

Costs per TEU

Transshipment

Inland Transportation

Maritime Shipping Capacity in TEU

Fig. 49.8 Economies and diseconomies of scale in container shipping. (Source: Author)

with the capacity of ships. There is thus a powerful trend to increase the size of ships, but this may lead to diseconomies in other components of container shipping (Fig. 49.8). This is particularly the case for transshipment, notably at port terminals. The growth in capacity comes with increasing problems to cope with large amounts of containers to be transshipped over short periods of time as shipping companies want to reduce their port time as much as possible. Larger cranes and larger quantities of land for container operations, namely temporary warehousing, may become prohibitive, triggering diseconomies of scale to be assumed by port authorities and terminal operators. The same principle applies to inland transportation where congestion, such as more trucks converging towards terminal gates, leads to diseconomies. Because of technical innovations and functional changes in inland transportation, such as using rail instead of trucking to move containers from or to terminals, it is unclear what is the effective capacity beyond which diseconomies of scale are achieved.

49.4.2 Economies of Scale in Containerships The evolution of containerization, as indicated by the size of the largest available containership, has been a stepwise process leading to significantly larger ships (Fig. 49.9). Changes are rather sudden and correspond to the introduction of a new class of containership by a shipping company (Maersk Line tended to be the main early mover), quickly followed by others. The major ship classes include L “Lica” Class (1981; 3,430 TEU), R “Regina” Class (1996; 6,000 TEU), S “Sovereign” Class (1997; 8,000 TEU), and E “Emma” Class (2006; 12,500 TEU). A new class generally takes the name of the first ship introduced with the new capacity. The world’s main containership yards are in South Korea, Japan, China, and Denmark, but most containerships are registered in Panama and Liberia, or other flag of convenience countries to take advantage of less stringent regulations, notably concerning

49

Intermodal Terminals, Mega Ports and Mega Logistics

863

14,000 12,000 10,000 8,000 6,000 4,000 2,000

19 70 19 72 19 74 19 76 19 78 19 80 19 82 19 84 19 86 19 88 19 90 19 92 19 94 19 96 19 98 20 00 20 02 20 04 20 06 20 08

0

Fig. 49.9 The largest available containership, 1970–2008 (in TEUs). (Source: Notteboom & Rodrigue, 2009)

labor. There are some variations concerning how many containers can be carried by a containership depending on the method of calculation. For instance, for the Emma class, a ship could carry about 15,000 TEUs of containers if they were all empty, which represents all the available container slots. If all the carried containers were loaded with an average load of 14 tons per container, then about 11,000 TEUs could be carried (25% less). The official capacity figure used is 12,500 TEUs, which considers that containerships carry a mix of loaded and empty containers, but containerships are able to carry slightly more. Thus, container capacity figures should be treated with some caution as they are dependent on the cargo mix. Since the 1990s, two substantial steps have taken place. The first involved a jump from 4,000 to 8,000 TEUs, effectively moving beyond the panamax threshold. This threshold is particularly important as it indicates the physical capacity of the Panama Canal and thus has for long been an important operational limitation in maritime shipping. The second step took place in the early 2000s to reach the 13,000–14,000 TEU level. This is essentially a suezmax3 level, or a “new panamax” class when the extended Panama Canal is expected to come online in 2014. From a maritime shipper’s perspective, using larger containerships is a straightforward process as it conveys economies of scale and thus lowers costs per TEU carried. From a port terminal perspective, this places intense pressures in terms of infrastructure investments, namely portainers. Thus, the matter of scale is bringing forward a paradox as the more economies of scale are applied to maritime shipping, the lower the number of ports able to handle such ships. Containership speeds have peaked to an average of 20–25 knots and it is unlikely that speeds will increase due to energy consumption. Although economies of scale would favor the construction of larger containerships, there are operational limitations to deploy ships bigger than 8,000 TEU. Containerships in the range of 5,500–6,500 TEU appear to be the most flexible in terms of number of port calls

864

J.-P. Rodrique

since larger ships would require less calls and thus be less convenient to service specific markets.

49.4.3 Economies of Scale at Terminals With the growth of traffic and economies of scale applied to maritime shipping, port terminals are facing pressures to improve their productivity and efficiency. A standard container port accommodating panamax and post-panamax containerships has a set of technical characteristics related to berthing depth, stacking density, crane productivity, dwell time, truck turnaround time, and accessibility to rail services. A new generation of container port terminals is gradually coming online with significant improvements (Table 49.1). This change brings with it new infrastructures, equipment and procedures. It is also a matter of competitiveness, both on the maritime and inland sides since port terminals are competing with other port terminals to service continental hinterlands. In recent years the trend has thus been straightforward with the setting of larger container terminals facilities and port expansion. In some cases, the outcome has been the setting of megacontainer port terminal facilities with impressive engineering projects. Among the three most notable are: 1. Maasvlatke II (Rotterdam). For decades, the port of Rotterdam, Europe’s largest port, has expanded downstream. The growth of container traffic along with continued expansion of bulk traffic caused the port to consider expansion out in the North Sea. This led to the construction of an entirely new facility on reclaimed land at Maasvlatke in the 1980s. However, subsequent traffic growth in the 1990s resulted in the port authority proposing a new facility further out in the North Sea: Maasvlatke II. The project began construction in 2008 and should be open for traffic in 2010 and fully completed by 2030. Once completed, this terminal facility would likely mark the end of geographical expansion capacity for Rotterdam, outside the reconversion of existing terminal sites into more productive uses.

Table 49.1 Technical changes in container port terminals

Berthing depth Stacking density Ship-to-shore gantry crane (portainer) productivity Dwell time at container yard Truck turnaround time Rail access Source: Ircha (2006)

Standard container port

Emerging paradigm

12–15 m (40–50 ft) 1,000–1,200 TEUs per ha About 30 movements per hour

More than 15 m (50 ft) 2,000–4,000 TEUs per ha About 50 movements per hour

About 6 days

About 3 days

About 60 min In port area

About 30 min On dock

49

Intermodal Terminals, Mega Ports and Mega Logistics

865

2. Deurganck dock (Antwerp). Like Rotterdam, the expansion options of the port of Antwerp are limited. With the right bank of the River Scheldt, where the bulk of the port’s facilities are located, reaching capacity a new dock complex was built on the left bank. The Deurganck dock opened in 2005 and can add about 9 million TEUs to the existing capacity of about 10 million TEUs. 3. Yangshan container port (Shanghai). A rare case where a completely new facility has been built from scratch, and this well outside the existing port facilities in the Changjiang delta to a facility located in Hangzhou Bay, 35 km (21.7 mi) offshore. It opened in 2005 and was built for two purposes. The first was to overcome the physical limitations of the existing port facilities, too shallow to accommodate the latest generation of containerships. The second was to provide additional capacity to meet traffic growth expectations as well as room for new terminal facilities if container growth endures. To link the port to the mainland, the world’s third longest bridge was built with 32.5 km (20.1 mi) in length. Thus, one mega project, the port terminal, required the construction of another mega project, the bridge. Still, there are doubts that this process of building mega port terminal facilities will continue. Many recent projects indicate almost extreme measures requiring large capital investments and based on expectations of substantial traffic growth. This can only take place at major gateway locations that have demonstrated enduring freight traffic. Still, new terminal sites are often challenging from an engineering standpoint and rife with environmental controversy.

49.5 Conclusion: Mega Port Terminals or Mega Terminal Clusters? The growth of global trade and transportation has created a mega-geography for freight distribution, particularly for the modes and terminals used in containerized freight movements with notable impacts on the landscape. The principle of economies of scale has resulted in impressive high capacity engineering achievements that could not be economically justified without the high trade volumes associated with global freight distribution. The last decade has seen the emergence of mega containerships handling more than 10,000 TEUs and the world’s 50 largest container ports having jointly handled more than 326 million TEUs in 2007 alone. The smallest port of that group handled well above 2 million TEUs, while the world largest port facility, Singapore, handled close to 28 million TEUs. However, because of the ownership structure and the operations of the shipping industry, mega terminals have their limitations. A too large single facility would represent an undue risk of capital investment as they can take a long time to amortize and reach profitable traffic levels. It is thus more likely that the existing model aiming towards clusters of terminals owned by different operators within the same port or in ports in proximity will endure as it conveys flexibility and competitive pressures within port facilities.

866

J.-P. Rodrique

In many ways, economies of scale have been less constraining for maritime shipping. Mega containerships, since they are mobile transport platforms, represent a lower risk as they can be repositioned in light of commercial changes. Still, it is on the land side that their limitations are being felt as their accommodation requires substantial transshipment and inland distribution capabilities. This begs to wonder if economies of scale have reached an optimum or if there is still potential to handle larger batches of freight both on the maritime and inland sides.

Notes 1. A standard measure of container volume handled based upon the common container of 20 foot in length. Most containers are now 40 foot in length and thus account for 2 TEU. 2. Panamax refers to the maximum dimension of a ship that can be fitted in the Panama Canal, which is about 294 m (965 ft) in length and 32 m (105 ft) in width. 3. The largest ship size that van be handed by the Suez Canal, about 16 m (52.5 ft) of draft and with no specific length and width restrictions since the canal has no locks.

References Hesse, M. (2008). The city as a terminal: The urban context of logistics and freight transport. Aldershot, UK: Ashgate. Levinson, M. (2006). The box: How the shipping container made the world smaller and the world economy bigger. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Notteboom, T., & Rodrigue, J-P. (2009). The future of containerization: Perspectives from maritime and inland freight distribution. Geojournal, 74(1), 7–22. Rimmer, P. J., & Comtois, C. (2009) China’s container-related dynamics, 1990–2005. Geojournal, 74(1), 35–50.

Chapter 50

Mega-Airports: The Political, Economic, and Environmental Implications of the World’s Expanding Air Transportation Gateways John T. Bowen and Julie L. Cidell

50.1 Introduction Amid the sands of the Arabian Peninsula, what may one day be the world’s largest airport is taking shape. The Al Maktoum International Airport, according to its promoters, will eventually boast six parallel runways and the largest footprint of any airport in the world (Flottau, 2005). It will have a design capacity of 120 million passengers and 12 million tonnes of cargo per year,1 gargantuan sums that if approached by actual traffic flows would make the new airport one of, if the not the, busiest on the planet. Indeed, Al Maktoum is intended to make Dubai “the world’s hub.” Incredibly, even as Dubai’s government has poured hundreds of millions of dollars into the first stages of the new airport, it has invested even more in its existing gateway, Dubai International Airport (DXB), only 28 mi (45 km) away. In 2008, the wildly ambitious hometown carrier Emirates opened a new dedicated passenger terminal at DXB that was the centerpiece of a $4.1 billion2 expansion project at the older of the two airports, and yet the carrier has planned to shift its hub – and especially its huge planned fleet of Airbus A380s – to Al Maktoum as early as 2016 (Kingsley-Jones, 2007). The development of a brand-new airport of such mammoth dimensions even as the capacity of an older, nearby airport is enlarged is not without precedent. After World War II, for instance, New York’s LaGuardia Airport was expanded and made ready for the Jet Age at the same time that Idlewild Airport (later John F. Kennedy International Airport) was built 11 mi (17 km) away, and both continue to operate nearly at full capacity. And yet, there are stark differences between the New York of the early postwar period and the Dubai of the early 21st century. New York, then, was the most populous metropolitan area in the world and its foremost financial center. Dubai was ranked 314th in metropolitan population in the United Nation’s 2005 World Urbanization Prospects database. And while the emirate’s sparkling new skyline attests to its new importance in financial and business services, Dubai is not yet J.T. Bowen (B) Department of Geography, Central Washington University, Ellensburg, WA 98626, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_50,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

867

868

J.T. Bowen and J.L. Cidell Table 50.1 World’s leading passenger airports, 2007

Rank

Airport

Passengers (Million)

Growth (% over 2006)

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta Int’l Chicago O’Hare Int’l Heathrow (London) Haneda (Tokyo) Los Angeles Int’l Paris Charles de Gaulle Int’l Dallas-Fort Worth Int’l Frankfurt Beijing Capital Int’l Madrid Barajas Int’l Denver Int’l Amsterdam Airport Schiphol John F. Kennedy Int’l (New York) Hong Kong Int’l Las Vegas McCarran Int’l George Bush Intercontinental (Houston) Phoenix Sky Harbor Int’l Suvarnabhumi (Bangkok) Changi (Singapore) Orlando Int’l Newark Liberty Int’l Detroit Metro San Francisco Int’l Narita Int’l (Tokyo) Gatwick (London) Minneapolis-St. Paul Int’l Dubai Int’l Munich-Franz Josef Strauss Miami Int’l Charlotte Douglas Int’l

83.4 76.2 68.1 66.8 61.9 59.9 59.8 54.2 53.6 53.6 49.9 47.8 47.7 47.0 47.0 43.0 42.2 41.2 36.7 36.5 36.4 36.0 35.8 35.5 35.2 35.2 34.3 34.0 33.7 33.2

5.3 −0.1 0.8 1.1 1.4 5.4 −0.7 2.6 10.1 13.9 5.4 3.8 11.9 7.3 3.2 1.1 1.8 −3.7 4.8 5.3 2.1 0.0 6.6 1.4 3.1 −1.3 19.3 10.4 3.7 11.7

Source: Airport Council International (2008)

a peer of Frankfurt or Chicago, much less New York or London. In fact, the airports – both new and old – are instrumental to a plan to make the city more important as a commercial center rather than as a reflection of its existing importance. Indeed, Dubai’s existing airport already ranks 27th in passenger traffic (Table 50.1) and 13th in cargo flows (Airports Council International, 2008). Meanwhile, just 72 mi (117 km) to the east, Dubai’s fellow emirate, Abu Dhabi, is finishing a $6.8 billion expansion of its own international airport, partly to cater to the vast aspirations of another bold carrier, Etihad (Airline Business, 2008). And not far to the west, a similar conjunction of an ambitious polity and determined carrier has fostered a similarly massive investment in a new airport for Qatar. Kuwait, too, has invested billions in its airport. Collectively, these projects have made the Middle East one of the hotbeds of airport development in the first decade of this century (Fig. 50.1).

50

Mega-Airports

869

Fig. 50.1 Airport expansion in the Persian Gulf. At the end of the first decade of the 21st century, the Persian Gulf – especially the 320 mi (500 km) crescent from Doha to Dubai, was home to several of the largest airport infrastructure building projects in the world. (Sources: Based on media accounts, especially Flottau, 2005; Michels, 2007; and airport-related websites, especially Department of Civil Aviation (Dubai), 2007)

Overall, however, Asia-Pacific3 continues to be the dominant region in airport infrastructure spending. The Pearl River Delta in southern China alone is home to five new airports, including the world’s most expensive, the Hong Kong International Airport (HKIA) (Fig. 50.2). The stunning cost of HKIA reflects the size of the facility, the huge expense of reclaiming a vast area from the sea for its construction, and the elaborate ground transportation system (both rail and highway) built to link the airport to the central business district 17 mi (28 km) away. Three more of the world’s most expensive airports are also found in Asia and like HKIA are built partially or wholly atop artificial land: Kansai (Osaka), Central Japan International (Nagoya), and Seoul-Incheon International (Table 50.2). The combination of rapid traffic growth and the absence of wide-open areas upon which to build were partly responsible for these extreme solutions – but only partly responsible, as discussed below. Over the past decade, new “mega-airports” (which we can define as new airports costing at least $500 million) have been rare outside of the Middle East and Asia-Pacific. In much of the developing world, traffic volumes have been too small and/or financial resources too meager to warrant such projects. In all of Sub-Saharan

870

J.T. Bowen and J.L. Cidell

Fig. 50.2 New airports of the Pearl River Delta. In the decade and a half after 1990, the Pearl River Delta witnessed perhaps the greatest regional expansion of airport infrastructure in the history of commercial aviation. (Sources: Based on media accounts and airport-related websites)

Africa, for instance, only one project in this decade has risen to the stature of a megaproject: the new international airport for Khartoum. And there are no new airports of such expense in Latin America.4 Conversely, India has begun what may be a massive airport building boom; in 2008, new airports, developed in public-private partnerships, opened in both Bangalore and Hyderabad, two cities that have been focal points in the country’s recent economic expansion. Meanwhile, in much of North America and Western Europe, the emphasis has been on massive expansion of existing airports. Denver International Airport, which opened in 1995, is the only wholly new large airport built in the United States since Dallas-Ft. Worth International in the early 1970s. In Europe, only the secondary hubs of Munich, Athens, and Oslo have new airports. The absence of new airports in these core regions partially reflects the fact that they led the way into the Jet Age and had large, modern airports earlier than other regions – certainly earlier than China, for instance. They also have not experienced the late-twentieth century explosive growth in population and travel demand of Asia and the Gulf States. Yet public opposition to major new airports and the noise pollution and other externalities they engender has also been crucial in compelling air traffic to use a network of airports that was largely in place four decades ago. Nevertheless, large airport development has continued in the form of new terminals and runways at existing airports. As indicated in Table 50.3, some of the new terminals easily exceed the cost of entirely

50

Mega-Airports

871 Table 50.2 The world’s most expensive airports

Country

Airport

Year opened

Cost (billions of 2007 US dollars)

China Japan Saudi Arabia

Hong Kong Int’l Kansai Int’l (Osaka) King Abdul Aziz Int’l (Jeddah) King Khalid Int’l (Riyadh) Central Japan Int’l (Nagoya) Munich-Franz Josef Strauss Seoul Incheon Int’l Denver Int’l Kuala Lumpur Int’l Oslo – Gardermoen Bangkok Int’l Suvarnabhumi Kobe Narita Int’l (Tokyo) Guangzhou-Baiyun Int’l Dallas-Ft. Worth Int’l

1998 1994 1982

24.8 19.9 9.5

1983

9.2

2005

7.7

1992

7.4

2001 1995 1998 1999 2006

7.3 6.5 4.0 3.4 3.4

2006 1978 2004

2.8 2.8 2.7

1974

2.4

Saudi Arabia Japan Germany South Korea USA Malaysia Norway Thailand Japan Japan China USA

Costs have been adjusted for inflation using the GDP price deflator available at www.measuringworth.com. The figures include, to the extent possible, the cost of ground transport systems built specifically for the airport prior to its opening but do not include costs of expanding either the airport or its ground transport infrastructure thereafter Source: Dempsey (2000 and media accounts)

Table 50.3 The world’s most expensive airport expansion projects, 2000–2010 Structure

Airport

Year

Cost ($ Billion)∗

New terminal New terminal New runway New terminal New terminal/new runway New terminal New terminal New terminal New runway/terminals New terminal New runway New terminal New terminal New terminal New runway

Heathrow (London) Madrid Barajas Int’l Haneda (Tokyo) Dubai Int’l Bejing Capital Pudong Int’l (Shanghai) Toronto Pearson Int’l Indira Gandhi Int’l (Delhi) Tripoli Int’l (Libya) Zurich Kansai Int’l (Osaka) Mineta San Jose Int’l (USA) Munich-Franz Josef Strauss King Abdul Aziz Int’l (Jeddah) Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta Int’l

2008 2006 2009 2008 2008 2008 2004 2010 2009 2005 2007 2010 2003 2010 2005

8.7 8.0 5.5 4.1 3.9 2.9 2.7 2.6 2.1 2.1 1.8 1.8 1.7 1.5 1.4

∗ The

costs indicated have not been adjusted for inflation

872

J.T. Bowen and J.L. Cidell

Fig. 50.3 The new terminal 3 at Beijing capital international airport. As part of BCIA’s “Move Under One Roof” program, members of the Star Alliance including Air China as shown in this photo have been located together in this a concourse of Terminal 3. The picture was taken beneath the wing of a departing 777 operated by Singapore Airlines, another of the 15 Star Alliance members that operate from terminal 3. Photo credit: AirTeamImages

new airports. Of the 40 airport projects that were finished (or were scheduled to be finished) between 2001 and 2010 and that cost at least 500 million U.S. dollars, only 11 are new airports. The cost of new airports, terminals, and runways is driven by their scale and their complexity. The new terminal at the Beijing Capital Airport (Fig. 50.3), finished a few months before Beijing hosted the 2008 Summer Olympics, ranks as the largest building in the world by some measures. Indeed, the new Beijing terminal is larger than all five terminals at Heathrow combined (Table 50.4). And yet Heathrow’s Terminal 5, also opened in 2008, is the more expensive of the two structures. Each major airport is, of course, unique, and T5 incorporated some engineering challenges that greatly increased its cost. Two rivers had to be rerouted, and extensive tunneling was necessary to link the new terminal to others at the airport and to the London Underground and another, high speed rail system called Heathrow Express. Time was a further factor compounding the cost of Heathrow’s expansion. Nearly twenty years separated the choice of the winning design by what was then called the Richard Rogers Partnership5 in 1989 and the opening of the terminal in March 2008 (Rogers Stirk Harbour + Partners 2008). By contrast, from design choice until opening day, the Beijing terminal took just over four years (Economist, 2008). That difference in turn reflects markedly different political systems. T5 at Heathrow was the subject of the longest ever public planning inquiry in the United Kingdom (Bolger & Waller, 2007); there was little public debate over the merits and costs of Beijing’s T3.

50

Mega-Airports

873

Table 50.4 A comparison of the new airport terminals in Beijing and London Item

Beijing capital int’l airport terminal 3

Heathrow airport terminal 5

Size (m2 ) Capacity (passengers per year) Cost ($ billion) Lead architect

1,300,000 47 million

465,000 30 million

3.9 Norman Foster + Partners

8.7 Richard Rogers Partnership July 1989 September 2002

Design selected Construction Began Opened to public Airlines

November 2003 March 2004 February 2008 Many foreign airlines (including all members of the Star Alliance and oneworld) and international flights by most Chinese carriers

March 2008 British Airways

Yet for all their differences, there are important similarities between the new terminals at Beijing and Heathrow and between those terminals and new “megaterminals” and mega-airports built elsewhere in the world. To begin, each is extraordinarily complex, the sum of myriad interlaced systems. In this respect, major airports are like the airplanes they serve: both have become radically more expensive to develop as they have grown in complexity.6 For airports, this takes the form of highly automated baggage control systems, sophisticated post-9/11 security systems, and ground transport systems. Second, large airport infrastructure projects generate substantial negative impacts upon their neighbors, and those impacts are, to some degree, reflected in the cost. For instance, many such projects, particularly in the West, now involve extensive programs to pay for noise mitigation in nearby neighborhoods. Third, new airports and especially terminals are signature structures for the cities and countries they serve (Pearman, 2004). While there have been airport terminals that rose to the pinnacle of architectural excellence since the beginning of aviation, the importance of making a statement with a new airport or terminal has become an increasingly global phenomenon in the past decades. China, for instance, was hardly noted for remarkable airports until the new HKIA opened about a year after the former British colony was returned to Chinese control. HKIA was designed by Norman Foster, the same British architect who designed the new terminal in Beijing. Foster is credited with authoring a new and highly influential style of terminal design, featuring ample natural light and expansive vistas within the terminal and striking rooflines when viewed from either the landside or airside. Indeed, Heathrow’s Terminal 5 is topped by the longest free-standing roof in the United Kingdom, a roof whose vast wave-like form is intended to help passengers intuitively find their way in the terminal. Meanwhile, Beijing’s new terminal features a roofline that is meant to invoke the shape of a dragon, replete with triangular skylights intended to look like dragon scales. Elsewhere the vast rooflines characteristic of mega-terminals

874

J.T. Bowen and J.L. Cidell

Fig. 50.4 Denver international airport. Since its completion in 1995, Denver international airport has become a symbol of the city and a significant engine of economic growth. (Photo source: J. Cidell)

have been designed to invoke everything from the snowcapped Rockies (Denver International) (Fig. 50.4) to the triangular lanteen-rigged sails of a traditional Qatari dhow (Doha International) to the wings of an airplane (Osaka-Kansai). Ultimately, despite the architectural nods to national cultures and local environments there is a fundamental similarity to new airports and terminals – not just because form follows function, but also because the same relative handful of architects have had their hands upon so many of the new structures. Foster + Partners and Rogers Stirk Harbour + Partners are near the forefront of the architectural firms in what has been called the “global intelligence corps” (Olds 1995). Their works span the planet.7 Both firms are based in London. Other architects and architecture firms whose work graces multiple mega-airports include Paul Andreu Architecte (Paris); Skidmore, Owings, and Merrill (Chicago); and Fentress Architects (Denver). Interestingly, air transportation has facilitated and encouraged the globalization of services, including architectural design, and in that sense aviation itself has contributed to the globalization of the “mega-terminal” and “mega-airport.”

50.2 Explaining the Mega-Airport Given the extraordinary cost of new terminals, runways, and airports, one might wonder why governments keep building them? The most obvious answer is that air traffic keeps growing. In fact, since 1950 air passenger and cargo traffic have grown

50

Mega-Airports

875

globally at average annual rates of 8.9 and 9.6% respectively (ICAO, 1998, 2007).8 That growth has been both the engine and the justification for the transformation of countless urban landscapes via new or expanded airports in the first five decades of the Jet Age. Indeed a common pattern since the 1950s has been for new, vastly larger airports located far from a city’s central business district (CBD) to replace or supplement closer-in airports that date to the less frenetic pre-World War II era. John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York, Narita Airport near Tokyo, Charles de Gaulle Airport near Paris, Changi Airport in Singapore, and Denver International Airport are examples spanning the decades of the Jet Age. More specifically, traffic growth in the last decade was largely concentrated in the regions where the big-ticket projects reviewed above have been concentrated (Table 50.5). In terms of airline capacity change between 1998 and 2008, the Middle East had the highest airline capacity percentage growth of any region with at least a million scheduled seats per week in 1998, and East Asia had the highest absolute value increase in airline capacity of any region except Western Europe. In the latter region, the growth of airline capacity was partly absorbed by secondary airports, such as London-Stansted and London-Luton, popular with the new flock of low-cost carriers there. While the conjunction of traffic growth and new airport capacity in the Middle East and East Asia lends a sheen of rationality to the projects in these two regions, it is important to note that most of projects listed in Tables 50.2 and 50.3 are built to cater to traffic volumes deep in the future. Even with the remarkable growth of Dubai (12.3% average annual airline capacity growth between 1998 and 2008), for instance, the aforementioned capacity of the new Al Maktoum International Airport combined with the existing Dubai International9 would give the emirate capacity for 195 million passengers per year, more than five times actual 2008 passenger traffic. Whether the need for such capacity will ever be realized is certainly open to question, for the record of airport traffic forecasting is not encouraging Table 50.5 Scheduled airline capacity by region, 1998–2008 Region

1998

2008

Average annual growth rate (%)

North Africa and Middle East Subsaharan Africa South and Central Asia Northeast and Southeast Asia Western Europe Eastern and Central Europe Latin America North America Southwest Pacific

1, 493, 561 840, 594 988, 537 8, 799, 090 10, 701, 871 919, 896 4, 510, 569 21, 345, 358 1, 593, 427

2, 880, 664 1, 296, 745 2, 467, 239 14, 501, 459 16, 911, 805 1, 963, 235 5, 507, 694 21, 261, 471 2, 178, 474

6.8 4.4 9.6 5.1 4.7 7.9 2.0 0 3.2

The capacity figures shown are scheduled seats per week for airlines in April 1998 and April 2008. The data were drawn from OAG Max, a searchable database of schedules data for virtually every airline in the world Source: OAG Max

876

J.T. Bowen and J.L. Cidell

(Feldman & Milch, 1982: Chapter 3). There has been a tendency for forecasters to tell their clients (typically the sponsors of new airport infrastructure) what they want to hear – and that has generally meant unabated growth. Further, the assumptions that underlie traffic forecasts are often unrealistic (e.g. steady, robust economic growth) and little consideration is given to alternatives to new infrastructure, such as the maximal use of existing runways and terminals through congestion pricing. Given such impediments to accurate forecasting, it is hardly surprising that there are many examples of airports that proved too large even decades after opening. Zhuhai in the Pearl River Delta, for instance, is very lightly trafficked despite the optimism that attended its opening in 1995 (The Straits Times, 2001). On the other hand, building to meet forecast traffic is almost never the sole or even primary purpose of very large airport infrastructure projects. Rather, such projects serve a host of economic and political purposes. Consider the case of the new Kuala Lumpur International Airport (KLIA). The airport was planned to have a capacity of 120 million passengers per year in 2020, but “The question arises as to why Malaysia, with a population of 20 million, needs an international airport of this size. The reason is that intense strategic competition has already begun between countries to be at the forefront of [the] next generation of air travel.” (Sharp & Slessor, 1999: 10). The new KLIA is, furthermore, an anchor for Malaysia’s Multimedia Supercorridor, a high tech development project that like KLIA itself was the brainchild of the country’s autocratic and ambitious former Prime Minister, Mahathir Mohamed. Thus KLIA, like many of its counterparts elsewhere in the world, was integral to a political and economic vision quite divorced from traffic forecasts. The competitive dimension of mega-airports is especially common. In the 1960s and 1970s, Dallas-Fort Worth was built partly to neutralize the threat posed by fastgrowing Houston and its airport, and the development of the new airport at Roissyen-France (ultimately Charles de Gaulle) inspired the British government to move ahead with a third London airport (Stansted) (Feldman & Milch, 1982: 44, 91). More recently, the quest for urban and national competitive advantage has driven airport development in the Middle East and East Asia. Certainly, competition is a primary force driving Dubai, Doha, and Abu Dhabi. Meanwhile, in Northeast Asia, the completion of the new HKIA affected airport investments elsewhere in China and in South Korea and Japan (Ikeya, 2002). Beyond the competition among cities and nations, there is in addition abundant evidence that airports are vital engines of local and regional development. There is a strongly positive relationship between employment creation, particularly headquarters and so-called “New Economy” jobs, on the one hand and accessibility to a major airport on the other hand (Button & Taylor, 2000; Debbage, 1999; Debbage & Delk, 2001; Irwin & Kasarda, 1991; Ivy, Fik, & Malecki 1995; Reich, 1991). Airports have proven to be reliable engines of economic growth because the people and goods that pass through them are especially likely to be associated with knowledgeintensive industries like business consulting, finance, microelectronics, and pharmaceuticals.

50

Mega-Airports

877

The sociologist John Kasarda has argued that the centrality of air transportation in today’s economy has engendered a new form of urban economic development he terms the “aerotropolis” (Kasarda, 2005). Among the examples Kasarda cites is the 42-km corridor from Dulles International Airport to Washington, DC where employment grew twelvefold between 1970 and 1996 and corporations ranging from Gannett to Rolls-Royce North America make their headquarters. The similarly crucial appeal of air transport accessibility helps to explain why land near Schiphol Airport in the Netherlands is the most valuable in the Amsterdam metropolitan area (Kasarda, 2000). Aerotropoli are even more common in developing countries, Kasarda argues, because the relatively blank slate of city-regions like Kuala Lumpur makes it easier for this new form of urban development to take shape (Lindsay, 2006). The aforementioned Multimedia Supercorridor, with KLIA as its southern pole, is an aerotropolis in the making. Finally, major airports are not just important factors in economic competition and development. They also serve diverse political purposes. In international relations, an airport can burnish the image of a regime. When the new Imam Khomeini International Airport opened near Tehran in 2004, for instance, the Iranian President at the time, Mohammad Khatami, said rather optimistically, “Iran used to be the heart of the Silk Road. Now it can again connect east and west and north to south.” (Daragahi, 2004: W1). More recently, Beijing-Capital’s Terminal 3 was intended in part to create a sophisticated, capable, even open impression of the “new China” as the first place millions of visitors see in the People’s Republic. Conversely, HKIA was designed with fear of the “old China” in mind. Specifically, Britain, which still controlled Hong Kong at the time the decision was made to build a new airport, wanted to use massive investment – much of it private – in the airport to signal British confidence that Hong Kong would remain a vibrant commercial center after the 1997 handover to Chinese sovereignty. Major airports can be similarly important in affecting internal politics, a fact immediately evident in the names affixed to many airports – from Al Maktoum International Airport near Dubai (named for the emirate’s royal family) to the recently renamed (and expanded) Reagan National (Washington).10 A different political dimension is manifest in the awarding of airport construction contracts. In Japan, vastly expensive new airports at Kobe, Nagoya, and Osaka as well as expansion projects in Tokyo and other cities are elements in a broader long-term strategy of government spending intended to promote economic growth and, more specifically, curry favor with the influential construction lobby (Kerr, 2001).

50.3 Selected Case Studies Politics, economics, and the environment all play important roles in the planning and construction of mega-airports. The unique intersections of these factors in different nations and cities shape the infrastructure on the ground and the organizational process that makes it run smoothly (or not, as the case may be). In this section, we explore these elements in more detail through a series of short case studies: Berlin

878

J.T. Bowen and J.L. Cidell

and the politics of airport development, Denver and changing regional attitudes towards a mega-airport, Osaka and the environmental and economic impacts of building offshore, and Sydney and the intersection of expansion with privatization.

50.3.1 Berlin Although Berlin’s political situation is unique in the world, having been split into two separate cities and political-economic systems for over thirty years, the politics surrounding its airport system are relevant to many different places (Alberts, Bowen, & Cidell, 2008). After years of debate, Berlin’s three-airport system is being whittled down to one, which is being expanded to accommodate expected growth. The multiscalar politics of the debate reflect the multiple meanings that airports have and the importance of considering them as more than simply infrastructure projects: as economic engines, as symbols of cosmopolitanism and connectivity, and as objects of political contestation. Tempelhof, Berlin’s first airport, was built in the 1920s and quickly became one of the most important airfields in Europe due to Germany’s “air-mindedness.” After WWII and the division of the city into East and West, the Allies built Tegel to facilitate the Berlin Airlift after the USSR’s blockade of West Berlin. East Berlin was left without an airport, leading to the construction of Schönefeld on the southern edge of the metropolitan area. Both airports subsequently developed their own international networks, with Tegel’s traffic mostly going to West Germany due to West Berlin’s extraordinary political geography, and most Schönefeld flights headed for Soviet bloc countries. After reunification and the return of capital city status, Berlin was expected to become a major world city. One of the first steps to achieving that vision was to provide sufficient airport capacity to compete with Frankfurt, Amsterdam, Paris, and other major European hubs. However, the complicated political situation led to a decade-long debate during which Berlin failed to achieve its expected rise in status, in large part because the multiple-airport system made transferring between eastern and western destinations difficult (Alberts et al., 2008). The debate was fueled in part by politics, with the two states of Berlin and Brandenburg both wanting the economic and political clout of an international airport within their territory, while potential neighbors opposed it due to noise and air pollution. The failure to find a private company willing to invest in the facility compelled the federal government to provide funding11 for the new Berlin-Brandenburg International Airport (BBI), which is an extension of the existing Schönefeld site. BBI will open in 2011 (Airport Berlin Brandenburg International, no date), finally giving Germany’s largest city and capital a single airport (Tempelhof closed to air traffic in 2008; Tegel will close in 2011). But BBI is unlikely to become a hub on the scale of a Frankfurt or Paris. After reunification, Lufthansa expressed interest in making Berlin a second hub to complement Frankfurt, but the slow progress in resolving the airport problem compelled the carrier to shift its attention instead to Munich, where Lufthansa is now deeply

50

Mega-Airports

879

entrenched. Berlin does have a hubbing carrier, however: Air Berlin has risen to become Europe’s third largest low-cost carrier (after Ryanair and easyJet), but the cities the LCC serves from its Berlin hub are mainly nearby cities in Europe and tourist destinations in the Mediterranean, Caribbean, and elsewhere – not the sort of linkages, in other words, that foster a world city.12

50.3.2 Denver Denver International Airport has served as both an example and a warning in the debate many cities face about whether to expand an existing airport or build a new one. The original municipal airport opened in 1929, 6 mi (10 km) from downtown in order to be far from existing development. But over time, residential and commercial development grew out from downtown to envelop the airport on three sides; as happened in many other places, this was a tolerable situation for residents until the introduction of jet aircraft around 1960. The increasing externalities associated with the airport were greatly amplified by the deregulation of the U.S. domestic airline industry in 1978. Deregulation was initially good to Denver, as it became a hub for United, Continental, and Frontier Airlines. Between 1978 and 1986, passenger levels doubled. Unfortunately, two of the runways were too close together to be used under inclement conditions, which occur more frequently in Denver than most airports. After an initial decision to expand the existing airport was reversed, the official notice of the decision to build the new Denver International Airport (DIA) was signed in 1985. The DIA project was plagued by a series of events that turned it into a cautionary lesson in the politics and economics of building a new airport in the U.S. First, passenger forecasts became overly optimistic when instead of having three airlines hubbing at the facility, within a few years’ time there was only one (United), resulting in higher ticket prices and an actual decline in passengers over a five-year period (Dempsey, Goetz, & Szyliowicz, 1997). Further, United only agreed to help fund the new airport if it included an automated baggage system, which led to an entire year’s worth of delays. Second, a three-year delay in purchasing the necessary land raised its price, and the city of Denver had to reach agreements with the surrounding jurisdictions with regards to lost tax revenue and compensation for noise. Rather than the projected cost of $1.7 billion, by the time it finally opened in 1995, the final price tag was $5 billion ($6.5 billion in year 2007 dollars – see Table 50.2) (Goetz & Szyliowicz, 1997). Despite Denver’s over-time and over-budget experience, by the ten-year anniversary of the facility, the public rhetoric had largely changed to considering DIA a success (Leib, 2005). The surrounding area has gained a substantial number of jobs and new housing, flight delays are relatively rare, and there is plenty of room for new runways as traffic increases. The site of the old airport is being redeveloped into housing, retail, and institutional uses that are contributing to Denver’s growing reputation as a New Urbanist city. In short, the real lesson to be learned from DIA may be that a long time scale is required when balancing costs and benefits, and that

880

J.T. Bowen and J.L. Cidell

inclusion of the broader, non-aviation costs and benefits can substantially alter the assessment of an airport’s merit.

50.3.3 Osaka While noise may be the most significant environmental issue for most airports, the experience of Kansai International Airport (KIA) in Osaka shows that other aspects of the environment can be equally problematic. As noted above, KIA was one of the first airports to be built entirely from scratch, including the land it sits on (Fig. 50.5). Lack of room on the mainland for a new facility and conflicts over noise with the surrounding community of the existing airport meant that a third option had to be created (Nijkamp & Yim, 2001). Here, 510 ha (227 acres) of land were built off the Japanese coast for a single runway and terminal (Douglas & Lawson, 2003). As is the rule rather than the exception, the project ran into unforeseen engineering difficulties and ended up going over budget, for a total of $14 billion ($19.9 billion in year 2007 dollars – see Table 50.2). In particular, the land reclamation work plus the weight of the new material caused the seabed to settle and compact, requiring hydraulic jacks to be installed under all of the support columns of the terminal building so they can be adjusted as further shifting of the seabed occurs. Mitigation of the damage to the marine environment from the new island also added to the final cost (Nijkamp & Yim, 2001). Because of the budget overrun, KIA has had to charge some of the highest landing fees in the world to try and recoup their costs. Additionally, concern over

Fig. 50.5 Kansai internatioal airport. The artificial island upon which Osaka’s new airport was constructed is connected to the mainland by a 3.7 km bridge. Despite weak traffic growth at the airport, a second runway was built on newly reclaimed land visible to the right of the original island in this image. Photo credit: Air TeamImages

50

Mega-Airports

881

the loss of jobs at the existing airport meant that it stayed open, serving domestic flights while the new facility handles international flights (Nijkamp & Yim, 2001). Unfortunately, the combination of higher landing fees and competition with other airports within the country and region for international flights has meant that passenger numbers have not risen as quickly as expected. Indeed, airline capacity actually fell slightly during the decade from 1998 to 2008 (Johnston, 2008). In the meantime, the island has sunk farther than expected: 40 ft (12 m) in its first ten years, with subsidence expected to continue for another two or three decades (Sekigawa, 2004). The financial and environmental costs of KIA, along with a similar experience at Hong Kong’s new airport, are leading many other localities to question whether a new offshore facility really is a viable third option for increasing airport capacity.

50.3.4 Sydney Australia’s privatization of airports has been among the most complete in the world. The experience of Kingsford Sydney Airport (KSA) reflects many of the issues concerning airport privatization, particularly its intersection with expansion planning. As part of a general trend towards privatization, the Australian federal government decided in 1994 to sell the twenty-two airports under its control to private interests. The airports were initially privatized in two rounds, with Melbourne, Brisbane, and Perth going in 1997 and Adelaide, Canberra, Hobart, Coolangatta, and Darwin following in 1998. Some economic regulations remained in effect, including a prohibition on simultaneous ownership of Sydney, Melbourne, and/or Brisbane, and a cap on the percentage of ownership by foreign firms or by airlines (Forsyth, 2003). Part of the privatization legislation included a cap to keep ticket prices from increasing too rapidly. However, the near-simultaneous collapse of Ansett and the slump in traffic after 11 September 2001, led to a significant drop in passenger demand. The loss of revenue led the remaining airlines to ask that price regulations be suspended so they could recoup their costs (Forsyth, 2003). This was the first time that price regulation had been suspended in Australia to ensure profits, which underlines the special role of the airlines in the economy. Prices are no longer capped, but they continue to be monitored at the five largest airports. In the meantime, the privatization of KSA had been postponed while questions of expansion and noise compensation were dealt with, and then again after the events of 2001. The question about whether to build a new facility in Badgerys Creek or expand the existing airport was decided in the late 1990s with the construction of a new runway and control tower at KSA, but concerns about noise abatement remained. Once those concerns were dealt with, there were three complete bids submitted, and KSA was finally sold in 2002 to a consortium for more than the previous eight airports put together: AUD 4.6 billion ($2.6 billion) (Forsyth, 2006). The federal government retained control over noise and security, as well as some economic regulation and plans for future development. Significantly, there have been multiple new entrants to the domestic market since privatization (e.g., Virgin Blue and Jetstar), indicating that competition has not

882

J.T. Bowen and J.L. Cidell

suffered despite airline ownership of the terminals; revenues are rising, but so are passenger numbers (Mather, 2004). The current airport operator, a consortium with majority ownership by Macquarie Airports, cannot prohibit the government from developing a new airport on another site, but they do have first right of refusal on operating the new facility. While the remaining economic regulations may be felt as stifling by the airport operator, they have certainly played an important role in the positive view of privatization in Australia, encouraging its growth in Europe and Asia and perhaps its expansion into the U.S.

50.4 Mega-Airports of the Future In this final section, we discuss some of the most important trends in the airline industry and their likely impact on existing and planned mega-airports. First are the global economic recession and the consequent drop in demand for air travel and availability of funds for mega-projects. Second is the growing importance of sustainable transportation, of which aviation is an increasingly important component, juxtaposed with the rise in low-cost carriers. Third is a combination of economic shifts within related industries, from the privatization of airports to the competition between the two remaining large commercial aircraft manufacturers. The global recession which started in 2007 has affected all sectors of the economy, including aviation. Because of the strong connections between business travel and producer services, the need to cut costs on the part of financial, real estate, and other firms has meant a decline in business travelers, while tourists are vacationing closer to home and driving instead of flying. The resulting drop in demand for air travel means that many airports are experiencing a decrease in passenger and freight traffic that is expected to take longer to recover from than was the case after the attacks of September 11, 2001 (Pierceall, 2009). Therefore, airports that have already committed to expansion projects but now need to cut their budgets will likely be in a difficult situation and/or risk building more capacity than is needed. Already, some projects – such as the three new U.S. runways13 that debuted in 2007 – have been called into question because their rationale has been undermined by slow or negative traffic growth (Maynard, 2008). On the other hand, decreasing demand is good news for airports that were contemplating major capital projects but have not been able to find financing under the credit crunch; those projects will now likely not be necessary for a few more years, by which time funds should again be available. At the same time, the attractiveness of infrastructure projects with their long-term, generally steady returns is making airports and other transportation facilities desirable for investors, especially with many local governments looking to raise cash by selling off infrastructure (Vaughan & Basar, 2009). Additionally, the U.S. in particular is seeking to stimulate its economy through federal funding for infrastructure projects, including airports both large and small. Along with economic constraints, there is additional pressure on airports from the growing international desire to reduce the environmental impact of aviation.

50

Mega-Airports

883

Although aviation represents a small percentage of the total contribution of transportation to global warming, the fact that its emissions are released high in the atmosphere rather than at ground level exacerbates their effects on the atmosphere (Chapman, 2007). Furthermore, per passenger-mile traveled, aircraft emit more CO2 than cars or trains, and they emit even more per pound of fuel burned at low altitude. This means short flights are relatively worse than long-haul flights, and, given the success of low-cost carriers, that is where most traffic growth has been occurring (Chapman, 2007). At a local scale, the environmental effects of air travel in the form of noise and air pollution are causing more and more localities to oppose airport expansion or impose curfews on facilities. The environmental capacity of the air transport system (Upham, Thomas, Gillingwater, & Raper, 2003), reflected in terms of constraints on operations and expansion, is therefore becoming increasingly important in addition to physical capacity as measured in terms of runway and terminal size. One solution is to spread the environmental impacts over more locations. For instance, much of the growth of low-cost carriers, especially in Europe, has been absorbed by smaller regional facilities such as Luton or Stansted in Greater London rather than expanding mega-airports such as Heathrow. However, with the EU moving to regulate carbon emissions and remove the existing exemption on aviation, it is likely that airports and airlines will have to at least spend money on trading emission permits, if not on cleaner-burning engines or fuels.14 Offsetting emissions through funding carbon-sink programs is another option; some online booking sites and airports already offer travelers the option to buy carbon offsets as part of their purchase (although the efficacy and ethics of this approach are problematic; see Baldwin 2009 for an example). Biofuels for jet engines are under development, and the newest aircraft produced by Boeing (e.g. the 787) and Airbus (e.g. the A380 and A350) are attractive to buyers even in the current economic climate because of their improved energy efficiency. Still, even these attempts to maintain business-as-usual may not be enough to keep aviation sustainable. Finally, there have been a series of changes within related aviation industries that are not part of the global recession but are likely to impact mega-airports in the coming decades. First, the privatization of airports is slowly but steadily growing within Europe and Australasia and possibly spreading to the United States. There are significant implications for municipal planning with a change in ownership from public to private, including the ability to plan land uses adjacent to the airport and to provide relief from noise and other environmental externalities to nearby residents. Questions of regional competition for traffic may become more intense if profits are on the line rather than local or regional reputation. Additionally, there may be concerns over foreign ownership of infrastructure that was in many cases originally developed as part of a nationalist project. This has been the case in the U.S. and New Zealand, where limitations have been put on the percentage of foreign ownership that is allowed for key infrastructure. Because of the importance of airports as political symbols as discussed above, the growth of airport privatization may be limited by fear of losing those symbols. On the other hand, private ownership is

884

J.T. Bowen and J.L. Cidell

increasingly being seen as a win-win proposition for local governments looking to raise money and investors wanting a stable project. There are also changes in the aircraft manufacturing industry that are influencing the development of mega-airports and of airport systems. In particular, Boeing and Airbus, the two main manufacturers of large jet aircraft, have banked on different futures regarding the global airport network (Sparaco & Wall, 2005). Both predict roughly the same level of growth in the coming decades, but the form of that growth will differ depending on which firm’s vision turns out to be accurate. In developing the double-decker A380 – the largest commercial airplane flying since its debut in 2007 – Airbus bet on consolidation: the hub-and-spoke system will remain intact and even strengthen. This vision is shared by the many Gulf States that are building mega-airports, hoping to act as hubs for the Eastern Hemisphere and maybe eventually become destinations for business and pleasure travelers. On the other hand, the reconfiguration of airport terminals and taxiways to handle the massive A380 has limited it to relatively few routes, and Airbus has since backed off of the A380 to focus on the mid-sized A350. The A350 bears many similarities to Boeing’s ultrafuel-efficient 787, which was developed to meet what Boeing saw as greater demand for more point-to-point service, or market fragmentation.15 Such a scenario would favor the growth of smaller airports that serve local markets rather than acting as transfer centers. Both companies have had serious delays introducing their new aircraft, and both are currently experiencing declining demand due to the recession, so the competition will remain on the table for the foreseeable future. In short, while the aviation industry has always been dynamic, it faces new challenges today that are likely to have a significant impact on airports and related infrastructure. The economic challenges to airline manufacturers, airlines, and airports themselves mean that physical capacity constraints are eased somewhat for the time being, although the concomitant declining revenues are obviously not desirable. Shifts in airline and airport ownership also have the potential to affect where infrastructure expansion occurs and how much of it there is, while government funding will continue to play a significant role for political and other reasons. Finally, although local environmental impacts have already shaped airport development to some extent, the global impacts of air travel and its emissions may have an even more significant influence on the scale, cost, and location of mega-airports in the future.

Notes 1. By comparison, Singapore’s Changi Airport, a model that airports in the Middle East and elsewhere have sought to emulate in terms of its favorable development impact, had an annual capacity of 69 million passengers and 3 million tonnes of cargo in 2008 (Civil Aviation Authority of Singapore, no date). 2. Unless otherwise indicated, all costs reported in this chapter are in U.S. dollars. 3. We define Asia-Pacific as Northeast Asia, Southeast Asia, and the Southwest Pacific. 4. In 2001 Mexico’s government announced that it would build a new $2.6 billion airport for Mexico City at a site in Texcoco. The project never advanced far, however, partly due to

50

5. 6.

7.

8. 9. 10.

11. 12. 13. 14.

15.

Mega-Airports

885

opposition from local communities and significant concerns about the proposed airport’s impact on wetlands (Johnson, 2002). Called Rogers Stirk Harbour and Partners by the time the terminal opened. Adjusted for inflation, Heathrow’s Terminal 5 cost more than twice as much per increment of design capacity (million passengers per year) as Terminal 4, which opened in 1986. Similarly, the development of the Airbus A380, which first flew commercially in 2007, cost 50% more per seat than the Airbus A320, which first flew in 1988 (cost comparisons are authors’ calculations based on contemporary development cost estimates adjusted with the relevant GDP price deflator). The world’s most famous, mainly Western architects have been attracted to China and other totalitarian states partly because governments and businesses in such settings are “fearless clients, the kind who commit serious money and laugh in the face of local opposition” (Lacayo, 2008: 54). The different speeds at which the new terminals were approved and built in London-Heathrow and Beijing-Capital are testament to the sort of characteristics that make China appealing to elite architects. Passenger traffic is measured in passenger-kilometers; cargo traffic is measured in freight tonne-kilometers. Dubai International Airport itself is home to a new Terminal 3 and a new concourse under construction to cater to Airbus A380s (“Dubai Airports wins. . .”, 2009). The main airport for Johannesburg presents a particularly interesting case of airport naming. Until 1994, the airport was called Jan Smuts International after a mid-20th century white prime minister. With the end of apartheid, the government changed the name of the airport to simply Johannesburg International as part of a broader policy of not naming airports after politicians, but in 2006 the airport’s name was changed again as it became O.R. Tambo International in commemoration of a former leader of the African National Congress. The total cost of the airport’s expansion was estimated at $2.6 billion in 2006 (Airline Business, 2006). At the time of writing, for instance, Berlin had more flights per week to Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic than to New York City. At Washington Dulles International, O’Hare International, and Seattle-Tacoma International. There has been considerable research on the development of aviation biofuels, including one derived from jatropha an inedible plant that can be grown on acidic and relatively infertile soils. Virgin Atlantic and Air New Zealand conducted test flights powered partly by this biofuel in 2008 (Warwick, 2008). There is an interesting comparison to be made between the development of airline networks and submarine cable networks (Malecki & Wei, 2009). With respect to both technologies, a tension exists between continued concentration at major hubs/landing points on the one hand and the dispersal of traffic among more gateways on the other.

References Airline Business. (2006). Berlin uncertainty is ended, April, 18. Airline Business. (2008). The big ambitions of Abu Dhabi, October, 31. Airport Berlin Brandenburg International BBI. (no date). Retrieved March 18, 2009, from www.berlin-airport.de/EN/BBI/ Airport Council International. (2008). Passenger traffic 2007 final. Retrieved March 10, 2009, from www.airports.org Alberts, H., Bowen, J., & Cidell, J. (2008). Missed opportunities: The restructuring of Berlin’s airport system and the city’s position in international airline networks. Regional Studies, 43(5), 739–758. doi: 10.1080/00343400701874248. Available online 12 June 2008. Baldwin, A. (2009). Carbon nullius and the racial rule: Race, nature and the cultural politics of forest carbon in Canada. Antipode, 41(2), 231–255.

886

J.T. Bowen and J.L. Cidell

Bolger, J., & Waller, M. (2007). A terminal lesson on how to build the big ones. The Times (London), April 24, 5. Button, K., & Taylor, S. (2000). International air transportation and economic development. Journal of Air Transport Management, 6, 209–222. Chapman, L. (2007). Transport and climate change: A review. Journal of Transport Geography, 15, 354–367. Civil Aviation Authority of Singapore. (no date). Some facts on Changi Airport. Retrieved March 1, 2009, from www.changiairport.com Daragahi, B. (2004). In Mideast aviation, vying to be new global hub. New York Times, April 13, W1. Debbage, K. G. (1999). Air transportation and urban-economic restructuring: Competitive advantage in the U.S. Carolinas. Journal of Air Transport Management, 5, 211–221. Debbage, K. G., & Delk, D. (2001). The geography of air passenger volume and local employment patterns by US metropolitan core area: 1973–1996. Journal of Air Transport Management, 7, 159–167. Dempsey, P. (2000). Airport planning & development handbook. New York: McGraw Hill. Dempsey, P., Goetz, A., & Szyliowicz, J. (1997). Denver international airport: Lessons learned. New York: McGraw-Hill. Department of Civil Aviation (Dubai). (2007). Dubai International: New projects. Retrieved March 23, 2009, from www.dubaiairport.com. Last updated November 7, 2007. Douglas, I., & Lawson, N. (2003). Airport construction: Materials use and geomorphic change. Journal of Air Transport Management, 9, 177–185. Dubai Airports wins best airport award. (2009). Press release dated February 23, 2009. Retrieved March 7, 2009, from www.zawya.com Economist, The (2008). Rushing by on road, rail, and air – China’s infrastructure splurge. February 16, 30–32. Feldman, E. J., & Milch, J. (1982). Technocracy versus democracy: The comparative politics of international airports. Boston: Auburn House Publishing. Flottau, J. (2005). Grand central; Construction begins at the complex that could be the world’s largest airport. Aviation Week & Space Technology, December 5, 51. Forsyth, P. (2003). Regulation under stress: developments in Australian airport policy. Journal of Air Transport Management, 9, 25–35. Forsyth, P. (2006). Airport policy in Australia and New Zealand: Privatisation, light handed regulation and performance. Paper for Conference “Comparative Political Economy and Infrastructure Performance: The Case of Airports”, Fundacion Rafael del Pino, Madrid, September 18–19, 2006. Goetz, A., & Szyliowicz, J. (1997). Revisiting transportation planning and decision making theory: The case of Denver International Airport. Transportation Research A, 31(4), 263–280. ICAO (International Civil Aviation Organization). (1998). 1997 Airline finances amongst best in past 50 years. Press release, dated 16 June. ICAO (International Civil Aviation Organization). (2007). Profits and traffic up for world’s airlines in 2006. Press release, dated 19 June. Ikeya, A. (2002). Rivalry intense for mantle of “Asia’s hub”. The Nikkei Weekly, April 15. Irwin, M. D., & Kasarda, J. D. (1991). Air passenger linkages and employment growth in U.S. metropolitan areas. American Sociological Review, 56, 524–537. Ivy, R. L., Fik, T. J., & Malecki, E. J. (1995). Changes in air service connectivity and employment. Environment and Planning A, 27, 165–179. Johnson, K. (2002). Mexico City airport plan faces a variety of issues, obstacles. Aviation Week & Space Technology, March 25, 52–54. Johnston, E. (2008). Kansai Airport still struggling after 14 years. The Japan Times, September 5. Kasarda, J. D. (2000). New logistics technologies and infrastructure for the digitized economy. 4th International Conference on Technology Policy and Innovation, Curitiba, Brazil, August 28–31.

50

Mega-Airports

887

Kasarda, J. D. (2005). Gateway airports, speed, and the rise of the aerotropolis. In D. V. Gibson, M. V. Heitor, & A. Ibarro-Yunez (Eds), Learning and knowledge for the network society (pp. 99–108). West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press. Kerr, A. (2001) Dogs and demons: Tales from the dark side of Japan. New York: Hill and Wang. Kingsley-Jones, M. (2007). Clark predicts switch to Jebel Ali by 2016. Flight International, March 20. Lacayo, R. (2008). The architecture of autocracy. Foreign Policy, May/June, 53–57. Leib, J. (2005). DIA soars over early doubt, but not clear of turbulence. Denver Post, February 20, K1. Lindsay, G. (2006). Rise of the aerotropolis. Fast Company, July/August, 76–85. Malecki, E. J., & Wei, H. (2009). A wired world: The evolving geography of submarine cables and the shift to Asia. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 99(2), 360–382. Mather, K. (2004). Airport privatisation – Sydney Airport case study. South China Morning Post Business and Economic Policy Seminar, Hong Kong, 15 September. Retrieved March 16, 2009, from http://conferences.scmp.com/conferences/20040915/programme.asp Maynard, M. (2008). Airports grow apace, but the timing seems off. The New York Times, October 30, A21. Michels, J. (2007). Airports a-go-go. Aviation Week & Space Technology, October 29, 59. Nijkamp, P., & Yim, H. (2001). Critical success factors for offshore airports—a comparative evaluation. Journal of Air Transport Management, 7, 181–188. Olds, K. (1995). Globalization and the production of new urban spaces: Pacific Rim megaprojects in the late 20th Century. Environment and Planning A, 27, 1713–1743. Pearman, H. (2004). Airports: A century of architecture. New York: Harry N. Abrams. Pierceall, K. (2009). With recession, tough outlook seen for airports. Press-Enterprise. Riverside, CA, April 2, E1. Reich, R. B. (1991). The work of nations. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Rogers Stirk Harbour + Partners (2008). Heathrow Terminal 5. Retrieved March 5, 2009, from www.richardrogers.co.uk Sekigawa, E. (2004). Going down. Aviation Week & Space Technology, 160, 13, 45. Sharp, D., & Slessor, C. (1999). Kisho Kurokawa: Kuala Lumpur international airport. Stuttgart/London: Edition Axel Menges. Sparaco, P., & Wall, R. (2005). Differences in Boeing versus Airbus market projections. Aviation Week & Space Technology, March 6, 39–40. The Straits Times (Singapore). (2001). Grandiose Zhuhai Airport a huge failure. June 2: A9. Upham, P., Thomas, C., Gillingwater, D., & Raper, D. (2003) Environmental capacity and airport operations: current issues and future prospects. Journal of Air Transport Management, 9, 145–151. Vaughan, L., & Basar, S. (2009). Deal makers hop on infrastructure projects. Wall Street Journal, April 6, 23. Warwick, G. (2008). Boost for biofuels. Aviation Week & Space Technology, November 24, 38–39.

Chapter 51

University as Megaengineering Project Judith A. Martin

51.1 Introduction Megaprojects are typically defined by large transportation improvements such as dams and tunnels, by landscape decimation, or sometimes by a really tall building. This suggests that humans see what we are looking for in this arena. I wish to suggest that the “megaproject” label can also include landscape elements that we often take for granted, such as a contemporary university campus. Most people, even those spending entire careers in university settings, have little sense of these organizations’ complexity, or of the detailed planning that characterizes any and all aspects of institutional growth. Insiders treat universities as we treat other parts of metropolitan areas; we stick to what is familiar, and seldom venture off welltread paths. Students attend classes, typically within a limited physical range, while staff and professors are usually even more physically constricted. Now that all are tethered to computers or wireless hot-spots, this constriction may have even intensified. Moreover, few professionals have any interest in what it takes to manage a big university – how food is delivered, how parking is arranged, the quality of building maintenance – all is taken for granted. It is also relatively easy, in a large metropolitan area, to move around and be oblivious of even quite a large campus with multiple sites of broad interest, including museums, stadiums, and hospitals. People have many destinations, and if a university destination is not one of them, it can usually be avoided without difficulty. But there it sits, gobbling up land for evermore bio/tech/medical facilities and sports arenas, decade after decade.

51.2 Context Anticipating the baby boom, U.S. higher education multiplied exponentially after the 1950s as the size of campuses exploded, along with the range of academic J.A. Martin (B) Department of Geography, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis, MN 55455, USA e-mail: [email protected] S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_51,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

889

890

J.A. Martin

disciplines, and the research ambitions of faculty and administrators. The attention, energy, and financing that went into this higher education expansion was surely “mega” in scope. This academic bulk-up happened on traditional existing campuses (The Ohio State University), in significant new campuses (University of Illinois-Chicago), and in the many thousands of newly created community colleges everywhere. The large land grant university, in name alone, is a special breed. These institutions clearly staked out significant spaces wherever they were created, possessing even more land than needed when they began. But big campuses are not megaprojects based on space alone. They are major economic engines for whatever regional economy they occupy. But they also embody identity formation for millions. Harvard’s Cambridge landholdings are immense, both physically and psychically, and this effect will only grow as it expands across the Charles River into Allston and Brighton. Yale plays a similarly significant spatial role in New Haven’s psyche and economy. Across the country, institutions such as UCLA (University of California, Los Angeles), UT (University of Texas)-Austin, and Seattle’s University of Washington, define whole segments of major metropolitan areas. Even in New York City, the presence of Columbia and NYU (New York University) in most ways symbolizes opposite ends of Manhattan both in look and culture (Table 51.1). This assessment of a university as a megaproject spotlights the University of Minnesota’s Twin Cities campus. With over 22 million square feet (+ 2 million M2) of space, its physical scope spans the Mississippi River in Minneapolis and also occupies a portion of St. Paul’s northwest corner (though Google Maps seems not to know this). This is one of five campuses in the University of Minnesota system, the largest by far with more than 50,000 students, 3,500 faculty, and over 14,000 (non-graduate student) staff members. Table 51.1 Largest 15 public university campuses as of fall 2008 Ranking

Locatio university

Enrollment

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

Ohio State University Arizona State University University of Florida University of Minnesota-TC University of Central Florida University of Texas at Austin Texas A&M University Michigan State University University of South Florida Pennsylvania State University University of Washington University of Wisconsin-Madison University of Illinois at Urbana University of Michigan Purdue University

53,715 52,734 51,413 51,141 50,254 50,006 48,029 46,648 46,174 44,406 42,113 42,041 42,025 41,028 40,485

Source: Wikipedia

51

University as Megaengineering Project

891

51.3 Urban/University Relationships University/city interconnections have a rich and storied history dating back to the Middle Ages. These intersections intensified in the 19th century as an expanding middle class promoted professional status. They also became overwhelmingly identified with economic success by the late 20th century (Bender, 1988). Interest in the role of universities in cities has blossomed in recent decades. A 1996 Amsterdam conference analyzed the changing roles of these institutions, with global case studies considering the physical locations of universities in urban settings and the evolving relationships between university missions, and public expectations (van der Wusten, 1998). As Paul Claval (1998) noted, “Universities are important elements in the cultural and economic life of the cities in which they are located . . . they have become major stakes in local or regional political life” (Ibid. 44). At this same time an intriguing research aspect began to focus on the special role that urban universities play in reviving the neighborhoods surrounding their campuses, and in stimulating new real estate development. This work argued that universities are specially positioned to “do good” in their immediate surroundings (Perry & Wiewel, 2005), although that objective is seldom found in college or university mission statements. Now a professional association devoted to furthering the links between universities and their urban settings even exists: the National Association of State and Land Grant Universities and Colleges (NASLGUC). There can be no doubt that, in the U.S. as well as in major metropolitan settings around the world, universities have assumed importance well beyond their historic academic missions. Increasingly, they are expected to create new industries and jobs, to improve urban neighborhoods, and to raise the consciousness about citizenship in a global setting.

51.4 University of Minnesota History The University of Minnesota was founded in 1851 as a preparatory school on donated land close to the Mississippi in the town of St. Anthony, which merged with Minneapolis in 1872 to form one city. In 1856 another property was purchased farther downstream on the east (St. Anthony) side of the Mississippi and a new building constructed, the kernel of today’s campus. At the start, there was no real “plan” just an intention to build something worthy of a very ambitious group of new residents. [It is noteworthy that this ambition provided one of the University’s true idiosyncrasies, as its founding predated Minnesota becoming a state, the University has a level of political autonomy unusual among peer public institutions]. Lack of enrollment closed the university during the Civil War; it reopened in 1867, designated by the Morrill Act as Minnesota’s land-grant university. The University’s original building was enlarged in 1875, creating what came to be known as “Old Main.” An additional two-story, brick building was built for the agriculture department that same year. Much debate about the proper role

892

J.A. Martin

for agricultural education eventually led to the University selling an “experimental farm” that the fast-growing Chicago Milwaukee & St. Paul railroad was being extended through, and purchasing “the old Bass farm” (now the St. Paul campus) on Como Avenue in 1881. By 1894 twelve new buildings were added to the original campus, primarily in the Knoll area, in no particular physical order. These included a gymnasium, drill hall, museum, a building for engineering and physics, an observatory, and the first library in Burton Hall. Early departments included Agriculture (1870), College of Engineering and Architecture (1874), Medicine (1884), Law (1888), School of Mines (1888), Pharmacy (1892), Dental (1893), and Chemistry in 1904 (Gray 1951). The distinguished architect Cass Gilbert created the University’s first real physical plan in 1906. He had just completed the Minnesota State Capitol, and quickly went on to design major monuments, including New York’s Woolworth Building and the U.S. Supreme Court. Gilbert’s plan orbited around a visionary Beaux Arts design for a large central quadrangle, later christened “Northrop Mall.” This plan did not lack for controversy, as the university regents and the state legislature wrangled over the design, materials, expense, and the obligation to pay the architect (Gray, 1951). As with most plans, this one sat on a shelf for some time. It was eventually implemented in part during the 1920s, with an emphasis on a new Mall rather than the historic Knoll area where the University began. These were major building years, as the new Chemistry Building and Walter Library (1924) came to exemplify what was expected for new construction on the Mall. Gilbert’s original prescription for Romanesque limestone buildings was discarded in favor of more prosaic red brick facades with tall Ionic pillars (Gray, 1951), a look that today defines the core of the campus. The Northrup Mall, book-ended by Coffman Union to the south and the iconic Northrup Auditorium to the north, soon became the University’s great tree-lined outdoor commons, now a designated historic district. The University of Minnesota is a system, not simply a set of campuses in the Twin Cities. The Duluth campus joined the University in 1947; the Morris campus in 1960; the Crookston campus in 1966; and in 2000, the Rochester Center became the fifth campus. A small campus in Waseca existed from 1971 to 1992. In addition, the University has more than a dozen research and outreach centers across the state, focusing on such areas as forestry, biodiversity, and mining, among others, and also includes the over 1,000 acre (404 ha) Landscape Arboretum in the Twin Cities suburbs. The total footprint of these many University properties has now grown to over 28 million ft2 (2.6 million m2 ).

51.5 University Expansion In the 1960s, along with most other U.S. universities, the Twin Cities campus experienced a significant construction boom. The core East Bank campus leapt decisively across Washington Avenue toward the river, adding massive new structures for medical, dental, nursing and public health education. Clinical education took on new importance (500,000 patients annually visit University clinics and the hospital). It

51

University as Megaengineering Project

893

Fig. 51.1 Minneapolis campus growth from 1911 (left) to 1996 (right). (Source: Adapted from U of MN Master Plan)

also leapt across the Mississippi River, opening a new section of the campus in 1962 (Fig. 51.1). As the university’s physical size dramatically increased at this time, the entire Minneapolis campus location came to be defined in part by the new freeway system, as I-94 and I-35 W grew to envelop this part of the city (Fig. 51.2). This was the era marked by the boldly distinguishing traits of modern design: high rise buildings (some raw concrete, some brick-faced), giant concrete block windowless classrooms, and an overall utilitarian approach to the problem of accommodating academic life. In both the health education precinct and the west bank

Fig. 51.2 University of Minnesota twin cities. (http://www1.umn.edu/twincities/maps/mpls.jpg)

894

J.A. Martin

Fig. 51.3 St. Paul campus growth from 1923 (left) to 1996 (right). (Source: Adapted from University of Minnesota Master Plan)

campus, massive concrete plazas (windy, and grossly uninviting until later vegetation was added) provided the only open spaces. The St. Paul campus fared a bit better. Although it too has some dreary 1960s buildings, they tend to be less massive and more buffered by the iconic large green spaces and abundant vegetation (Fig. 51.3). Due to the area’s harsh winter climate, the post 1960 buildings were connected by a tunnel system, or more recently, by skyways (some parts of the campus have both) and there is now something called the “Gopher Way” to help neophytes navigate these connections.

51.5.1 West Bank Planning Campus expansion south across Washington Avenue for the new health precinct could be perceived as a logical expansion for a fast growing, economicallysignificant, portion of the University. Expansion to the west, across the Mississippi River, though farther away and politically fraught, was deemed critical if the University aimed to provide education to the looming baby boom generation. Returning WWII veterans were crowded into numerous “temporary” buildings (some of which lasted into the 1990s), straining the East Bank campus to its limits; a 1955 enrollment projection of 38,600 students by 1970 foretold chaos, absent action (Martin, 1978). The campus expansion was predicated in part on distance from Walter Library, with some consideration for where property acquisition would be least costly

51

University as Megaengineering Project

895

(Lehmberg & Pflaum, 2001). Expansion further to the south was effectively checked by the Mississippi River floodplain, while expansion to the north was blocked by an existing neighborhood, Marcy-Holmes, and a busy commercial center (Dinkytown) serving the faculty and student population. Expansion to the east, beyond the health center area was actually considered. One proposal boldly envisioned a continuous connection through southeast Minneapolis over to the St. Paul campus. But this option was complicated by several realities: the presence of the football stadium (since demolished); the existence of a wide swath of railroad and other industrial land; and the likely opposition of the stable Prospect Park neighborhood, home to many faculty members as well as then-Senator Hubert Humphrey. The move across the river was not ideal as it put a quarter mile (0.40 km) distance between the two main segments of the Minneapolis campus. Two existing bridges from the 1880s already joined the campus to the Cedar-Riverside community across the river. By the late 1950s, this neighborhood had morphed into a kind of “bohemian” haven for students willing to brave the chilly river crossing. Its small 1870/1880s wooden houses were deemed a slum by the city, setting the stage for the entire 340-acre (137.5 ha) community to be designated a federal urban renewal area. The University then used its eminent domain power to acquire 35 acres (14.1 ha) in the center of the community. A 1958 “blueprint” called for increasing the size of the Minneapolis campus by 77%, with most of this growth concentrated in skyscrapers connected to the main campus by a new pedestrian/vehicular bridge (Martin, 1978). The plan for what came to be called the “West Bank” envisioned 4-story classroom buildings topped by 8 story towers, all connected underground. Some worried that the expansion would create unacceptable isolation, so the academic plan dictated that the new campus would serve both undergraduate and graduate students. Several large departments, including History, Political Science, Sociology, and Business, would move across the river, accompanied by a new library and a dormitory (Martin, 1978). The West Bank campus that opened to students in 1962 was a mere shadow of what it is now (Fig. 51.1). Anderson Hall, Willey Hall, and the Wilson Library were added to the three original buildings (the Social Science Tower, the Business Tower – now Heller Hall, and Blegen Hall) later that same decade. In the 1970s, the Rarig Center (performing arts) completed the second concrete quadrangle, while the studio arts were shunted into an old industrial building. In the 1980s the Humphrey Institute and Law School joined the growing West Bank campus and expansion has continued into the recent past with the Carlson School new business building (1990s), the Arts Quarter (2000–2005), and Hanson Hall (2007). The original 35 acres (14.1 ha) have been amplified by additional land acquisitions. Historically private brokers working on behalf of the University typically acquire as much land as possible before the University announces its interest. It is no surprise that land prices go up when the University is known to be in acquisition mode. All of this expansion, even into an economically depressed neighborhood, involved both challenge and some surprises. The latter would have to include the sheer amount of land devoted to first, surface parking, and later structured parking. Most West Bank academic buildings built since 1980 landed on former parking lots,

896

J.A. Martin

which increasingly replaced housing units. The East Bank campus had little parking until this era either. With the late 1960s/1970s student population mushrooming, more and more students chose to live off-campus, reflecting baby boomers rebellious instincts. But many also had cars. In ensuing decades the University responded to its increasingly “commuter” nature by first, turning parking into a business run by the University, and then in the late 1990s, persuading most underclass students to live on or close to campus. Perhaps the University’s biggest challenge with West Bank expansion beyond the original limits (Washington Avenue to 4th Street, 19th Avenue to the river) lay in the temper of the times, and in its own students’ extracurricular activities. The Minneapolis anti-war movement of this era was largely identified with the antiestablishment Cedar-Riverside neighborhood, which was increasingly viewed as a “hippie” area with music clubs, co-op restaurants and markets, drop-in centers, and a free medical clinic. Many local residents were University students, casual or committed, and many others were University employees. This neighborhood was not just where the University expanded. Two local hospitals were also in growth mode, along with a nearby private college, and all land not allocated to one of these four institutions was being bought up for a massive ‘New Town-In Town’ development, poised to transform the entire area into a high rise modernist model for the future (Martin, 1978). Cedar-Riverside residents formed a tenant’s union, ran rent strikes battling both the University and the private developer, and ultimately sued the developer to stop the high rise future. In this context, the University’s West Bank growth frequently positioned it as an enemy of the community. But in recent years, as the University hired a professional community organizer to assist with aspects of development, this perception has lessened.

51.5.2 The Biomedical Discovery District Over the past 10–15 years most major research universities have aimed their ambitions toward higher rankings based on investments in research leading to transferable technology, or new drugs. The University of Minnesota is no different. Academic Health Center (AHC) ambitions deemed the south-of-Washington facilities inadequate by the 1990s. (The AHC was created in the 1980s as an administrative superstructure for six health-related schools, five allied health programs and numerous research centers). Clearly more land was needed. The first and most obvious choice was to expand onto the “Superblock” directly to east, the site that was for decades a collection of student dormitories. This vision placed the AHC on a conflict course with the vision of Mark Yudof, the new University president, who aimed to raise graduation rates by encouraging students to live on campus for their first years. The Superblock was not the only hurdle for AHC ambitions. The Alumni Association, long-time lobbyists for returning football to campus (it moved to the downtown Metrodome when Memorial Stadium was demolished in 1982), was increasing pressure for an on-campus stadium. These efforts finally succeeded in

51

University as Megaengineering Project

897

2006 when the state legislature signed a bill providing a portion of the stadium funding; the new facility opened in fall 2009. Each of these building projects alone would be significant, but the AHC plans and stadium together placed the eastern edge of the Minneapolis campus into development overdrive. The stadium location had been identified long before it was funded, which created another challenge for the AHC. The only land likely to be available was on the far northern side of existing athletic facilities and the proposed stadium location, about 4–5 blocks away from the AHC core area. For the AHC’s diverse missions – education, research, clinics – this was not ideal, but it was the only nearby land likely to come into the reach of the university for this purpose, as the AHC realized early on. Construction on the first building (Lions Research) was completed in 1991, the second (Center for Magnetic Resonance Research) in 1998; the Maguire Translational Research Facility was added in 2004. As these buildings were being planned and built, the University began to pursue funding for an additional 3–4 bioresearch buildings. With each likely to cost $100 million or more, and likely to crowd out bonding prospects for other worthwhile projects going forward, the university proposed an unusual request to separate these buildings from the usual bonding request, creating an external authority for this purpose, which was ultimately accepted by the legislature. At the same time, the AHC and the university’s planning arm engaged in longterm renovation planning for the core AHC area. Several buildings were torn down early in this decade to build the Molecular and Cellular Biology building and Hasselmo Hall, as the culmination of a long-planned effort to combine the biological sciences in disparate collegiate units into one college. Decisions were also made to plan the beyond-the-stadium bio-area, along with the stadium, in what came to be called the “East Gateway” district. As the stadium planning/construction began to impact everything around it – roads being moved, a new community-relations fund created – AHC planning moved forward for the second phase of what is now called the Biomedical Discovery District. It was recognized that this was in fact the largest expansion of the Twin Cities campus since the West Bank in the 1960s. The full District is scheduled for completion in 2015, with facilities focused on cancer, heart disease, infectious diseases and neuroscience research. There is a clear expectation that this new district will reinforce the University’s historic connection to Minnesota’s medical and technical industrial base (Medtronic, 3 M, etc), largely built on University based research.

51.5.3 Light Rail All of the University’s recent physical planning has been complicated by a 2005 regional Twin Cities decision to pursue a second light rail line: the long-debated Central Corridor connecting St. Paul and Minneapolis along University Avenue. Connecting this new line with the existing Hiawatha LRT (Light Rail Line), meant it would have to come directly through the university. The assumption of rail planners was that it would run down Washington Avenue, linking the West and East

898

J.A. Martin

Bank campuses, and also have a station serving the new stadium area before moving on to St. Paul. Understanding that this route could have a profoundly negative impact on the just-constructed new bio-buildings (with their very expensive equipment sensitive to vibration), the university proposed and paid for an alternative alignment analysis. The alternative proposed route would connect the West Bank and East Bank across an old bridge and through an existing railroad trench, bypassing the AHC buildings directly, but dangling the possibility of a Dinkytown station that would revitalize SE Minneapolis. The local politics of the rail project and the Federal Transportation Administration’s restrictive “cost effectiveness index” made this alternative moot, so the university is now preparing to accommodate light rail through the center of campus, with service to start in 2014. Even without the University complication, the Central Corridor would be a megaengineering project, though not particularly daunting from a technical perspective. While it is never easy to build Light Rail into an existing urban environment, this has now been done dozens of times in recent decades. Every such project has its challenges, including funding and rights of way. For the Central Corridor, funding took some time, but the routing is wholly within existing city streets, and over a county bridge. Major issues have included the loss of parking along the route, worries about gentrification in St. Paul’s ethnic business areas, and concerns about the noise and vibration (in some places the route will run less than 20 ft (6.1 m) from existing schools and churches). For the University, inserting this new transit option through the East Bank created major new challenges, with the narrowness of Washington Avenue proving the greatest of these. The analysis led to a decision to ban all vehicular traffic through the center of campus on the East Bank, apart from buses and emergency vehicles – which then raised the question: where will the cars go? It is an article of faith that the number of cars will decline and that drivers will find alternative routes throughout the three years of construction. There will also be a new road around the northern perimeter of the East Bank, but the traffic questions remain unanswered. The University’s other major concern addressed the noise/vibration impact on multimillion dollar magnets and imaging machines in new AHC buildings literally feet from the chosen route. Metro Transit had already agreed to provide special “floating slab” foundations in acoustically sensitive parts of downtown St. Paul; this technology will now be used in the AHC area of the University too. Still, some very expensive machines will be moved to another location, while the argument about whether or not this is a “project cost” has been settled. There is no doubt that the University will be a physically different place once the LRT is running. Those experienced in this area know that driving/parking will in fact decline, that new investment in denser development will occur, and that currently under-used areas of campus will be enlivened. Between now and then will be moderate chaos and major frustration, as those used to driving to or through the campus are rerouted or delayed. Washington Avenue, one of the main bridges across the Mississippi in this part of the city, has direct freeway connections; losing this driving option will confuse many. Of particular concern are the annual half-million visitors to the University Hospital, including patients and emergency vehicle access.

51

University as Megaengineering Project

899

51.5.4 UMORE Park An unexpected outcome of the stadium project was new awareness about 7000 acres (2,833 ha) of University-owned land 25 mi (40.2 km) to the southeast of campus in Rosemount, MN.1 The stadium-funding bill stipulated that, in return for state bonding, almost 2000 of these acres would be transferred to help create a new state park. As attention inside the University increasingly turned to ways to maximize University assets, another long-term planning project began focused on the remaining 5,000 acres (2023 ha), later christened UMORE Park (Fig. 51.4). An initial conceptual planning exercise proposed a new “university” community of 20,000– 30,000 residents, which looked like every “new urbanist” development of recent decades. Detailed planning since 2007 has focused on the degree to which this scale of development is possible, given that the University would expect whatever is built to be environmentally sustainable, and there is no planned alternative to car travel on the horizon. Moreover, it is known that a copious amount of gravel exists on this property, and terms are now worked out to accommodate mining. More recent planning has identified several development options for UMORE: a potential eco-industrial park with mixed-use employment opportunities; different scales

Fig. 51.4 UMORE image from Sasaki plan

900

J.A. Martin

and prices of neighborhood development; long-term regional recreation; and ongoing geothermal and other University research options. It is unlikely that much new development will happen before 2020 or even later, as gravel will be mined for some time, and the housing market recovery may be slow. It is clear that the University may have to rely more on these kinds of assets to fund its work going forward.

51.5.5 University as a Non-Developer As many universities stepped forward in recent years to assume a clear “urban” development profile, the U of MN instead let the private market work. For example the U of PA (University of Pennsylvania) in the late 1990s asked itself what it was doing for its West Philadelphia neighborhood, and quickly set about an urban improvement plan, buying and renovating houses and providing seed money for new commercial development. UIC (University of Illinois-Chicago) did much the same, although its immediate surroundings were less problematic. To the chagrin of many Chicagoans it set about creating a University Village to the south of the UIC campus, erasing the longtime Chicago landmark Maxwell Street in the process. Today this transformed south Loop neighborhood sparkles with amenities to attract faculty and staff to use the new neighborhood, and to live in it (Perry & Wiewel, 2005). The U of MN’s surroundings were more mundane than these. Some disinvestment occurred over time, but nearby East and West Bank neighborhoods were not overridden with gangs, drugs and crime. Instead there was a slow continuous shift from owner-occupied housing to absentee landlord over-crowding, with the expected negative consequences for neighborhood schools, parking availability, and quality of life. Until very recently, the University mainly stayed out of this arena. But the stadium construction, with its likely impact on local communities, moved local legislators to fund an initial effort toward formal University/community cooperation. Four close-by neighborhoods are specifically targeted for attention, including a homeowner buying incentive program for University staff and faculty, monitoring of residential and commercial ownership changes, and promoting programs to positively connect homeowners and student renters.

51.6 University as Megaproject The foregoing should leave no doubt that the University of Minnesota is by any measure huge in scale, cost, and ambition, and that it has had an out-sized impact on the Twin Cities over 150 years. It is more comprehensive than most, with 160+ undergraduate and graduate degrees, professional schools, a medical school and allied health programs, an agricultural college, and a statewide extension service. With over 400,000 living graduates (around the world, but primarily in Minnesota and the Upper Midwest), with a $3 billion budget (2008), with construction cranes, and traffic jams, the University impacts seasonal and daily life in the Twin Cities in myriad ways.

51

University as Megaengineering Project

901

It has morphed from a small traditional campus focused on undergraduate education, to 990 acres (400 ha) of the former, plus more graduate and professional training, and research. The University is now perceived as an entity far beyond its humble origins, exemplified by recent debates describing it as Minnesota’s “economic engine.” It also perceives itself as competing with the very best of U.S. public universities (UCLA, Berkeley, Wisconsin-Madison, Penn State, Washington, Texas-Austin, North Carolina – Chapel Hill) for faculty, graduate students and grants. Because the University did not land on the Twin Cities landscape in a foreshortened time frame, as a large project such as TVA or major highways do, its impact as a megaproject may be somewhat muted. Growth in spurts over 150 years, transgressing the memory of any single generation, can proceed almost without notice, apart from those paying for, or immediately affected by said growth. The terrain of higher education is currently shifting, in ways that remain opaque. As higher education is increasingly viewed as an industry, one instinct might be to downplay its specific local nature and impact. But unlike almost any other economic entity, universities are physically grounded. The University of Minnesota, and nearly every other higher education institution that is not “virtual,” is place-bound. This institution will continue to affect the Twin Cities long into the future, though few would deign to predict how it may grow or change. Its “mega” impacts on the region are not likely to diminish.

Note 1. The author has also been a member of UMORE planning efforts.

References Bender, Th. (Ed.). (1988). The university and the city: From medieval origins to the present. New York. Oxford University Press. Claval, P. (1998). Politics and the university. In H. van der Wusten (Ed.), The urban university and its identity: Roots, locations, roles (pp. 29–46). Boston: Kluwer. Gray, J. (1951). The University of Minnesota, 1851–1951. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Lehmberg, S., & Pflaum, A. M. (2001). The University of Minnesota, 1945–2000. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Martin, J. (1978). Recycling the central city. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota. Center for Urban and Regional Affairs. Perry, D. C., & Wiewel, W. (Eds.). (2005). The university as urban developer: Case studies and analysis. Boston: Lincoln Institute of Land Policy. Regents of the University of Minnesota. (2009). University of Minnesota Twin cities campus: Discover, sustain, connect. van der Wusten, H. (Ed.). (1998). The urban university and its identity: Roots, locations, roles. Boston: Kluwer.

Chapter 52

Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth: Megachurches and the Reengineering of America’s Spiritual Soil Scott Thumma and Elizabeth J. Leppman

The history of American social life has in large part been structured by religious entrepreneurs empowered by the necessity of persecution and the hope of establishing a new city of God. The vision of a city set on a hill where citizens would be free to practice their faith shaped the political and social reality of many early American cities around puritan ideals and values. For several centuries of our colonial history, such a vision drove the propagation of faith and the geographic engineering of New England towns. This desire planted a congregational church on every green across from the town hall and perhaps a library or school. No matter how high the wall between church and state would eventually become, this religious vision became part and parcel of the geography of small town and city life throughout the nation. The church was the core of the civic life of the community. The placement, building style and architectural structure of these congregations reflected the role of religion in the identity of these towns. They were prominently central to the society and built to hold all the few hundred “official citizens” of the town. This presentation of faith likewise shaped the social and cultural landscape within this context. Nearly four hundred years later, congregationalism is no longer an establishment religion. In fact, no religion in the U.S. has a corner on the spiritual market. For the past two centuries few churches would claim to be the conscience of an entire city or encompass the social and political life of an entire area, at least outside of Utah. Neither the idyllic small town nor the rural country settlements hold a majority of American residents any more. Yet for most Americans, the word “church” conjures up images quite reminiscent of these same white colonial wooden structures in the heart of the city with spires marking the faith territory of the polis. Interestingly, national data on religious congregations reinforces this image. The vast majority of the nation’s approximately 335,000 religious organizations are small and are located in towns and small cities (Chaves, 2004). The last century, however, has witnessed a dramatic urbanization and then suburbanization of the population in the United States. The migration of populations S. Thumma (B) Sociology of Religion, Hartford Seminary, Hartford, CT 06105, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_52,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

903

904

S. Thumma and E.J. Leppman

from small towns to the city and then more recently to suburban sprawl around massive metropolitan areas is quite obvious. Size implies success and the bigger the better – from Burger King Whoppers to Six Flags roller coasters to the Mall of America. Individualism and consumerism drive this domain, while pop media icons and the Internet shape its cultural reality. Within this dramatic cultural shift, a new religious phenomenon, aptly labeled as megachurches, has not only marked this population migration geographically, it is also redefining the religious reality of modern America structurally, architecturally and spiritually. The contemporary context has outgrown a traditional understanding of religion. As such the megachurch phenomenon can be seen as a large scale engineering project that is simultaneously reshaping the geographic, social and religious landscape of the modern world.

52.1 A Mega Religious Trend The trend toward larger congregations received a jump-start with the Baby Boom generation of the 1940s–1960s. During this time the nation’s religious landscape began to supersize along with its education, entertainment and economic institutions to accommodate the millions of new residents. Starting with their youth education programs, certain churches expanded and adapted to a new world at only a slightly slower pace than did the large magnet high schools, transnational corporate complexes, regional malls, theme parks and big box superstores. While the country always had a handful of urban churches and cathedrals with thousands of attendees, the 1970s began the dramatic proliferation of very large churches. This phenomenon, identified in the 1980s as megachurches, has profoundly altered the place of religion in a city, reconfigured the sacred spaces and reshaped the dynamics of the spiritual enterprise both corporately and personally. The megachurch movement of the past four decades resonates with and parallels many of the societal changes seen nationally since 1945, but it is also intentionally reconstructing the role of church in the spiritual soil of the country. The definition of a megachurch used here follows the accepted designation of any Protestant Christian congregation that has 2000 or more average weekly attendees at all services and locations inclusive of adults and children (Thumma & Travis, 2007). This phenomenon is defined primarily by size but should also be seen as constituted by a matrix of practical, programmatic and organizational characteristics definitive of a new large-scale religious reality that is on the rise. The number of megachurches in the United States has grown dramatically from fewer than 50 in 1970 to over 1,300 by 2009. In 1990 there was one megachurch per 4 million Americans and now there are more than 4 megachurches for every million persons in the country, with over 80% of the nation’s population within an hour’s driving distance of a megachurch. The rapid spread of very large churches has slowed in the last few years; nevertheless, the phenomenon continues to expand and garner tremendous attention and influence in the religious world. Additionally, smaller congregations have begun to adopt many megachurch characteristics as they attempt to adapt to this new cultural reality.

52

Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth

905

Recent research has also shown that nearly every major religious denomination in the country has considerably more large churches now than it did at the turn of the 20th century (Chaves, 2006). While most of these have not reached the megalevel, nevertheless the move toward increasingly larger churches, whether due to an economy of scale or desire for large institutional forms, is a dramatic change across Protestant religious traditions. Globally, a similar pattern is evident. Massive urban centers throughout the world such as Ota, Nigeria; Seoul, Korea; Singapore; Sydney, Australia; and São Paulo, Brazil, contain Protestant megachurches that, while varying in form and style, dwarf many of America’s largest churches. Seoul is megachurch “ground zero” with several of the world’s largest churches, including the biggest church in existence, Yoido Full Gospel Church, a nondenominational Pentecostal congregation that claims a weekly attendance of over 150,000. While the megachurch phenomenon remains a Protestant Christian designation, the structures and forms of worship within other faiths are not immune to the global societal currents producing these mega-changes. Catholic churches have always been larger buildings but within major U.S. sprawl cities newly constructed Catholic churches are beginning to take on megachurch shape and programs. The head of Liturgy for the Catholic Bishops conference reinforced this with his comments on this trend, While new Catholic churches have been designed with a larger seating capacity, the pews are curved around the altar so people don’t lose a sense of intimacy during worship. The challenges are indeed significant, but we want to create sight lines to see the whites in someone’s eyes when we’re preaching to them. And large parishes are offering more programming, especially Bible study and social action groups, so members meet one another and create a community within a community (Levy, 2005). In addition, the premier megachurch spokesperson Rick Warren, pastor of Saddleback Church of Lake Forest, California and author of the multi-million copy best selling Purpose-Driven Life, has consulted with both national Jewish and Muslim leaders about his experience leading one of the most successful churches in the country. In the suburbs of Atlanta and other US cities with increasing concentrations of Hindus and Muslims very large temples and mosques are being built (Lohr, 2007). Globally in rapidly growing areas one can even see evidence of contemporary mega-Buddhist temples (Lobdell, 2002). It is only a matter of time and cultural influence, as well as the combination of dislocation, suburbanization and abundant space, before the mega-religious phenomenon is evident throughout the world’s great religious forms. In the United States many of its 1,300 megachurches have sanctuaries that seat thousands at a time, with three dozen having seating for 5,000 or more persons. The largest U.S. megachurch, Lakewood Church of Houston, Texas that meets in the converted Compaq Center sports arena, has over 45,000 weekly participants and can seat 16,000 at one time (Fig. 52.1). The largest churches in terms of size have more than 1 million square feet (92,900 m2 ) under roof. Likewise, several megachurches own over 300 acres (741 ha) of property.

906

S. Thumma and E.J. Leppman

Fig. 52.1 Worship service at Lakewood Church, Houston, TX. (Source: Warren Bird, used with permission)

Nevertheless, the “average megachurch” is considerably smaller. The typical megachurch has roughly 4,000 weekly attendees, seating for 1800, and property of around 40 acres (99 ha). Yet even this relatively smaller-scale average megachurch is a goliath compared to the churches that most Americans see daily as they drive around their communities or the image they carry around in their heads of “church.” The median church in the U.S. (the point at which half the churches are smaller and half the churches are larger) has 75 regular participants in worship on Sunday mornings (Chaves, 2004). Likewise, 94% of U.S. churches have attendance of 500 or less people. Yet, even with this predominance of very small churches, over half of regular participants attend the largest 10% of churches. The most massive congregations of this group, the megachurches, account for less than half of 1% of all U.S. religious organizations, but they are home to over 5 million or roughly 7% of weekly religious participants. Additionally, these megachurches garner a vast amount of the media’s attention while their pastors have become national celebrity figures whose books sell millions of copies.

52.2 An Overlooked Research Topic Given this dramatic growth in such a brief time and their commanding presence in a community, one might think the phenomenon has been fully explored. Such is not

52

Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth

907

the case. Whether due to biases by researchers against conservative Christianity, a lack of awareness of the increasing number of very large churches or the guardedness of these churches, very little writing or research has focused on these congregations. Christian consultants and church growth experts did the earliest writings about very large churches several decades ago (Schaller, 1992, 2000; Towns, 1973; Vaughan, 1985, 1993). At roughly the same time, journalists began paying attention to the appearance of these congregations in their communities (Gilbreath, 1994; Niebuhr, 1991, 1995; Ostling, 1991). These works describe the characteristics and growth strategies of such churches but seldom with a theoretical framework or systematic research efforts. By the early 1990s several sociologists, ethnographers and religious studies scholars began to explore individual megachurches or small groupings of them using various research methods (Eiesland, 1994; Miller, 1997; Pritchard, 1996). These snapshots of the phenomenon tended to treat the individual congregations as exceptional cases but essentially similar to smaller churches. Thumma’s presentation (1993) and dissertation in 1996 were the first academic writings to suggest that the megachurch reality should be considered a distinctive national social and religious phenomenon. In 1999 Thumma created a publicly accessible online database of megachurches and a year later undertook the first national systematic study of these very large congregations (2001). Later national surveys by Thumma, Travis and Bird (2005, 2008) provided a richer picture of the U.S. megachurches. In 2008 a field study of 12 megachurches with an attendee questionnaire provided the first somewhat representative glimpse into the characteristics of those who attend these very large churches (Thumma & Bird, 2009). The book Beyond Megachurch Myths (Thumma & Travis, 2007) attempted to draw together what is known about the phenomenon and present these findings in an effort to counter the most prevalent popular myths about these largest churches. Much of this material is available on the web (www.hartfordinstitute.org/megachurch/megachurches.html). Since the mid 2000s researchers have examined distinctive facets within and among megachurches whether in African American megachurches (Tucker-Worgs, 2001), their architectural styles (Loveland & Wheeler, 2003), the “seeker church” style (Sargeant, 2000), theories about their rise (Chaves, 2006), their influence on other congregations (Ellingson, 2007) and marketing practices (Twitchell, 2004). These efforts are beginning to produce a more nuanced portrayal of the dynamics of these influential congregations. Nevertheless, there is still a great need for continued theorizing based in comprehensive scholarly research about the importance of megachurch, their implications for the larger religious world and exploration of how they fulfilling individuals’ spiritual needs. Also needed is further assessment of the megachurch’s place in the broader religious, cultural and geographic landscape that is begun in this chapter.

52.3 Physical Presence – Mapping Megachurches The remarkable increase in the number of megachurches throughout the country is as dramatic a change to the nation’s landscape as it is culturally and

908

S. Thumma and E.J. Leppman

spiritually significant. While size is the most obvious characteristic, and the feature that distinguishes them most dramatically from the “typical” congregation, these large churches share a number of other traits that make them the quintessential religious form for the nation’s burgeoning contemporary suburban reality. As noted above, American religious leaders have always attempted to engineer both the spiritual and physical soil. “Tall steeple” congregations were planted at the center of colonial city life to exhibit a godly presence at the heart of the settlement. Their spires reached upward toward a celestial god, while also marking them as the tallest structures in the midst of the commerce, industry and political life of the city. So too, have the megachurches planted themselves at the heart of the current center of community life; only now the nexus of social life has been relocated to the suburbs and exurbs of sprawling metropolitan areas. These are areas of high mobility, both in terms of being communities of residents from “somewhere else” and, due to the spread-out nature of suburban life, having a populace willing to commute great distances for work, shopping and church. Appropriately, these churches establish themselves along major highways, in close proximity to malls, big-box retail stores and the expansive campuses of corporations or colleges. The very earliest megachurches grew out of major urban centers around the country but by the initial explosion of the form in the 1970s they became concentrated in the suburban South. By the mid 1990s two thirds of megachurches were established within the Sunbelt, with roughly half in the southern region. The form spread rapidly in the past two decades throughout the country following the development of suburban sprawl around cities outside the Sunbelt. As of 2009, megachurches can be found in most major cities and all states except for a handful of New England ones. Currently Texas has the largest concentration of megachurches, followed by California, Florida and Georgia. As is apparent from Fig. 52.2, megachurches cluster predominantly around suburbs and exurbs of the largest sprawling metropolitan areas of Dallas, Atlanta, Los Angeles, Chicago and Houston but significant concentrations of them can also be found in the smaller yet rapidly growing urban areas such as Tampa, Charlotte, Seattle, Minneapolis, Phoenix, Denver and Austin. In part this predominantly southern growth is directly related to the rapid migration into these areas from the 1970s to the 1990s by both rural Southerners and displaced Northern transplants. However, other factors leading to this could include the high levels of religiosity in the region and the historic tendency of indigenous religious groups such as the Southern Baptist towards large urban churches and a constant evangelical striving for church growth and ever larger membership figures. The locations of megachurches mark the expansion of the suburbs within these developing metropolitan areas. Whether they are newly formed churches or intentionally transplanted existing churches, megachurch construction has shifted to newer suburbs in the past decade (Fig. 52.3). This placement is ideal because of the less expensive, expansive tracts of undeveloped land, lax land use regulations, and an ever increasing concentration of ideal megachurch clientele – middle class, educated, consumer-oriented, up-rooted younger families. In addition, in these newly developing areas, the entrepreneurial pastor who relocates his rapidly growing megachurch into this area can quickly offer

52

Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth

909

Fig. 52.2 Megachurch locations within the United States. (Source: Hartford Institute for Religion Research database. Map by Jeffery Steller, used with permission)

Fig. 52.3 The shifting location of Megachurches. (Source: Hartford Institute for Religion Research material, used with permission)

a ministry equal to twenty or more average sized churches and thus saturate the religious market, at a more rapid pace and for a lower price, before denominational bureaucracies can even consider acting to plant a new church.

52.4 Prominent Placement: A Regional Draw An undeniable commonality across the majority of megachurches is their obvious presence in a community. It is now impossible to traverse the interstate loop around any Sunbelt sprawl city without encountering several of these megacongregations.

910

S. Thumma and E.J. Leppman

Fig. 52.4 Metropolitan Atlanta megachurches. (Source: Hartford Institute for Religion Research database. Map Jeffery Steller, used with permission)

Fig. 52.5 Attender concentration in one Atlanta megachurch. (Source: “Beyond Megachurch Myths – What We Can Learn from America’s Largest Churches” by Scott Thumma and Dave Travis, Copyright 2007, Jossey-Bass. This material is reproduced with permission of John Wiley & Sons, Inc.)

52

Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth

911

This prominence is intentional; they want to be seen for both practical and symbolic reasons. They need to be found easily, with quick access from major highways, and they need to proclaim prominently that God is present in soulless suburbia. Given their location and appeal, megachurches are regional entities. Much like the shopping malls, hospitals and magnet schools around them, these churches draw from a wide area, with members often driving 30–45 min to attend. As such, a choice location along a major interstate that makes them readily available to suburban commuters is critical. In the more populated metropolitan communities, a member may literally drive past hundreds of smaller churches and dozens of other megachurches to attend a particular church. Figures 52.4 and 52.5 demonstrate this reality. All the megachurches of Atlanta are mapped on Fig. 52.4 and show the distinctive clustering around major highway arteries. Figure 52.5 portrays the distribution of participants within one Atlanta megachurch based on the ZIP Codes of its members’ residences. Due to this overlapping market reality, each megachurch must be distinctive and marketable. A church’s pastor, worship style and identity (its brand) must set it apart and make it an attractive alternative in this regional marketplace.

52.5 Big-Box Cathedrals A megachurch’s architectural design often models the structures around it – meaning boxy, warehouse-type structures resembling malls, community colleges, or corporate headquarters. In part, this is driven by cost, ease of construction and the fact that most megachurches grow very large very quickly. However, the box-like form distinctively marks what is taking place within the megachurch as something other than “typical religion.” This form then can be seen as intentionally implying that megachurch religion is a break from tradition. It suggests a contemporary faith that is practical, relevant and part and parcel of everyday suburban life. And much like the Wal-Marts and Home Depots of suburbia, there is little variance by region. Everywhere and anywhere a suburbanite relocates, he or she can find a megachurch to call home. Gone are the high arched celestial ceilings and the long narrow nave of the classic cathedral. The most commonly used architectural designs for megachurches tend to be much broader and wider than they are tall. A typical megachurch sanctuary is semi-circular or fan-shaped with theater seating and multiple entrances (Fig. 52.6). Within this basic layout there are three general architectural approaches driven by the message a particular church wants to convey. Each of these architectural representations differs in relation to the congregation’s style and the “target market” it hopes to reach. The first approach is nontraditional and best characterizes those megachurches which attempt to attract religious “seekers” and the “unchurched.” This is the most prevalent form among American megachurches, and especially those recently founded. The explicit message of these congregations is “this is not an ordinary church.” Pastor John Merritt, of CrossWinds Church in Dublin, CA, described this

912

S. Thumma and E.J. Leppman

Fig. 52.6 Interior design of Southeast Christian Church, Louisville, KY. (Source: Warren Bird, used with permission)

intention as, “We’re trying to create an environment here so the unchurched person can come in and say, ‘this is church like I have never known church’” (Winston, 1996: a10). The goal of this approach is to create new religious forms, to remake the traditions, so they are acceptable and relevant to a modern person who had been turned off by established religion. To accomplish that, the buildings of these churches are quite secular looking, duplicating everyday structures such as office complexes, schools or warehouses. Inside these structures, persons are greeted by large lobbies with well-lighted signs, information booths, and often a mall-like courtyard complete with refreshments. Their sanctuaries are usually spacious auditoriums, with comfortable theater seating, large stages, and a minimum of religious symbols. The architecture of this approach, “communicates a message – that religion is not a thing apart from daily life” (Goldberger, 1995: b1). Willow Creek Community Church in South Barrington, Illinois epitomizes this form. Willow Creek attempts to attract those who might be uncomfortable in most churches but right at home in a corporate context. Its low-key, laid back Sunday morning “seeker services” are designed to gradually re-introduce a life of faith to secular suburbanites who have given up on religion. But the Willow Creek style is not the only shape this nontraditional approach can take. In Los Angeles, CA, Crenshaw Christian Center, one of the larger African American congregations in the country, seats 10,400 in a huge geodesic “FaithDome” structure. This replica of a sports arena has a center stage platform with stadium seating 360 degrees around. The architectural style and approach taken by a megachurch must not only convey the message and vision of its senior pastor but also be sensitive and adaptable to the context in which it resides and the clientele it hopes to attract. One

52

Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth

913

audience may feel at home in a domed stadium or office park church devoid of any religious symbolism, but another may need some semblance of a traditional faith. This distinction drives a second approach evident in some megachurch architecture. This conventional orientation is found in most historic “First Churches” that have grown to megachurch proportions. The approach is characterized by retention of the forms of time-honored Protestant Christianity, but it is Protestantism on steroids. The implication is that this church is not only larger; it is also more exciting and more successful. These massive churches are often either Neo-Gothic or Colonial in style, depending on the region of the country. Christian symbols, steeples, spires, and columns adorn the exterior of the building. Upon entering the church, one is often greeted by a traditional foyer, floral arrangements, and bulletin-bearing greeters. The sanctuary is commonly an exaggerated replica of a country church. The box shaped interior space contains long straight, wooden pews, hymnals, a crowded altar space and customary religious symbols such as crosses, candles and stained glass windows. The image these congregations want to convey is “This is your parents’ religion, but bigger and better.” Examples of this type include First Baptist Church of Dallas, Bellevue Baptist Church of Memphis, Ben Hill United Methodist Church and Peachtree Presbyterian Church, both in Atlanta. A second generation of similar churches can be found in newer suburbs. Many of the growing Baptist congregations in Atlanta’s surrounding suburbs have intentionally adopted this traditional form. One such church, Rehoboth Baptist in Tucker, GA, reproduced the traditional southern red brick colonial church but scaled ten times its “normal size.” This form epitomizes Baptist religion in the South. By employing this style, these suburban churches are providing a link to the past for their mobile and more cosmopolitan constituency (Eiesland, 1994). A third increasingly common approach chosen by megachurches entails a blending of the two previous styles. This blended form attempts to retain some connection to traditional religion but also embraces a contemporary sanctuary format and efficient space use for offices and classrooms. The megachurches of this type often superimpose a traditional building facade onto a “user-friendly” structure. The exterior, or at least the street exposure, of the congregation may appear “churchlike,” while the interior resembles a theater, with comfortable individual seating, state of the art sound and light system, and a broad adaptable performance stage with massive projection screens. This building often has both the conveniences of the nontraditional church building and the symbols and trappings of familiar Christianity. Chapel Hill Harvester Church/Cathedral of the Holy Spirit in Atlanta exemplifies this blended approach architecturally (Goldberger, 1995: B10). Another church using this style, First Baptist of Orlando, Florida has an ultra modern building decorated with many Christian symbols, huge old stained glass windows, and the pipes of a giant organ. A Midwest Pentecostal version of this external architectural form can be seen in the James River Assembly Church of Springfield, MO (Fig. 52.7). One church’s architectural presence that clearly falls outside of the ordinary megachurch format is the Crystal Cathedral of Garden Grove, CA. Designed by

914

S. Thumma and E.J. Leppman

Fig. 52.7 James River Assembly, Springfield, MO. (Source: Elizabeth Leppman, used with permission)

Fig. 52.8 The crystal Cathedral, Garden Grove, CA. (Source: Warren Bird, used with permission)

Philip Johnson and opened in 1980, this megachurch is one of the most distinctive and well-known works of religious architecture in the country. The Crystal Cathedral, shaped like a four-pointed star, is composed of mirrored glass. It is truly unique among megachurch designs (Fig. 52.8). Whatever the approach taken by these various congregations, each conveys the message that what they are doing is not “ordinary religion.” In the words of one Cathedral of the Holy Spirit first-timer, “This is not what I have seen in the past.” Indeed, the worship space of a megachurch suggests that while God may be sought here, this God is a communal and performative rather than an inaccessible austere deity. The architectural form connects the community of saints to each other

52

Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth

915

while also giving them an unobstructed and immediate encounter with the performance onstage, although mediated by the television cameras and huge projection screens. Megachurches provide a reassurance for highly-individualistic believers that they are not alone in their spiritual seeking; they are one among thousands of like-minded Christians. In all these ways the architectural styles reshape believers’ ideas of “church” even as they create in these participants new and different ways of being religious together (Miller, 1997). An entire industry has arisen to design these churches and outfit them with the complex sound, lighting and traffic flow systems required for these distinctive structures. A few of the architectural firms that specialize in designing megachurches include The Beck Group of Dallas, Texas (www.beckgroup.com), Minneapolis architecture firm of Hammel, Green and Abrahamson (www.hga.com), Century Builders in Houston, TX (www.thinkcenturyfirst.com) Lefler & Associates of Thousand Oaks, CA (www.leflerassoc.com), CDH Partners in Marietta, GA (www.cdhpartners.com), Foreman, Seeley, Fountain of Norcross, GA (www. fsfarchitecture.com) and Siebenlist Architects in Tyler, Texas (www.siebenlist. com). Also, specialized companies have arisen dedicated to funding and manage these projects (Reliance Trust of Atlanta, GA, Evangelical Christian Credit Union in Brea, CA, Chitwood and Chitwood, of Chattanooga, TN) providing sound systems (Acoustic Dimensions of Dallas, TX, Church Production Magazine www.churchproduction.com), furnishings (Booth Seating Company of Memphis TN, Church Chair of Rome, GA) and even software products (Fellowship Technologies of Irving, TX). No matter what the style adopted, megachurches are often quite dramatic in scale and cutting edge in their technology. The vast majority of them reside in structures less than 20 years old. Even if a church’s founding is much older, its rapid growth has required multiple moves to ever-increasing sized buildings. A good many of the current megachurches began in private homes, moved to temporary rental facilities such as schools, theaters, and hotels or leap-frogged from one church building to another as it rapidly expanded. Southeast Christian Church near Louisville, KY, is a dramatic example of this expansive growth over more than 45 years. In 1962, 53 members of South Louisville Christian Church began Southeast Christian Church in the Hikes Point area of Louisville, meeting in an elementary school. In October, they purchased a property at 2601 Hikes Lane, where they used the basement as worship space and the upstairs rooms for Sunday school. Five years later, now under the leadership of Bob Russell, the church built a sanctuary to seat 550 persons, which expanded over the next several years with space for education, nursery, and an all-purpose building. Additional members also joined the staff. At Easter 1976, attendance reached 1,000 for the first time. In 1983 the congregation approved the purchase of property two blocks from the original location in order to build larger facilities. The new building was inaugurated in 1987. By 1990, attendance topped 10,000 for the first time, and in 1992 the congregation voted to leave the city and purchase property in the highly accessible rural area of the interchange of Interstate 64 and Blankenbaker Road east of Louisville. After fundraising exceeded the goal of $26 million, ground

916

S. Thumma and E.J. Leppman

Fig. 52.9 The full sanctuary of Southeast Christian Church, Louisville, KY. (Source: Warren Bird, used with permission)

was broken for the new campus in 1994. At the same time, the church began a weekly newspaper The Southeast Outlook and initiated a capital campaign to fund a Youth and Activities Center on the Blankenbaker property. The first services in the new facility took place on Christmas Eve 1998 with a total of 24,000 attending. Through 1999, average weekly attendance was 13,000, up from 10,500 before the new campus was built. The Blankenbaker facilities encompass more than 1 million square feet (92,900 m2 ), and the sanctuary seats 10,000 (Fig. 52.9). Weekend services include one on Saturday afternoon and two on Sunday morning; attendance now regularly exceeds 17,000.

52.6 Mall-esque Churchscapes The churchscapes, or the total landscape of the facilities and their surroundings, of megachurches are large scale and quite mall-like. In fact, without signage, these structures might be mistaken for a shopping mall. They are intentionally designed to appeal to segments of the population who may have negative or indifferent feelings about the whole matter of religious participation and are reluctant to enter such buildings. A central dominant building (its anchor store) usually houses the worship sanctuary, seating thousands, its education and childcare facilities and a fellowship hall with industrial-sized kitchen. Within this structure, countless small meeting rooms accommodate all the groups that the church sponsors in order to promote a feeling of belonging and fellowship. A bookstore and coffee shop mimic the “food court” and

52

Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth

917

provide a place for friends to socialize. These features may surround a large entry atrium with an information desk and excellent signage. Staff offices, youth activity centers, and sports facilities may also be in this building or in separate structures. Likewise, maps of the buildings and grounds resemble their economic counterparts, and provide a pictorial representation of the unique mega-churchscape. Figure 52.10 shows an aerial perspective of Southeast Christian Church in Louisville, Kentucky, while Fig. 52.11 displays its literal and figurative churchscape.

Fig. 52.10 An aerial view of Southeast Christian Church, Louisville, KY. (Source: © 2009 Southeast Christian Church of Jefferson County, Kentucky, Inc. All rights reserved. Used with Permission)

Fig. 52.11 The literal and figurative churchscape of Southeast Christian Church, Louisville, KY. (Source: Google Maps and Southeast © 2009 Southeast Christian Church of Jefferson County, Kentucky, Inc. All rights reserved. Used with Permission)

918

S. Thumma and E.J. Leppman

Like the mall, a major feature of a megachurch landscape is the acres of parking lots to accommodate attendees’ vehicles. Some megachurches offer shuttle bus service from the far-flung parking lots to the church building, and even have covered drop-off locations. Parking spaces nearest the building are often reserved not only for the handicapped but also for newcomers and visitors. Many megachurches hire police officers to direct traffic as huge crowds of attendees arrive and depart. Nothing about this reality makes the megachurch conducive to traditional sacred religious rituals such as christenings, weddings and funerals. For the most part, only well-known and popular community figures use the megachurch sanctuary for such occasions (along with high schools and colleges commencement services). Rather, a majority of megachurches have small auxiliary chapels with seating for several hundred for just these purposes. Interestingly, these chapels are quite often designed in a far more traditional “church” style than the main sanctuary.

52.7 A Small Town Within the City This suburban context, likewise, alters the programmatic shape and function of a megachurch. Much like a regional mall, attendees come from considerable distance in private automobiles. Church leaders understand that as a result members’ lives may not overlap with each other except for their involvement in the services, small groups and ministry programs. As such, megachurches implicitly attempt to recreate “the town” within their walls through the wide array of programs, activities and opportunities. In part, this effort mimics the idyllic small town nostalgia mostly extinct in the United States. However, it is also an intentional effort to create a total Christian community experience whereby the transient and highly mobile suburban family can quickly and easily find their place within the dislocative reality of sprawl city. This effort is encouraged, and is even intentionally engineered, through the creation of public places for interaction and accidental encounter. Again, drawing from the design of malls, megachurches often have expansive and inviting entry areas, courtyards and garden settings to promote the informal interaction of relative strangers. These spaces include fountains, plantings, natural light, conversational spaces, free wifi, video screens, snack areas and various literature and recruitment kiosks. The churches encourage milling around and even train members of a “hospitality team” to engage with persons and facilitate connections with the church and other attendees. If the actual full-service functions of a megachurch are insufficient to drive home this small-town feeling, many megachurches also employ the rhetoric of “home,” “community,” and “family” in their literature and services. As one pastor stated, “We’re not a large church, we’re a small town” (Brown, 2002). Additionally megachurches often employ locational references such as “Crossroads,” “Northpointe” “Lakeview,” “Valley” or “Hillside” in their names. Frequently, the common spaces, youth areas and educational wings are adorned with elaborate murals depicting small town life (Fig. 52.12).

52

Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth

919

Fig. 52.12 Re-creation of a small town setting in Liberty Church, Worcester, MA. (Source: Robert Foltz-Morrison, used with permission)

An example of this is seen in Southeast Christian Church’s new youth activities center, the Block. Designed by Visioneering Studios, it includes facilities for teenagers, such as an auditorium, coffee shop, climbing wall, classrooms, and meeting spaces. Place names within this facility, including The Porch (designed to encourage teaching, discussion, and conversation), The Park (where students learn and grow through the seasons of their lives), The Gallery (for artistic expression), and The Station (especially for incoming sixth graders to refuel before returning to the world to share the Christian message), evoke this community feel. A more overt approach to creating community can be seen in the intentional efforts at enhancing congregational community and member intimacy through the use of home fellowships and small group meetings. This strategy was birthed out of necessity; as these churches grew, the normal processes that encouraged social connectedness were diminished. Likewise, the alienating and highly dislocating suburban context required more deliberate connection efforts. As such, these churches had to become smaller through the intentional creation of intimate group structures as they became larger. The structured use of groups promoted community and offered avenues by which church leaders could encourage relative strangers to interact with each other. So with increased size came the need for an increasingly manufactured sense of community within the congregation through deliberate efforts at affecting a mechanical social solidarity. Megachurches have pushed the symbolic effort to create an alternative smalltown reality toward literally remaking their physical communities. Several churches have begun serious revitalization projects in their surrounding neighborhoods. This is often evident among predominantly African American congregations who have created Community Development Corporations, but it is becoming increasingly common among other megachurches as well (Tucker-Worgs, 2001). One early example is Brooklyn’s St. Paul Community Baptist Church (Friedman, 1993). More recently countless megachurches including New Direction Church in Memphis, TN, and Kingdom Life Community Church in Milford, CT, are developing full economic and business complexes by purchasing local strip malls, businesses and restaurants. Several megachurches have bought massive commercial properties

920

S. Thumma and E.J. Leppman

where they both hold services and also rent space to for-profit businesses. Examples of this trend include ChangePoint Church housed in a former salmon canning factory in Anchorage, Alaska, Faithful Central Baptist Church in Los Angeles that meets in The Forum, once home to the Los Angeles Lakers, and Rolling Hills Community Church in Franklin, TN, which moved into the former Georgia Boot Factory, a 143,000 ft2 (13,285 m2 ) building, all of which also house external companies as paying tenants. A few megachurches have even teamed with real estate developers to create planned communities in the proximity of the church. In the 1980s, the multiracial Chapel Hill Harvester Church of Atlanta worked with several developers to create four housing communities. These were intentionally made available to persons of diverse races and income groups including a set of condos specifically designed for retirees and single persons. Additionally, the church created a large recreational complex open to the public with pools, tennis courts and ball fields as well as a business office park complex and a reclaimed strip mall. In total, this “kingdom community” covered many hundreds of acres and surrounded the 7,700 seat Cathedral that sat at the center of this “city of hope” (Thumma, 1996). These efforts at community development are not without controversy. Lawsuits have plagued megachurch development in relation to zoning and land use issues. Likewise considerable discussion is taking place related to questions of the limits of church tax-exemptions. The exemption is currently applied to any activity directly related to a congregation’s mission. However, given the expansive mission agenda of many megachurches, the boundary between what is and is not part of the ministry can be a blurry line at best.

52.8 Pastor as Spiritual Entrepreneur Given the need to create a distinctive identity, a discernable product or marketable brand, it isn’t surprising that the role of the spiritual leader is reconceptualized within megachurches. Most megachurches are led by male clergy who would be described as having considerable personal charisma. They function in many ways as spiritual entrepreneurs. They are often innovative risk-takers who inspire the trust and admiration of those around them. According to a recent study of 25,000 attendees, the pastor ranked second to the church’s worship style as the characteristic that most attracted people initially to the megachurch, and the pastor ranked first in keeping them attracted over time (Thumma & Bird, 2009). Megachurches tend to grow to their great size under the tenure of a single senior pastor. Although many of these churches were founded decades or centuries ago, almost all grew to their large size since the 1980s. Eighty percent of these are still led by the pastor who was in charge during their growth to megachurch status. Evidence suggests that these churches can remain vital following a shift in leadership from the founder to his successor; however, those later pastors do experience more conflict and diminished growth rates.

52

Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth

921

While these pastors have church boards of elders or espouse a team leadership approach, in many ways they are the singular visionary leaders of the church. Their primary task is to discern the church’s spiritual direction, encapsulate it in a dynamic vision and then offer engaging sermons that excite attendees to participate in the embodiment of that vision. Supporting these senior pastors are, on average in 2008, teams of 28 full-time equivalent (FTE) paid ministerial staff persons, and 31 FTE paid program staff persons, with on average 320 volunteer workers (giving 10 or more hours a week to the church). The goal of these employees is to facilitate the message and distinct vision of the church. This is accomplished in typical fashion with programs and training, but in a media driven world, the message is also spread through marketing slogans, slick banners, brochures and ad campaigns. Such media trappings are possible within the resource-rich megachurch. While the average sized church struggles to pay its bills and minister, the typical megachurch has an annual budget in 2008 of $US 6.5 millions. Of this income, roughly half is spent on personnel costs, 20% on buildings and operations, 13% on missions and the rest on programming and its support (Thumma et al., 2008). Often these largest congregations do not experience rapid growth without some controversy with other religious options; they need to generate a cultural “buzz” about what they have to offer. In other words, they need to stand out figuratively before the tremendous growth comes that allows them to stand out physically as a megachurch. This can happen through a ministry program, an outreach to teens, a musical group or an innovative mission venture. Such notoriety, however, results in growth only when an innovative pastor, supportive staff, and congregation are willing to experiment and adapt to new ideas and methods. Once a congregation has grown to mega-status, its size and dominance of the local religious ecology is all that is needed to generate a sustained stream of visitors. Nevertheless, the pastor’s innovative impulses often continue to keep the church in the local spotlight, the newspapers and importantly in the minds of potential members. The community buzz and branding are essential in identifying the church as a regional spiritual attraction with distinctive product that sets them apart from the religious marketplace. Another reality that makes marketing and branding essential is the functionally nondenominational nature of most megachurches. Although two-thirds belong to a denomination (with the Southern Baptist Convention having the most, followed by the Assemblies of God, United Methodist, Calvary Chapel Fellowship, Churches of Christ and others) a combination of the diminished salience of denominational identity (Wuthnow, 1988) and a “defacto congregationalism” (Warner, 1993) in the contemporary religious climate make this affiliation less important. Additionally, these massive churches do not need or want their denominational label to define them. Rather they want to define themselves, shape their own DNA, a phrase which is often heard in these churches. Even if they belong to, and intentionally embrace, a denominational heritage, it is on their own terms and is a label that is held lightly. In essence, the denomination needs the megachurch, with its celebrity status, far more than the megachurch needs the denomination or its resources.

922

S. Thumma and E.J. Leppman

Many megachurches, even denominational ones, have become quasidenominations in their own right. They have created loose networks of like-minded smaller churches around themselves. They hold workshops and conferences, engage in leadership training and clergy mentoring and have even partnered with seminaries to train new pastors. Megachurches create and distribute educational literature and resources, produce and market new music and generate worship materials that are in great demand by smaller churches. In addition, they sponsor mission trips and unique ministry opportunities. In short, they operate functionally as a denomination, except this takes place at the level of a local church. These activities suggest that megachurches are even beginning to re-engineer the national religious organizational landscape. They have a more popular product than the denominations, and smaller churches of all stripes are buying it.

52.9 Media-Driven Contemporary Worship As crass as economic language seems to describe religious life, megachurches use market-based tools of capitalism in order to reach media-saturated, stimulusoverloaded American consumers. This is not only necessary to attract people to the church but also to convey the Christian message to them. Such an approach is quite evident within the worship services. Worship in nearly all megachurches is contemporary, dynamic and media-driven (Fig. 52.13). In many ways worship has always been theatrical, but as the size of the congregation has increased, worship has moved from participatory ritual to performance spectacle. This is a direct function of size, since it is nearly impossible to adequately involve the entire congregation when there are thousands rather

Fig. 52.13 Youth and educational wing mural at Faith Church, New Milford, CT. (Source: Robert Foltz-Morrison, used with permission)

52

Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth

923

than hundreds of participants. But it is also reflective of the social and cultural forms common to contemporary suburban life. Megachurches have distinctively shaped worship into a highly professional, technologically-enhanced experience that includes electric instruments, full orchestras, state-of-the-art sound systems, simultaneous translations equipment, image magnification cameras and projection screens. Such a change is also directly related to the increased size of the sanctuary since a greater reliance on mechanical efforts is necessary to amplify the sound and magnify and project the happenings on the stage. Additionally, the logistics of several services packed into Sunday morning requires a more regimented and well-timed service structure. It is easier to script a small team of singers into a time-slot than speed up a choir or congregational hymn; faster if prayers are given by associate pastors and scripture is flashed on the screen than hunted up in members’ Bibles. Attendees follow along, respond to and are engaged in the service but in a more passive and somewhat controlled manner with the megachurch’s “spectator worship” format than they might be in a traditional smaller church service. But this experience of worship also parallels the day-to-day cultural, economic and media reality of suburban inhabitants. Within the social context where every cultural message whether economic, recreational or educational is professional, technological-driven and calculated to generate the most emotional impact, there could well be an increasingly innate need for the intense spiritual excitement the mass worship gatherings megachurches offer. The fast-paced, big-screen, polished and scripted contemporary worship service resonates far better with the daily lives most Americans lead than does the often slow moving, sedate, highly liturgical service complete with centuries-outof-date hymns, organ accompaniment and archaic language that smaller traditional congregations offer in their spiritual performances. The megachurch style resonates far better with hugely attended professional sporting events, NASCAR, and rock concerts than it does marginally supported opera, ballet or small scale “unplugged” musical performances.

52.10 Customization of Religious Experience Another key component of the megachurch that sets it apart from traditional churches is its vast array of programs, ministries and educational options for attendees. These churches have extremely rich programs for children, youth and adults for personal and social growth as well as sports and entertainment within their facilities. They often provide gyms and personal fitness areas including pools, bowling alleys, game rooms, outdoor courts and ball fields and bookstores filled with Christian clothing lines, music, and kitsch items for one’s home. Church leaders offer programs and ministries, usually housed in separate “family life centers,” having to do with every aspect of personal and interpersonal life, such as marriage development, child rearing, support groups, job skills, leadership development, and

924

S. Thumma and E.J. Leppman

personal enrichment through hobbies, weight loss, education and trips to meet members’ needs as well as being places to serve. Additionally, many have separate buildings in support of their outreach and social ministry components. Indeed, it is possible for many megachurches to be one-stop shops for a family to meet all their physical, emotional, familial, and interpersonal as well as spiritual needs. This approach makes perfect sense in a suburban reality where there are fewer options for civic and family-oriented social life. The level of choice that is possible with a megachurch in terms of times and locations for services, programs and events to meet family needs, ministries and activities to develop leadership and service opportunities creates an involvement dynamic unlike most small congregations. This plethora of choices and the flexibility it creates allow for multiple patterns of involvement and a wide variety of options for integration into the life of the church. As a result individual involvement covers a remarkable spread from minimal involvement, that of a free-riding anonymous spectator, to persons volunteering over 40 hours a week and giving a third of their income to the church. Simultaneously, these congregations can promote intense personal commitment in a third of their attendees but at the same time foster an equal percentage of marginal spectators in their ranks. While similar involvement patterns exist in smaller churches, the size of megachurches intensifies this dynamic. As such, megachurches offer attendees new ways of being religious within a congregational setting. These churches allow attendees to participate on their own terms by providing them the freedom to choose the commitment level that best suits their individualized spiritual desires. The diverse programs and ministry options allow participants to select and customize their experience of the church that best fits the needs of each family member. At the same time, the leadership at a megachurch continually encourages participants to increase their involvement, deepen their faith and commit to live out that faith in service to the church and larger community, but on the terms dictated by the individual consumers of the religious experience. Just what a suburban consumer has come to expect.

52.11 The Frontier of a Re-Engineered Religious Life: Growing Without Growth Early in the life of a rapidly growing church very little thought is given to the style or shape of the church building. A congregation expanding from a few dozen to a few thousand is only concerned with adapting staff and programs to keep up with the escalation. Often such rapidly growing churches look to overflow spaces and multiple service times to accommodate the attendance swell quickly and economically. In recent years these initial methods of expansion are increasingly being chosen rather than building a larger structure. Between 2005 and 2008 U.S. megachurches grew by 573 persons in overall average attendance but average sanctuary size increased only by 124 seats (Thumma et al., 2008). The most rapidly growing megachurches seem to prefer these tactics and are increasingly adding two additional strategies that extend their reach physically and symbolically beyond one geographic location.

52

Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth

925

These new models of growth are establishing multiple physical sites linked as a single church and creating online Internet venues that merge the physical and virtual congregation into a single entity. In the early days of the megachurch phenomenon, the two ways of extending the reach of a congregation beyond one physical location were to plant “daughter churches” and to create a relational network of “like-minded” independent (often smaller) congregations with the megachurch as the hub. In both cases, these strategies extended the influence of the megachurch relationally to other churches but maintained the autonomy of those congregations. The recent approach of creating “satellite campuses,” multiple sites where portions of a single congregation meet with separate buildings, local pastors and worship teams, literally extends church space but retains the sense of being one entity. Often this multi-site church’s budget, administration and leadership are centralized on a main campus. Likewise, the sermon is usually delivered by the senior pastor via DVD or live satellite feed projected on the screens at the separate campuses. One of the foremost churches using the satellite approach of expansion is the Oklahoma City area congregation, LifeChurch. This congregation meets in 13 physical locations (Fig. 52.14) across 6 different states. Quite a few of these satellites were the result of intentional expansion efforts but several were pre-existing churches that requested to be consolidated into the LifeChurch congregation. This church started in 1996 in Edmond, Oklahoma when its founding pastor Craig Groeschel met with a few people in a rented dance studio. His message of leading people to become fully devoted followers of Christ was appealing and the church grew into a middle school and then a renovated bicycle factory and then three years later into their first sanctuary with seating for 750 in Oklahoma City. A year later in 2000, LifeChurch had 3,000 weekly attendees. The following year the congregation spilled out into its first offcampus facility – its second location back in Edmond. Nearly every year after that, the church added a new campus. In 2009 the church’s largest sanctuary seats 1,900 but it holds 66 weekly services and has an average attendance of 25,500 people across the 13, plus the Internet campus, locations.

Fig. 52.14 Expressive and media-driven worship at Ray of Hope Christian Church, Decatur, GA and Saddleback Community Church, Lake Forest, CA. (Source: Warren Bird, used with permission)

926

S. Thumma and E.J. Leppman

Southeast Christian Church exemplifies a more common approach to multi-site growth. In 2007 it expanded its geographic reach by establishing a second location rather than enlarge its home campus after its senior pastor, Bob Russell, retired. David Stone, who succeeded him, announced within a year of his leadership that he would locate the first satellite campus in southern Indiana. The church’s experience had demonstrated that people who live more than 20 minutes from the church might come to weekend services, but they were unlikely to participate in other activities during the week. The church leadership decided to take the church to the community across the Ohio River. Property encompassing almost 9 acres (3.6 ha) was purchased at the corner of U.S. Route 31 and New Albany-Charlestown Pike in Jeffersonville, IN. The first service there was held Easter 2009 with more than 3,000 attendees; since then attendance has leveled off at around 1,800 persons. The sanctuary seats 1,400. The satellite campus is staffed with a pastor, his wife, and nine additional staff members. Preaching is delivered from the main campus by DVD; the rest of the service takes place live at the satellite campus. An additional satellite campus is being developed in LaGrange, KY, to be housed in a former grocery store at Crestwood Station. This campus will open in 2010 with 1,200 members already living in the area. Such a strategy makes sense as these growing congregations seek needed space but the pressures of economic recessionary times and the high cost of construction, as well as land use and zoning battles, make ever larger sanctuaries less feasible. Compound this with the rising cost of gas, the added commitment burden of driving a distance to participate and the ease of recording and streaming video, all make the satellite campus option appealing. With a branch campus nearby, members can more easily invite neighbors and friends. The satellite campuses also allow the church to be both large and small, as the satellites have smaller groups attending but retain the impression that the overall church is ever-expanding and the brand remains successful. This satellite model of expansion moves the church beyond the idea of broadening of a single campus and into a post-modern flattened and networked global reality. This multicampus format facilitates a megachurch’s entry into virtual expansion efforts as well. Multiple sites rely on screens, technology, networking and the perception that the church in “one in many locations.” Thus, it is a minor step from a digital connection between branch campuses to having an internet branch campus in a social networking reality for hyper-tech younger generations. The Internet is part and parcel of daily lives of most megachurch attendees. Thus, an online campus is a natural extension of the vast amount of time younger suburban members and their children spend on Facebook, YouTube and Second Life. Two dozen of the most technologically advanced megachurches with multiple satellites also have online campuses. As stated above, Oklahoma’s LifeChurch not only has its 13 physical campuses but it also has what it calls its “global campus” on the Internet (Fig. 52.15). This online congregation, which began in 2006, has its own designated pastor and worship team along with multiple cyberspace ways to stay connected, share concerns, engage in social ministry and create community among attendees (Fig. 52.16).

52

Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth

927

Fig. 52.15 One church in 13 locations – the expansive campus of LifeChurch, Oklahoma City, OK. (Source: LifeChurch website, Mapping by Jeffery Steller, used with permission)

Fig. 52.16 The internet campus of LifeChurch, Oklahoma City, OK. (Source: Screen capture of LifeChurch Internet campus website)

928

S. Thumma and E.J. Leppman

A further extension of the use of the Internet to communicate with members and potential members might be the “virtual” megachurch, which exists only on the Internet disconnected from a physical congregation (Hamilton, 2009; Mann, 2009). Such is the Anglican Church in Second Life (the virtual community reality at www.secondlife.com), founded in 2007 as an extension of Jesus’s command to “go forth and make disciples of all nations” (Matthew, 28: 19) to “networks.” (Wanamaker, 2009). Not intended to replace face-to-face worship or bricks-andmortar churches, it reaches out to people who may not have a church available. Its more than 60,000 who participate literally span the globe. They worship together and exchange ideas, educational opportunities, and mutual support. Other virtual worship services include regular daily prayer, which has attracted more than 200,000 visitors (Thomas, 2009).

52.12 Conclusion Individually, megachurches are only minor feats of engineering; however, as a collective change in American, and even global, religion this phenomenon is dramatically reworking the spiritual, social and physical landscape. This congregational form has gradually evolved from urban centers to the exurbs and shifted from traditional faith expressions to a consumer-sensitive branded product. In this process these churches are redefining what it means to be a person of faith in a twentyfirst century suburban context. The megachurch model has reshaped “church” to the needs and requirements of the contemporary suburban dweller. In a context of social dislocation and high mobility, the megachurch offers easy and intentional connections with other like-minded families and singles. In a gathering of thousands of worshippers an individual can be involved in a successful ministry and not feel alone as a believer in a secular world. Yet with the intimacy of a small group, even in the midst of a mass of attendees, a person can be known by and accountable to other individuals at the church. A megachurch’s interest-based ministries allow for choice, leadership development and the individual expression of passions and talents. This freedom to choose, and even the anonymity to avoid choosing, means that each individual can craft their own level of involvement at the megachurch. The megachurch model of worship is a religious expression that resonates with the lives of suburbanites. They may not have attended church for years, but worship is user-friendly and spectator-oriented. The music is contemporary with a sound they could hear on any top-40 station throughout the week. The service is technologically sophisticated, professional and fast-paced. They can participate in the worship experience at whatever level they wish. If they don’t know the words to a song or where to find a scripture passage, these are projected on the 30-foot screens. The preaching is vibrant and relevant to the daily struggles faced by a young couple in modern suburbia. But they are also challenged and encouraged to mature as Christians, to give, to invite their friends and to live out their faith in service to others.

52

Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth

929

The megachurch’s physical configuration patterns that of the economic icon of the suburbs, the mall. In churchscape, in architectural form and in functional space, the megachurch is the spiritual counterpart of the regional shopping complex. But it is also in part a regional community college, theme park, family community center and sports complex. The megachurch has embraced the spirit of capitalism symbolized by the mall but so too has American society as represented in suburbia. Americans are consumers; they identify with brand names. The market defines human nature and market forces are as much at work in the megachurch as they are in all expressions of faith. The rapid proliferation and acceptance of this mega-religious organizational form speaks volumes about the American assumption that size equals success, even in relation to spiritual achievements. Likewise, it is interesting at a time when aspects of American society are becoming increasingly secular that the spiritual presence in the form of megachurches has super-sized accordingly. These congregations are ever-present reminders in the most rapidly growing secular centers of commerce and innovation within the country that God is still present in a sizable way. Most importantly, the reengineering of the American landscape by megachurches reinforces the fact that faith and religious forms are never as static as the ordained guardians of the cherished traditions would like us to believe or the majestic stone cathedrals, pipe organs and stained glass artwork imply by their permanent presence. The expression of faith in religious communities continues to evolve, as does our planet, and sometimes in mega ways. Acknowledgements The authors would like to thank Jeff Steller for his excellent mapping efforts, Warren Bird and Robert Foltz-Morrison for their fine photographs and Southeast Christian Church’s staff Debra Childers, Hollis Searcy and Kevin Russell for their willingness to assist us in better understanding their church. We want to express our deep gratitude and thanks to Stan Brunn for his insightful comments on earlier drafts of our chapter.

References Brown, P. L. (2002). Megachurches as minitowns. New York Times, Thursday, May 9, section F page 1. Chaves, M. (2004). Congregations in America. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Chaves, M. (2006). All creatures great and small: Megachurches in context. Review of Religious Research, 47, 329–346. Eiesland, N. L. (1994). Contending with a giant: The impact of a mega-church on exurban religious institutions. In P. E. Becker & N. L. Eiesland (Eds.), Contemporary American Religion: An ethnographic reader (pp. 191–219). Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press. Ellingson, S. (2007). The Megachurches and the Mainline: Remaking religious tradition in the 21st century. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Friedman, S. (1993). Upon This Rock The miracles of a black church. New York: HarperCollins. Gilbreath, E. (1994). The birth of a megachurch. Christianity Today, July, 18, 23. Goldberger, P. (1995). The gospel of church architecture, revised. The New York Times. April, 20, B1, B4. Hamilton, L. B. (2009). Worshiping online: Is it really church? Episcopal Life Online, March 11. Retrieved March 11, 2009, from http://www.episcopalchurch.org/81834_101368_ ENG_HTM.htm

930

S. Thumma and E.J. Leppman

Levy, A. (2005). Megachurch phenomenon spreading. Associated Press, December 10. Lobdell, W. (2002). For O.C. Buddhists, a timely temple. Los Angeles Times October 26. Retrieved May 14, 2009, from http://articles.latimes.com/2002/oct/26/local/me-buddhist26 Lohr, K. (2007). Gleaming Hindu temple to open in Atlanta suburb. All Things Considered. August 15. Retrieved May 14, 2009, from http://www.npr.org/templates/story/ story.php?storyId=12753002 Loveland A. C., & Wheeler, O. B. (2003). From Meetinghouse to Megachurch: A material and cultural history. Columbia, MO: University of Missouri Press. Mann, D. (2009). Not by internet alone. Episcopal Life Online, January 9. Retrieved March 11, 2009, from http://www.episcopalchurch.org/81840_104170_ENG_HTM.htm Miller, D. E. (1997). Reinventing American Protestantism: Christianity in the new millennium. Berkeley: University of California Press. Niebuhr, G. (1991). Mighty fortresses: Megachurches strive to be all things to all parishioners. Wall Street Journal, 13 May. Niebuhr, G. (1995). Where shopping-mall culture gets a big dose of religion? The New York Times, April 16, 1, 12. Ostling, R. N. (1991). Superchurches and now they grew. Time, August 5, 62–63. Pritchard, G. A. (1996) Willow Greek Seeker services: Evaluating a new way of doing church. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Books. Sargeant, K. H. (2000). Seeker Churches: Promoting traditional religion in a nontraditional way. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Schaller, L. E. (1992). The Seven Day a Week Church. Nashville: Abingdon. Schaller, L. E. (2000). The Very Large Church. Nashville: Abingdon. Thomas, J. (2009). Virtual is still real. Episcopal Life Online. March 11. Retrieved March 11, 2009, from http://www.episcopalcurch.org/80050_105774_ENG_HTM.htm Thumma, S. (1993). Sketching a megatrend: The phenomenal proliferation of very large churches in the United States. A paper presented at the annual meeting of the Association of Sociology of Religion in Miami, FL, August. Thumma, S. (1996). The kingdom, the power, and the glory: The megachurch in modern American society. Ph.D. dissertation, Emory University, Atlanta, GA. Thumma, S. (2001). Megachurches today: Summary of data from the Faith Communities Today Project. Retrieved July 4, 2009, from http://hirr.hartsem.edu/org/faith_megachurches_ FACTsummary.html Thumma, S., & Bird, W. (2009). Megachurch Attender Report. Retrieved July 4, 2009, from http://hirr.hartsem.edu/megachurch/megachurch_attender_report.htm Thumma, S., & Travis, D. (2007). Beyond Megachurch Myths: What we can learn from America’s largest churches. San Francisco, CA: Jossey-Bass Leadership Network Series. Thumma, S., Travis, D., & Bird, W. (2005). Megachurches today 2005. Retrieved July 4, 2009, from http://hirr.hartsem.edu/org/faith_megachurches_research.html Thumma, S, Travis, D., & Bird, W. (2008). Megachurches today 2008 – Changes in American megachurches. Retrieved July 4, 2009, from http://hirr.hartsem.edu/megachurch/ megastoday2008_summaryreport.html Towns, E. (1973). America’s Fastest Growing Churches. Nashville, TN: Impact Books. Tucker-Worgs, T. (2001). Get on board, little children, There’s room for many more: The Black Megachurch Phenomenon. The Journal of the Interdenominational Theological Center, 29 (1 and 2), Fall 2001/Spring 2002. Twitchell, J. B. (2004). Branded Nation: The marketing of megachurch. College, Inc., and Museumworld. New York: Simon & Schuster. Vaughan, J. (1985). The Large Church: A Twentieth-century expression of the first-century Church. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Book House. Vaughan, J. (1993). Megachurches and America’s Cities: How churches grow. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Book House.

52

Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth

931

Wanamaker, M. (2009). Expanding the faith. Episcopal Life Online. March 11. Retrieved March 11, 2009, from http://www.episcopalchurch.org/80050_105818_ENG_HTM.htm Warner, R. S. (1993). Work in progress toward a new paradigm for the sociological study of religion in the United States. American Journal of Sociology, 98(5), 1044–1093. Winston, K. (1996). That old-time religion no longer. Tri-Valley Herald, April, 7, A1, A10. Wuthnow, R. (1988). The Restructuring of American Religion: Society and faith since World War II. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

Chapter 53

Mega-Engineering Projects in Russia: Examples from Moscow and St. Petersburg Mikhail S. Blinnikov and Megan L. Dixon

53.1 Moscow: Mega-Projects of the Mega-City Moscow is the primate city of Russia with 10.4 million people (Census 2002) and unofficial estimate of 12 million in 2008, or almost 8% of Russia’s total population. It covers 1,081 km2 (417 mi2 ) and has a suburban agglomeration of additional 4,000 km2 (1,543 mi2 ) within A107 beltway. This makes Moscow similar in size to Greater London within the boundaries of UK’s M25. Moscow’s share of Russia’s totals in 2004 was 11% of apartments constructed, 19% of the GDP, 22.5% of retail sales, and 37% of all direct foreign investments (Brade & Rudolf, 2004; Goskomstat, 2007; Kolossov & O’Loughlin, 2004). Moscow had seen many megaprojects in the past (Adams, 2008; Sidorov, 2000). An early example was huge Dormition Cathedral in the Kremlin (1475–1479). The neighboring Ivan the Great Bell Tower fully completed by 1600 remained the tallest building in Moscow (81 m; 266 ft) for over three centuries. The Moscow Kremlin itself was a megaproject, surpassing the considerably older kremlins in Novgorod, Pskov, and Vladimir. Sidorov (2000) documents the perplexities of the (re)construction life cycle of Christ the Savior Cathedral, the megaproject of both the 19th and the 20th centuries. While all early projects were religious, the Soviet period brought about a pronounced shift to the secular as Moscow expanded in all directions with new factories, residential districts, and hospitals. The famous “seven sisters” skyscrapers of J. Stalin’s period were built in the post WWII period (Adams, 2008). Other Soviet megaprojects included construction of 540-m (1,772-ft) tall Ostankino TV tower (1967), VDNKh fair on over 220 ha (480 acres), the Rossiya and Moskva hotels, the giant ZIL truck plant with 60,000 workers, and, the greatest of them all, Moscow subway (Adams, 2008). Curiously, for the city of its significance Moscow had little space constructed to accommodate the expansive Soviet bureaucracy (Saushkin & Glushkova, 1983; Smith, 1980). The entire apparatus of the Central Committee of the CPSU was M.S. Blinnikov (B) Department of Geography, St. Cloud State University, St. Cloud, MN 56301, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_53,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

933

934

M.S. Blinnikov and M.L. Dixon

occupying a few blocks of old real estate east of the Red Square in the historical congested Kitaygorod neighborhood along Staraya Ploshchad. The giant Gosplan, dozens of Soviet ministries, and executive branches of the Supreme Council occupied hundreds of medium-size buildings scattered around the city, few with any visual appeal at all, and most inherited from the prerevolutionary past. The historical move to embrace the free market reforms in 1992 opened up undreamed of possibilities for construction of dozens of new office towers at strategic intersections throughout the city in the form of infilling (Blinnikov, Shanin, Sobolev, & Volkova, 2006). There has also been additional need for new elite apartment complexes close to downtown, something that was neglected for years, and that was increasingly requested by the traffic-jam wary new managerial class. One thing, however, was missing: a truly gigantic project to affirm Moscow’s role not only as the primate city of Russia, but as a rival to the best and biggest capitalist business centers of the western and eastern worlds. Moskva Siti project was thus conceived. (In this paper we use Moskva Siti for the new business district, and Moscow City for the actual city itself in which Moskva Siti is situated.)

53.2 Brief History of Moskva Siti The roots of Moskva Siti go back to the Moscow City government of the early Yeltsin period of 1992–1993. Mayor Yu Luzhkov and his associates firmly supported Yeltsin in his bid for presidency, and therefore received unprecedented powers to shape the city thorough an array of market and quasi-market mechanisms that were put in place partially through the federal laws and presidential decrees, but mainly through the work of the city legislature and executive orders of the mayor himself (Hoffman, 2003). Moscow, alone among the subjects of Russian Federation, had legislation custom-designed to accommodate ambitious projects funded from diverse local and regional public and private sources. It is Moscow City, not Gazprom or Lukoil, that is in fact the most successful business enterprise of the post-Soviet Russia, if judged by the level of generated revenue. Its official budget exceeded $US 36 billion in 2008 as compared to the federal budget of Russia of ca. $US 340 billion. Early in 2009, Mayor Luzhkov announced that the only city in the world with a bigger budget was New York at about $60 billion and that Moscow would have overtaken New York by about 2012. The hallmark of Luzhkov’s business approach to building his city empire has been “benevolent managerial” style that combined elements of moderate patriotic nationalism/populism; preference for large, highly visible and symbolic construction projects; and progressive business agenda (Hoffman, 2003). Common perception of Luzhkov with the Muscovites is that of a “master (khozyain)” who is, of course, corrupt, but at least is doing something beneficial to the city with a portion of the money that gets laundered through the city-affiliated business structures. The fact that his wife E. Baturina, a construction company owner, became the only female billionaire in Putin’s Russia further testifies to the immense profitability of Moscow City.

53

Mega-Engineering Projects in Russia

935

Moskva Siti first official appearance took place in 1992, when an open venture company OAO Siti was formed by the Moscow government to attract private investors. It was further strengthened by a decree of the Moscow City government #446 of 26 May 1994. According to the decree, OAO Siti is supposed to design and implement programs associated with construction and exploitation of the international business center. It is empowered to coordinate actions and designs of private and public developers, but can also initiate and implement its own projects (!), a highly suspect provision. Moskva Siti is situated on a lucrative piece of land very close to the historical heart of Moscow. It is located on approximately 100 ha (220 acres) 2 km (1.5 mi) west of the Moscow Garden Ring and less than 5 km west of the Kremlin on the northern bank of the Moscow River along Krasnopresnenskaya Naberezhnaya (Fig. 53.1). Location west of downtown in significant for environmental reasons: the predominant westerly winds ensure supply of clean air. Moskva Siti is also located, not coincidently, right next to the 3rd transportation ring, which is another megaproject of Luzhkov’s period, a controlled access freeway around downtown to relieve traffic congestion.

Fig. 53.1 Plan of Moskva Siti lots. (Map by authors)

936

M.S. Blinnikov and M.L. Dixon

During the first few years, the main function of OAO Siti was to clear pre-existing structures on about 40 ha (88 acres) on the site. This was not uncontroversial, because some of the pre-existing warehouses, factories, and apartments had been built before the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution and had some historical value. Also, Krasnaya Presnya historical neighborhood rich in the artifacts of the 1905 Uprising, was immediately to the north of the construction site.

53.3 Moskva Siti Layout and Landmarks Objects of Moskva Siti are being developed on 20 lots (Table 53.1) located in the oval shaped area of about 100 ha (220 acres) bound in the west by the 3rd transportation ring, in the east by Krasnaya Presnya park, in the south by the Moscow River and in the north by 1st Krasnogvardeyskiy Proezd (see Fig. 53.1). The centrally located lots 6, 7 and 8 (“core”) will house low structures of about 12 floors. The rest are skyscrapers of various forms, shapes, and heights, with the tallest Rossiya Tower on lots 17 and 18 by N. Foster of Foster and Partners, UK projected to soar to 612 m (2008 ft) to become the tallest building in Europe, and the third tallest in the world. In the fall of 2008 it was announced however that the tower construction was going to be postponed because of the financial problems related to the global credit crunch. It is possible that the final design will be about 200 m (656 ft) shorter (RBC 2008). Other prominent skyscrapers include the almost finished twin-tower Federation Complex, Mercury City Tower, spiral-shaped Wedding Palace, and the two towers of City of Capitals, all well above 200 m (656 ft) mark. One of the most celebrated components of Moskva Siti, Federation Tower (FT) (www.federationtower.ru) is an uneven-height twin skyscraper (243 and 360 m); (797 and 1,181 ft) united by a central spire structure and a few horizontal corridors projected to reach 506 m (1,660 ft) to become the highest building in Europe, at least until Rossiya Tower is completed. FT’s outside form is suggestive of a two-sail ship. The predominant colors are silver and blue. Ten bottom floors forming the base podium will contain shopping malls, banks, restaurants, technical service rooms, and some offices on about 100,000 m2 . (1,000,760 ft2 ). The two towers together will house additional 169,000 m2 (1,818,000 ft2 ) of offices (about 600 suites), 78,500 m2 (844,000 ft2 ) of 400 apartments, hotel Grand Hyatt, and a swimming pool with a spa (the “highest in the world”) on 62nd floor. FT is being built by Mirax Group, a company with St. Petersburg roots (1994) formerly known as Stroymontazh, which has grown to become one of the top five developers of Russian commercial real estate with business projects in nine countries. One of the indirect measures of the public excitement about Moskva Siti is evidenced by the online forum (ct.citytowers.ru) dedicated entirely to its construction with dozens of postings per week discussing various aspects of the project. One of the main themes in discussions is keeping track of height records for Moscow buildings that are being broken by the project. Considerable attention is also given to the discussion of various skyscrapers’ designs. Muscovites are passionate about the

Name

Tower 2000 Wedding Palace Imperia Tower Core

City of Capitals Tower on the Quay Transportation Terminal Eurasia Tower

Federation Complex Mercury City Tower

Administrative Center Office complex Rossiya Tower Northern Tower Business Expo Center

Lot

0 2, 3 4 6, 7, 8

9 10 11 12

13 14

15 16 17–18 19 20

308 215, 330 612 108 228

243, 360, 506 380

294, 255 268 165 305

104 250 239 Varies

Height (m)

398,000 429,000 521,000 139,000 180,000

439,000 159,000

289,000 266,000 228,000 208,000

61,000 169,000 281,000 530,000

Finished space (m2 ) Offices Offices, recreation, retail Hotel, office, recreation Retail, recreation, transport Residential, offices Offices Transportation Offices, residential, retail Offices, hotel Offices, retail, residential City of Moscow offices Offices, residential Offices, retail Offices, retail Offices, residential, recr.

Function

2006–2011 2007–??? 2007–2012 2005–2007 2008–2010

2004–2009 2008–2011

2003–2009 2003–2007 2007–2009 2004–2010

1996–2001 2007–2010 2006–2009 2008–2010

When built

Table 53.1 Data on Moskva Siti objects. (Compiled from various sources by authors)

Moskapstroi OAO City ST Towers North. Tower OAO City

Mirax Group Mercury C.T.

Capital Group ENKA Citer Invest Tech-Invest

OAO City City Palace GDO Group Moskapstroi

Developer

53 Mega-Engineering Projects in Russia 937

938

M.S. Blinnikov and M.L. Dixon

visual look of their city, but at least on the forum, very few users leave any constructively critical comments. Most seem to be overly enthusiastic about the new, ever bigger, construction happening, but are little concerned with the matters of environmental conservation, neighborhood preservation, traffic congestion, or negative visual impact of Moskva Siti. Perhaps this is a reflection of the forum demographics: Russian Internet forums, as in most countries, are dominated by computer-savvy middle to upper-middle income users in their upper teens and early to mid-twenties. The astonishing statistic about Moskva Siti is the projected total for its finished office space. At over 2 million m2 (21.5 million ft2 ), it is considerably more than can be reasonably accommodated by the business needs of the city in the next five years under even the most optimistic future economic scenarios. To put this in perspective, in July 2007 Moscow had a total of about 6.2 million m2 (66,712,000 ft2 ) in leasable office space with an average vacancy of 4% (Sokolov & Mamedova, 2007). Although in the booming period of 2003–2007 the office vacancy rate city-wide had dropped from about 6 to 4%, in the first half of 2008 vacancy rates began to increase and are now projected to reach at least 6% by the middle of 2009. Thus, finalizing Moskva Siti would increase office availability by about 50% in the heavily overbuilt office market and is likely to lower future lease prices, and therefore, profitability of the project. In April 2009, Moscow also had a glut of commercial retail space with vacancy rates approaching 300,000 m2 (3,228,000 ft2 ) or about 10% (Kopeychenko, 2009). Adding another million m2 of retail space seems hardly necessary at the moment.

53.4 Politics and Power Relations Around Moskva Siti Moskva Siti fits into Ford’s (2008) model of monumental urban design in at least three of his four categories: creation of iconic buildings, construction of integrated transportation hubs, and planned midtown redevelopment. While the project will fulfill certain city needs (e.g., it will house the huge new municipal center for the city government, the main city wedding palace, multiple shopping malls, and thousands of elite apartments close to downtown), it is clear that the scale of the project has been deliberately inflated to make a political point. Moscow is emerging not simply as another European or even a global mega-city (Brade & Rudolf, 2004; Kolossov & O’Loughlin, 2004). It wants to be Number One in at least some categories, e.g., the tallest building in Europe, the biggest city budget in the world, the fastest and largest transit hub, etc. The global financial crisis has already resulted in some projects being scaled down (Sergeev, 2009). Nevertheless, Moskva Siti construction stubbornly continues, funded by deep pockets of the top business elite and the Moscow City government. The ownership of OAO City and some key developer companies is murky, as with most Russian companies. Lauv and Rozhkova (2007) reported that 47% of the stock was owned by structures close to M. Prokhorov (the main owner of Norilsk Nickel) and 38% by O. Deripaska (BasEl group of companies) with the remaining 15% distributed among over 8000 minority stakeholders. The most recent official

53

Mega-Engineering Projects in Russia

939

list of “affiliated persons” of the OAO filed with the Russian government in June 2008 lists 10 individuals and one closed-stock venture City-Telekom affiliated with the Moscow city government (OAO Citi, 2009). At least three of the individuals, including its recent director O. Baybakov, are known to have close personal ties to M. Prokhorov. A few others are prominent attorneys representing unknown rich clients, presumably the city government and some oligarchs. A year earlier there were a few other companies on the list with close ties to the City of Moscow government (Bank Avangard, City Telekom, City Energo, Cristall S.A.). The latter company, registered offshore in British Virgin Islands, controlled 19.5% of the OAO stock.

53.5 Spatial and Environmental Impacts of Moskva Siti Moskva Siti complex will have projected employment and residential population between 350,000 and 500,000 people (OAO City, 2009). It will impact city environment on many levels. During the construction phase the impacts include noise; air, soil, and water pollution; groundwater withdrawals; and increased consumption of construction materials, most notably steel, glass, and cement. After the construction, there will be increase in traffic; a need to accommodate approximately 100,000 parking spaces; increased water and electricity consumption; negative visual impact, that is, drastically altered city skyline, especially at night; reduced insolation of the surrounding area; and disruption of the predominately westerly flow of air into Moscow downtown. Tall buildings are also notorious for causing increased bird mortality, and the location of the complex right along the Moscow River flyway, an area with high waterfowl and raptor populations, is ill conceived. Construction noise is temporary, but the traffic noise and congestion of the surrounding roads will be permanent. Despite four proposed metro stations and one long-distance train terminal immediately in the core of the development, we may expect an increase of at least 100,000 vehicles in local circulation by 2012, when the entire project is completed. The site is situated right next to the Moscow River, a badly polluted urban waterway. No construction project of this magnitude has ever been carried out that close to the Moscow River before. In June 2007 a major scandal erupted when it was discovered that huge amounts of construction debris, soil, and liquids were dumped from the OAO site into the Moscow river channel creating a temporary island in the river. Rosprirodnadzor Inspection assessed the damage at 6.6 billion rubles (ca. $US255 million) accusing two construction companies (Rasenstroy and MSM-1) of dumping untreated construction sewage. The concentration of suspended solids exceeded the allowable norms by a factor of 90 (Obrazkova, 2007). Nevertheless, at an October 2007 Moscow Arbitrage Court meeting, Rosprirodnadzor officials announced that they dismiss the suit, without much explanation, but in all likelihood in response to pressure from within the city, and possibly federal, government. The site is also sandwiched between a botanical garden to the west (3.2 ha, 7 acres) and Presnya Park to the east (12.9 ha; 28 acres). While parks are not directly

940

M.S. Blinnikov and M.L. Dixon

impacted, the associated increase in human presence will clearly increase the visitor load. Although much landscaping is proposed in the newest OAO Siti plans and some environmental concerns for the site are addressed by the current General Plan for the city of Moscow (Genplan, 2020), there is little doubt that the final outcome will be a much greater pressure over remaining green areas in the vicinity from the casual visitors. The disruption to the historical city skyline is a matter of subjective assessment. However, in the city famous for its church spires and cathedral-like Stalinist skyscrapers, Moskva Siti ultramodern look is bound to create some permanent visual damage. To make matters worse, the development of the site by at least six different developers (Table 53.1) has resulted in strikingly conflicting visual designs for the tallest buildings, creating a mishmash of neo-urban grotesque (Fig. 53.2). Specifically, the triangular shape of the proposed Rossiya tower directly contradicts the curved forms of FT, while the Two Capitals skyscrapers with their boxy forms clash with the spiral Wedding Palace and a few of the round towers (e.g., Tower, 2000 and Tower on the Quay). While such diversity of forms in one single development is hardly unique in Moscow, it does present a form of sight blight. One aspect of environmental change that receives surprisingly little discussion in the construction plans is the shadow effect of the skyscrapers on the surrounding territory. Even a single tall building may substantially reduce the amount of sunlight (Lynch & Hack, 1984). Overlapping shadows of a few towers will create semi-permanent dusk conditions at ground level throughout much of the Moskva Siti territory. The current Google Earth satellite image of Moscow (probably 2007, if judged by the skyscrapers visible in the picture) shows the dramatic shadows cast by the completed Tower on the Quay and the half-finished FT (about 3 ha or 7 acres each!) and smaller shadows of City of Capitals and Northern Tower. Judging by the shadow orientations and the vegetation present, the image was taken around noon in the early summer. This is when the shadows are supposed to be the

Fig. 53.2 Skyline of Moskva Siti as seen from Vorobiovy Hills in the summer of 2007. The highest structure is the Tower on the Quay (268 m; 879 ft). Notice how much larger the project is relative to everything else, including one of J. Stalin skyscrapers. Newer towers are even larger. (Photo by M. Blinnikov)

53

Mega-Engineering Projects in Russia

941

shortest, but Moscow with its northern latitude of 56◦ N still gets plenty of shadows even during this time. Interior of all buildings is supposed to have natural light from skylights and light wells, but it is clearly not going to help the situation on the ground. Besides, about one quarter of all leasable space in Moskva Siti will be actually fully underground.

53.6 St. Petersburg: Recent History and Landscape Inheritance After bearing the name of Vladimir Lenin for almost 70 years as Leningrad, St. Petersburg regained its pre-revolutionary name in 1991 after a city-wide referendum. As Russia’s second-largest city, it has striven to regain its historical status as the “Northern capital” and cultural headquarters. While it cannot compete with Moscow in terms of foreign direct investment, population, or world city characteristics such as corporate headquarters (although see Trumbull, 2003), it has a clear symbolic value for Russia as a whole. St. Petersburg covers 1,439 km2 (555 mi2 ). As of 2007, it had a population of nearly 4.7 million people. It is thus 50% larger than Moscow by its legal area, but has only about 40% of Moscow’s population. Unlike Moscow, which received the seven Stalinist towers, Leningrad’s Soviet-era megaprojects were not as numerous or visible (Ruble, 1990). The Leningrad subway system was opened in 1955, and a television tower was built in 1962 that stands 310 m (1,017 ft) tall. Several kilometers south of the city center, the House of the Soviets and a statue of Lenin still stand on Moscow Square (1968) as a sign of an unfinished and unsuccessful project to reorient the city’s “center” here, away from the culturally-laden Nevsky Prospect. Here, however, most Soviet-era construction was housing; other than the TV tower, official construction adhered to existing height limitations. St. Petersburg today broadly retains a basic ring structure (Axenov, Brade, & Bondarchuk, 2006; Bater, 1976). The historic center is surrounded by a belt of factories and mid-century Stalinist housing; this in turn is surrounded by a thick ring of late-Soviet housing (five-story Khrushchev-era buildings called “khrushchevki” and taller 1960s–1970s concrete panel construction). Increasingly, new massive high-rise housing is becoming interspersed throughout this basic structure, from the center to the late Soviet edges; beyond the basic rings, a series of “kottedzh” developments are creating a suburb-like area between the city and the dacha areas as well as small towns such as Pushkin. Elite housing mostly occupies renovated historic buildings or has arisen in these new “suburbs” (Bater, 2006). For well over a decade after the return to the name St. Petersburg, building height regulations and strict requirements for use of historic buildings kept new development in the city center slow, although this is still the most coveted area for new construction. The return of a land price gradient with the highest prices in the central area has put pressure on the uses of the center mandated in the communist era; expensive cafes and restaurants, Western boutiques and business and commercial interests, seeking a central location, are displacing residential use of historical

942

M.S. Blinnikov and M.L. Dixon

buildings. Developers want to benefit from the existing city infrastructure of roads, public transportation, and electricity and water lines; infrastructure in most locations is aging and the city has not undertaken to extend existing services to any significant degree. Due to the Soviet practice of building extensively rather than intensively, the city has abundant land on the outskirts (especially to the north and south), but these areas remain undesirable in terms of prestige and the limited infrastructure. Although increasing traffic congestion makes a central location less feasible for business activity, the historic center has retained its cachet. The major challenge that faces the city as it attempts to develop its center is the geologic condition of the swampy ground. The Neva River runs for 32 km (20 mi) within the city. It is the largest of the 40 waterways that course through St. Petersburg; the river connects not only to smaller tributaries but to numerous shifting underground streams. This means, for example, that the construction of underground parking for any project in the city center is extremely expensive or even prohibitive; further, any large-scale construction project planned for a site in the area of marshy soil would require additional engineering solutions. While the ground is more solid towards the northern, eastern, and southern regions of the city, as noted above these areas are less desirable for prestige projects. In spite of this challenge with stability of foundations, the city has a history of creating new ground in the central city in order to increase the square footage with the greatest prestige. The area northwest of Vasilievsky Island was expanded and connected to Vasilievsky in the 1960s and 1970s; new housing developments along the main shoreline to the northwest were also reclaimed from the gulf. Currently, a major Chinese-financed project along the southwest shore of the Gulf of Finland is going up on land that was reclaimed during the early 1990s. One of the most ambitious among the current planned megaprojects is the Marine Façade; reclamation of land from the gulf to the immediate west of Vasilievsky Island began in late 2006 and has continued although financial developments at the end of 2008 will probably force a shelving of this project for the time being. Environmental challenges have not prevented the city administration from conceiving bold plans for revitalizing St. Petersburg’s landscapes and, they hope, its financial and cultural viability. While the administration of Vladimir Yakovlev (1996–2003) made some changes in city construction policy, a distinctly new era of construction planning began under City Governor Valentina Matvienko. Matvienko was elected in October 2003, in the last election before then-President Putin changed the election of city governorships to presidential appointments. In March 2005, Matvienko described a major foreign investment project as “the steam engine behind which will come a whole file of wagons,” indicating the city’s hope that many such projects would take place. Official statements from the St. Petersburg city administration indicate a desire to see the growth of tertiary and quaternary functions in the city, in order to make St. Petersburg truly post-industrial and to raise its rank among other cities, both globally and within Europe. Petersburg’s strategic plan (completed in 1997) was heavily influenced by European Union consultation (Tsenkova, 2007); its Master

53

Mega-Engineering Projects in Russia

943

Plan (adopted in 2005) claims “open European city” as a motto. Many of the megaprojects that were initiated under Matvienko were intended to coordinate with these broader plans. In June 2004, in her first annual speech to the St. Petersburg City Legislative Assembly (ZAKS), Matvienko emphasized the need to initiate projects that would attract investment and raise St. Petersburg’s profile, such as “centers of innovation, technoparks, and science cities.” Current trends as reflected in new highways and prestigious architectural projects will transform the city from a quiet, somewhat provincial regional center into a global place of increasing wealth and social stratification. In March 2005, Matvienko asserted that the completion of major projects would make “a contemporary megapolis comfortable and equipped with all the modern conveniences (blagoustroennyi),” in particular, roads. Transportation planners at the federal and regional level are actively involved in plans for cooperating with the European TEN, a network of roads to link all parts of the Eurasian continent; according to UN documents, St. Petersburg will be an important node in this network (Economic Commission, 2008,: 21–22). Included in these plans are the KAD, or Ring Road, which is partially completed, and the ZSD, or Western Speed Diagonal, which is planned to run along the western edges of the existing Vasilievsky Island and of Krestovsky Island to its immediate north (Fig. 53.3). The ZSD specifically

Fig. 53.3 The Ring road in St. Petersburg (KAD) at its full planned extent with the planned Western Speedway (ZSD) running north-south. The Baltic Pearl is southwest of the main port area. (Map by authors)

944

M.S. Blinnikov and M.L. Dixon

Fig. 53.4 The major projects planned for the central city area in St. Petersburg. (Map by authors)

would coordinate with the TEN plan to link St. Petersburg into a wider road system, north to Helsinki and south through northwestern Russia to Eastern Europe as well as to Moscow. Local activists are concerned about the impact of both of these roadways for several reasons. The western (unfinished) section of the KAD would close a circuit around the city across the St. Petersburg Dam (Fig. 53.4); the construction of this dam (in Russian damba), intended to prevent further flooding in St. Petersburg according to historic patterns, created controversy in the 1970s and 1980s due to the increased silting it created in the shallow estuary of the Neva River and shore areas of the Gulf of Finland (Collins, 1997; Lehtoranta, Heiskanen, & Pitkanen, 2004; Precoda, 1988; Seliverstov, 1989). The ZSD would not only run along western shores of two islands that have been regarded as the most attractive sites for fresh breezes for city residents, but would also run along the immediate eastern edge of the Yuntolovo Preserve in the Primorsky district north of the city, threatening the preserve’s fragile ecology as well as cutting off local resident access to the recreational paths in its buffer zone. In the Moskovsky district of the city, the ZSD would run immediately opposite current residential buildings in contradiction of Soviet-era regulations about the limitations on pollution from noise and exhaust in residential areas. Activist groups in both neighborhoods have attempted to protest these roadway plans in their local districts, although they have had little success; the location of these projects in the federal-level portfolio means that local officials have little influence on their development.

53

Mega-Engineering Projects in Russia

945

53.7 Gazprom Project and Other Examples Many residents who were attempting to protest local aspects of the new development initiated by the city administration were united by their opposition to the project for a skyscraper headquarters for a subsidiary company of the Gazprom Corporation. Currently called “Okhta-Center” in honor of the Malaya Okhta River and the neighborhood on the right bank of the Neva that bears that name, the project was presented in December 2006 as “Gazprom-Siti” in an echo of the Moskva Siti project. The aim of the project was to transform several aspects of St. Petersburg’s political, financial, social and aesthetic environment in one grand gesture. The financial goal of the skyscraper project was to increase the tax money paid into St. Petersburg’s budget. The Gazpromneft subsidiary had been headquartered in Tomsk, but—apparently with some involvement of St. Petersburg native and then-president Putin—Gazprom CEO Alexei Miller proposed to contribute to St. Petersburg’s budget and raise the visibility of his company by moving the subsidiary’s headquarters to St. Petersburg. The city administration originally offered to pay for the building’s construction and then deliver it to Gazprom; the promise of tax monies (along with the ability of such a large corporation to draw other headquarters in its wake) was claimed to outweigh the cost. In response to considerable public and legislative protest, this proposal was later revised to ascribe 49% of the financial cost to the city, with Gazprom taking on 51% of costs. Some observers suggested that a chief goal of the project was to bring St. Petersburg more firmly into the political orbit of Moscow, imposing Muscovite construction practices and architectural tastes on its northern neighbor (Fontanka, 5/18/04). Local activists and average residents feared that the social impact of the project would be to increase the socio-economic polarization in the city, emphasizing the already-developing stratification between higher and lower classes. This includes a concern with the type of person employed by the firm, the type of housing demanded by such a clientele, and the increased automobile burden on roads and bridges in this area of the city (unlike Moskva Siti, Gazprom-Siti was sited close to the city center but a significant distance away from the Ring Road; see Fig. 53.3). Finally, the proposed height of the building promised to destroy the architectural norms established under the czars, norms that had been enforced (whether intentionally or through lack of resources) throughout the twentieth century. The choice of site sharpened the controversy. Miller and the city administration designated a site directly across the Neva River from Smolny Cathedral, an eighteenth-century Baroque monument to the reign of Elizabeth II, daughter of Peter the Great, place where regulations in effect at the time did not permit any construction higher than 48 m (157 ft); this choice pushed the city’s system of height regulations into dispute, since Miller demanded that any architectural design proposed for Gazprom-Siti should be no lower than 300 m. While technically Miller and the city administration could argue that this site stood outside the official historic preservation zone (which encompassed the cathedral directly across the river), opponents argued that the impact on the traditionally horizontal skyline of a solitary

946

M.S. Blinnikov and M.L. Dixon

skyscraper constituted a violation in spirit of regulations on historic preservation that were in effect inside the zone. Seven architects and architectural firms were invited to submit designs for the Gazprom project; Richard Rogers Partnership eventually withdrew, but the rest produced models and design documents that went on public display in mid-November 2006: Daniel Libeskind, Rem Koolhaas, RMJM (UK), Massimiliano Fuksas, Jean Nouvel, and Herzog and de Meuron. The UK-based architectural engineering firm ARUP was the supporting partner for the engineering aspects of all the projects except for the one from RMJM, whose project was the one selected. Speculation at the time suggested that this project was chosen because it was the least expensive and possibly because architect Nikandrov, a St. Petersburg native employed by RMJM, was the only Russian involved in the design competition. It seems true at least that the range of invited participants sought to put Petersburg on the “map” of international architecture; all of the single architects were already worldfamous for winning designs or completed projects. For example, Herzog and de Meuron designed the Beijing Olympics “Bird’s Nest” stadium. The revised version of RMJM’s winning design plans a height of 396 m (Fig. 53.5); the tower complex with its associated buildings would occupy 77 ha right on the bank of the Neva (St. Petersburg Times, 12/7/07). The Gazprom project offered a threat to construction regulations in the city through its unusual height. As discussed elsewhere (Dixon, 2009), the height regulation in St. Petersburg had become a means of managing not only the appearance of the skyline, but also the density and type of construction. During a city-wide series

Fig. 53.5 The winning design for the Gazprom tower from RMJM as displayed publicly in November 2006. (Photo by M. Dixon)

53

Mega-Engineering Projects in Russia

947

of hearings on construction regulations and building codes during fall 2006, participating residents and legal advisory organizations were particularly attentive to the treatment of height regulations throughout the city. As noted often in the press, the pressure from Gazprom CEO Miller to adjust the height regulation to permit “Okhta-Center” disrupted gains that NGOs felt they had made in offering serious commentary on the effect of tall buildings in various parts of the city, especially residential areas. The result of the struggle eventually was a closed-door out-of-session phone vote among the legislators in the Zaks in December 2007; this vote provisionally passed a height regulation that designates strategic nodes where extreme heights would be permitted. In October 2008 the city withdrew completely from funding of the skyscraper, leaving Gazprom to find its own funding (St. Petersburg Times, 10/31/08). CEO Miller maintained in December that construction would go forward (St. Petersburg Times, 12/12/08). Whether or not the Gazprom skyscraper is ever built, however, the damage has been done to St. Petersburg’s built environment. The struggle over building heights continued into 2008 with the construction of a new Stock Exchange near the western edge of Vasilievsky Island’s historic area; scandal broke in early summer when an amateur photographer submitted a photo that demonstrated that building’s impact on the city panorama visible from central bridges over the Neva River. As it happens, the building was approved well before the administration of Matvienko (Milchik, 2008), but its implementation became much more possible under the regime of permissiveness introduced by Gazprom. It followed other buildings erected along the Neva River under a regime of more permissive building codes; the damage done by the Gazprom project to the process for legislative approval of the codes proposed in fall 2006 has prevented more rigorous enforcement of building heights, although the Architectural Advisory Council makes periodic attempts to object to projects that violate accepted norms. While the more arcane sphere of construction norms and height regulations probably has the more profound effect on the city’s overall environment for living and building, a series of other projects usually draws more visibility and attention. In some cases preceding the Gazprom project by some years in their announcement, this group of charismatic projects tends to provoke a wider range of reactions among residents, many of whom would like to see Petersburg’s basic infrastructure improved and its profile raised by projects commensurate with its important cultural history and architectural reputation. The very first of these high-profile projects was a second stage for the Mariinsky Theater (see Fig. 53.5). This project was immediately controversial because the Palace of Culture named for Kirov, a landmark of the Leningrad Siege and beloved by local residents, was razed in 2005 in order to make way for the project; the winning design in the competition, by French architect Dominique Perrault, involved a non-traditional glass bubble that violated immediate height regulations, proved infeasible in terms of engineering, and threatened to overwhelm demands on the immediate infrastructure. A second such charismatic project in a nearby neighborhood is the renovation of New Holland, a former military storage site. British

948

M.S. Blinnikov and M.L. Dixon

architect Sir Norman Foster won the design competition for this, which is slated to include new shops and an outdoor theater. The city has also awarded a contract to foreign architects to redesign its airport, and to renovate and rebuild the low-to-middle class goods market Apraksin Yard. Another such project is a new stadium on the western end of Krestovsky Island for local soccer team Zenit, whose cost was recently estimated at US$971 million (St. Petersburg Times, 8/26/08). In December 2005, the Gazprom corporation purchased the controlling stake of shares in the team (St. Petersburg Times, 12/23/05); while the city originally planned to finance the construction on its own, the administration has recently pressured the company to cover at least half if not more of related construction costs (St. Petersburg Times, 8/26/08). The new stadium will replace the Stalin-era Kirov Stadium, which was demolished in the summer of 2006. In late 2006 Japanese architect Kisho Kurokawa won the design competition to construct the replacement. Negotiations between the city and the construction firm over cost delayed progress in fall 2008, but activity was resumed in December. When the city withdrew funding for the Gazprom skyscraper in October, it stated its intent to transfer those funds to construction of the stadium (St. Petersburg Times, 12/12/08). Yet another project is the Marine Façade, a plan to create 450 ha (1,112 acres) of artificial land off Vasilievsky Island. This reclaimed land would support the construction of a new passenger port for tourist cruise ships, a high-tech architecture business and residential district, and a section of the Western Diameter Highway; Matvienko has mentioned the project numerous times in her annual addresses since 2004. Local residents have protested that their access to the gulf for recreational purposes as well as their reception of fresh air off the water will be negatively affected by all aspects of this project. In late 2006 the city administration was not enforcing noise regulations that required the development company to cease activity at night. Development of this area as a port will require further dredging of the Neva estuary in order to provide access for sea-going ships in the planned berths. As noted at the start of this section, most of these projects are slated for sites in or near the historic center, highlighting their focus on prestige functions such as administration, finance, and high culture. Development projects connected with housing and big box retail have increasingly occupied land outside or near the Ring Road, however; these projects are less visible and tend to be smaller in scope, but are having an increasing impact on the distribution of population and on land use. A megaproject among housing developments is the Baltic Pearl, a 205-ha (506acre) multi-use district located southwest of the city center and just southwest of the major port facilities. Financed by a consortium of investors from Shanghai, China, the project broke ground in the summer of 2006. Estimated to cost US$3 billion (as of early 2009), the project is supposed to include housing for the city’s educated, affluent population as well as upscale retail, recreation, and business facilities (Fig. 53.6). Unlike Russia development companies, the Chinese consortium agreed to provide infrastructure for the district, including roads and services. Partly thanks to the interest of PM Putin in the area surrounding the Konstantin Palace to the west, the Baltic Pearl appears to have catalyzed developer confidence in these districts of the city; other similar large-scale housing developments may follow the completion

53

Mega-Engineering Projects in Russia

949

Fig. 53.6 The Baltic Pearl business center with a residential complex going up in the background. (Photo by M. Dixon, July 2008)

of the Baltic Pearl when the economy recovers. The most recent claims from Baltic Pearl representatives assert that the consortium has adequate financing to complete the project, unlike many of the other high-profile projects in St. Petersburg that have been delayed while funding is renegotiated.

53.8 Concluding Thoughts Both Moscow and St. Petersburg have seen an unprecedented rise in large engineering projects in the first few years of the 21st century that are bound to transform their cultural and economic landscapes for decades to come. For example, both Moskva Siti and Okhta Center are costly skyscraper projects with high visibility, but also severe environmental impacts and dubious commercial and aesthetic value. They may not be sustainable in the long term and will remain monuments to the ambitions of their respective cities’ governments and a few construction industry oligarchs in the Russia of Putin and Medvedev. The environmental risks and the social impacts of these projects receive far less coverage in Russian and international press than they should. The political impacts are already well noticeable and much discussed, while true economic costs and benefits will be more directly observable in the not-so-distant future. The possible development of such projects in other parts of Russia will provide an indicator of important processes in Russian societal development. As prominent examples of high modern architecture engaging some of the most renowned

950

M.S. Blinnikov and M.L. Dixon

international architects, these megaprojects seem to align Russian urban development practice with that observed in other major world cities such as London, Beijing and Los Angeles; one aspect of the practice could be termed “gentrification by prestige project,” as employed by relative “minor” cities such as Bilbao, with its Guggenheim extension by Frank Gehry (for a prescient critique from 1989, see Harvey 2001; for a discussion of the Chinese version, see He and Wu 2005). Cities that gain the Olympic Games—not only Beijing, but also smaller cities such as Barcelona—notoriously focus resources on a few major projects such as stadiums. (It will be particularly interesting to follow the Russian government’s approach in Sochi, the city which won the bid for the 2014 Winter Olympic Games.) Such an approach reinforces at the urban scale Russia’s political recentralization with a return to typical urban structure based around metropoles or primate cities; as scholars have noted, Moscow already concentrates most of the FDI entering Russia as well as the highest rate of prosperity among the population (see Kolossov & O’Loughlin, 2004). While the prominence of Moscow always belied the Soviet ideology of spreading public goods in a somewhat even distribution across the expanse of the Soviet Union, certain efforts were made to extend the network of industry, population, and transportation infrastructure (Demko, 1987). A retreat from these efforts to connect points on the existing settlement pattern will affect future patterns of population movement and federal funding, and thus Russia’s ability to inhabit the full expanse of its national territory (see Hill & Gaddy, 2003; Medvedkov & Medvedkov, 2009); these factors will also affect the placement of architectural projects. On another hand, these projects should not be regarded as a direct reflection of any Western trends; they will have their own Russian specificities. For example, it is highly unlikely that the projects’ occurrence points to a true diversity in agents of investment in Russia; further, as Pagonis and Thornley point out (2000), the occurrence of these projects does not point to what would be termed in the West entrepreneurial practices in Russian investment. The major financing drive in the case of Moskva Siti as well as Okhta Center is Gazprom, that is, revenues from natural resources (in the case of Okhta Center, Gazprom is the sole financer of the project). As Goldman has recently pointed out, Russia’s economy is disproportionately tied to these revenues (2008). During the boom in oil prices in the mid-2000s, many observers suggested that Russia should be spending some of its profits on fundamental infrastructure; since the financial collapse, these warnings seem more than prescient. The role of resource-based revenues in the financing of such projects also affects the geography of their appearance; reportedly, cities such as Perm and other oil-rich locations are collecting some examples of modern steel-and-glass architecture, even if they have not yet achieved the placement of a high-profile project designed by a charismatic international architect. Further, the absence thus far of more advanced environmentally-friendly building practices is striking in the context of the emphasis on green buildings, LED certification, and smart technology currently used in Europe, North America, and even China. While there may be some positive shift seen in the return of a land-price gradient which forces more intensive use of urban land, Russia is also

53

Mega-Engineering Projects in Russia

951

facing a boom in “suburban” building with implications for the agricultural land immediately around urban areas. Interviewees in the St. Petersburg planning process as well as the Baltic Pearl firm, for example, suggested that lack of capital in the Russian economy prevents the implementation of environmentally-friendly practices; potential consumers among residents and non-corporate commercial entities lack the capacity to purchase it. However, the fact that major projects such as Moscow City and Okhta Center similarly do not promise to be models of environmental technology points to a crucial lack of capacity in the Russian economy to pursue true innovation in construction. (Some newspaper commentators suggested in December 2006 that the RMJM project was chosen for Okhta Center because it was the least costly). Finally, the potential for a local Russian movement in architecture seems somewhat suffocated by this impulse to bring in foreign architects and to rely on centralized (state-driven) funding strategies. As some observers suggest in China, the resulting projects are considered too big to fail, and a reliable (often foreign, already famous) architectural quantity must be brought in to ensure its success. Even when Russian architects are involved, there are few signs of a “native” movement influenced by local traditions; while some smaller projects in St. Petersburg, for example, have recently gone to Russian architectural firms, the styles chosen remain heavily influenced by High-Modern glass-and-steel construction. (Among these are a new City Hall near central Petersburg, a Palace of Congresses along the shore of the Gulf of Finland, and a projected IT institute east of the Neva.) In conjunction with developments in other parts of the world, these projects also seem to reflect a growing socioeconomic stratification in urban populations: one layer is envisioned as occupying the sleek high-modern spaces of the skyscrapers and high-speed expressways, while the rest of the population pursues the labor that enables such cities to function (Sassen, 1998). The increasing involvement of investors from Arab countries suggests that we will soon do well to compare Russian architectural motivations and practices to the experience of Dubai just as much as to that of London.

References Adams, J. S. (2008). Monumentality in urban design: The case of Russia. Eurasian Geography and Economics, 49(3), 280–303. Axenov, K., Brade, I., & Bondarchuk, E. (2006). The transformation of urban space in post-Soviet Russia. New York: Routledge. Bater, J. H. (1976). St. Petersburg. Industrialization and change. Montreal, QC: Queen’s University Press. Bater, J. H. (2006). Central St. Petersburg: Continuity and change in privilege and place. Eurasian Geography and Economics, 47, 4–27. Blinnikov, M. S., Shanin, A., Sobolev, N., & Volkova, L. (2006). Gated communities of the Moscow green belt: Newly segregated landscapes and the suburban Russian environment. GeoJournal, 66, 65–81. Brade, I., & Rudolf, R. (2004). Moscow, the global city? The position of the Russian capital within the European system of metropolitan areas. Area, 36(1), 69–80.

952

M.S. Blinnikov and M.L. Dixon

Collins, D. (1997). The Soviet Press and the Marketplace of Ideas: Controversy over the Leningrad Dam, 1985–1990. University of Oregon, School of Journalism and Communication. MA Thesis. Demko, G. (1987). The Soviet settlement system – current issues and future prospects. Eurasian Geography and Economics, 28, 707–717. Dixon, M. (2009). Gazprom vs. the skyline: Spatial displacement and social contention in St. Petersburg. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 34(1), 35–54. Economic Commission for Europe (UN). (2008). Joint study on developing Euro-Asian transport linkages. New York; Geneva: United Nations. Retrieved March 14, 2008, from www.unece.org Fontanka. (2004). Moscow builders come to Petersburg (Moskovskie stroiteli prikhodiat v Peterburg). May 18. Retrieved May 19, 2004, from www.fontanka.ru Ford, L. (2008). World cities and global change: Observations on monumentality in urban design. Eurasian Geography and Economics, 49(2), 237–262. Goldman, M. (2008). Petrostate: Putin, power, and the new Russia. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Goskomstat, R. (2007). Regiony Rossii: Osnovnye kharakteristriki subjektov Riossijskoj Federatsii. 2-CD set. Moscow: State Committee on Statistics of Russia. Harvey, D. (2001 [1989]). From managerialism to entrepreneurialism: The transformation in urban governance in late capitalism. In D. Harvey (Ed.), Spaces of capital: Towards a critical geography. (pp. 345–368). New York: Routledge. He, S., & Wu, F. 2005. Property-led redevelopment in post-reform China: A case study of Xintiandi redevelopment project in Shanghai. Journal of Urban Affairs, 27, 1–23. Hill, F., & C. Gaddy. 2003. The Siberian curse. How Russian planners left Russia out in the cold. Washington, DC: Brookings Institution Press. Hoffman, D. (2003). The Oligarchs: Wealth and power in the new Russia. New York, NY: Public Affairs. Kolossov, V., & O’Loughlin, J. (2004). How Moscow is becoming a capitalist mega-city. International Social Science Journal, 181, 413–427. Kopeychenko, N. (2009). Moscow retail spaces are 10% empty. RBC Daily. 02.04.2009. Lauv, B., & Rozhkova, M. (2007). Deripaska Territory. Vedomosti, 146(1920), 08.08.2007. Lehtoranta, J., Heiskanen, A.-S., & Pitkanen, H. (2004). Particulate N and P characterizing the fate of nutrients along the estuarine gradient of the River Neva (Baltic Sea). Estuarine, Coastal and Shelf Science, 61, 275–287. Lynch, K., & Hack, G. (1984). Site planning. Boston, MA: MIT Press. Medvedkov, O., & Medvedkov, Y. (2009). Russia’s urban settlement contraction, 1991 to 2007. Paper presented at Annual Meeting of the Association of American Geographers. Las Vegas, NV, 22–27 March. Milchik, M. (2008). Interview by M. Dixon with the Member of the Federal Council for the Preservation of Cultural Heritage, July 2008. OAO Citi. (2009). Lists of affiliated persons of the Moskva Siti Company. Retrieved April 10, 2009, from http://www.citynext.ru/lists.asp Obrazkova, M. (2007). Builders encased the Moscow River in concrete. Nezavisimaya Gazeta. 03.07.2007. Pagonis, T., & Thornley, A. (2000). Urban development projects in Moscow: Market/state relations in the New Russia. European Planning Studies, 8, 751–766. Precoda, N. (1988). Leningrad’s protective barrier against flooding project. Soviet Geography, 29, 725–735. RBC (RosBusinessConsulting). (2008). Moscow government suggests to shorten Rossiya tower by a factor of three. RBC Daily News, 10.02.2009. Retrieved February 15, 2009, from http://top.rbc.ru/society/10/02/2009/279485 Ruble, B. (1990). Leningrad. Shaping a Soviet City. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Sassen, S. (1998). Globalization and its discontents. New York: New Press. Saushkin, Y. G., & Glushkova, V. G. (1983). Moskva Sredi Gorodov Mira. Moscow: Mysl’.

53

Mega-Engineering Projects in Russia

953

Seliverstov, Y. P. (1989). Engineering-geographical aspects of the development of the mouth seaside regions (in Russian). Vestnik Leningradskogo Universiteta – Geologiia, geografiia, 1, 41–50. Sergeev, M. (2009). Crisis hurts prestige. Nezavisimaya Gazeta. 11.02.2009. Retrieved March 1, 2009, from http://www.ng.ru/economics/2009-02-11/4_prestige.html Sidorov, D. (2000). National monumentalization and the politics of scale: The resurrections of the cathedral of Christ the Savior in Moscow. Annals of the Association of Americans Geographers, 90(3), 548–572. Sokolov, D., & Mamedova, L. (2007). Office Snapshot of Moscow July 2007. Cushman & Wakefield Consulting. Retrieved March 1, 2009, from http://eur.cushwake.com/ Smith, G. B. (1980). Public policy and administration in the Soviet Union. New York, NY: Praeger. St. Petersburg Times. (2005). Gazprom buys Zenit. 1133. December 23. Retrieved April 26, 2009, from www.sptimes.ru St. Petersburg Times. (2007). Architects claim gasprom tower fits into city skyline. 1330. December 7. Retrieved April 26, 2009, from www.sptimes.ru St. Petersburg Times. (2008). Changes planned for Okhta Center Skyscraper Financing. 1433. December 12. Retrieved December 20, 2008, from www.sptimes.ru St. Petersburg Times. (2008). Skyscraper Funding Reviewed. 1421. October 31. Retrieved December 20, 2008, from www.sptimes.ru St. Petersburg Times. (2008). Gazprom to foot the bill? 1402. August 26. Retrieved December 20, 2008, from www.sptimes.ru Trumbull, N. (2003). The impacts of globalization on St. Petersburg: A secondary world city in from the cold? Annals of Regional Science, 37, 533–546. Tsenkova, S. (2007). Urban futures: Strategic planning in post-socialist Europe. In K. Stanilov (Ed.), The post-socialist city: Urban form and space transformations in Central and Eastern Europe after socialism (pp. 447–472). Dordrecht: Springer.

Chapter 54

Engineering New Geographies with the Burj Dubai∗ Benjamin Smith

54.1 Introduction What is most interesting about the Burj Dubai (Fig. 54.1) is that it is probably not the most attention grabbing megaengineering project taking shape in the United Arab Emirate of Dubai. Sure the possibly 160+ story, 800 m (2,625 ft) tall Burj Dubai will be the world’s tallest building upon completion (and its scale is truly aweinspiring), but there have been other world’s tallest buildings constructed before it, for seemingly similar (though ultimately far from identical) reasons, in what to casual observers would seem to be unlikely places. Most especially, Tim Bunnell, in his excellent work on Malaysia’s Petronas Towers (Bunnell, 1999, 2004) has shown how in the 1990s Prime Minister Mahatir used the Towers as the centerpiece of an effort to make the world (and the residents of Malaysia) aware that Kuala Lumpur was modern city and a regional capital, an effort which did not translate to the rest of the world (or even the citizens of Malaysia) in the clear bold ways he had hoped. Indeed, in terms of location, as Donald McNeill noted in his review of Skyscraper Geography (McNeill, 2005) “perhaps most significant, however, is that of the world’s 15 tallest buildings, only three are in the US, and none are in Europe” showing that the erection of a super-skyscraper is now thoroughly a routine post-colonial performance (Table 54.1). Thus, sometime within the next decade, a building will be constructed, probably somewhere in the former periphery (and probably somewhere in the Gulf), that will be taller than the Burj Dubai. Furthermore, the Burj Dubai lacks the unexpected brashness of other Dubaibased ventures such as a 26-story tall ski-slope in the desert, a water park run on desalinized water, an artificial Palm Tree-shaped island wrapped with a line of poetry that translates in part from Arabic as “not everyone who rides a horse is

B. Smith (B) Department of Global and Sociocultural Studies, Florida International University, Miami, FL 33109, USA e-mail: [email protected] ∗ Burj

Dubai was renamed into Burj Khalifa after it was opened in January 4, 2010

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_54,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

955

956

B. Smith

Fig. 54.1 Burj Dubai dwarfing surrounding buildings, May 2007

Table 54.1 Tallest completed skyscrapers (October 2008) Rank

Name

Height (m)

Height (ft) Floors

Year

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

Taipei 101 Shanghai World Financial Petronas Tower 1 Petronas Tower 2 Sears Tower Jin Mao Tower Two International Finance CITIC Plaza Shun Hing Square Empire State Building Central Plaza Bank of China Tower Bank of America Tower Almas Tower Emirates Office Tower

509 492 452 452 442 421 415 391 384 381 374 367 366 360 355

1,671 1,614 1,483 1,483 1,483 1,451 1,380 1,362 1,260 1,250 1,227 1,205 1,200 1,181 1,163

2004 2008 1998 1998 1974 1999 2003 1997 1996 1931 1992 1990 2008 2008 2000

101 101 88 88 108 88 88 80 69 102 78 70 54 74 54

Source: Emporis.com, after McNeill (2005)

jockey,” or Falcon City of Wonders, which will have replicas of many of the wonders of the world, only bigger and filled with condos. As far as I know the Burj Dubai is merely tall; it does not possess the ability to have each of its floors rotate independently like the Da Vinci Building, nor is it shaped like a Gulf National

54

Engineering New Geographies with the Burj Dubai

957

wearing a ghurta, like other planned towers in Dubai. Being that it is in Dubai, one would expect it to at least shoot flames out the top to represent the flare off of natural gas from an oil rig or be the base of a space elevator or possess some distinguishing feature besides the world’s fastest elevator (a necessity for the structure) and a Bellagio-style fountain. Any Joe-City-State can figure out that building the world’s tallest building is one way to announce your world city ambitions and show that workers in your city are, as Bunnell put it, “can-do people.” As someone who has been following the Emirate intensely for seven years now, it almost seems strange that Dubai’s leaders would stoop to the level of other polities by doing something so ordinary and expected. Add in questions about the wisdom of building of a skyscraper in a post-September 11 environment in which possible tenants are understandably skittish (indeed several expatriate bloggers have dubbed it the Death Spire) and the fact Dubai manages to keep itself in the news for projects beyond the tower, and I actually kind of wondered for a while why the Burj Dubai is being built at all. Yet, being built it is and many actors in Dubai have their own productive reasons for doing so (even if not all of them are necessarily compatible). Taking seriously the call made by Jane M. Jacobs in “A Geography of Big Things” (Jacobs, 2006), this chapter will look at the Burj Dubai not just to “look up” to make a statement about skyscrapers in general (although I certainly hope it will make some), but to “look down” at the “baroque” (Law, 2004) and complex relations that have sustained the Burj Dubai as a work thus far. There is a work that at its core is about changing both material and imaginative geographies. The research that backs this paper, that was not gathered from internet news sources and corporate websites, is part of a larger project on the cultural economy of Dubai, most especially the relationship between the cultural landscape and cultures of economic development. More specifically, it came from three visits to Dubai totaling six months between 2005 and 2007. The research specific to this chapter consisted of archival research and interviews with officials and residents, and most especially, observation of the landscape.

54.2 Context and Dubai’s Megaproject History To establish some context, Dubai is the second largest of the seven sheikhdoms that make up the United Arab Emirates (UAE), with a population of approximately 1.3 million. While it does have significant oil resources, they are dwarfed by those of fellow-Emirate Abu Dhabi, which has 8% of the world’s known reserves as well as those of the neighboring state of Saudi Arabia and its oceans of oil. Furthermore, Dubai’s oil is supposed to run out in the next decade or two, something which is often given as justification for the current development craze. To give an example of how fast the pace of building is: from 2000 to 2005, the number of registered buildings in Dubai increased by 42%, from 55,659 to 79,214 (Ahmad, 2005). Dubai is home to the Middle East’s busiest airport (and will soon be home to a new airport that will be one of the world’s largest), a major transshipment center, the Middle

958

B. Smith

East’s leading convention destination and a significant player in sun, sand, and shopping tourism (it allegedly has more mall square footage per capita than any major city on Earth). It also has free zones in a multitude sectors, and has attracted regional headquarters of many transnational corporations. At least 85% of the population consists of foreign guestworkers, the majority of whom come from South Asia, but also from the Philippines, Europe and other parts of the Middle East. To begin, it is important to recognize that the Burj Dubai is not the Emirate’s first venture into the realm of skyscrapers and megaprojects, and that the Burj Dubai has different goals in mind than earlier efforts. The first skyscraper built in Dubai, and in fact, the first one built in the Persian Gulf region, was the Dubai World Trade Centre (Fig. 54.2), which opened in 1979. Indeed, the late-1970s was a busy time for megaprojects in the Emirate with the opening of Jebel Ali Container Port, then the largest artificial port in the world, and Dubai Dry Docks, which was able to service the then largest class of tankers and cargo ships. The Queen of England was even invited to what was then a city of under 300,000 persons to officially inaugurate these projects in an effort to draw international attention to this city state. While Dubai had been a low-duty or duty free port since the late 1800s, in the 1970s and

Fig. 54.2 The Dubai world trade centre, Dubai’s first skyscraper

54

Engineering New Geographies with the Burj Dubai

959

1980s, it turned to megaprojects to make the global business community aware of its potential. Construction-wise, the Dubai World Trade Centre is an interesting building. During its construction in the 1970s, reflective window glazing was just starting to emerge as a technology. In order to prevent a greenhouse effect which would literally bake all occupants when the temperature reaches 50◦ C (120◦ F) in the height of summer, the building was constructed with recessed windows that remained shaded in all but the early and late hours of the day. It is an example of eco-sensitive design that began to gain increasing credibility in the late 1990s, without being particularly post-modernly referential. Furthermore, Sheikh Rashid al Maktoum, ruler of Dubai at the time of the Trade Centre’s construction, had seen the movie Towering Inferno, and insisted that the building have stairwells in all four corners to ease evacuation in case of emergencies, something that its namesake in New York sadly lacked (Wilson, 2006). He also ordered all flight paths changed so planes would come nowhere near the building. Attached to the Trade Centre was the region’s largest convention center; something that along with Dubai’s relatively liberal-for-the-region drinking laws would help the Emirate grow in the 1990s. The Trade Centre’s location is also noteworthy, as were the locations of the other late-1970s projects Namely, at the time they were built, they were in the middle of nowhere. The World Trade Centre sat in empty desert on the road to Abu Dhabi, and Jebel Ali was nearly 40 km (28.4 mi) away the developed area of Dubai. At the time, the scale of the projects seemed so large and their sites seemed so isolated that many, even those advising Sheikh Rashid, thought they were overly ambitious. Graeme Wilson’s biography of Sheikh Rashid (2006) cites George Chapman, a British expatriate who was central to the 1970s infrastructure boom, as saying “Preposterous. That is what most people called the World Trade Centre when Sheikh Rashid was starting building. Some questioned Sheikh Rashid’s continued sense of vision, ironic when in fact the lack of vision was on the side of those who remained doubters.” But what these buildings stood as was a cold call to the world’s trading community, something that would grab their attention and make Dubai stand out from other potential bases in the Gulf (or as well as from other stops between Europe and Asia). In constructing the late-seventies megaprojects, Dubai’s rulers wanted traders and corporations to know that if they sought to do business in the Gulf, the small city of Dubai is the place where big things happen. That of course, was the intended iconography of these projects; their reception was initially quite different. At the time of these projects’ construction, Kuwait was the leader of the small Gulf sheikhdoms in terms of attracting shipping, international business, etc. Also in 1979, Kuwait was home to what was for awhile probably the Gulf’s most iconic structure the Kuwait Towers, which were three bulbous water towers, one of which had an observation deck and rotating restaurant. So Dubai built it, but initially, people did not come from Kuwait. And indeed, the late-1970s was a bad time for such a string of projects to open, because the price of oil declined a couple of years later and the global recession that had been going since the mid1970s finally began taking its toll on the Gulf. In the 1980s many European expatriates who were involved

960

B. Smith

in constructing infrastructure in the Emirate during the 1970s boom went home as the work orders dried up. In fact, it was not until external circumstances changed that the potential in Dubai’s megaprojects became activated. Namely, bad things started happening near, and then to, Kuwait. Firstly, Iraq and Iran began their long and bloody conflict, which included the mining of the northern reaches of the Gulf and embargoes against Iran, which helped direct shipping towards Dubai. Secondly, Kuwait itself was invaded by Sadaam and burned/looted as the Iraqi forces pulled back, something which sent expats fleeing and from which the country has never fully recovered. Thus in Dubai, despite the presence of megastructures, businesses pushed into the Emirate as much as they were pulled, although, admittedly, without the megastructures, they might have gone elsewhere. The next Dubai tower which is of special note is the Burj Al Arab (Fig. 54.3), the world’s tallest hotel-only building. By the 1990s, the initial plan to bring traders through Dubai’s ports and airports had succeeded. Now that so many people were going through Dubai, the next target was getting those passing through to stop as

Fig. 54.3 Burj Al Arab photographed from Wild Wadi Water Park

54

Engineering New Geographies with the Burj Dubai

961

tourists, with the intention that eventually Dubai would become a destination, not a just a stopover. The 1990s saw the beginning of Dubai’s shopping mall boom, which along with the beaches, would be the main attractions Dubai could rely on (since it only began as a settlement in the mid 1800s and lacked cultural sites of global interest). But since many places had shopping and beaches, like the coast of Spain and France, the rulers of Dubai knew something more was needed. What was decided on was the need for something, to quote Dubai’s current ruler Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid al Maktoum, “as easily recognizable as the Sydney opera house;” something iconic (McBride, 2000). That turned out to be the Burj Al Arab hotel. Set on its own small artificial island (itself quite an engineering feet) giving it a singular setting just off the Dubai coast, the sail shaped building was billed as the world’s first seven-star hotel, with a private butler for each room and several acres of gold leaf lining the interior. The Burj Al Arab is so tall, the Statue of Liberty could be placed in its atrium. It is reported Nelson Mandela was upset when he stayed there, having been dismayed by the opulence (Perlez, 2002). Indeed, for a municipal icon, it quite exclusive – it costs the equivalent of $US 50 just to enter the hotel if you are not a guest. That being said, the Burj Al Arab certainly got Dubai positive press, especially when its helipad was home to a tennis “match” between Roger Federer and Andre Aggassi and when it was used by Tiger Woods to drive golf balls into the Gulf. (And it is certainly more successful as an icon and functioning building than Pyongyang’s still incomplete Ryugyong Hotel, a giant pyramid-shaped hotel which was started when the Soviet Union subsidized the country and subsequently never finished once that support was withdrawn. That hotel is considered such an eyesore that it is airbrushed out of official government photos of the capital). These, of course, are not the only tall buildings in Dubai, and as with the case of the Dubai World Trade Centre, the way these other skyscrapers were sited and constructed have a lot to do with why and where the Burj Dubai was built. In the late 1990s, two ribbons of mish-mashed office and residential towers emerged southwest of the Trade Centre hugging either side of Sheikh Zayed Road (which is really a 16 lane expressway). There is nothing built behind them and very few places to even cross to the other side of the road. Though these were strings of density, they were the antithesis of walkable urbanism. More recently, closer to the Burj Al Arab, next to Dubai’s Internet/Media City complex and far from Dubai’s historic center on the saltwater inlet known as The Creek is the “Dubai Marina.” The Dubai Marina is a single phase construction project consisting of about 150 condos towers built by a mix of developers. While it will certainly be more walkable than Sheikh Zayed Road, it was built with horribly inadequate parking, little street level retail, and a lot of speculation (with some apartments being sold 7 or 8 times before being turned over). In fact, one of my informants, a structural engineer, noted that when he worked in Australia, he might get to work on one tower a year in Dubai, he works on somewhere around 20 annually, many of them in this Marina project.

962

B. Smith

54.3 Burj Dubai and Changing Geographies With this context in mind, we can begin to understand how the Burj Dubai works in changing a multitude of geographies that are not initially obvious. Again, I am arguing that unlike some other skyscrapers such as the Petronas Towers, the Burj Dubai is not primarily about putting Dubai on the map or straightforwardly proclaiming modernity: the Palm Islands, the Dubai World Trade Centre and the Burj al Arab do that work already. That being said, let me start with a caveat. Following the lead of the nonrepresentational theory crowd, perhaps part of the work the Burj Dubai does is to be merely interesting. I am sure some of the rationale for the Burj Dubai can be choked up to Dubai’s quest to have the biggest and best of everything (indeed, every year at the Dubai Shopping Festival, some type of world record is broken, such as largest gathering of people with the same first name – in that case, the name was Mohammed). As Bruno Latour has shown in Aramis: The Love of Technology (1996), projects are often sustained by notions that are not logical in the formal sense, but which are instead quasi-interesting to a large enough number of people (even if these notions are not ultimately compatible). So partly, the tower is being built because it can be. But there is also more to it than that. Firstly, the Burj Dubai and the surrounding “Downtown” neighborhood are an attempt to correct some of the problems that the last fifteen years have wrought on Dubai’s landscape, albeit in an expensive and gigantic way. As I mentioned, the internal geography of Dubai has been completely upended in the last decade, from being centered on the picturesque Creek to being non-centered somewhere in the desert, from a compact city to a Los Angeles-style sprawl. The Burj Dubai and the surrounding area, quite intentionally named Downtown Dubai, are meant to be mass transit rich (something new in this car-dominated city) and walkable. Furthermore, with the nearby Dubai Financial Centre and Business Bay, the area is meant to be an Arab lower Manhattan, complete with residents with comparable income levels. A New Creek is even being constructed, which will run past Downtown, providing a promenade like the one found along the old, natural Creek (something which will lead to the raising of the low rent area of Satwa, which is the only low rent district southwest of the Creek). In this instance it is safe to say one of the geographies being worked on is the geography of Dubai’s urban landscape. The Burj Dubai is to be a hugely visible new anchor for the Emirate, an anchor surrounded by condo towers and townhousestyle development. It is the coming of infill, something recommended by Harvard’s architecture school directly to Sheikh Mohammed, to the currently sprawling development of Dubai. Again, Dubai already has the world’s attention with the Palm Islands; the Burj is very much about refocusing the attention on its own landscape. Again, whether walkable and dense will work in a city where there are often 15◦ C (60◦ F) swings between outdoor and indoor temperatures in the summer remains to be seen. Secondly, it is not just for the “reputation of Dubai” the tower is being built. It is for the reputation of one of Dubai’s aspiring transnational corporations:

54

Engineering New Geographies with the Burj Dubai

963

half government backed/half publicly traded developer Emaar Properties. Run by Sheikh Mohammed’s confidant Mohammed Ali Alabbar, Emaar is one two Dubai government-backed developers, only it has been the one that had historically received less flashy projects. The other one, Sultan Ahmed bin Sulayem’s Nakheel, got to build the Burj Al Arab and the Palm Islands. This is an important feather in the cap of Emaar (who also developed Media/Internet City), because the company has begun to act internationally, using its huge market capitalization to bring Dubai-style developments (with functioning infrastructure, security and mixed used residential/commercial/retail) to countries like Syria and Azerbaijan which are passed over by many transnational corporations. Emaar also has a presence in more connected countries like Morocco and India. Indeed, it was based on Emaar’s reputation for pulling off big things that he landed the contract to construct King Abdullah Economic City on the Red Sea coast of Saudi Arabia, a whole new city expected to house 2 million people with somewhat liberalized, Dubai-style social relations meant to attract international investment into the Kingdom and some of the Muslim world’s more liberal minded youth. So here we have the Burj Dubai acting on another geographic imaginary, that of the elusive Arab transnational corporation. While for a long time, oil-rich Gulf governments and individuals have invested heavily in Western markets, very few multinational emerged from the region (compared to East or South Asia), something which unfortunately played into the Orientalist stereotype that Arabs were receivers, not creators of innovation. While sovereign wealth funds (which are starting to acquire companies and real estate), and a few petrochemical companies like Kuwaiti owned petrol retailer Q8 are beginning to change this, Dubai, with DP World, Jumeirah International, and Emaar leading the way in corporate efforts. Whether the Burj Dubai is a financial success for Emaar does not matter much beyond its share price, proving that the company can get something this huge together is the primary goal, because it will help Emaar be able to ink more deals for mini-Dubai’s in the future. As the Burj Dubai website (Emaar Properties, 2008) says: “The Burj Dubai is a shining symbol – an icon of the New Middle East: prosperous, dynamic and sucessful.” Or to put it in the words of Middle East Affairs pundit and interviewer of taxi-drivers Thomas Friedman: Emaar wants to show that the Middle East can produce a Lexus, not just olives. Yet, below the surface, while the money and marketing comes from Emaar, the design and execution largely comes from outside the region. The designers of the Burj Dubai are the U.S. firm Skidmore, Owings and Merrill (who designed the Sears Tower); South Korea’s Samsung Engineering heads the construction team. And unlike the Burj al Arab, which set to establish brand Dubai, the hotel portion of the Burj Dubai will be an Armani Hotel (and all the interiors will be Armani designed). Even the Burj Dubai website proclaims it “an unprecedented symbol of international cooperation.” And this is the issue Dubai has in general, viz., that although the developers and consumer product distributors may be local, most other major businesses in Dubai are branches of international entities. For example, the malls are largely filled with international retailers and almost completely filled with extra-regional brands

964

B. Smith

(minus a few fashion abaya, jewelry and perfume chains). As one of my informants – who grew up in Dubai with British parents – responded, when asked if he was excited about the Burj Dubai and the other megaprojects like the Dubai Mall (slated to be the world’s largest mall), “no, not really. They will just be really massive versions of what is already here.” He has a point. As someone who has been to nearly all of Dubai’s malls, I am amazed at how luxury brands which are rare in the United States have presence in multiple malls in Dubai. While certainly most malls in the U.S. fall into three or four general mixes of stores, depending on the class composition of the mall’s hinterland, in Dubai almost all the stores are the same in all the major malls, and they are also almost all foreign or extra-regional. Much like the stores and goods in its malls, Dubai has to import its labor force. Because of its small internal population, the Emirate must attract labor (both skilled and unskilled) to realize its ambitions. What the Burj Dubai and many earlier projects are attempting to do is create an island of attractiveness in what many consider to be a “scary” region. It is trying to draw (certain types of) foreigners with something more than promises of tax free cash. When looking at the people portrayed in advertisements for Downtown Dubai and other Emaar projects, you notice there are Gulf Arab nationals, and young people of Arab, East Asian and European dissent (Fig. 54.4). Noticeably absent in these (and most outdoor advertisements in Dubai, for that matter) are South Asians, who make up the majority of Dubai’s population (both rich and poor) and who make up the vast majority of the Emirate’s workforce in every sector other than government and in every occupational strata from management to manual labor. In fact, dozens of construction laborers, mostly South Asians, die every year constructing towers in Dubai for a few hundred

Fig. 54.4 Billboard advertising Downtown Dubai, featuring young Europeans and East Asians

54

Engineering New Geographies with the Burj Dubai

965

dollars a month (Ghaemi, 2006). Whether this absence of South Asians from Emaar advertising is an attempt to reach new audiences (as South Asians I interviewed for the project seem to almost universally already consider Dubai a world class city) or an attempt to connect to a “different” group of global movers is uncertain. What is certain is that it is another attempt to remake the Emirate’s human geography. As the Burj Dubai website says: “Monument. Jewel. Icon. The Burj Dubai will be known by many names, only a privileged few will get to call it home.”

54.4 Conclusion Again, what I want to argue is that while there are easy ways to theorize the Burj Dubai (or any skyscraper for that matter) as a display of wealth and power or as a statement of modernity, there are often other trajectories at work, less iconographic and more processed based. It is my hope that such a stance would enrich future studies of tall buildings, most especially those emerging in China, especially as cities within that country increasingly compete not just internationally, but also domestically, by wielding the built environment. Indeed, the Burj Dubai, once completed, is expected to bare a heavy load that includes re-anchoring a lost downtown, strengthening a budding multinational corporation, or bringing Arabs into the realm of cosmopolitan sophistication, a realm which may or may not include South Asians. In fact, it was the Dubai World Trade Centre that proved Dubai’s modernity; the Burj Dubai aims both higher and lower. Indeed, even something as spectacular as the world’s tallest building can be utilized to change very grounded categories. Author’s Note: Since the Summer of 2008, much has changed in Dubai. Beginning in late fall-2008, Dubai’s real estate market collapsed amidst the inability for many builders to service their debts due to overambitious plans. Included amongst the causalities were dozens of proposed projects (like the DaVinci Tower and much of Falcon City of Wonders), the jobs of tens of thousands of engineers, construction laborers and real estate agents, as well any semblance of financial health for Palm builder Nakheel Properties. Perhaps the most notable change of all was the fact that on the day of its opening, January 4, 2010, the Burj Dubai was renamed the Burj Khalifa, in honor of the ruler of Abu Dhabi (who had extended credit to Dubai’s government after it announced a moratorium on payments to debtors a few months earlier). As of September 2010, Dubai’s landscape is littered with half-started and completed-but-empty residential and commercial buildings. However, even this has an internal geography – areas closer to Dubai’s core sites, including the now completed Burj Khalifa and the Dubai Marina are fairing better and beginning to fill; more peripheral areas are either migrating down market or standing unoccupied. Emaar has eclipsed Nakheel. Even now, the once-Burj Dubai weaves a baroque tale. Acknowledgement This research was carried out with grants from the University of Kentucky Graduate School, the National Science Foundation, and Florida International University.

966

B. Smith

References Ahmad, A. (2005). 42% increase in buildings in Dubai, Gulf News, June 9. Bunnell, T. (1999). Views from above and below: The Petronas Twin Towers and/in contesting visions of development in Contemporary Malaysia. Signapore Journal of Tropical Geography, 20(1), 1–23. Bunnell, T. (2004). Re-viewing the Entrapment controversy: Megaprojection, (mis)representation and postcolonial performance, GeoJournal, 59(4), 297–305. Emaar Properties. (2008). Burj Dubai. Retrieved July 12, 2008, from http://www.burjdubai.com Ghaemi, H. (2006). Building towers, cheating workers: Exploitation of migrant construction workers in the United Arab Emirates. Human Rights Watch. http://www.hrw.org/ en/reports/2006/11/11/building-towers-cheating-workers Jacobs, J. M. (2006). A geography of big things. Cultural Geographies, 13(1), 1–27. Latour, B. (1996). Aramis, or love of technology. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Law, J. (2004). And if the global were small and noncoherent? Method, complexity, and the baroque, Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 22(1), 13–26. McBride, E. (2000). Burj-al-Arab (The Tower-of-Arabs in the Persian-Gulf emirate of Dubai designed by W.S.-Atkins Architects, Tom Wright, principal). Architecture, 89(8), 116–127. McNeill, D. (2005) Skyscraper geography. Progress in Human Geography, 29(1), 41–55. Perlez, J. (2002) Dubai journal; Living high and aiming higher, come war or peace. The New York Times, October 4. Wilson, G. (2006) Rashid’s legacy: The genesis of the Maktoum family and the history of Dubai. London: Media Prima.

Chapter 55

Floating Cities Alexander A. Bolonkin

55.1 Introduction: The Oceans, History of Large Ships, and Ice Fields An ocean is a major body of saline water, and a principal component of our planet’s remarkable hydrosphere. Approximately 71% of the Earth’s surface (an area of 361 million km2 (139 million mi2 ) is covered by ocean, a continuous body of seawater that is customarily divided into several principal named oceans and smaller named seas. More than half of this area is deeper than 3,000 m (9,842 ft). Average oceanic salinity is around 35 parts per thousand (ppt) (3.5%), and nearly all seawater has a salinity in the range of 31–38 ppt. Interestingly, the place furthest from the worldocean—that is, the official “pole of inaccessibility” is in Asia (46◦ 17 N; 86◦ 40 E), according to Garcia-Castellanos and Lombardo (2007). The volume of Earth’s ocean is approximately 1.3 billion km3 (0.312 billion mi3 ), and its average depth is 3,790 m (12,434 ft). The vast volume of the deep ocean (anything below 200 m, 656 ft) covers about 66% of our Earth’s surface. The total mass of the planetary hydrosphere is about 1.4×1021 kg (3.09×1021 lb), which is about 0.023% of the Earth’s total mass. Less than 2% is freshwater, the rest is saltwater, mostly in the ocean. Though generally recognized as several “separate” oceans, these waters comprise one global, interconnected body of salt water often referred to as the “world-ocean” or “global ocean”. That includes: Pacific Ocean, the Atlantic Ocean, the Indian Ocean, the Southern Ocean, and the Arctic Ocean (Fig. 55.1). Ocean colonization is the theory and practice of permanent human settlement of oceans. Such settlements may float on the surface of the water, or be secured to the ocean floor, or exist in an intermediate position. “Marine city” is defined at length at http://parole.aporee.org and the history of such facilities is briefly outlined in “Prototype cities in the sea” by Kaji-o’grady and Raisbeck (2005). One primary advantage of ocean colonization is the expansion of livable area. In addition, it might A.A. Bolonkin (B) C & R, 1310 Avenue R, Suite 6-F, Brooklyn, NY 11229, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_55,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

967

968

A.A. Bolonkin

Fig. 55.1 One of floating city project

offer various other possible benefits such as expanded resource access, novel forms of governance (for instance mini-nations), and new recreational activities for athletic humans. Many lessons learned from ocean colonization will likely prove applicable to near-term future outer space and other-planet colonization efforts. The ocean may prove simpler to colonize than interplanetary space and thus occur first, providing a proving ground for the latter. In particular, the issue of legal sovereignty may bear many similarities between ocean and outer space colonization with space station settlements; adjustments to social life under harsher extra-terrestrail circumstances would apply similarly to the world-ocean and to outer space; and many technologies may have uses in both environments.

55.1.1 Economy of World-Ocean Central to any practical attempt at ocean colonization will be the underlying global and local economic reality. To become self-sustaining, the colony will aim to produce output of a kind which holds a comparative advantage by occurring on or in the ocean. While it can save the cost of acquiring land, building a floating structure that survives in the turbulent open ocean has its own costs. Ocean-front land—say, land more than 100 m from the coastline—can hold a very high value, especially in countries with no income taxes, so building space and selling it may prove

55

Floating Cities

969

Fig. 55.2 Project having an underwater part

popular. Tourists often visit warm locales during the winter; indeed, tourism drives the economies of many small island nations. The colony might also compete as an offshore center for financial transactions. While importing food and fishing may compose the majority of ocean settlement food consumption, other possibilities include hydroponics and open-ocean aquaculture. Thus, an ocean settlement may be either a net importer or a net exporter of food products (Fig. 55.2). Such settlements or cities would probably import diesel and run conventional power plants as small islands everywhere do. However, other possibilities include solar power, nuclear plants, deep-sea oil deposits, and developing/farming a species of seaweed or algae for biofuel. Ocean thermal energy conversion (OTEC) is another potential energy source. All that is required is tropical (warm) surface water and access to deep, very cold water. The difference in temperature is used to drive an electric generator via a turbine. (There is an added benefit in that the deep cold water usually is more fertile than surface water in the open ocean and can support mariculture). Similar communities already exist in the form of hotels, research stations, houseboats, houses on stilts, land below sea level behind dikes, vacation cruise ships, and ocean oil rigs. Furthermore, humans migrating to small islands throughout the world has already occurred and is ongoing. Some wealthy persons have even bought private islands! Using current technology to create artificial islands is just an incremental step in continuing the spread of humanity.

970

A.A. Bolonkin

55.1.2 Millennial Projects An artificial island is an island that has been constructed by humans rather than formed by natural means. They are created by expanding existing islets, construction on existing reefs, or amalgamating several natural islets into a bigger island. An internet mailing list formed to attempt to organize it. The group incorporated as the “Living Universe Foundation.” The list was still in existence as of 2007. Some contemporary projects are much more ambitious. In 1994, Kansai International Airport was the first general aviation commercial airport to be built completely on an artificial island, followed by Ch¯ubu Centrair International Airport in 2005 and the New Kitakyushu Airport and Kobe Airport in 2006. Also Dubai is home to some of the largest artificial island complexes in the world, including the three Palm Islands macroprojects, The World and the Dubai Waterfront macro-projects, the last of which will be the largest in geographical extent (Fig. 55.3). The Israeli government is now planning for four artificial islands to be completed in 2013, off the coasts of Tel Aviv, Herzliya, Netanya and Haifa. Each island will house some 20,000 people and offer the employment opportunity of some 10,000 jobs at least. The islands should help with overcrowding in the coastal Israeli cities and might even be employed to do the same in Gaza. A well thought out macroengineering project proposal has also been presented in The Netherlands to create artificial islands, perhaps in the shape of a tulip, in the North Sea. Under the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea treaty (UNCLOS), artificial islands have little legal recognition. Such islands are not considered harbor works (Article 11) and are under the jurisdiction of the nearest coastal state if within 200 nautical miles (370 km) (Article 56). Artificial islands are not considered islands

Fig. 55.3 Mobile floating city

55

Floating Cities

971

Fig. 55.4 Stationary position of floating city

for purposes of having their own territorial waters or exclusive economic zones, and only the coastal state may authorize their construction (Article 60). However, on the high seas beyond national jurisdiction, any “state” may construct artificial islands (Article 87). Some attempts to create mini-nations have involved artificial islands such as Sealand and Republic of Rose Island. These were abject failures (Fig. 55.4).

55.2 Big Ship Macro-Projects America World City (originally named Phoenix World City) is a concept for a floating city proposed by John Rogers of World City Corporation. It is conceived as the first of three such behemoths serving U.S. and flying the U.S. flag. Rogers died in October 2005.

55.2.1 Freedom Ship Freedom Ship was a concept proposed by Norman Nixon. One has a design length of 1,400 m (4,593 ft), a width of 230 m (755 ft), and a keel-to-mast height of 110 m (361 ft), Freedom Ship would be more than four times longer than the retired Queen Mary. The design concepts include a mobile modern city featuring luxurious living, an extensive duty-free international shopping mall, and a full 160,000 m2 (1,722,000 ft2 ) floor set aside for various companies to showcase their products. Freedom Ship would not be a cruise ship, it is proposed to be a unique place to live,

972

A.A. Bolonkin

work, retire, vacation, or visit. The proposed voyage would continuously circle the globe, covering most of the world’s coastal regions. Its large fleet of smallish commuter aircraft and hydrofoils would ferry its permanent residents and vetted visitors to and from shore. The program statement has also announced that the propellers would be a series of 400 fully-rotational azipods; despite the high number of screws, the ship would still be the slowest in the world. Despite an initially stated in-service date of 2001, construction has not even begun as of 2009. Net price estimates for the ship have risen from 6 billion US$ in 1999 to 11 billion US$ in 2002. Using the common formula for economic inflation will furnish the reader with an updated price estimate. The Freedom Ship has little in common with any conventional ship; it is actually nothing more than a big barge. The bolt-up construction and the unusually large amount of steel to be incorporated into the ship meets the design engineer’s requirements for stability and structural integrity and the cost engineer’s requirements of “economic feasibility” but the downside is a severe reduction in top speed, making the ship useless for any existing requirements. For example, it would be too slow to be a cruise ship or a cargo ship. But what if this enormous barge was assigned a voyage that required slowly cruising around the world, closely following the shoreline, and completing one circum-navigation approximately every three years? If the designers then incorporated the following amenities into this big barge, what would result (Fig. 55.5)? 1. 18,000 living units, with prices ranging from $180,000 to $2.5 million, including a small number of premium suites currently priced at $44 million. 3,000 commercial units in a similar price range. 2. 2,400 time-share units. 3. 10,000 hotel units. 4. A World Class Casino. 5. A ferryboat transportation system that provides departures every 15 min, 24 h a day, to 3 or more local cities giving ship residents access to the local neighborhood and up to 30,000 land-based residents a chance to spend a day on the ship. 6. A World-Class Medical Facility practicing Western and Eastern medical doctoring as well as preventive and anti-aging medicine. 7. A School System that gives the students a chance to take a field trip into a different country each week for academic purposes or to compete with local schools in numerous sporting events. For example; The Freedom Ship High School Soccer team plays a Paris High School team this week at home and an Italian team next week in Italy, while the Freedom Ship High School Band presents a New Orleans Jazz musical at a concert hall in London in the UK. 8. An International Trade Center that gives on-board companies and shops the opportunity to show and sell their products in a different Country each week. 9. More than 41 ha (410,000 m2 ; 490,000 yds2 ) of outdoor Park, Recreation, Exercise and Community space for the enjoyment of residents and visitors.

55

Floating Cities

973

Fig. 55.5 Freedom ship (different views)

Project Habakkuk or Habbakuk (spelling varies) was a World War II-hatched plan by the British to construct an aircraft carrier out of Pykrete (a 14% mixture of wood pulp and freshwater ice), for use against German U-boats in the mid-Atlantic, which was out of range of protective Allied land-based airplanes. The Habakkuk, as proposed to Winston Churchill (1874–1965) by Lord Mountbatten (1900–1979) and Geoffrey Pyke (1893–1948) in December 1942, was to be approximately 610 m (2000 ft2 ) long and 91 m (300 ft2 ) wide, with a deck-to-keel depth of 61 m (200 ft2 ), and bulkhead walls 12 m (40 ft2 ) thick. It was intended to have a draft of 150 ft, and a displacement of 2,000,000 tons (1 ton = 2, 240) or more, to be constructed in timber and freshwater-rich wartime Canada from 280,000 blocks of ice. The ice Habakkuk itself was never begun, but experiments were conducted in the field.

55.2.2 Arctic and Antarctic (Southern) Oceans The ice fields of these oceans will be used for getting float platforms. The amount of sea ice around the poles in winter varies from the Antarctic with 18,000,000 km2 (6.45 × 106 ml2 ) to the Arctic with 15,000,000 km2 (5.86 × 106 ml2 ). The amount melted each summer is affected by the different environments: the cold Antarctic

974

A.A. Bolonkin

pole is over land, which is bordered by sea ice in the freely-circulating Southern Ocean. The Arctic Ocean occupies a roughly circular basin and covers an area of about 14,056,000 km2 (5.43 × 106 ml2 ), The situation in the Arctic is very different from Antarctic sea (a polar sea surrounded by land, as opposed to a polar continent surrounded by sea) and the seasonal variation much less, consequently much Arctic sea ice is multi-year ice, and thicker: up to 3–4 meters (1 m = 3.28 ft) thick over large areas, with ridges up to 35 m (115 ft) thick. An ice floe is a floating chunk of sea ice that is less than 10 km (33,000 ft) in its greatest dimension. Wider chunks of ice are called ice fields. The North Pole is significantly warmer than the South Pole because it lies at sea level in the middle of an ocean (which acts as a reservoir of heat), rather than at altitude in a continental land mass. Winter (January) temperatures at the North Pole can range from about –43◦ C (−45.4◦ F) to −26◦ C (−14.8◦ F), perhaps averaging around −34◦ C (−29◦ F). Summer temperatures (June, July and August) average around the freezing point (0◦ C; 32◦ F). In midsummer of South pole, as the sun reaches its maximum elevation of about 23.5 degrees, temperatures at the South Pole average around −25◦ C (−13◦ F). As the six-month ‘day’ wears on and the sun gets lower, temperatures drop as well, with temperatures around sunset (late March) and sunrise (late September) being about −45◦ C (−49◦ F). In winter, the temperature remains steady at around −65◦ C (−85◦ F). The highest temperature ever recorded at the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station is −13.6◦ C (7.5◦ F), and the lowest is −82.8◦ C (−117◦ F). However, this is by no means the absolute lowest recorded anywhere in the Earth, that being −89.6◦ C (−129.3◦ F) at Antarctica’s Vostok Station on 21 July 1983 (Wikipedia, 2009).

55.3 Descriptions and Innovations The macroengineering concept is to efficiently use a cheap floating platform taken from the ice fields in Arctic and Antarctica’s Southern Ocean for the floating cities, island, and states. These cheap platforms protected by air-film (bottom and sides) and conventional insulating cover (top) and having cooling systems to deal with any leak-through heating can sustain the platform for an unlimited time. They can be increased in number or size at anytime, floated in warm oceans, travel to different continents and countries, serve as artificial airports, harbors and other marine improvements, as well as floating cities and industrial bases for virtually any use (Bolonkin, 2006a, 2006b, 2006c, 2007a, 2007b). One possible means of construction is as follows: A scouting aircraft (helicopter) confirms a satellite-surveyed ice field as suitable and delivers to it a small tractor with extensible wire–saw. The tractor saws up the ice platform to hew there from a platform of a specified size (including allowance for melting before insulation for example, 500 × 500 × 10 m) (Figs. 55.6 and 55.7a) and an ice-braker ship tows this platform to open water. Here the platform is equipped with air-film covers, protected by from warm water on all sides. The platform is towed to a place where it will be provided with final protection and other improvements; a suitable location

55

Floating Cities

975

Fig. 55.6 Cutting of floating platform from ice field. Notations: 1 – ice field in arctic (Antarctic) ocean; 2 – small tractor with band-saw or slicing wire saw; 3 – mechanical band saw or slicing wire saw

Fig. 55.7 Ice platform prepared for floating city. (a) Common view, (b) Cross-section of platform. Notations: 1 – ice; 2 – top heat protection; 3 – low (bottom) heat protection and floating support (inflatable air balloon); 4 – cooling tubes

for building the city or other floating improvement that it will come. One method of adding thermal protection of the ice is the following. The double film is submerged lower than the bottom of platform, moved under the platform (or the platform is moved over film) and filled with air. The air increases the lift force of platform and protects the bottom, the sides and top of the platform from contact with warm water and air (Fig. 55.7b, pointer 3). Simultaneously, the coolant fluid (it may be chilled air) flows through the cooling tubes 4 (Fig. 55.7b) and keeps the ice at lower than melting, or indeed softening, point. The top side of the platform may be covered with conventional heat protection and insulation means on top of which construction

976

A.A. Bolonkin

elements may be added (film, ground, asphalt, concrete plates, houses, buildings, gardens, airdrome runways, and so on). The other method allows us to custom-produce ice of any thickness and composition, including ices of low density (high lift force). Thin plastic tubes are located under the ice-bottom to be (which may be isolated from circulation by a film barrier) and cold air (in the polar regions, or in winter, simple outdoor air) is blown through them. One freezes the water and produces an ice platform. The ice has a lower density and a high lift force (load capability) because the ice has internal channels (tubes) filled by air. We may avoid spending energy on it in cold countries or in winter. The arctic (antarctic) winter air has temperature of −40 to about −50◦ C. In the Arctic Ocean, seawater is useful as a heat source (having 0◦ C) which can heat the outer air up to −3−5◦ C, turning on the air turbine, the turbine then turning the pump air ventilator. The corresponding estimation is in the theoretical section. We can get the ice density of γ = 500 kg/m3 having load capability of 500 kg/m3 (the conventional ice has the lift force 80 kg/m3 ). To decrease the ice density, macroenginers may use cork filler material or other such available low-density matrix fillers. In the second method, we can produce a platform from Pykrete (also known as picolite). That is a composite material made of approximately 14% sawdust (or, less frequently, wood pulp) and 86% water by weight then frozen, invented by Max Perutz. Pykrete has some interesting properties, notably its relatively slow melting rate (due to low thermal conductivity), and its vastly improved strength and toughness over pure ice; it is actually closer to concrete, while still being able to float on water. Pykrete is slightly harder to shape and form than concrete, as it expands while freezing, but can be repaired and maintained from the sea’s most abundant raw material. The Pykrete properties may be significantly improved by employing the cheapest available strong artificial fibers (such as basalt fibers, class or mineral wool, and others). The composites made by mixing cork granules and cement have low thermal conductivity, low density and good energy absorption. Some of the property ranges of the composites are density (400–1,500 kg/m3 ), compressive strength (1–26 MPa) and flexural strength (0.5–4.0 MPa). The platform of the floating city has protection (walls) 6 (Fig. 55.8) against stormy ocean waves, joints 7 (Fig. 55.5b) which decrease the platform stress in storms, and propellers for maneuvering and moving. The platform may also have an over it a filmic AD-Dome (Fig. 55.8b, pointer 9) such as is offered in (Bolonkin & Cathcart 2006a, 2006b, 2006c; Cathcart & Bolonkin, 2006). This dome creates a warm constant “deck” temperature and protects the floating city from strong winds and storms.

55.3.1 A Summary of the Innovations 1. Uses a big natural ice platform for building large floating cities, islands and states. 2. Develops a technology for getting these platforms from the natural ice fields (saw up).

55

Floating Cities

977

Fig. 55.8 Floating city on ice platform: (a) Open floating city, (b) Floating city closed by film. Notations: 5 – city; 6 – protection from ocean waves in storm; 7 – turning connection (joint) of separated ice platform; 8 – fully-rotation azimuth thruster propellers; 9 – film dome

3. Develops a technology (artificial freezing without spending energy) for getting the artificial high lift force ice platform of any thickness (that means any load capability) from low density ice. 4. Uses composite material where ice is a matrix (base) and cork (or other material) as stuff. 5. Provides heat protection for natural ice fields by air film balloons. 6. Builds platforms from separated ice segments and connects them by joints. 7. Offers protection of the suggested platform by special double walls 6 (Fig. 55.5) from ocean storm waves. 8. Protects the suggested platform by the special transparent film 9 (dome), (Fig. 55.5b) and creating a constant temperature in the floating city, plus protection from strong winds and storm.

55.4 Theory of Estimation and Computation 55.4.1 Material The important values and characteristics of candidate materials for floating platforms are their price, lift force (in water), life time, strength, chemical stability in water, reliability, and so on. The water lift force of matter (Lf ) is difference between density of water (dw ) and density of platform matter (dm ). Lf = dw − d m where all value are in kg/m3 .

(55.1)

978

A.A. Bolonkin

Air is the cheapest material, having the most lift force. However it needs a strong cover (in vessels, balloons) which can significantly increase the cost of the installation. The other lack (disadvantage) of using air is loss of lift force in case of damage to its container. Ice is a cheap substance. It may be mined, rather than of necessity built, into a ready-made floating platform. But it has a small buoyancy force and low melting temperature, which are lower then the temperature of ocean seawater. We can decrease these disadvantages by using special air balloons under the platform, heat protection materials and barriers and a refreezing system. If we initially produce the platform by custom freezing, we can produce the custom-tailored, strong light ice having a high lift (buoyancy) force. The other systems are metal or concrete constructions, filled by rock, foam plastic, aerocrete and so on. Their disadvantages are well known: A high cost and a huge procurement necessary for constructing huge installations (platforms). Some materials and their properties are presented in Table 55.1.

55.4.2 Computation of Heat Protection We use in our project the cheap natural ice platform variant. The heat loss flow per 1 m2 by convection and heat conduction is (see Naschekin, 1969): q = k (t1 − t2 )

(55.2)

 where k = 1/(1/α1 + i δi /λi + 1/α2 ) where k is heat transfer coefficient, W/m2 K; t1,2 are temperatures of the inter and outer multi-layers of the heat insulators, ◦ C; α 1,2 are convention coefficients of the inter and outer multi-layers of heat insulators (α = 30/100), W/m2 K; δ i are thickness of insulator layers; λi are coefficients of heat transfer of insulator layers (see Table 55.1), m. The magnitudes of α are: 1. From water to metal wall α = 5, 000 W/m2 K. 2. From gas to wall α = 100 W/m2 K. 3. From heat isolator to air α = 10 W/m2 K. For example, let us estimate the heat flow from water to the bottom surface of ice platform protected by the small air balloons. Assume the average thickness of air balloons is δ = 1 m, the temperature of seawater at depth 10 m is 10◦ C. The heat flow from seawater to ice platform is k ≈ λ/δ = 0.0244/1 = 0.0244 W/m2 K; q = k(t2 − t1 ) = 0.0244(10 − 0) = 0.244 W/m2 K

(55.3)

That (0.0244 W/m2 K) is a small value. This heat must be carried away (deleted) by cooling liquids or other fluids (i.e., cooled and force-driven gases or mixtures of gases such as Earth’s air circulated especially for that purpose).

Air-steel cylinder with steel walls Steel cubs with net walls and air balloons Steel cubs with net walls and foam plastic filler Concrete empty cub with walls 0.1 m, 100 $/ton Aero Crete γ = 500 kg/m3 Ice and 1 m air heat protection in bottom Air ice, γ = 500 kg/m3 and 1 m air heat protect.

20 30

10 20 5 10

5 10

10 20

10 20 10 20

Height, m

4 6

220 440 2 3

400 800

150 130

100 200 150 300

Cost (material only) $/m2

∞

∞

100–200

100–200

40–60

40–60

30–50

Life time, Year

9 15

4 7 1 2

2.4 6

7 17

7 17 7 17

Load capacity, ton/m2

5 10

1 2 4 6

0.5 1

1 2

1 2 2 4

Maintains, $/m2 year

Data of materials in Naschekin (1969); Koshkin and Shirkevich (1982); Macro-Engineering (2006)

7

6

5

4

3

2

1

#

Type of floating platform

19 30

9 17 5 10

4 9.2

7.6 18.2

7.6 18.2 7.5 18

Draught, m

Table 55.1 Estimation of different variants of floating platforms

10 15

6 17 4 8

1.6 3.2

0.6 1.2

0.6 1.2 0.5 1

Mass of platform, ton/m2

2 W/m2 2 W/m2

2 W/m2 2 W/m2

0

0

0

0

0

Cooling energy, W/m2

55 Floating Cities 979

980

A.A. Bolonkin

Estimate now the heat flow from outside air to the platform’s top surface protected by 0.1 m wood gasket and 0.4 m humid soil. The air temperature is 25◦ C. k ≈ 1/(δ1 /λ1 + δ1 /λ1 ) = 1/(0.1/0.2 + 0.4/0.657) = 0.9, q = k(t2 − t1 ) = 0.9∗ 25 = 22.5 W/m2 K

(55.4)

If we change the wooden gasket for an asbestos plate of exactly the same thickness, then the heat flow decreases to q = 17 W/m2 K. Places where houses, buildings and other structured constructions having concrete bases are situated, we will have q = 10 − 15 W/m2 K. Using the wools or air protection significantly decreases the head loss through top platform surface. The average heat loss of top platform surface is about 15 W/m2 K. If we insert the air black gap 15–25 cm, this heat loss decreases to 1–2 W/m2 K. The side part of the floating platform may be protected by the same method as the bottom surface.

55.4.3 Freezing of Platform The freezing of 1 kg water requires energy Q = cp (t2 − t1 ) + λp ≈ λp

(55.5)

where cp = 4.19 kJ/kg. ◦ C is energy needed for cooling water in 1◦ C; λp = 334 kJ/kg is energy needed for freezing 1 kg of water. The energy needed for freezing may be received from the cold arctic air. That computed by equation Q = cp (t2 − t1 )

(55.6)

Here cp,a = 1 kJ/kg. K for air. The computation shows for freezing 1 kg water we need about 22 kg air in temperature −20◦ C. Every 1 kg air heated from −20◦ C to −5◦ C in ocean water absorbs about 15 kJ/kg in heat energy.

55.4.4 Other Heat Flows The radiation heat flow per 1 m2 s of the service area computed by equations: q = Cr (T1 /100)4 − (T2 /100)4

(55.7)

where Cr = cs /(1/ε1 + 1/ε2 −1), cs = 5.67 W/(m2 K4 ) where Cr is general radiation coefficient, ε are black body rate (Emittance) of plates; T is temperatures of plates, ◦ K.

55

Floating Cities

981

The radiation flow across a set of the heat reflector plates is computed by equation q = 0.5(C r )/(Cr )qr

(55.8)

where (C r ) is computed by Equation (55.7) between plate and reflector. The data of some construction materials is found in Table 55.1. The air layer is the best heat insulator. We do not limit its thickness δ. The thickness of the dome envelope, its sheltering shell of film, is computed by formulas (from equation for tensile strength): δ1 = Rp/2σ , δ2 = Rp /σ

(55.9)

where δ 1 is the film thickness for a spherical dome, m; δ 2 is the film thickness for a cylindrical dome, m; R is radius of dome, m; p is additional pressure into the dome, N/m2 ; σ is safety tensile stress of film, N/m2 . For example, compute the film thickness for dome having radius R = 100 m, additional air pressure p = 0.01 atm (p = 1, 000 N/m2 ), safety tensile stress σ = 50 kg/mm2 (σ = 5 × 108 N/m2 ), cylindrical dome. δ = (100 × 1000)/(5 × 108 ) = 0.002 m = 0.2 mm

(55.10)

The dynamic pressure from wind is pw = (pV 2 )/2

(55.11)

where ρ = 1.225 kg/m2 is air density; V is wind speed, m/s. For example, a storm wind with speed V = 20 m/s (72 km/h), standard air density is ρ = 1.225 kg/m3 . Then dynamic pressure is pw = 245 N/m2 . That is four time less than internal pressure p = 1000 N/m2 . When the need arises, sometimes the internal pressure can be voluntarily decreased or bled off.

55.5 Macroprojects Estimations of different variants of floating platforms are presented in Table 55.1. The estimation cost of 1 m2 of the platform in the contemplated “Freedom Ship” (the cost of cabins are included) is $33,100/m2 (2002). At the present time (2008) this cost has increased by a factor of two times more. Average cost of 1 m2 of apartment in many cities is about US$ $1000/m2 (about $100/ft2 )

982

A.A. Bolonkin

55.5.1 Discussion: Advantages and Disadvantages of the Speculated Method The advantages are: (1) The offered method is cheapest by tens-to-hundreds of times relative to conventional shipbuilding operations, and beats nearly all but the remotest and most valueless land for cheapness as a construction substrate—yet the product may be relocated to within meters from some of the most valuable real estate on Earth—i.e., docked in Tokyo’s Bay (Japan) or near the New York City island borough of Manhattan (USA) or close to China’s economically booming Shanghai; (2) Unlimited areal enlargement of usable region is technically possible; (3) Easy increase of load capacity by additional freezing of new platform bottom area; and ease of restoring a damage sector; (4) High facility security attainable at a reasonable monetary cost and (5) Unlimited physical life-time. Well, at least not yet undetermined! The major disadvantage is the need for a permanent but small energy expenditure (in warm climates) for maintaining the ice at freezing temperatures. In summary, what I have proposed is a promising new method for obtaining a cheap ice platform suitable for many profitable engineering purposes, and for colonization the World Ocean.

55.6 Additional Readings Note: The interested reader can find some of the lead author’s works at http://Bolonkin.narod.ru/p65.htm, http://Arxiv.org, http://www.scribd.com Search: Bolonkin and books: Also see these publications by the author:

References Bolonkin A. A. (2006a). Control of regional and global weather. http://arxiv.org/ftp/physics/ papers/0701/0701097.pdf Bolonkin A. A. (2006b). Cheap textile dam protection of seaport cities against hurricane storm surge waves, tsunamis, and other weather-related floods. http://arxiv.org/ftp/physics/ papers/0701/0701059.pdf Bolonkin A. A. (2006c). Non-rocket space launch and flight (488p.). London: Elsevier. http://www.scribd.com/doc/24056182 Bolonkin, A. A. (2007a). AB-Irrigation without water (closed-loop water cycle). http://arxiv.org/ftp/arxiv/papers/0712/0712.3935.pdf Bolonkin A. A. (2007b, September 18–20). Inflatable dome for moon, Mars, asteroids and satellites. Presented as paper AIAA-2007-6262 by AIAA Conference “Space-2007,” Long Beach, CA. http://arxiv.org/ftp/arxiv/papers/0707/0707.3990.pdf Bolonkin, A. A. (2008). New concepts, ideas, and innovations in technology and human life. New York: NOVA, 2007, 510p. http://www.scribd.com/doc/24057071 Bolonkin, A. A., & Cathcart, R. B. (2006a). The Java-Sumatra aerial mega-tramway. http://arxiv.org/ftp/physics/papers/0701/0701099.pdf Bolonkin, A. A., & Cathcart, R. B. (2006b). Inflatable ‘evergreen’ dome settlements for earth’s polar regions. Clean Technology Environmental Policy. 9(2), 125–132, Springer, May 2007, Presented in 2006. doi: 10.1007/s10098.006-0073.4

55

Floating Cities

983

Bolonkin A. A., & Cathcart R. B. (2006c). Inflatable ‘Evergreen’ for polar zone dome (EPZD) Settlements. http://arxiv.org/ftp/physics/papers/0701/0701098.pdf Bolonkin, A. A., & Cathcart, R. B. (2007). Antarctica: A southern hemisphere windpower station? http://arxiv.org/ftp/physics/papers/0701/0701055.pdf Cathcart, R. B., & Bolonkin, A. A. (2006). Ocean terracing. http://arxiv.org/ftp/physics/ papers/0701/0701100.pdf Garcia-Castellanos, D., & Lombardo, U. (2007). Poles of inaccessibility: A calculation algorithm for the remotest places on earth. Scottish Geographical Journal, 123, 227–233. Kaji-o’grady, S., & Raisbeck, P. (2005). Prototype cities in the sea. Journal of Architecture, 10, 443–461. Koshkin, H. I., & Shirkevich, M. G. (1982). Directory of elementary physics. Moscow: Nauka. Macro-Engineering. (2006). A challenge for the future (318 pp.). New York: Springer. Collection articles. Naschekin, V. V. (1969). Technical thermodynamic and heat transmission. Moscow: Public House of High University (in Russian). Wikipedia. (2009). Some background material in this article is gathered from Wikipedia under the Creative Commons license.

Chapter 56

Planning and Implementing Capital Cities – Lessons from the Past and Prospects for Intelligent Development in the Future: The Case of Korea Kenneth E. Corey

56.1 Background One of earth’s largest, most expensive and highest-impact projects is the planned capital city. These have included such examples as Brasilia, Ottawa and Canberra, among many others. Often these capital-city megaengineering projects have been outcomes of national electoral politics. This chapter examines these issues toward the goal of highlighting the importance of employing more effective policy planning processes to achieve more acceptable and more broadly supported results. As part of his successful 2007 campaign for the presidency of the Republic of Korea, current President Lee Myung-Bak pledged to execute the Pan-Korea Grand Waterway scheme. It is a 541 km (336 mi) megaengineering canal project that would link the country’s two largest cities, Seoul and Busan. It is estimated that this huge project would cost $US 16 billion. Mr. Lee’s canal conforms to political tradition in South Korea, where every president has wanted to leave a mark with a grandiose project, whether a high-speed railway or an international airport. When Roh Moo-Hyun became president five years ago he tried to move the capital to YongiKongju from Seoul which [is where] the nation’s political and business elite have called home for six centuries. The Constitutional Court killed the plan, however, dealing Mr. Roh a severe political blow. (Choe, 2008)

Similar to the megaengineering canal project, the national capital relocation effort of 2004 also was a presidential campaign pledge. In this case of the attempted relocation of the national capital, it was former South Korean president Roh MooHyun who made this pledge. During that same year, I was commissioned by the Seoul Development Institute to research the critical factors that have been and should be taken into account when planning and or relocating a national capital

K.E. Corey (B) Department of Geography, Michigan State University, East Lansing, MI 48824, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_56,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

985

986

K.E. Corey

city. The results of this research were presented in Seoul in September 2004 (Corey, 2004b). It must be noted that, despite the judicial rejection of the national capital relocation plan, former president Roh with sufficient support from national legislators of his own party proceeded to move some administrative functions of central government to Chungcheong province. This action enabled him to demonstrate that he honored his political promise – at least in part. The new national Multi-functional Administrative City has been named Sejong. Currently, it is under construction and is planned for completion in 2030. This chapter is devoted to the message that it is better to engage in informed megaengineering policy planning rather than take such political decisions before the fact of thorough research and public debate. When politics and policy can work together, widespread debate and civic education can serve to realize pervasive ownership in and support for new policy direction. This is critical especially in cases of expensive high-impact megaengineering efforts. This is intelligent development. Such before-the-fact informed policy planning is facilitated by futures scenarios planning. This tactic is used below to illustrate an important component of intelligent development planning practice.

56.2 Introduction Megaengineering projects often are intertwined with the legacy aspirations of particular politicians. Frequently such large, expensive and election politics-stimulated projects have not been researched, analyzed, strategized and assessed as carefully, exhaustively, comprehensively and robustly as might be desired by professional development peers, tax payers, business and institutional leaders, citizens and scholars alike. Given the huge costs, societal effort and long timeframes of megaengineering projects, it is worth assigning our best minds and methods to producing the most thoughtful, imaginative and effective projects that a country’s respective stakeholders and various talents will permit. This is the case especially in today’s era of a highly interdependent globally networked society and knowledge economy. Increasingly pervasive information and communications technologies (ICTs) facilitate local impacts of the diverse dynamics of globalization. Because of the fresh opportunities that are offered by these new realities and potentialities of digital development, we should seek to study, plan and execute megaengineering projects from the mindset of intelligent development. Using the case of the 2004 persistent effort by President Roh Moo-Hyun to relocate the capital of the Republic of Korea as an object lesson for megaengineering projects more widely, what follows is a derivation and explication of policy planning process improvements for what might have been and for what might still be in store for the Korean nation and, by implication, for elsewhere. The ultimate message includes the proposition that even narrowly motivated election dominated

56

Planning and Implementing Capital Cities

987

megaengineering projects can be realized as widely beneficial to society when they are developed intelligently.

56.2.1 Intelligent Development: A Working and Operational Definition The study and the planning of capital cities has a long tradition and a rich literature to inform us. An intended contribution of this chapter is to use the frame of contemporary intelligent development lessons and approaches to improve the analysis and strategic policy planning of capital city-regions in particular and from these experiences other megaengineering projects in general. What is intelligent development? My colleague Mark Wilson and I have written: Intelligent development promotes investment in a region resulting in wealth creation, human capital development, employment formation, creation of an enterprise culture and improvement in the quality of life. Such planning is focused on maximizing the value-added of a place by matching and segmenting the unique e-business functions, factors and relationalities of the region to the appropriate stages in the life-cycle processes of production and consumption functions being planned. Development is “intelligent” therefore, when the best practices from theory, from benchmarking elsewhere and from appropriate applications of the latest technologies and best practices are utilized fully to develop a community holistically, multidimensionally and equitably. Simply, digital development is the means; intelligent development produces the ends. These two contemporary development forms are interdependent and self-reinforcing. (Corey & Wilson, 2006: 205–206)

This approach is reflective and reinforcing of the characteristics of today’s and tomorrow’s global economy and networked information society that are enabled by information and communications technologies (ICT) in particular, or digital development in general. Therefore, intelligent development is practiced on a modern widely accessible ICT infrastructure and it: 1. Recognizes that at the scale of the city-region and its national context, the complex and diverse forces of globalization and digital development, i.e., especially the infrastructure of information and communications technologies (ICTs), drive the new economy that is characterized by a local economy that increasingly relies on technology, especially ICTs, and knowledge as factors of production. 2. Draws explicitly on contemporary research and theory, concepts and models; in recognition of the complexities, uncertainties, multi-layered and nonlinear functions, networks and flows of the new global economy. Intelligent development implies that the dominant theoretical mindset must go beyond traditional rational positivistic theory by adopting relational theory (Graham & Healey, 1999). 3. Uses comparative methods, including best planning practices and does benchmarking.

988

K.E. Corey

4. Prioritizes investments in places and regions for wealth creation, higher wage employment and improved quality of life via human capital and enterprise culture investment. 5. Explicitly promotes and facilitates participation in local development policy planning processes by both citizen and institutional stakeholders. The objective here is to ensure that ownership among the policy-impacted actual and would-be stakeholders gets developed and embedded across the locality’s development culture. Such participation enhancement is meant to contribute to the needed mindset change and enterprise culture development of the city-region. 6. Aligns politics and policy. With the above pre-conditions in place, the policy planning findings are revealed to be intelligent when the intended development benefits are seen widely to be informed, thoughtful and not narrowly self-serving. Thereby, the politics inherent in high-impact, expensive, megaengineering projects can be supported and shared by a broad base of indirect stakeholders as well as direct beneficiaries. 7. Is forward leaning, in that its strategic planning envisions sustained development in seeking future states that are normative. These futures may be pursued by means of short-term, medium-term and long-term stages of sectoral development, the functions of which are enabled by a pervasive highly accessible, affordable and routinely modernized digital development infrastructure. 8. Such development and digital development planning, therefore, is “intelligent” when these best practices are influenced by appropriate theory and the latest research that is based on science and technologies that are utilized fully to develop systematically for the future a community and region holistically, equitably and multifunctionally, including attention to amenity factors and quality of life functions so as to retain and attract knowledge workers. The pervasive and widespread practice of these intelligent development behaviors is the end-state goal of the mindset change that is needed to envisage and realize desired futures for understanding, planning, implementing and evaluating capital city-regions. These intelligent development planning lessons and principles are explicated in the 2006 book by Corey and Wilson entitled, Urban and Regional Technology Planning: Planning Practice in the Global Knowledge Economy. Specifically, the elements and phases of the ALERT Model that were developed in the book were the conceptual organization used here to inform the analyses, suggest actions and interventions, and derive conclusions. The ALERT Model draws on and incorporates relational theory and relational planning as the core intellectual framework for this work (Graham & Healey, 1999; Wilson & Corey, 2008). This theoretical frame is adopted because it is attuned to the new forces of globalization and digital network technologies; it is in this new and complex context that future capital cities will be conceived and built. The Model enables informed policy planning that stages decision-making premised on evidence and context; prioritizes content and investment and lays out for debate alternative futures in the form of planned scenarios.

56

Planning and Implementing Capital Cities

989

The chapter uses this theoretical framework, first to provide the context of the current megaengineering activities for the development of South Korea’s capital functions and then to move on to many of the issues that might have resulted in past improved policy planning performance and then to some of the strategic planning issues that will arise in future, as the two Koreas might have the opportunity for further capital city debate on the run up to presumed reunification.

56.2.2 From Relocated Capital to the “Multi-Functional Administrative City” of Sejong President Roh’s quest to relocate the capital of the Republic of Korea was stopped in the fall of 2004 by the country’s Constitutional Court’s decision that declared the movement of the capital was unconstitutional. However, it was determined that some government functions might be moved from Seoul, but only by amendment of the constitution. Shortly thereafter, a deal was struck between parties in the National Assembly and the Roh administration that the President, six ministries, the Supreme Court and the National Assembly were to remain in Seoul (Han, 2008). This accommodation allowed President Roh to honor his political promise, and to have the development interests of Chungcheong Province benefit from having at least part of the Seoul capital city’s functions be located in the Yeongi-Gongju area in South Chungcheong Province. The Province marketed itself as being two hours from anywhere in Korea. So, instead of having a relocation of a “complete capital city,” the deal enabled some of the government’s executive functions to be relocated away from Seoul. This cleared the way for a new national Multi-functional Administrative City (MAC) to be planned and implemented (Multifunctional Administrative City Construction Agency, No date). The negotiated relocation resulted in sanctioned permission to relocate 49 government ministries and 17 national policy research institutions. Again, as noted above, the agreement authorized that the President and six strategically important ministries remain in Seoul along with the Supreme Courts and the National Assembly. Thus, a kind of “partial capital” or an administrative or government new town began construction in 2007. By 2012 the administrative personnel are to be relocating from Seoul and to begin government work in their newlyconstructed and relocated administrative institutions. It is planned to be “completed” by 2030. The intended vision for Sejong city is that of a self-sufficient city with a population of 500,000 residents (Han, 2008). Much of 2005 was devoted to conducting an “international competition to get creative innovative ideas on the image, basic framework, and other concepts for the new city with the wish to build one that can become an archtype of such cities in the world” (Lee, Choi, & Park, 2005). Refer to Levine, Hughes, and Mather (2008) for an example of MAC strategic planning for sustainability. The winning submission was from Andres Perea Ortega of Spain. Post-competition press releases have characterized the vision for the MAC as follows.

990

K.E. Corey

According to the selected two-ring structure, Sejong, when completed, will have an axis of industry and mass transportation in the outer ring, and an environment and eco-friendly open space where citizens can interact and rest in the inner ring (Nam, 2007). Sejong will boast the lowest population density of any large Korean city, and the towering apartment complexes seen in most Korean cities will not cast shadows on Sejong’s streets. Clusters of 20 to 30 houses, two or three stories each, will share a grand exit, which will bring people in the neighborhood much closer. (Korea.net, 2007)

One may monitor the status of MAC implementation in the years ahead by following the Web-based marketing products (Multifunctional Administrative City Construction Agency, 2007). Also, tracking developments on the home page of the Agency would be informative (www.macc.go.kr).

56.3 Alternative Scenarios 56.3.1 An Illustration of Constructing a Synoptic Alternative By drawing on prior documented vision pieces by selected Korean thinkers, an alternative relational strategic planning scenario construction process can be illustrated (Corey, 2004a). The illustration was derived principally from eight individual, heretofore unconnected, threads of thinking that were made to be related for the purpose of demonstrating the construction of relational planning concepts for intended futures for Korean capital city planning (Choe, 1996, 1998; Kim, 1993, 2004; Kim & Hwang, 1979; Korea Research Institute for Human Settlements, 1998; Lee, 2004; Yu 1996). This construction was stimulated by the conviction that the issue and the 2004 debate around the relocation of the national capital should have been, and in future, should be conducted within the context of the broader longstanding goal that South Korea needs to attain more equitable and balanced national development. If and when the re-unification of the Korean peninsula begins to be realized, it is best practice that required informed pre-planning will have been initiated and sustained. Such pre-planning can facilitate the setting in motion of the needed mindset change that will be required to move collective thinking from the short-term interests of elections and politics to institute more effective long term intelligent development strategic planning. These two perspectives, i.e., of short term politics and long-term policy, are not necessarily incompatible. In support of this conclusion, the remainder of the chapter offers further observations and conclusions.

56.3.2 Origin and Destination Issues One of the many lessons that may be derived from reviewing the relationships and experiences associated with relocating national capitals is that such momentous

56

Planning and Implementing Capital Cities

991

action, if determined to be needed, should be a part of a long term development strategy for the Korean nation. However, the development of the capital city alone should not be THE development strategy of the country. There are too many interdependencies involved in building a nation and developing a country and its regions. Indeed, when a capital is relocated, at least two fundamental concerns should be part of the planned strategizing: (1) the destination area to which the capital functions are to be located and (2) the origin area from which the capital functions are to be moved. Characteristically, once the decision has been taken to relocate a national capital, then most of the policy attention and development energy tends toward the destination area (e.g., Presidential Committee on Multifunctional Administrative City Construction, 2006). Close attention therefore, should be paid to guarding against undercutting or stunting the ongoing development of the origin area, in this case, that is the Seoul Metropolitan Region (SMA) (Feridun, 2005). The SMA city-region has all the required assets needed to drive and contribute to the national development of South Korea, especially in the era of the global knowledge economy and network society. No other Korean location has this particular mix of contemporary special globally-competitive intelligent development advantages. Therefore, great and differential care and policy sensitivities are imperative so as not to weaken Seoul’s special knowledge economy intelligent development opportunities – both present and potential (Lee et al., 2005).

56.3.3 Seoul: The Peninsula’s World City Candidate and Sensitivity for Its Future Development The Seoul city-region is the only area on the Korean peninsula that has the potential to, and can function and compete as an aspiring world city in the global knowledge economy and network society. For the benefit of the nation, its future development strategy should function to ensure that the Seoul region should have a creative enterprise culture that is pervasive and deep and be a re-inventive urban agglomeration that maintains competitive advantages globally. Seoul must be able to sustain and indeed be positioned to strengthen its role as a principal productive node of Northeast Asia in the growing network of global cities. It should continue its role as the engine of growth for South Korea by exploiting further its existing global knowledge economy advantages. While attention should be paid to the concern for balanced national development, care must be taken not to retard the country’s contemporary propulsive growth and development leadership role of the Seoul cityregion in the new economy. Increasingly influenced by external relations, Seoul’s long term future development should not be sacrificed to short-term local narrow political expediencies, especially without first having gone through a widespread participatory transparent process of robust debate and thoughtful discussion of the principal alternative development options at the scales of the nation, its regions and the Seoul city-region. Such a process then must produce informed consensus-based decisions that are seen as likely to benefit the nation as a whole. Given the body of prior historic accumulated investment, the Seoul city-region should continue to be

992

K.E. Corey

the place on the Peninsula to offer and further develop the “unique combination of characteristics” that enable it and the Republic of Korea to compete globally at the highest most innovative economic levels. These network city characteristics include but are not limited to: an attractive, culturally diverse environment, advanced R&D and educational facilities, a flexible and creative workforce, improving accessibility to the outside world, and a dynamic vision of the future . . . . Network cities are developing from the premise that nearby urban partners can benefit from the dynamic synergies of interactive growth via reciprocity, knowledge exchange and unexpected creativity. They can also achieve significant scope [of] economies aided by fast and reliable corridors of transport and communications infrastructure. The more creative ones place a high priority on knowledge-based activities like research, education and the creative arts. . . . Within . . . [these] creative regions, many R&D units operate in corporations whose production activities are based on knowledge engineering and new system architecture (rather than the factory-oriented engineering of the industrial era). They are contact-intensive and may eventually form a network of their own at the global level. . . . Since much of their future dynamism may rely upon transnational human resources, it is foreseen that the more creative network cities will transcend national borders during the century. (Batten 1995: 324–325)

South Korea’s single most effective location for the further development of these network-city and would-be world-city characteristics is the Seoul Metropolitan Region. Because of the relational, locational and interactive proximity of the country’s highest order private sector and public-sector leaders and the relative ease of face-to-face communication for the most sensitive of information and knowledge exchanges, this regional locale is the place where both corporate and government decisions and joint private-public command and control strategizing occur. The consequences of separating by location and time the top government officials from this highest level decision making environment needs to be thought through most carefully to avoid negative effects to the continued world-city development trajectory of the Seoul region. Other economic-political-policy functions and less strategic levels of human resources may be relocated away from the Seoul region with much less impact, e.g., selective military redeployments and the most routine manufacturing activities. However, tacit knowledge exchanges among highest level private and public leaders not only need stability, indeed such a special environment for strategic decision-making needs planning attention along with further support and nurturing within the context and recognition of continuously heightened competition globally (Cf., Lee et al., 2005).

56.3.4 Planning for the Relationships of a New Capital and All-Peninsula Development As has been described in Corey (2004b), national capitals may be temporary and they may be multiple in nature. In the spirit of thinking and planning outside of the restraints of path dependence legacy mindsets, it is useful to discuss alternatives to the relocation of the national capital in terms other than a single permanent new

56

Planning and Implementing Capital Cities

993

capital. For instance, one could envisage a scenario whereby some national administrative capital functions are moved to a South Korean government new town in the Chungcheong province region. If this new administrative city were developed as an economically balanced city-region with explicit planning and plan-implementation actions attentive to the full range of production, consumption and amenities quality of life functions of an equitably and evenly developed city-region, then the relocated new administrative city would have some early usability and re-usability in the future. Further scenario-building and looking to the possible time in the future when re-unification of the two Koreas needs to be implemented, one can envision the designation of a different new national capital city to serve the new state of a unified Korea and the territory of the entire peninsula. This scenario construction then might draw on such examples as the multiple capital locations of South Africa and the European Union (EU); the seasonal capital locations of some monarchies; and the partial capital locations of Malaysia, Sri Lanka, Israel, Chile, and so on; and the invented non-governmental “capitals” such as those located in Switzerland and those designated by the EU (Corey, 2004b). With these diverse “capital” models in mind, the new all-peninsula capital city-region for the unified nation-state of Korea at some point in future time might be located in such obvious alternative locations as Seoul or Pyongyang, or the historic capital of the Kaesong city-region, or what would be the “former” new administrative partial capital city of Sejong in the Yeongi-Gongju region of Chungcheong province, or in some new location altogether. Another variation and alternative scenario might be to follow a multiple and partial capitals model. For example, a version of this model could designate Seoul as the de jure capital (comparable to Amsterdam in the Netherlands), Kaesong as the judicial capital, Yeongi-Gongju’s Sejong as the administrative-functions capital, the legislative capital might be permanently located in Seoul, or the legislative function might move according to a set schedule of rotations among several cities, and Pyongyang might be maintained as a special cultural capital. Additional permutations of various other capital functions and other locations might be envisioned further beyond these illustrations. The location of the office of the executive function of the state’s president is yet another variable in the alternative scenario-building equation for future Korean “capitals,” as in the case of Malaysia.

56.3.5 Planning for the Relationships of Future Balanced National Development This component of scenario building has two main futures phases: (1) the current South Korean phase and (2) the possible future all-peninsula phase. Both phases assume that uneven regional development patterns have to be confronted. Growth pole and network theories can play important roles in seeking to achieve more balanced national development throughout the Korean peninsula. By using these theories in the South, as noted above, a heavy reliance on theoretical variations focused on knowledge-based production and industrialization-based production

994

K.E. Corey

strategies with some resource-based services production applications generally would seem to be appropriate. In the North, planning for the re-unified future, a heavy early reliance on resource-based production and industry-based production economic development concepts, complemented with some knowledge-based services production initiatives might better serve the particular development needs of this economic space. There may be lessons for Korea’s future development planning to be derived from the integration of eastern Germany into the national economy of the Federal Republic of Germany after its relatively recent reunification. Again, permutations and variations of these Korean and other economic development models should be used over time to reduce development disparities at the all-peninsula level, as well as at the former national, i.e., South and North, levels. The whole issue of current and future capital city targeting then can become a sub-strategy within the broader nation-level development context of globalization, regionalization and localization planning and plan implementation.

56.3.6 Planning for the Relationships Inherent in the Administrative and Cultural Nature of the State Since becoming a unified kingdom, then later as a unified colony of Japan, and later still as a divided nation after World War II, the various past Koreas of history have been unitary states often with Seoul as its capital and dominant economicpolitical city region, for over 600 years. In much more recent history, Pyongyang has performed an analogous primate city role for the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Over hundreds of years therefore, a national mindset in Korea has been ingrained to look to “the capital” for leadership in development, that is, not unlike in “Paris-centered” France and in many other unitary states. Despite widespread pronouncements of desires for greater “local autonomy,” a high level of dependence on the center has continued in Korean culture. In the near term, alternative scenario design for South Korea’s development should include some strategic consideration and thoughtful study toward moving to a federated state. In modern times, federal states have been the countries that have been most inclined to relocate their national capital as a primary means of locational-political compromise, often to address more balanced national development and inter-regional and other rivalries. In the South Korean context, the espoused long-standing goal of attaining greater “local autonomy” (Corey, 1993) might well become closer to realization by moving deliberately and structurally toward delegating or devolving much greater government and governance authority to the country’s provinces, regions, cities and localities. A federated state might be a more congruent distributed form of more formal decision-making both for South Korea in the near term, and for the two Koreas in future. Well into a possible future of a unified Korea, the merits of confederation might be strategized. The kind of higher degree of autonomy of Canada’s provinces (Andrew & Taylor, 2000) or Switzerland’s cantons might be a major advancement toward addressing most effectively Korea’s structural condition of unbalanced development among its regions. Alternatively, in the early stages of

56

Planning and Implementing Capital Cities

995

national re-unification, a case can be made to adopt a confederation government structure with the option of moving to a structure of federation later. As one of the global economy’s most highly broadband-connected national economies, South Korea uniquely is positioned to break the historic cycle of a centralized mindset and an over-reliance on leadership and decisions from the center, that is, the national capital as the overwhelming source of development impetus. It may be particularly critical for Korea’s envisaged futures to ensure an effective creative tension from the periphery to the center so as to take full advantage of an increasingly technologically distributed and near ubiquitous-computing world within the country. Already, at the city-region level in South Korea, there are initiatives well underway for the realization of “ubiquitous cities.” Busan, Seoul and Incheon are some prominent examples (Lee, Han, Leem, & Yigitcanlar, 2008).

56.3.7 Undeveloped Topics: A Rich Source for Alternative Scenario Planning This chapter has sought to catalyze fresh thinking especially on the parts of public policy and development planning practitioners as stimulated by the 2004 issue of the relocation of the national capital of the Republic of Korea. In this chapter and in related papers (Corey, 2004a, 2004b), only the surface of the large and complex body of relevant capital relocation issues has been addressed. For example, among Plummer and Taylor’s rich body of multiple principal theories of economic development (2001a, 2001b, 2003), only one of these theories was noted here, that is, growth poles. Five more bodies of Plummer and Taylor theories and other theories await mining for alternative scenario-planning application to the Korean cases, especially within the context of the global knowledge economy and network society. An important sub-text here is that individual theory application must be congruent empirically with their conceptual intent. For example, growth pole concepts were formulated in a past era of high priority industrialization policies and for particular locational contexts of natural resource-based and related industrial production economic activities. Within the more modern Korean historic context, such theoretical applications have demonstrated variable performance when applied to industry-based, and knowledge-based economic functions. Further, these various economic functions have their own spatial and locational patterns, scales, and requirements. So, in planning for particular economic functions, the appropriate geographic model in appropriate empirical context, that is, contemporary and futures time frames must be used for likely greatest strategic planning impact and effectiveness. In the related paper, Corey (2004b) also derived over twenty analogous planning and strategic lessons from analyzing and comparing capitals and other related cases from elsewhere. Only a few of these lesson sets were mentioned here, and then only in passing. The remainder of these lessons, plus the additional theories of Plummer and Taylor just noted, represent a rich source of experimental conceptual material to help stimulate a wide range of strategic planning options for attaining greater

996

K.E. Corey

balance in Korea’s national development, including the issue of relocating the national capital, but within this broader strategic development context.

56.4 Conclusion In the end, the intended contribution of this chapter has been to illustrate that intelligent development planning may and should frame alternative approaches to initial one-solution a priori decision-making. Such alternatives are critical in creating public discourse and broad-based support for planning and implementing megaengineering projects with their high costs and large, long term impacts. In the 2004 case the circumstances of that effort to relocate South Korea’s national capital was the stimulus here to demonstrate the importance of informed, well researched and widely discussed thoughtful alternative strategic plan-making and policy development. A synoptic strategic planning approach was employed here; it is an approach that should accommodate the unique future development requirements of Seoul’s city-region and of the country’s and the Korean nation’s requirements for balanced national development – that is, if one takes a relational planning perspective to these sets of issues, then Korea’s unique assets and traditions indeed can be used to construct an even more globally competitive and prosperous nation. The narrative of the chapter, therefore, has been normative. It was influenced by prior thought from selected Korean policy thinkers and planners about their particular solutions to the perennial Korean goals of national capital relocation and balanced national development. The purpose in connecting these individual and separate positions was to suggest that alternatives and resultant policy choices can, and should have been a more prominent part of the 2004 debate that preceded the August 2004 top–down decision to proceed with the relocation of South Korea’s capital away from Seoul. More importantly, looking to the future and to the inevitable megaengineering projects that will arise in Korea and elsewhere, the take-away lesson is that alternative scenario planning can be helpful in developing and attaining the support needed to drive successful widely accepted large-scale public and private development projects and investments. South Korean strategists and developers have proven repeatedly that they have the technical and creative capacity to execute successfully such megaproject level development efforts as the Summer Olympics, a world’s fair or expo and a World Cup event characterized by innovative multiple venues and bi-national organization. No less success and excellence should be expected in planning for and implementing the relocation of the national capital, and or addressing the long standing and exceedingly complex issue of balanced national development, both for contemporary South Korea and later for the time of possible re-unification of the two Koreas. Korean society and culture have been under development and maturation for over five thousand years. South Korea has created a society nearing ubiquity in information and communication technologies. From this rich history and culture, Seoul has evolved as the capital of the nation for the last six-hundred years plus. As a

56

Planning and Implementing Capital Cities

997

result, this sprawling, traffic congested and dynamic city-region has evolved the ingredients required to lead Korea into being an effective competitor in today’s global knowledge economy and network society. Seoul’s special position therefore demands special nation-level and policy-level strategic planning attention now and into the future. In essence, what are the principal ingredients for pursuing alternative and yet interdependent development visions of the national capital and balanced national development throughout the country? The emerging lessons of relational planning practice suggest strongly several imperatives for the times ahead in Korea. New forms of governance (Cf., Healey 2007) must be invented and practiced in the realms of public and private policy and development planning. These new governance forms and behaviors are to be collaborative and partnering behaviors that must cross political-economic sectors at all levels, that is, from top to bottom of society and the reverse. In addition to generating layers of spatial strategies appropriate to their respective scales and substantive relationships for future states of planned development, there must be adherence to the tested principles and patterns with which certain spatial organizations are congruent and that nurture some economic functions better than others. At local and regional levels, highest priority of continuing attention and investment must be steered differentially to the most critical success factors for effective development in the global knowledge economy and network society, i.e., in human capital and in sustaining and growing a creative enterprise culture. In the end, innovation, informed and even more thoughtful strategic planning effort must be expended because a great deal is at stake when considering megengineering efforts. To paraphrase Professor An-Jae Kim, as he looked to the expected future need to strategize for a unified Korean peninsula, he wrote, we the people living on the Korean Peninsula, should do our best to transmit a worthwhile land and settlements to our descendants through effectively unified development and conservation of only one country with unified wisdom and efforts. (Kim, 1993: 52)

Finally, it should be noted, there may be some hope for growth and mindset flexibility in Korean governance, especially as applied to megaengineering projects. The Pan-Korea Grand Waterway scheme noted at the beginning of this chapter is being re-considered. This is the case principally because the politics and the policy no long are in alignment. Because of President Lee Myung-Bak’s mishandling of the issue of the importation of US beef, he has lost the widespread political support of the earliest months of his presidency. On 19 June 2008, he announced that “he would abandon his pet project to build a cross-country canal network” (Hwang, 2008). He . . . offered to drop plans to build a multi-billion dollar canal from Seoul to Busan, “The construction of a grand canal was a part of my election pledge, but I will give up the project if it is opposed by the people.” (Fifield, 2008)

998

K.E. Corey

On the megaengineering issue of Korea’s capital relocation, President Lee’s predecessor, former President Roh Moo-Hyun was not as agile. Despite massive opposition to the relocation of the capital from Seoul, he stubbornly persisted. Even after the judiciary rejected the move of the capital, he and his party supporters in the legislature proceeded to move some of the functions of the executive branch of government away from Seoul to catalyze the creation of the new Multi-Functional Administrative City of Sejong. His tenacity, in spite of a lack of national consensus resulted in the construction of a “partial capital” of some executive-branch functions. An ongoing process of research and continuous national intelligent development strategic planning might well have produced a different, more efficient and effective set of outcomes that generated informed policies that were seen to be responsive to the long-term needs of the nation.

References Andrew, C., & Taylor, J. (2000, April-May-June). Capital cities, special cities: How to ensure their successful development. Plan Canada, 40(3), 38–39. Batten, D. F. (1995). Network cities: Creative urban agglomerations for the 21st century. Urban Studies, 32(2), 313–327. Choe, S. C. (1996). The evolving urban system in North-East Asia. In F. C. Lo & Y. M. Yeung (Eds.), Emerging world cities in Pacific Asia (pp. 498–519). Tokyo: United Nations University Press. Choe, S. C. (1998). Urban corridors in Pacific Asia. In F. C. Lo & Y. M. Yeung (Eds.), Globalization and the world of large cities (pp. 155–175). Tokyo: United Nations University Press. Choe, S. H. (2008, March 12). Controversial canal tests South Korea’s new leader. The New York Times, A4. Corey, K. E. (1993). Local autonomy and regional development: Comparative analyses and information-age strategies for Korea. Proceedings of the International Symposium on National Development and Local Autonomy Development (pp. 441–538). Seoul: Korea Research Institute for Local Administration. Corey, K. E. (2004a). Capital relocation in Korea: A case for choice and options in planning practice. Unpublished Paper Prepared as a Result of the International Symposium on the Transfer of the National Capital of the Republic of Korea, 38 pp. Corey, K. E. (2004b). Relocation of national capitals: Implications for Korea. International Conference on Capital Relocation (pp. 40–107). Seoul: Seoul Development Institute: NOTE: a PDF of this published paper is posted under the “Representative Publications” section of the Corey home page at: http://www.msu.edu/∼corey. Accessed 8 September 2008. Corey, K. E., & Wilson, M. I. (2006). Urban and regional technology planning: Planning practice in the global knowledge economy. London and New York: Routledge. Feridun, M. (2005). The income effects of decentralization of population in Korea: An econometric investigation. Regional and Sectoral Economic Studies, 5(1), 21–38. Retrieved from http://ssm.com/abstract=930896. Accessed 23 April 2008. Fifield, A. (2008). S Korean leader to slow pace of reform. Financial Times, 4, 20 June. Graham, S., & Healey, P. (1999, October). Relational concepts of space and place: Issues for planning theory and practice. European Planning Studies, 7(5), 623–646. Han, A. (2008, May 15). The construction plan of multi-functional administrative city in the Republic of Korea. PowerPoint Presentation at the Multifunctional Administrative City Construction Agency.

56

Planning and Implementing Capital Cities

999

Healey, P. (2007). Urban complexity and spatial strategies: Towards a relational planning for our times. London and New York: Routledge. Hwang, J. J. (2008). Embattled Lee scraps canal plan, delays reforms. The Korea Herald. 20 June. Retrieved July 16, 2008, from http://www.koreaherald.co.kr/ Jun, M. J. (2003). The effects of the administrative capital relocation on balanced national growth in Korea. Paper prepared for presentation at the Western Regional Science Association 43rd Annual Meeting, Wailea, Maui, Hawaii, February 25–28. 2004, 21 pp, 15 November. Kim, A. J. (1993). A model of unified spatial development in the Korean Peninsula. Paper prepared for presentation at the International Conference on Transformation in the Korean Peninsula Toward the 21st Century: Peace, Unity and Progress. East Lansing, Michigan: Michigan State University, 53 pp, 7–11 July. Kim, D. J. (2004, July). A new paradigm for balanced national development. Space and Environment KRIHS Gazette, 21, 1–3. Kim, T. J., & Hwang, Y. J. (1979). A new capital city for South Korea. Ekistics, 277, 262–267. Korea Research Institute for Human Settlements (KRIHS). (1998, December). Balanced national development through regional integration: A new vision announced. Space and Environment KRIHS Gazette, 12, 4. Korea.net. (2007). Sejong to be most agreeable city in Korea by 2030: Planners. 26 June 2007. Retrieved May 24, 2008, from http://www.korea.net/news Lee, W. S. (2004). The fourth comprehensive national territorial plan to be revised. Space and Environment KRIHS Gazette, 21, 3–4 (July). Lee, M. H., Choi, N. H., & Park, M. (2005, Spring). A systems thinking approach to the new administrative capital in Korea: Balanced development or not? Systems Dynamics Review, 21(1), 69–85. Lee, S. H., Han, J. H., Leem, Y. T., & Yigitcanlar, T. (2008). Towards ubiquitous city: Concept, planning, and experiences in the Republic of Korea. In T. Yigitcanlar, K. Velibeyoglu, & S. Baum (Eds.), Knowledge-based urban development: Planning and applications in the information era (pp. 148–169). Hershey, PA and New York: Information Science Reference. Levine, R. S., Hughes, M. T., & Mather, C. R. (2008). Sustainable city-regions: Megaprojects in balance with the earth’s carrying capacity. Paper presented at the Conference on Engineering Earth: The Impacts of Megaengineering Projects. Lexington, Kentucky: University of Kentucky. 23 July. Multifunctional Administrative City Construction Agency. (May 2007). The city of happiness, Sejong: The global model city where everyone desires to live. Yeongi-gun: Multifunctional Administrative City Construction Agency. Multifunctional Administrative City Construction Agency. (no date). Home page. Retrieved September 5, 2008, from www.macc.go.kr Nam, I. H. (2007, July 21). Sejong administrative town to set new city paradigm. Retrieved May 16, 2008, from http://www.korea.net/news Plummer, P., & Taylor, M. (2001a). Theories of local economic growth (part 1): Concepts, models and measurement. Environment and Planning A, 33, 219–236. Plummer, P., & Taylor, M. (2001b). Theories of local economic growth (part 2): Model specification and empirical validation. Environment and Planning A, 33, 385–398. Plummer, P., & Taylor, M. (2003). Theory and praxis in economic geography: ‘enterprising’ and local growth in a global economy. Environment and Planning C, 21, 633–649. Presidential Committee on Multifunctional Administrative City Construction. (2006). International urban ideas: Competition for the new multi-functional administrative city in the Republic of Korea. Seoul: Multifunctional Administrative City Construction Agency. Wilson, M. I., & Corey, K. E. (2008). The ALERT Model: A planning-practice process for planning knowledge-based urban and regional development. In T. Yigitcanlar, K. Velibeyoglu, & S. Baum (Eds.), Knowledge-based urban development: Planning and applications in the information era (pp. 82–100). Hershey, PA and New York: Information Science Reference. Yu, W. I. (1996). A new capital for unified Korea. Korea Focus, 4(1), 53–61.

Chapter 57

Astana, Kazakhstan: Megadream, Megacity, Megadestiny? Leon Yacher

57.1 Introduction The relocation of a capital city is generally considered to be an effort by a state to construct a fresh urban site that reflects a change from the traditional center of governmental activities to a location that presumably reflects a new direction for the country and its people. The reasons may be political, geopolitical, religious, economic or a combination of these. Whatever the reasons may be, such a construction is usually completed at great expense and over a long period of time. Astana represents one of the latest additions to fit the definition of a “Forward City.” The latest example is Naypyidaw, the new capital city of Myanmar, located 400 km (248 mi) to the north of Yangon (Pedrosa, 2006). After providing a brief background of the political context and conditions existing in the region, I will present an overview of the geographic base of the city of Astana. This chapter will briefly scrutinize the unique methods of finance used to construct Astana. Also, the planning and design of the city will be examined, paying special attention to the ways in which architecture has been utilized to construct a futuristic vision of a public project for domestic and international consumption.

57.2 Background: The Political Scene When Mikhail Gorbachev resigned his post as President of the Soviet Union on 25 December 1991, the self-dissolution of the Council of Republics of the Supreme Soviet of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) occurred the following day. These events de facto dissolved the Soviet Union into nonexistence. Though the process of disintegration commenced much earlier (Gaidar, 2007), both aforementioned events sealed the fate of the country. Consequently, these acts gave L. Yacher (B) Department of Geography, Southern Connecticut State University, New Haven, CT 06515-1355, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_57,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1001

1002

L. Yacher

birth to fifteen new independent countries in the world. The collapse of the Soviet Union ended what had been known as the “cold war,” a term used to describe the ideological, political and economic split among the world’s countries. For the people in the region the collapse was a psychological blow of gigantic proportions. Answering to Moscow was replaced by insecurity, confusion, and most importantly, the loss of an ideological perspective that had been ingrained over time in a firm and unrelenting manner. After all, the USSR was considered to be omnipotent (Mann et al., 1984). Furthermore, the defunct Soviet Union, the largest country in the world, now had to dismantle a macro political and economic system that was highly centralized, in which the state-controlled all aspects of the society, and one that had failed. On paper and in theory each of the republics exercised autonomy and authority independently; each also had its own constitution (USSR Constitution, 1977: Article 76, Chapter 9). The institutions that made the fabric of the country were no longer functioning and new ones had to be installed. What became easier to form were the political boundaries of the new countries. The 1977 Constitution (the last) included an article whereby every Republic had the right to secede from the Union (USSR Constitution, 1977: Article 72, Chapter 8). The boundaries that made up each of the former Soviet republics, consequently, were the boundaries inherited by the newly independent countries. The challenges that were to be faced by each of the new countries were numerous and complex. Those individuals that were in leadership positions as the collapse took place became the leaders of the new countries. It did not take long for each of these select few to impose their will and personalities into the new political systems. In time, each new country began to follow paths that were increasingly more divergent (Yacher, 2003: passim). Some of the leaders, like Saparmurat Niyazov (commonly known as the Turkmenbashi) of Turkmenistan exercised idiosyncratic behaviors that at times amused those in the west. For those who took him more seriously, his autocratic rule was compared to that of Stalin (Brill Olcott, 1993: 97– 98; Berdyev, 2003). Others, like Askar Akayev of the Kyrgyz Republic introduced democratic legislation that was to lead many to label his country as the “Switzerland of Central Asia” (Yacher, 2005: 26). Similar patterns were recorded for other former Soviet Republics.

57.3 The Case of Kazakhstan Nursultan Nazarbayev, trained as a metallurgical engineer, took over as first secretary of the Kazakh Communist Party in 1989. He was the Chairman of the Kazakh Supreme Soviet and a member of the Soviet Politburo. He was also president of the Kazakh Soviet Socialist Republic (KSSR). Upon independence in 1991, he automatically became the first president of the Republic of Kazakhstan. Though initially he met some opposition, by the middle of the decade he had solidified his rule to the point that he is presently considered President for life. In December of 1993, the Kazakh Parliament self-dissolved and ceased to exist. Ministers gave up their authority and did so without resistance (Dosmukhamedov, 2002: 151). His rule is by

57

Astana, Kazakhstan: Megadream, Megacity, Megadestiny?

1003

decree (George, 2001: 43). Surrounded by a loyal following including many members of his family, Nazarbayev’s position is likely to continue with perhaps some token opposition, mostly residing abroad. Kazakhstan is a country rich in natural resources (Sagers, 1998a, 1998b). Oil, gas and other minerals (Sagers & Matzko, 1993) provide an income that gives its leader plenty of leverage. Ninth in area size in the world, its physical environment provides many advantages, in spite of the fact that the country is landlocked and shares boundaries with two very powerful neighbors, namely Russia and China, countries with whom Nazarbayev has kept friendly relations (Legvold, 2003). It should be noted that both Russia and China have every inducement to avoid conflict over Kazakhstan and Central Asia in general (Goldman, 2008: 85). Though Nazarbayev leads by decree, it cannot be denied that, overall, the country has prospered since the turn of the century. He is reformed minded. He has modified the former centrally planned economy to one that pleases capitalists. This process started early in his presidency (Serikbaeva, 1995: 216, 233–236) and continues to gain momentum presently. Trade patterns with the European Union have consistently increased over time (Ibrashev & Ensebaeva, 2003). Agreements were signed with China in early 2009 to improve transit routes through Kazakh territory to European destinations (Yacher, 2009c). Keenly aware of the perils of relying on single or a few commodities for income, Nazarbayev has sought to diversify industry and exports. Forest industry growth, grain exports and chemical products are purposely encouraged to support economic variability and viability (Yacher, 2003: 66). Nazarbayev’s version of capitalism is not to be designed or meant to duplicate the western model. Nevertheless, his government meets those criteria that the West requires of him, particularly when it comes to trade and foreign affairs. Outsiders have chosen to conveniently leave Nazarbayev’s internal policies alone (Dosmukhamedov, 2002: 151).

57.4 The Matter of a Forward Capital City Discussion about the move of the capital to Astana from Almaty (Alma-Ata during Soviet times) has occurred in the literature since the mid-1990s (Anacker, 2004; Yacher, 2009b). Astana (the Capital in Kazakh) has had a short history as the capital city, though its location has a much longer and mixed past. Astana represents the construction of a city that carries symbolic value beyond its physical structures. As mentioned earlier, the relocation of a capital city to new environs represents an effort by a state to construct a fresh urban site reflecting change from the traditional center of governmental activities to symbolically point the country and its citizens in a new direction. Capital cities are often symbols of the state that reflect economic, political and social power, and perhaps, a self-view within the worldview. More practically, they directly intrude on the state landscape (Taylor, 1993: 163). Decisions made in the capital city affect the citizens of the state. The main function and value of a capital

1004

L. Yacher

city is administrative in nature, as it houses the seat of government. These are entities that act as control centers (Taylor, 1993: 165). Theoretically, the surrender of a capital city to a foreign entity signifies the potential end of the state. But the military importance of a capital city in the past held much more importance than it does presently (Gottmann, 1983: 89). The term “Forward Capitals” is commonly used to define the newly relocated capital cities. As such, Forward Capitals tend to provide an opportunity for the state to create a new or different expression of the current self-view at the time of its creation. A greater discussion of the status and existence of capital cities is dealt with elsewhere (de Blij, 1973: 116–126; Spate, 1942; Taylor, 1993: 162–167). Like cities such as Brasília, Canberra, Washington, D.C., and others, Astana was developed to fulfill a symbolic function, to be a “national” city and to overcome the rivalries of preexisting settings (Stimson & Baum, 2003: 478). The capital city is an icon that helps the process of redirecting the path followed by a country. A relocated capital city can function simultaneously to “embrace, reconstitute or disown the history of a country” (Wolfel, 2002: 487).

57.5 A Megadream: Argument for Change and the Birth of Astana as the New Capital The idea to construct a new capital for Kazakhstan appears to have originated in the mind of President Nazarbayev shortly after independence in 1991. His unwavering support made the project possible, even though the decision was not particularly popular with the majority of the people in Kazakhstan (Wolfel, 2002: 502). Without his political will, it is unlikely that the move would have been possible. As has been the case for other Forward Cities, the will of the political apparatus is essential in playing an influential role to proceed with the relocation of a capital city. For example, it was George Washington who engineered the move in the U.S. for a new site for the capital city that bears his name. In Brazil, it was Kubitschek’s strong desire to move the capital to Brasilia that made the shift possible. Others include the move to Ankara from Istanbul under the direct order from Ataturk. There appears to be several reasons why Nazarbayev decided to make such an important transfer. The southern city of Almaty (the city of Apples in Kazakh) had always been the administrative center of the KSSR and of the Russian Imperial provinces that predated it. It is a leafy town well-loved for its beautiful location, if not for its standard Soviet-era architecture.1 At the time of independence, Almaty was the primate city and was rivaled by no other within the country. It was far larger than any other town in Kazakhstan and there was every indication that the capital city would increasingly dominate the nation’s demographic future. As well as already being the dominant political, economic and cultural city inherited from Soviet times, it was clear that if the country was to develop more evenly geographically, the stronghold of Almaty had to be neutralized. Politically, the move was an astute decision by Nazarbayev as it allowed him to move his power base away from the clan-based southern region (George, 2001: 45).

57

Astana, Kazakhstan: Megadream, Megacity, Megadestiny?

1005

As Soviet-era restrictions fell, embassies quickly positioned themselves in prime locations in the city. As a result, Almaty increased its prestige and dominance further. Moreover, many international firms and nongovernmental organizations started to locate offices in Almaty, which appeared poised to become, with Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan, an overriding city in Central Asia. The promise of large Caspian oil deposits had already marked Kazakhstan as an area of particular interest for foreign investors, and it seemed logical that most of the wealth created by the extractive industries would pass through Almaty. During the first few years after independence, Kazakhstan experienced population loss (Rowland, 1999). This loss may have influenced Nazarbayev’s decision to move the capital. The percentage share of Kazakh ethnics increased in every oblast (first-order administrative political unit) in the country, whereas other ethnic groups emigrated in large numbers (Rowland, 1999: 547). The population shifted from north to south during the 1989–1999 decade (Rowland, 2001: passim). As the shift continued, concerns of depopulation in the northern regions grew (Rowland, 1999: 530). The country’s northern sections were hard-hit by the dismantling of Soviet-era heavy industry, while large parts of the more agricultural south also depopulated in the wake of the collapse of the Soviet agricultural system (Smith & Green, 1989 : 144–146). Many of the southern region’s cities, too, lost population. Even Almaty lost population between 1989 and 1998 (Rowland, 1999: 537). Part of the reason given for the population loss was the capital shift to Astana (Andryushin, 1998: 6). Even though Almaty and the western oil towns seemed to represent the future population centers of the nation, it came as quite a surprise in 1995 when Nazarbayev issued a presidential order that the seat of the national government was to be moved immediately to Akmola,2 a medium-sized provincial town located in the north central region of the nation. The reasons for choosing this particular site had to do with the desire to redress the regional ethnic imbalance of the nation by encouraging ethnic Kazakhs to move into the hitherto primarily Russian north (Anacker, 2004). In addition to the ethnographic issue, historical and political reasons for the move have also been given (Bremmer, 1994; Khazanov, 1995). There were several other logical arguments advanced for the relocation. From a geographical and geopolitical orientation, Almaty is poorly located. Nearby, the border with the Peoples Republic of China and the Kyrgyz Republic, Almaty exists in a potentially (though unlikely) vulnerable situation. At the edge of the country, that is, the southeastern corner, its location was distant to most of the country’s population (Fig. 57.1). That Almaty’s location is in a significant seismic region was not disputed. Furthermore, it was also been recognized that Almaty had become an overcrowded city with many of the environmental ills found in several of the world’s cities (Huttenbach, 1998: 583; Yacher, 2009a: 19–20). Other less logical grounds given for the move included an argument that Almaty had no space to grow further. There may be yet another possible reason for the relocation of the capital. The circumstances surrounding Kazakhstan makes the move distinctive. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Kazakhstan, like other former Soviet Republics, entered into a period of transition. It may very well be possible that Nazarbayev wanted to

1006

L. Yacher

Fig. 57.1 Kazakhstan: Centered in Astana

deliberately break from the past. He may have felt that the Soviet legacy had to be erased. Perhaps the Almaty riots of December 1986 and the events that followed played an important role in the mind of Nazarbayev and Kazakh ethnics (Carrère d’Encausse, 1993: 32–33). After all, the shouting of nationalistic slogans such as “Kazakhstan for the Kazakhs and only the Kazakhs” cannot go unnoticed nor can these voices be forgotten (Carrère d’Encausse, 1993: 32–33). If Kazakhstan was to be part of the global village, it had to send a message of independence and of forward-looking. A new capital may serve this purpose perfectly. After all, by the time of the collapse, cities in the Soviet Union were largely uniform with the socialist imprint and symbolization (Shaw, 1991: 73). A break from the past, therefore, is not just an action taken by Kazakhstan in terms of moving a capital city, but it is part of a more comprehensive action plan. The change is and has not been gradual, but it appears that the process is purposeful, calculated, and has consistently continued to accelerate from the beginning. Once the new capital site had been chosen, and renamed “Astana” by another presidential decree, the work of actually planning and constructing the new capital began. The more central chosen location of Astana may not be an accident. As mentioned above the ethnic imbalance might have been a compelling reason for the move. The more central location (actually north-central) might also be a message to Russia’s potential intentions for a mineral-rich region. That the area suffered from a variety of ills through time might also be considered a factor in

57

Astana, Kazakhstan: Megadream, Megacity, Megadestiny?

1007

Nazarbayev’s decision. After all, the cultural core of the Kazakh, especially of the Great Horde (ulı jüz), is in the south. By encouraging Kazakh ethnics to move north in significant numbers is to increase the reach of the Kazakh homeland away from its long-established boundaries. Perhaps, moving the Capital to regions where members of the Middle and Little Horde’s can be found may also have been in the President’s mind. The Great Horde3 dominates the southern region of the country. The Middle and Little (Young or Lesser) Horde are traditionally found in the western and to a lesser extent to the northern regions (Abazov, 2008: 30). Nazarbayev’s vision is not singular in thought. By encouraging the move north, it creates a situation where various parts of the country, at least in theory, would be settled and exploited uniformly. Nazarbayev is likely to have recognized that Almaty will remain an urban force; the traditional southern region of the country would remain culturally Kazakh; the west has oil and gas, and the north Astana (The Capital)!

57.6 Site and Situation For better or for worse, at first glance, the chosen location for Astana might be considered an enigma. Positioned in the midst of the vast and isolated Kazakh steppes (Fig. 57.2), Astana is found in an area that has a number of environmental challenges. However, its location between the southern limit of the continuous boreal forest and the northern zonal border of the dry natural pasture region provides the city with some spatial advantages that are useful. It is situated well within the wheat-livestock belt area (Cole, 1967: 255), a region that was developed during the 1950s as part of the Virgin Lands project (see below). Furthermore, this region, too, became an industrial zone.

Fig. 57.2 Astana and Kazakhstan relative to Eurasia. Its location is near the geographic center of Eurasia, a point that the country’s national airline, Air Astana, makes in its ads (Yacher, 2009c: 18).

1008

L. Yacher

Situated closer to Russia and its well developed transportation networks, Astana is likely to benefit as trade treaties with Russia and China are secured. The site grew to become a Russian military outpost in the 19th century and then an administrative center. During the early 20th century, the site grew to become a major railway junction of the Trans-Kazakhstan and South Siberian railroads. At some point in the Virgin lands project, when the Soviet Union was facing a serious agricultural crisis (Khrushchev, 2000: 229), Russian ethnics were encouraged to migrate to the region. In fact, 1.5 million peasants were brought to the area between 1954 and 1965 (George, 2001: 44).4 As a result, Kazakhstan’s northern region has been labeled as a Russian transition zone owing to the presence of a large Russian ethnic population (de Blij & Muller, 2007: 98, 264). The transportation network was developed to connect the region to the west. By virtue of placing the capital in this area, an already positioned and well utilized rail system would presumably benefit the area immediately in a variety of ways. A suitably developed transport network is a prerequisite to increase accessibility and provide the transit of goods. Astana’s climate is classic continental experiencing the typical extremes expected of such a harsh climatic regime. Winters are long, dark, frigid and windy (particularly the cold Siberian north-winds). Winter temperatures between –20◦ and –40◦ F (–30◦ and –40◦ C) are not uncommon. The average annual temperature in Astana is approximately 33◦ F (1◦ C) which makes Astana the second coldest capital city in the world (after Ulaanbataar, Mongolia). Summers are short, hot and humid. Temperatures have been recorded to over 105◦ F (40◦ C) during the summer months of June to August. In spite of the climactic conditions the area experiences, soils are relatively fine for agricultural activities – yields are generally good, though unpredictable. The soils that dominate the area are Mollisols, generally found in the more humid parts of the dry midlatitude climate regions (Arbogast, 2007: 326–328). Drainage is of no significance. The Ishim River is in a very flat, semidesert steppe region. It splits the city into two sectors. To the north of the river is the older part of town, that is, the original Akmola. North of the railway line, which crosses Astana in an east-west direction, are industrial and poorer residential areas. Between the railway line and the river Ishim is the city center, where at present intense building activity is occurring. To the west and east are more elevated residential areas with parks. The new area of government administration is found to the south of the Ishim. Here many large building projects are underway including the construction of a diplomat quarter and a variety of different government buildings. The spacious steppe landscape provides plenty of expansion possibilities. The year 2030 is an expected date of completion for planned construction.

57.7 Financing and Reterritorialization What has been fortunate for Nazarbayev was the availability of funding for moving the capital. Oil and gas revenue has allowed the government to finance the building of the new city, virtually from scratch. Most of the funding comes directly from the Kazakh state (Zabirova, 2002). Also, foreign investments were welcomed; the

57

Astana, Kazakhstan: Megadream, Megacity, Megadestiny?

1009

Turks and Japanese seized the opportunities (Wolfel, 2002: 500; also see Schatz, 2004: 124). The ultimate source of the funding for the building of the capital has been a source of confusion for many. Under Nazarbayev’s hand, the Kazakh government has sought to give the impression that the construction project has been largely the result of private initiatives. In Astana, the state has generally tended to mask its own role in the proceedings. The linkages between these two entities and the presidency are byzantine at first glance (Fig. 57.3), but in essence are fairly simple: the president and his family are in direct control of almost all of the organizations related the capital project. The average Kazakhstani understands this basic fact, even if foreign observers sometimes are unable to cut through the labyrinth of organizations to grasp it.

Fig. 57.3 High-level schematic of agents and inputs to the Astana project

1010

L. Yacher

The heavy involvement of the president and the lack of enthusiasm of many of the affected bureaucrats meant that the capital move came to be seen by most Kazakhstani observers more as a personal project than as a governmental project. Indeed, constructing the new city involved the creation of new governmental and quasi-governmental organizations meant to function outside of the sphere of the ordinary state organs. The president first removed the city of Astana from the jurisdiction of its previous province and created the new, province-level Akimat of Astana. The Akimat of Astana now serves as a typical “federal district” along the lines of the District of Columbia in the U.S., albeit with far more centralized control. The Akim (mayor) of Astana has generally been chosen from among the president’s most trusted inner circle. The Akimat of Astana in practice has behaved much more like an adjunct of the president’s office; to date its major activity and expenditure have been the day-to-day administration of the capital construction project (Budget of Astana, 2009). Apart from the Akimat, and administratively existing in a vaguely subordinate relationship to it, is the “Special Economic Zone of New Astana.” This zone, also created by presidential decree, covers the physical territory of the new capital construction zone (Kazakhembus, 2009). In order to encourage the rapid development of the capital construction project, the regular tariffs, labor laws, and taxes of the Republic of Kazakhstan do not apply within the Special Economic Zone (SEZ), which is physically fenced off and guarded by customs agents. The Astana SEZ entire reason for existence is the construction of the capital. While international construction firms are likely happy to not have to pay minimum wages or tariffs within the SEZ, at the end of the day the SEZ is little more than an accounting trick meant to dress up in “private” or “entrepreneurial” clothes of what is in reality a collection of massive government contracts. The zone itself, though given de jure autonomy, functions in fact as a completely dependent agency of the national government.

57.8 Megacity, Mega-Design It is important to recognize that even the design of a new capital does not come out of thin air, and that the architectural features of the new capital were set up as a deliberate contrast to the old capital. This has been true in the case of other Forward Cities. The blueprint of new capital cities have been a stark reaction to the traditional designs of the existing urban sites. Looking at cities like Ankara, Brasilia, and Washington D.C., among others, shows a departure from traditional layouts. The design of Astana is meant to impress. In the ten years since building has commenced, the ‘look’ of Astana is futuristic, with astonishing architectural expressions, found nowhere else in the world. If the past is to be erased, it is Astana that can accomplish it. If Astana is, as Wolfel said it, “a Kazakhstani city” (2002: 502), then we may be seeing the construction of a new Kazakhstan. To make the point of futuristic design it is important to analyze some of the constructed buildings in order to better digest the fabric of the city. In terms of its morphology, the new central city is built around an elongated-oval and relatively

57

Astana, Kazakhstan: Megadream, Megacity, Megadestiny?

1011

narrow center that resembles Washington D.C.’s symbolic shape that joins the Congress through the reflecting pool to the Lincoln Memorial. In Astana’s case, the links are, on one extreme, the Pyramid, a diamond shaped glass and mostly underground structure named The Palace of Peace and Reconciliation. It is meant to be an ecumenical monument to the various religions of the world. It has been the site of numerous interfaith symposiums on religious tolerance (Fig. 57.4). The ecumenical emphasis is interesting. Clearly, it is partially meant to signal to a “western” audience that Kazakhstan should not be confused with other, more “intolerant” Muslim nations. On the opposite end, is the presently being built (by Sembol, a Turkish construction company) Khan Shatyr Entertainment complex, a giant, transparent-tent shape structure that will provide year round, an indoor ambiance that will ignore the outside elements. The 500 ft (150 m) high tent will enclosed an area slightly over 1 million ft2 (100,000 m2 ), roughly representing the size of ten football stadiums. Khan Shatyr will feature an indoor beach, shopping malls and other amenities. Both of these megaprojects were designed by British architect Norman Foster. In between, not to be outdone, are a number of buildings that include the Akorda (Presidential Palace), located near the Pyramid. A walking mall connects the Presidential Palace to the Khan Shatyr; in between is Baiterek (Fig. 57.5), a structure that is used as the symbol of Astana. Nazarbayev’s hand imprint is found at the top. To the west side of the axis is the monolithic, fortress-like headquarters of the state-directed oil company. The Ministry of Power and Mineral Resources (KazMunaiGaz), is a massive structure that currently overpowers the west view of the mall (Fig. 57.6). Its scale and prominent location points to the Kazakh state’s reliance on oil. It affirms the government’s control over the nominally

Fig. 57.4 The Pyramid

1012

L. Yacher

Fig. 57.5 Baiterek, the symbol of Astana. In the background is the Akorda

Fig. 57.6 KazMunaiGaz. To the right is the ministry of communications. In the background one can notice the construction equipment being used to build Khan Shatyr

independent corporation, whose staff was forced to relocate to the steppes just like the state workers. The other government ministry buildings along the axis line up in rows to face the huge KazMunaiGaz behemoth. One example is the Ministry of Communications, a building that looks like a cigarette lighter. It has lived up to its shape, having experienced a number of fires. Just beyond is the location of the aforementioned entertainment center that will not only dominate the cityscape, but will dwarf the majority of the buildings in

57

Astana, Kazakhstan: Megadream, Megacity, Megadestiny?

1013

the area. Surrounding the briefly described buildings, are a number of significant corresponding edifices that provide illusion, fantasy and grandness. Complementing the large structures and dotting the city one can find a number of sculptures and other works of art, many of which were commissioned to local artists (Fig. 57.7). Each of these pieces was strategically placed to harmonize with the buildings. The sculptural themes are mostly consistent with keeping a futuristic visual appeal. Many of the sculptures have Kazakh themes, including monuments of epic figures (Fig. 57.8).

Fig. 57.7 Modern sculpture denoting Kazakh art

Fig. 57.8 The monument honors the epic hero Kenesary Khan (1841–1847), recently elevated to the status of a freedom fighter for his defiance of the Russian empire

1014

L. Yacher

Noticeably absent are monuments of Nazarbayev. He vetoed, while he is alive, any attempt of following the tradition of having monuments in the former Soviet Union, a tradition that some post-collapse newly independent countries continued (Yacher 2006).

57.9 Astana: A Megadestiny in the Making In a recent interview Nazarbayev confessed to the BBC that moving the capital was the riskiest step he had ever taken, and that Astana was one of his biggest achievements. He said: “I put everything at stake, including my career and my name. I knew if I had failed it would be a fatal failure, but the success would also be the real success.” He then added: “It was a huge risk, and I took it intuitively.” At the time, continued the president, no-one seemed to believe that he would be able to create a real city in the steppe (Antelava, 2006). Will the city be a symbol of the country solely, or will it be functional as Vladimir Laptev, the current chief planner, mentioned as one of his major goals? Laptev, directly addressing other Forward Capitals, added that he did not wish Astana to be purely administrative in character such as Canberra or Washington D.C. (Fig. 57.9).

Fig. 57.9 Children are being engaged in the process of extolling the virtues of Astana. Posters and various advertisements show not only the futuristic Astana but its global presence. More often than not the Kazakh language is used in these outdoor messages. In the lower right is the commonly used advertizing symbol celebrating the tenth anniversary of Astana’s existence as the Capital: Baiterek

57

Astana, Kazakhstan: Megadream, Megacity, Megadestiny?

1015

Since the transfer of administrative powers to Astana, the city has grown to be the second largest in the country. With an estimated population of 700,000 in 2007, more than double since the move, the city is growing at a pace that will likely compete with the population size of Almaty in a few years. It is estimated to exceed one million by 2030, though it is likely that it will reach that total before then. In 1991 the population totaled 286,000. The pace of construction has increased quickly and it promises to continue growing in the foreseeable future (Fig. 57.10). Migrant workers, both legal and illegal, have been attracted from across Kazakhstan and neighboring states such as Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan. Astana is a magnet for young professionals seeking to build a career. This has changed the city’s demographics, bringing more ethnic Kazakhs to a city that formerly had a Slav majority. Astana’s ethnic Kazakh population has risen to some 60%, up from 17% in 1989. Some have argued that the city has grown much too fast and that the quality of the structures are suspect. Drainage has been serious problem and allegations of bribery and other irregularities have been common (Yacher, 2009b: passim). After many years of poor economic conditions throughout the country including a loss of 55% GNP between 1990 and 1999 (George, 2001: 43-44), the situation started to improve though not evenly. The quality of life in Astana has soared in recent years. Income levels among the Kazakh ethnics have improved many times, whereas incomes among the other ethnic groups have lagged behind, including the Russian ethnics (Yacher, 2009c: 21). The city has prospered at a faster pace than Almaty, Atyrau and Mangistau (Fig. 57.11). All four of these cities have grown at economic rates disproportional to the rest of the country (Daly, 2008: 18).

Fig. 57.10 The rate of construction can be considered intense. Even as the economic crisis has affected Kazakhstan, building of governmental agencies has not abated

1016

L. Yacher

Fig. 57.11 New housing has been constructed at a fast pace. Though large in size, these buildings totally ignore the Soviet era block building designs

Fig. 57.12 In old Astana, a number of residential buildings have not changed since independence. The inside quality of the buildings remain in disrepair

There are parts of the country at present that have seen no benefits or change since Independence. Small villages, including those nearby Almaty and not far from Astana (Fig. 57.12), have stood still since independence. Even some of the larger towns, like Sapar, Semey, Shimkent, and Taraz show vivid examples of the lethargic progress made (Yacher, 2009c: 24). This is a topic that has been often been examined elsewhere (George, 2001: passim).

57

Astana, Kazakhstan: Megadream, Megacity, Megadestiny?

1017

57.10 Centrality: Myth or Fact It could be argued that Astana by virtue of its geographic location cannot compete with the many cities that have several spatial comparative advantages. Cities along the Pacific Ocean Rim, such as Tokyo, Singapore, and Sidney show how location can be advantageous in a country’s economic development and potential continuous growth (Blank, 1999). Since Astana serves as the capital of a landlocked state and as a result experiences conditions not faced by countries that can trade more easily using waterways. However, in part, the future success of the city may also rest in the success of Air Astana, founded in 2001 with its maiden flight taking off on 15 May of 2002. It has provided Kazakhstan with a relative central location within the Eurasian continent with scheduled flights from Europe to East-Asia. Astana can benefit as a hub that can act as a conduit between points east and west. With the airline announcing that passenger traffic grew by 46% in 2007, it presently has over 50 domestic and international routes serving the city. The airline has positioned itself to grow significantly in coming years (Daly, 2008: 48). Poised to directly benefit in a considerably way is the city perhaps enticing tourists to stopover for a visit. If Wolfel is correct (2002: 502), then we may be seeing the construction of a new Kazakhstan. The problem with this is what will happen to the rest of the country? Will the future also change other cities to represent the new country? Or is Astana to remain a unique sample of a city that will remain isolated in presenting a cutting edge of architectural design? Will the city be a symbol of the country solely, or will it be functional as Vladimir Laptev, mentioned above adding that he did not wish Astana to be purely administrative in character. Is Astana merely one more megacity in the making in an increasingly urban world or, is Astana truly a megadream? Is the city singular in its creation? Putting this question into a greater global context, one may end up not getting a clear answer. The number of megacities (though not Forward cities) during the past twenty years have increased significantly. In 2000 there were 17 cities exceeding 10 million people; the number is expected to increase to 22 by 2015 (Zeigler, Hays-Mitchell, & Brunn, 2008: 16). In China, the growth of their urban systems has been significant during the 1990s (Zheng, Chen, Cai, & Liu, 2009). Other examples in Asia alone include Seoul, Bangkok and Jakarta (Lo & Marcotullio, 2001). Where, then, does Astana fit in the global question. First and foremost, the region known as Central Asia does not have megacities. The importance of Astana may not be its size, but its value to Kazakhstan, and perhaps to the region may qualify it for that label. That it is a city being built to break the past in an area that is economically underrepresented is not an argument. That it is being built to gain the attention of the international community is an observation that has already been made (Anacker, 2004: 540). Perhaps, even the move of the capital city to entice nationalistic pride may be considered, as well. That it may end up being the legacy of President Nazarbayev would also not be disputed. What is the case is that all of the above is true and that the future of the city remains for the time being in the hands of President Nursultan Nazarbayev. In his own words at inauguration time:

1018

L. Yacher

“From now on any major decisions important for the future of the people will be made here in the centre of this colossal country. Now the heart of our motherland is beating here. Kazakhstan is making and defining its history and destiny here and today (kazakhembus, 2009).” Acknowledgment Many thanks to Dr. Shonin Anacker for his insightful contributions.

Notes 1. In the past five years, however, a number of modern buildings have replaced Soviet era block-structures. 2. Akmola translates to “White Tomb” from the Kazakh, a rather unfortunate name for a potential capital city, a name given upon independence. Previously, the city was known as Tselinograd, which translates from the Russian as “Virgin Lands City.” The naming took place when Nikita Khrushchev announced the Virgin Lands Project in 1961. 3. Confederation in Kazakh. For the most part these groups competed with each other. 4. Previously, sizeable migrations by Slavs took place, as well (see Becker, 1994: 32).

References Abazov, R. (2008). The Palgrave concise historical atlas of Central Asia. New York: Palgrave MacMillan. QER, L. ASTANA: GEOGRAFIQESKA PERSPEKTIVA PERENESENNO STOLICY KAZAHSTANA. (2009). (Astana: A Geographic Perspective of Kazakhstan’s Forward Capital City). In P.A. Bepdifalieva (ed.), ASTANAHBIH M DEHI M TIHI (pp. 27–47). Astana: The National Academic Library of the Republic of Kazakhstan. Anacker, S. (2004). Geographies of power in Nazarbayev’s Astana. Eurasian Geography and Economics, 45(7), 515–533. Andryushin, M. (1998). V 1998 gody usilitsya tendentsiya k snizheniyu chislennosti naseleniya Almaty. Panorama, January 9, 6 (in Russian). Antelava, N. (2006). Giant tent to be built in Astana. Retrieved August 24, 2009, from http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/6165267.stm Arbogast, A. F. (2007). Discovering physical geography. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Berdyev, I. (2003). Turkmenbashi hunts down dissidents. The Times of Central Asia, May 22. Becker, S. (1994). The Russian conquest of Central Asia and Kazakhstan: Motives, methods, consequences. In H. Malik (Ed.), Central Asia: Its strategic importance and future prospects (pp. 21–38). New York: St. Martin’s Press. Blank, P. W. (1999). The Pacific: A Mediterranean in the making? Geographical Review, 89(2), 265–277. Budget of Astana. (2009). Retrieved August 29, 2009, from http://en.astana.kz/city-budgetastana.html Bremmer, I. (1994). Nazarbaev and the North: State-building and ethnic relations in Kazakhstan. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 17, 619–635. Brill Olcott, M. (1993). Central Asia on its own. Journal of Democracy, 4(1), 92–103.

57

Astana, Kazakhstan: Megadream, Megacity, Megadestiny?

1019

Carrère d’Encausse, H. (1993). The end of the Soviet Empire: The triumph of the nations. New York: Basic Books. Cole, J. C. (1967). A geography of the U.S.S.R. Baltimore: Penguin Books. Daly, J. C. K. (2008). Kazakhstan’s emerging middle class. Silk Road Paper. Central AsiaCaucasus Institute. de Blij, H. J. (1973). Systematic political geography (2nd ed.). New York: Wiley. de Blij, H. J., & Muller, P. O. (2007). The world today: Concepts and regions in geography. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Dosmukhamedov, E. K. (2002). Foreign direct investment in Kazakhstan. Oxford: Palgrave Press. Gaidar, E. T. (2007). Collapse of an empire: Lessons for modern Russia. Washington, DC: Brookings Institution Press. George, A. (2001). Journey into Kazakhstan. Lanham, MD: University Press of America. Goldman, M. F. (2008). Global studies: Russia, the Baltic and Eurasian Republics, and Central/Eastern Europe. Dubuque, IA: McGraw-Hill. Gottmann, J. (1983). Capital cities. Ekistics, 50(299), 88–92. Huttenbach, H. R. (1998). Whither Kazakstan? Changing capitals: From Almaty to Aqmola/Astana. Nationalities Papers, 26(3): 581–587. Ibrashev, Z., & Ensebaeva, E. (2003). European Union and Kazakhstan: Trends in trade and economic cooperation. Central Asia and the Caucasus: Journal of Social and Political Studies, 1(19), 58–64. Kazakhembus. (2009). Retrieved August 29, 2009, from kazakhembus.com/index.php? page=astana Khazanov, A. M. (1995). After the USSR: Ethnicity and nationalism in the Commonwealth of Independent States. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Khrushchev, S. I. (2000). Nikita Khrushchev and the creation of a superpower. University Park, FL: The Pennsylvania State University Press. Legvold, R. (2003). Thinking strategically: The major powers, Kazakhstan, and the Central Asian Nexus. London and Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Lo, F. C., & Marcotullio, P. J. (2001). Globalisation and sustainability of cities in the Asian Pacific region. Tokyo: United Nations University Press. Mann, M., et al. (1984). The Soviet Union. Amsterdam: Time-Life Books. Pedrosa, V. (2008). Myanmar’s ‘seat of kings’. Retrieved July 26, 2008, from http://english.aljazeera.net/news/asia-pacific/2006/11/2008525184150766713.html Rowland, R. H. (1999). Urban population trends in Kazakhstan during the 1990s. Post-Soviet Geography and Economics, 40(7), 519–552. Rowland, R. H. (2001). Regional population change in Kazakhstan during the 1990s and the impact of nationality population patterns: Results from the recent census of Kazakhstan. Post-Soviet Geography and Economics, 42(8), 571–614. Sagers, M. J. (1998a). Gold production in Central Asia. Post-Soviet Geography and Economics, 39(3), 125–150. Sagers, M. J. (1998b). The nonferrous metals industry of Kazakhstan. Post-Soviet Geography and Economics, 39(9), 495–517. Sagers, M. J. & Matzko, J. R. (1993). The oil resources of Kazakhstan. International Geology Review, 35(11), 1062–1088. Schatz, E. (2004). What capital cities say about state and nation building. Nationalism and Ethnic Politics, 9, 111–140. Serikbaeva, K. (1995). Kazakhstan. London: Flint River Press Ltd. Shaw, D. J. B. (1991). Restructuring the soviet city. In M. J. Bradshaw (Ed.), The Soviet Union: A new regional geography? (pp. 67–82). London: Belhaven Press. Smith, T. J., & Green, E. F. (1989). The dilemma of economic reform in the Soviet Union. In W. G. Miller (Ed.), Toward a more civil society? The USSR under Mikhail Sergeevich Gorbachev (pp. 121–152). New York: Harper & Row. Spate, O. H. K. (1942). Factors in the development of capital cities. Geographical Review, 32(4), 622–631.

1020

L. Yacher

Stimson, R. J., & Baum, S. (2003). Cities of Australia and the Pacific Islands. In S. D. Brunn, J. F. Williams, & D. J. Zeigler (Eds.), Cities of the world (3rd ed., pp. 457–488). Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers. Taylor, P. J. (1993). Political geography: World-economy, nation-state and locality (3rd ed.). Essex, UK. Longman. USSR Constitution 1977: Article 76, chapter 9. Adopted 7 October 1977. Wolfel, R. L. (2002). North to Astana: Nationalistic motives for the movement of the Kazakh(stani) capital. Nationalities Papers, 30(3), 485–506. Yacher, L. (2003). Central Asia: Geographic perspectives to current cultural and economic transformations. Proceedings, New England-St. Lawrence Valley Geographical Society, 33, 59–76. Yacher, L. (2005). Photographic Journal: Kyrgyzstan. Focus on Geography, 48(3), 26–34. Yacher, L. (2006). Photographic Journal: Turkmenistan. Focus on Geography, 49(3), 17–21. Yacher, L. (2009a). Photographic journal: Kazakhstan. Focus on Geography, 52(1), 18–24. Yacher, L. (2009b). Astana: A geographic perspective of Kazakhstan’s forward capital city. In: Astana: The National Academic Library of the Republic of Kazakhstan, 2009 (pp. 27–47). (Published in Russian: ASTANA: GEOGRAFIQES-

KA PERSPEKTIVA PERENESENNO STOLICY KAZAHSTANA, Actahah M dehi M tihi.) Yacher, L. (2009c). Field notes. May–June. Zabirova, A. (2002). Astana: A city like others or a catalyst of changes? Central Asia and the Caucasus, 5(17), 169–174. Zeigler, D. J., Hays-Mitchell, M., & Brunn, S. D. (2008). World urban development. In S. D. Brunn, M. Hayes-Mitchell, & D. J. Zeigler (Eds.), Cities of the world (4th ed., pp. 4–51). Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers. Zheng, Y., Chen, T., Cai, J., & Liu, S. (2009). Regional concentration and region-based urban transition: China’s mega-urban region formation in the 1990s. Urban Geography, 30(3), 312–333.

Chapter 58

Myanmar’s New Capital City of Naypyidaw Dulyapak Preecharushh

58.1 Introduction On Sunday 6 November 2005, the Myanmar military government or SPDC (State Peace and Development Council) officially relocated the national capital from Yangon to Pyinmana in a rural mountainous valley in southern Mandalay Division around 240 mi (330 km) north of Yangon (The Military Government, 2005) (Fig. 58.1). The next day, Myanmar’s Information Minister, Brigadier General Kyaw Hsan, announced that the country’s capital would be a newly established city in Pyinmana District. The minister further explained, “The reason we are moving is because Pyinmana, which is in the centre of Myanmar, is geographically and strategically located for the development of the country (Nanda Kyaw Thu, 2006).” On Armed Forces Day on 27 March 2006, the new administrative capital in Kyatpyae Village of Pyinmana District was publicly named “Naypyidaw” (also spelled Nay Pyi Taw or Naypyitaw) which etymologically means the “Seat of the King” or “Royal City” (Nanda Kyaw Thu, 2006). Since then Naypyidaw which is situated just 8–10 mi (12.8–16 km) west and northwest of Pyinmana town has had a special status as the new national capital replacing Yangon (Rangoon). In this respect, Naypyidaw is the name of the capital that is officially recognized by the current military government while Pyinmana is the name of a town and a district in which the new capital is located.

58.2 The Rationale for Moving the Capital The possible reasons involved in the current relocation of the capital are still unclear even though the government gave the reason of focusing on the country’s development. There is some speculation concerning this relocation as follows.

D. Preecharushh (B) Southeast Asian Studies Program, Thammasat University, Bangkok, Thailand e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_58,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1021

1022

D. Preecharushh

Fig. 58.1 Location of the new capital, Pyinmana (Naypyidaw). (Source: The Irrawaddy, June 2005, Vol. 13, No. 6)

58

Myanmar’s New Capital City of Naypyidaw

1023

58.2.1 Politico-Military Security The establishment of the new governmental seat of power could be motivated by changing strategic environments and the transformation of security scenario in the 21st century. The ruling leaders have continually been confronted with several threats generated by global and regional fluctuations, for example, democratic movements, popular uprisings and internal intervention by major powers (Woodman, 1962; Smith, 1991; Selth, 1996; Silverstein, 1997; Vatikiotis, 1998; Lintner, 2000; Fink, 2001). In this context, Yangon is politically considered as a dangerous place for the continued existence of the dictatorial regime. It was also the center of popular uprising which occurred in 1988 and led to the collapse of Ne Win authoritarian regime. According to Donald M. Seekins, Yangon’s modern social and political history has seen the conflict generated by the vertically imposed power of the militarized state and by attempts of the urban population and democratic movements to avoid or mitigate its consequences by exercising power horizontally (Seekins, 2002: 3). Therefore Yangon has emerged as a place of struggle between the state and the people it rules (Seekins, 2002: 3). Moreover, it has continuously been influenced by waves of westernization and democratization which led to the decline of its political centrality and dominance. On the other hand, Yangon is strategically vulnerable to amphibious warfare conducted by the United States and western powers. Although the ruling military junta realized that a U.S.-led invasion of Myanmar is rather remote in terms of likelihood, considering the fact that the Chinese have strong influence in Myanmar and with the Americans’ present preoccupation with their military missions in Iraq and Afghanistan theaters, it has never underestimated this possibility nor gambles on the fate of national security (Maung Aung Myoe, 2006: 6). The key military leaders have never forgotten that the U.S Navy (an aircraft carrier and four warships) violated Myanmar territorial waters in September 1988 during the political demonstration in Yangon (Maung Aung Myoe, 2006: 6). Of interest is that Maung Aung Myoe has explained that “By moving the seat of the government and military high command to the interior and mountainous region, the military junta could buy more time for its defense against both air and ground attack; thus it could provide a defense-in-depth strategy (Maung Aung Myoe, 2006: 6–7).” Under these circumstances, the ruling government decided to relocate the seat of power to a prominent geopolitical location which can protect the regime from all the dangerous threats. From this point of view, the new capital, located in the center of the country in mountainous areas and far away from coastlines, is strategically a suitable place for building a strong governmental seat of power. In another aspect, moving the capital can also protect the ruling junta from having to contain mass movements and popular uprisings inside Yangon. The relocation to a more planned and controlled center of many administrative offices and strategic buildings from the old capital serves the leaders’ objectives. As a result of this move, the ruling government will be better equipped to monitor politico-security strategies and deploy the armed forces to control the political situation in a state of emergency (Dulyapak, 2009: 56–57). Moreover, relocating the capital to the continental

1024

D. Preecharushh

region can also protect the ruling junta from maritime invasion by using jungle and mountainous topographies as a strong fortification and can increase the defensive space available from which to counterattack the enemy by means of guerilla warfare. Although relocating inland does not put the military out of reach of the advanced missiles of its perceived primary threat, especially the United States, it is strategically better than having the capital in Yangon which can be easily accessed by the maritime invasion (Parker, 2006). Of interest in terms of military geography is that some states have moved their capital from a coastal area to an interior location for the defense of the governmental seat of power from surprise maritime attacks (Cornish, 1923; Gottman, 1983; Hilberseimer, 1995). For example, the communist party of the Soviet Union relocated the capital from coastal St. Petersburg to continental Moscow because of maritime threats in the Baltic Sea and the superior inland defensive position at Moscow. Also the proposed relocation of the Thai capital from Bangkok to Phetchabun during Field Marshal Phibulsongkram’s first administration (1938–1944) was attributed to the maritime threats in the Gulf of Siam and the stronger mountainous fortification at Phetchabun. Therefore, the establishment of Myanmar’s new capital has antecedents in the history of warfare and represents the Burmese military’s worldview of the strategic response to the possibility of maritime invasions (Dulyapak, 2009: 134).

58.2.2 Hinterland Development The establishment of the new capital is also related to nation-building activities in the hinterland, especially, the expansion of agricultural plantations, hydroelectric networks, transportation systems and the expansion of border development. In the Myanmar government’s official explanation, the relocation of bureaucratic departments to a new location near Pyinmana was to ensure more effective administration in the hinterland and “with the expansion of the government’s national development activities to border region and remote villages, it was necessary to move the government’s administration to a location which is more centrally located and placed strategically on major transportation networks (Myanmar Times, 2005).” In this context, the new capital’s geographical configuration is suitable for hinterland development because it is physically situated on the Sittang basin commanding the dry zone and the frontier regions. The new capital is not far from granary areas in the Irrawaddy basin and hydroelectric energy networks in the Salween Valley and is very close to all the most important mineral deposits and other natural resources that will be developed in the future (Aung-Thwin, 2005). On the other hand, the new capital will function as an important logistical center because its strategic location commands superhighway networks from Yangon to Mandalay and from western Rakhine-Chin States to eastern frontier states (Shan, Kayin and Kayah states). As a result, the military leaders will be in a critical position to determine development policies and military strategies through the inland transportation networks centered at the new capital. The ruling government will, thereby, have access to all parts of the country.

58

Myanmar’s New Capital City of Naypyidaw

1025

Similarly, some developing states also relocate their capital for reasons of economic enlargement and national development in the hinterland (Scupham, 1977). As Nwafor points out “the new site in the country’s geometric center is expected to bring a core region into effective settlement by spurring a central migration that will open up new agricultural frontiers and create a more equitable distribution of population (Nwafor, 2005)” while the transportation network spreading out from a newly relocated capital can harmoniously unite fragmented areas under the control of the government. Also the new capital can strategically function as the logistical center of a core region. For example, Turkey relocated its capital from coastal Istanbul to central Ankara on the Anatolian plateau, which is the traditional and agricultural heartland of the Turkish race and the continental center for inland development. Nigeria relocated its capital from coastal Lagos to inland Abuja, which is geographically situated in a central position, for political administration and hinterland development (Nwafor, 2005). Therefore, the current move to Naypyidaw has significantly been influenced by an inland development strategy. However, it should be noted that hinterland development can be connected with military and strategic factors, for example, using the road systems for moving the battalions or controlling agricultural and hydroelectric energy networks in order to supply the army during the time of fighting.

58.2.3 Historical-Cultural Influences Moving the capital to Naypyidaw is driven to some degree by historical and cultural factors. The establishment of the new capital can be perceived as evidence of the ruling government’s paranoia with regard to western influences and the adoption and adaptation of xenophobic nationalism as the ideological instrument binding the state together. According to Deborah Potts, relocating a capital is not unusual and some formerly colonial states have at times decided to replace their European-developed capitals with other cities having either traditional significance or a more favorable location from the point of view of the government (Potts, 1985: 182). For example, Tanzania in 1973 announced it would move its capital from coastal Dar es Salaam to more central Dodoma and Nigeria, led by General Mutala Muhammed, moved its capital from the British colonial capital at Lagos to more nationally and centrally located Abuja (Glassner, 1993: 94). In the same way, Yangon is a “colonial” capital which is peripherally located, on the coast – logical for an outward-looking, export-oriented colonial administration (Pearn, 1939; Abbott, 1998; Than Than New, 1997; Phayre, 1998). It has a “regional” rather than a “national” character because it is not located in the dry zone which is recognized as the ancestral place where the Burmese state originated and evolved. Furthermore, the colonial associations of Yangon are sometimes felt to be galling to the current military government. The capital city is necessarily perceived as a symbol of independent national pride, but in this context, Yangon is a British colonial legacy (Dulyapak, 2009: 97). Moreover, Yangon could be considered a symbol of historical humiliation and perhaps, in the view of the present military junta, the capital of

1026

D. Preecharushh

Myanmar should not be a symbol of foreign intruder. Therefore, in the process of decolonization, a new capital should be established to uplift patriotic spirit and historical pride (Maung Aung Myoe, 2006: 8). On the other hand, transferring a capital has long been perceived as an ancient tradition practiced by Burmese rulers over the centuries, such as the move from Pegu to Ava by King Thalun in 1635, the move from Ava to Amarapura by King Bodawpaya in 1783 and the move from Amarapura to Mandalay by King Mindon in 1857 (Dhida Saraya, 1995; Brill, 1996). In these circumstances, establishing and naming the new capital “Naypyidaw” which etymologically means “Seat of the King” is a significant attempt to turn back to traditional roots, in imitation of Burmese kings who frequently relocated their royal capitals and also reflects the manifestation of Senior General Than Shwe as the omnipotent and powerful ruler in Burmese history (Aung Saw, 2006: 24–25). In another respect, many people in Myanmar still attribute the current relocation of the capital to Than Shwe’s faith in astrologers who predicted that Yangon may be destroyed by great catastrophes such as natural disasters, popular uprisings or maritime invasions and the only way the ruling generals could save the military regime was to move the capital from Yangon (Paddock, 2006). Therefore, the current relocation of the capital is driven to some degree by historical and cultural factors to strengthen conformity to the military’s worldview and to associate the military with historical patriotic icons (Monson, 1985; Singer, 1998). Moreover, it is significantly influenced by a historical-astrological legacy and the power of monarchical and xenophobic nationalism.

58.3 The Geographical Configuration of the New Capital The new capital of Myanmar is located on the southern edge of the dry zone and has special geographical characteristics because it is situated in the upper Sittang valley and is surrounded by the Pegu Yoma range to the west and the Shan plateau to the east. The terrain comprises river basins, sloping highlands and mountainous areas with abundant mineral deposits. The mixture of river plains and mountains covered by green forests is an excellent geographical location which offers every advantage of beauty and peace that a city-builder could desire. More importantly, it is strategically suitable in military terms with mountains as defense fortifications. The fertile area is suitable for agriculture and the valley has hydroelectric energy development potential and mineral deposits which naturally give the city the capacity for self-sufficiency (Dulyapak, 2009: 101–102). In terms of water drainage systems, although the area around the new capital is situated in the upper Sittang valley, it is geographically close to the Irrawaddy valley through networks of tributaries and canals in the central plains. According to geographical surveys conducted by Michael Aung-Thwin, “Water rises rapidly after the rains begin in and outside the dry zone, blocked at the lower extremities of the constricted river channels by a natural ‘bottleneck.’ Since water is well retained in such areas, blue-green algae and photosynthetic bacteria allow nitrogen fixation, contributing to the land’s fertility. When the dry season approaches, the floodwaters slowly drain, and normally water would remain in the main rivers” (Aung-Thwin, 1990: 5–6).

58

Myanmar’s New Capital City of Naypyidaw

1027

Fig. 58.2 Jungles and mountainous terrain of Pyinmana. (Source: DVB)

Geographically, the new capital is situated in the northern part of the Sittang basin (Fig. 58.2). The Ngawin and Sinthe creeks merge in Tatkon Township north of the new capital and become the main Sinthe Creek which flows directly southwards to Pyinmana. After that, the Ngalaik Creek which passes through the city of Naypyidaw and Pyinmana joins with Sinthe Creek and then the Paunglaung Stream (river) running from the Shan plateau flows directly into Sinthe Creek east of the Pyinmana city. The water from these tributaries forms the main Sittang River which flows directly southwards to Toungoo, Tantabin, Wingan and finally to the Gulf of Martaban. The fertility of the upper Sittang valley combined with numerous forests and mineral deposits in mountainous areas support the new capital as the center of agricultural and energy development in central Myanmar. Many dams, weirs and sluices have been constructed in Pyinmana Township while many agricultural research stations and factories for forest products and sugar cane refineries have expanded throughout the city. In this respect, the current government realizes the geographical significance of the new capital as the watershed of the Sittang River and the strategic connection between the river plains in the dry zone and the mountainous regions in the frontier (Dulyapak, 2009: 104–105).

58.4 The Historical Evolution of Pyinmana City During the pre-colonial period, particularly in the Konbaung dynasty (1752–1885 AD ), Pyinmana was popularly called “Ne Kyang” meaning “the excepted land” because Pyinmana was not located on the strategic warfare routes at that time and was also excluded from tax collections because of the geographical obstacles presented by mountains, thick forests and stagnant swamps. At that time it was also called “Nin Kyang” which means “the crossing bridge” because of the bridge there crossing the Ngalaik canal to “Ywa Kauk Yat.” a trading market situated on the

1028

D. Preecharushh

opposite bank (Aoranut Niyomdham, 2006: 2). In 1876, King Mindon officially built Lawkamayazein Pagoda in Pyinmana as the spiritual center of the city and then in 1883 local people, led by bureaucrats from the royal court of Mandalay, built Lawkayanhein Pagoda, meaning “suppress global threats” at a nearby compound (Aoranut Niyomdham, 2006: 2). During the colonial period, the British surveyed the irrigation networks in Pyinmana as part of their agricultural planning for the Sittang valley (Dautremer, 1923). “The British gazetteers for nearby Pyinmana reported many small tanks there as well, though no figures on acreage are provided (Aung-Thwin, 1990: 32).” In this period, the importance of Pyinmana gradually increased as an irrigated and agricultural town. Pyinmana served as the military headquarters of Burma’s resistance movement, led by the independence hero Gen Aung San, during the country’s Japanese occupation in World War II (Aung Lwin Oo, 2005). The Burmese army conducted effective guerrilla warfare by using the geography of Pyinmana, especially the thick forest, to ambush and carry out counterattacks against the enemy, leading to the eventual defeat of the Japanese army in Myanmar. In 1954, the Burmese government established an agricultural university which developed from the school of agriculture built before World War II. The government also built a national agricultural park about 2 mi (3.2 km) west of Pyinmana as an agricultural development station for the dry zone (Aoranut Niyomdham, 2006: 3). During the socialist period, Pyinmana was a sub-district under the administration of Yamethin Township but in the 1970s, it was transformed as a stronghold of Burma’s communist insurgency because of its strategic access to the Chin, Kayin, Kayan and Shan states. After the fall of the communist movements in Myanmar, Pyinmana gradually developed into an autonomous township because of its agricultural significance and increasing population (nearly 100,000 inhabitants, with a Burman majority and Muslim and Chinese minorities). In summary, Pyinmana first emerged as a small community on the southern edge of the dry zone and gradually developed into a city with strategic and agricultural importance. Nevertheless, the urbanization of Pyinmana has been slower than that of other Burmese cities in the dry zone such as Mandalay, Sagaing, Meikthila and Yamethin. The turning point in its evolution came in 2005 when the military government officially established a new capital in Pyinmana District and after that, the roles and functions of Pyinmana have dramatically increased (Maung Chan, 2005; Morris, 2005; Myint Shwe, 2006).

58.5 The Construction of the New Capital The new capital is administered by the Naypyidaw Development Committee, which also covers Kyatpyae, Kyut Pyay, Pyinmana, Lewe, Ela, Ywadaw and Tatkon urban areas. Construction of the new capital is still very much in progress and the burden on the country’s human resources is heavy. Building Naypyidaw, believed to cost hundreds of millions of dollars, began in 2004 in an area of about 400 mi2 (1036 km2 ), and it is still incomplete (The Irrawaddy, 2006: 22). Compared to other capital relocations, “the limited progress in Naypyidaw after more than two years

58

Myanmar’s New Capital City of Naypyidaw

1029

of effort is unsurprising. Brazil took 41 months to relocate its capital inland from Rio de Janeiro to Brasilia in 1960, and even then, despite years of planning, the new city was hardly able to accommodate its new residents – the city’s first shopping mall arrived 11 years later. Similarly, when Pakistan moved its capital from Karachi to Islamabad in 1967, the last civil servants were not relocated until well into the 1980s (The Irrawaddy, 2006: 21).” Ed Schatz (2003), a political scientist from the University of Toronto who specializes in the study of capital relocations, explains that tremendous financial resources must be available for the move to Naypyidaw. The costs are not simply those of construction (which are always considerable and rarely under budget) but the relocating of civil servants, ordinary citizens, foreign embassies and companies makes the moving of a capital all the more expensive (The Irrawaddy, 2006: 22). “Although the lack of transparency over the building of Naypyidaw makes any realistic cost estimate impossible, a look at other recent capital city moves offers some idea of the financial scope of such an undertaking” (The Irrawaddy, 2006: 22). “When Kazakhstan moved its administrative center north-west from Almaty to Astana in 1997, initial estimates put the price tag at $US400 million and the actual cost was much higher. Even if all 80,000 construction workers in Naypyidaw were paid the minimum 1,500 kyat a day (and they are not), the total annual labor cost for the project would come to $32.32 million (The Irrawaddy, 2006: 22).” “Data from the Economist Intelligence Unit shows that by the end of the 2005–2006 fiscal years, the Central Bank’s claim on the government had escalated to more than $1.7 billion, up from $960 million at the end of 2003. Myanmar has nearly doubled its domestic borrowing since the construction of Naypyidaw began (The Irrawaddy, 2006: 22).” Most of the laborers are local Burmese, especially from hinterland cities in the Mandalay Division. However, some foreign construction engineers were employed. For example, Chinese engineers worked to construct the Paunglaung Hydroelectric Dam and other hydropower projects around the new capital, North Korean engineers worked for digging secret tunnels around Naypyidaw Command Center, Russian engineers constructed military garrisons and some weapons factories, and Thai engineers worked on decorating the interiors of some hotels and public buildings. According to the Irrawaddy Magazine, “As early as 1998, Myanmar was looking for funding from overseas to develop the new capital site. It secured a loan of $160 million from the China Exim Bank to fund the Paunglaung hydropower project in Pyinmana. The Yunnan Machinery and Equipment Import and Export Company built the hydro plant, which is thought to provide Naypyidaw’s reliable electricity supply (Chiang Mai News, 2006).” “The construction work generates some profits for the Myanmar private sector which has close political and economic ties to the military government. Big construction companies, for example Asia World Company, Htoo Trading, Eden Group, Max Myanmar and Shwe Thanlwin, have seen some profits, but the government’s reported inability to pay for work has required companies to be offered concessions in place of cash (The Irrawaddy, 2006: 23).” Asia World Company is a Myanmar company controlled by Steven

1030

D. Preecharushh

Law and his father, Lo Hsing Han, who is reputed to be a major international figure in clandestine trading. Max Myanmar, a Myanmar national company, began its business by importing buses from Japan, then the importing of generators and earth-moving equipment and machines. It remains the most prominent company to share high profits and concessions with the military junta, especially in the construction of Royal Kumudra Hotel, located in Naypyidaw’s new guest accommodation zone along an unfinished stretch of two-lane highway, and the busiest of the city’s new hotels, while Air Bagan (Pagan), owned by Htoo Trading chief Tay Za who has close ties to General Than Shwe, became the first private airline to offer services to Pyinmana’s Ela Airport (The Irrawaddy, 2006: 23). Both of these are also famous Myanmar companies. Eden Group is a major Indian real estate development company centered in Kolkata. In terms of the city’s amenities, the military junta plans that when the construction is completed, the new capital will house government ministries, residences of the ministers, staff living quarters, a new assembly hall intended to be the future house of parliament, three airports – one for civil aviation and two for the military – a six lane highway connected to Yangon and two golf courses (Fig. 58.3). The city’s small airfield was enlarged and modernized to take intercity flights; a railway line was diverted and new roads driven into the city area (Chiang Mai News, 2006). The current capital relocation project has had a positive impact on the city’s development. Local companies have benefited from the influx of new business, notwithstanding their allegations of government confiscation of land. New shops that offer mostly construction materials and furniture have sprung up in old Pyinmana city (The Irrawaddy, 2006: 23). Moreover, Pyinmana’s central Myomo market is packed with shoppers, and new shops, mini-markets, hotels and guesthouses open for business every day (Aung Lwin Oo, 2006: 21) (Figs. 58.4 and 58.5).

Fig. 58.3 Constructing civilian apartments in Naypyidaw. (Source: Aung Lwin Oo. The Irrawaddy, May 2006. Vol. 14, No. 5)

58

Myanmar’s New Capital City of Naypyidaw

1031

Fig. 58.4 Myowma market in Naypyidaw. (Source: Austin Andrews)

Fig. 58.5 Myowma market in Naypyidaw. (Source: Austin Andrews)

U Than Tin Aung, an architect with more than 20 years of experience in urban planning, said that development in Pyinmana was spurred by urban design competitions sponsored by the Department of Human Settlement and Housing Development under the Ministry of Construction in late 2003 and early 2004. The approved design included a city hall, convention centre, ministry buildings, shopping malls, general hospital, sports stadium and swimming pool (Win Kyaw Oo, 2006: 21). Even though the construction of the new capital is still incomplete, the urban area has

1032

D. Preecharushh

Fig. 58.6 Residential blocks in Naypyidaw. (Source: AFP/Khin Maung Win)

expanded throughout the southern edge of the dry zone. As well as in Pyinmana Township, construction has taken place in neighboring towns, for example, Ela, Lewe, and Tatkon, which the government has established as satellite communities on the periphery of the new capital (Fig. 58.6). The government plans and expects all new residents to live in apartment complexes, not in squatter type settlements that emerged with the planning of Brasilia. The growth of buildings and infrastructure in the township not only led to an increase in urban settlement and networks, but also the distribution of political and economic interests between the public and private sectors (Figs. 58.7 and 58.8).

58.6 The Urban Planning of the New Capital Physically, the urban landscape comprises the twin cities of Pyinmana (the old city) and Naypyidaw (the newly established capital). Each city has special characteristics in terms of city planning and urban settlement. Pyinmana is basically a compact city with well-ordered planning. The Ngalaik Creek flows through the city from west to east while the highway and railway from Yangon to Mandalay pass through the city from south to north. The railway line separates Pyinmana’s two main urban settlements. The area west of the railway is lightly populated and the terrain consists of slopes and thick forests. This sector is the location of the ancient Lawkayanhnein and Lawkamayazein pagodas and the old “Shan Kang” pond which is the city’s charming landmark. The ruling government built the highway from Yangon to Mandalay and some government offices and other important buildings in this area, for example, the Mining Office, the Department of Forestry,

58

Myanmar’s New Capital City of Naypyidaw

1033

Ngalaik Creek

Railway from Yangon to Mandalay

Highway from Yangon to Mandalay Pyinmana Myomo Market

Shan Kang Pond Railway Station

Fig. 58.7 Future Naypyidaw bus station complexes. (Source: DVB)

Fig. 58.8 City hall in Naypyidaw. (Source: Naypyidaw: The New Capital of Burma, 2009, Back Cover)

the Department of Information and Public Relations and the Union Solidarity and Development Association’s Headquarters (Dulyapak, 2009: 111). The area east of the railway is densely populated and has a planned urban landscape. The special characteristic of this sector is the regular, square layout of the roads, likened to a chessboard. Moreover, it is a strategic location where the main highway from Yangon to Mandalay and the magnificent new road to Naypyidaw intersect. The prominent buildings in this area are the Paunglaung Stadium, the Department of Immigration and Population, the Department of Water Resources Utilization, the Department of Transport Administration and the Agriculture Science School. The government has developed an “Eastern Enlargement” policy in order to increase the network of urban settlements and agricultural areas around Pyinmana. As a result, many self-sufficient communities and plantations

1034

D. Preecharushh

have appeared along the shores of the Paunglaung and Sittang Rivers (Dulyapak, 2009: 111–112). Naypyidaw is an artificial settlement, like Ankara, Putrajaya, Canberra and Brasilia. The SPDC has set up new transportation networks and civilian settlements systematically in order to provide an effective bureaucratic administration, reduce the congestion in Yangon and expand the military government offices for future requirements. The geographical terrain of the city comprises green fields along the Ngalaik canal and steep slopes with small hills surrounded by the Pegu Yoma range to the west. The government has artificially transformed the landscape of Naypyidaw into a beautiful and magnificent capital by grouping bureaucratic buildings, and constructing new roads, roundabouts and shopping complexes and digging many artificial lakes. From my perspective, Naypyidaw can be roughly divided into three main sectors: the northern area (an administrative and irrigated sector), the central area (also an administrative and development area) and the southern area (the private-sector business and diplomatic quarter). The northern area contains many ministries (Commerce, Construction, Cooperatives and Livestock and Fisheries and etc.), and the Chaungmagyi dam, the source of the city’s water supply. The City Golf Course, with a large driving range, has been built near the dam and the beautiful curve of the Ngalaik Creek reflecting its multi-functional design for both water supply and recreation for the military leaders. The central sector is the urban core of Naypyidaw and contains many civilian buildings, including a 1,000-bed hospital, a shopping complex, housing areas, the Naypyidaw Myomo Market, the National Library, National Theatre, National Zoo, various governments ministries (Energy, Foreign Affairs and Information and etc.), and the headquarters of the Police Force and the Naypyidaw Development Committee. In addition, the government has renovated the National Herbal Garden as an agricultural research station in this central area. The southern sector, popularly known as Mingalartheiddhi Ward, comprises a grid like pattern of small blocks which will be rented to businesses. The main buildings in this sector are the Gem Museum, the Yanaungmyin dam, Shwe Zedi Pagoda, the Diplomatic school, and an area reserved for foreign embassies and private developments such as the Aureum Palace Hotel (Htoo) and the Royal Kamudra Hotel (Max). In addition to the unique characteristics of its urban planning, Myanmar’s new capital has special features of geographical setting and architectural style which help to explain the motives behind the relocation of the capital to this site. These can be grouped into three main areas: politico-military security, hinterland development and historical-cultural influences (Figs. 58.9, 58.10, 58.11, and 58.12).

58.6.1 Politico-Military Security The ruling government has developed the southern edge of the dry zone with the new capital as the command and control center. The urban security landscape can be separated into three main sectors. Pyinmana is the civilian sector – the old city situated in the eastern part of the urban network. It is inhabited by the Burmese population,

58

Myanmar’s New Capital City of Naypyidaw

1035

Fig. 58.9 Urban communities and transport networks around the new capital. (Source: Dulyapak Preecharushh)

Fig. 58.10 Urban landscape of central Pyinmana. (Source: Modified from Google Earth)

especially local vendors and farmers. Naypyidaw, the newly established capital, is the official center for civilian administration and general government affairs. Most importantly, the new Naypyidaw Command Center in Kyut Pyay sub-district northeast of Pyinmana is the main base of the military. This area is strategically important because it is the location of the military headquarters, many military bunkers and

1036

D. Preecharushh

Fig. 58.11 Urban landscape of Naypyidaw. (Source: Dulyapak Preecharushh)

Fig. 58.12 Plan for fountain construction in Naypyidaw. (Source: DVB)

secret tunnels. The ruling junta has set up a mini garrison state as the center of military administration. In the context of political strategy, the urban settlements are clearly demarcated so that political and popular uprisings can be contained and controlled. Locating military bases in the outer core and the civilian bureaucratic sector in the inner core is a means of effectively reducing the power and strength of popular uprisings in the capital and at its periphery. At times of political emergency, the military garrisons in Kyut Pyay sub-district would be able to repress and expel demonstrators from neighboring towns and inside the new capital while residents of Pyinmana would not be able to contain or attack civilian officers in Naypyidaw because most strategic buildings are not located inside the core of Pyinmana (Dulyapak, 2009: 120–121). Furthermore, keeping key civil servants and military personnel away from population centers could create a better space for managing state affairs in the event of any contingency (Maung Aung Myoe, 2006: 9). Proofs in the effectiveness of the move in the realm of regime security can be found in the Saffron Revolution in 2007. Although the center of mass movements heavily took place in Yangon, the governmental seat of power had already been moved to Naypyidaw and thus the ruling

58

Myanmar’s New Capital City of Naypyidaw

1037

Fig. 58.13 Military parade ground in Naypyidaw command center. (Source: DVB)

junta was away from the monk uprising center and could still manage state affairs in the time of contingency. In terms of military strategy, the military junta has designed a new landscape of military complexes and strategic communities throughout the dry zone of Myanmar with the new capital as the strategic center (Fig. 58.13). Many garrisons, military bunkers, anti-aircraft missiles and secret tunnels have been constructed in mountainous areas of the Shan plateau near the Naypyidaw Command Center, while many military camps have also been constructed in towns around the capital, particularly Tatkon in the north, Ela in the south and Lewe in the southwest. These towns have been established as mini-satellite communities guarding the entrances to the capital from three directions. Moreover, Myanmar’s government is concurrently developing a military, communications and transport infrastructure in a corridor that runs directly north from Naypyidaw to Pyin Oo Lwin, the town where the army’s Defense Services Academy (DSA) training facility and the Yadanobon Silicon Village, a new cyber-city, are situated (Parker, 2006). The location of the new command center and the many garrisons surrounded by mountainous areas clearly shows that the junta has decided to conduct guerrilla warfare against external enemies, while the improvement in military movement and weapon logistics from Naypyidaw to Pyin Oo Lwin in Mandalay Division can increase the armed forces’ capabilities to expel any powerful enemy from the inland region. Proofs in the effectiveness of the move in the realm of strategic security can be found in Cyclone Nargis in 2008. While the Irrawaddy delta heavily suffered by the disaster, the command and control center was away from the zone of destruction and the ruling junta was capable of continuing to operate state affairs. The military junta has also succeeded in securing the dictatorial regime because the scope of foreign intervention, led by the United States and western powers, is limited to coastal areas and cannot reach the focus of the governmental sphere of influence at Naypyidaw.

58.6.2 Hinterland Development The new capital is established as a center of agriculture and energy development and is quite different from other capitals in Southeast Asia such as Bangkok, Jakarta,

1038

D. Preecharushh

Manila and former Yangon. By contrast, it shares characteristics with some inland capitals in other regions such as Ankara, Brasilia and Abuja. These capitals are designed to function as centers of agricultural development and inland logistics. My analysis indicates that there are three main areas of hinterland development in the eastern part of Pyinmana. The first area is situated between the eastern bank of Sinthe Creek and the reservoir of Yezin dam in the Shan plateau, northeast of Pyinmana town and not far from Naypyidaw Command Center. This sector is considered the physical heartland of Pyinmana’s agricultural development. The current junta has renovated the Forest University, Agricultural University and Agriculture Research Department which were first built in the colonial period. Moreover, the government has also constructed a University of Veterinary Science and the Myanmar Fishery Enterprise to enlarge the scope of agricultural development. The agricultural infrastructure of Pyinmana can also supply the military regime and support the effectiveness of military operations during times of warfare (Dulyapak, 2009: 121–123). The second area is located near the confluence of Ngalaik and Sinthe creeks in the eastern part of Pyinmana. This area is the center of Myanmar’s energy development. Myanmar Electric Power Labor Housing and Myanmar Electric Power Enterprise have been built in the western section to provide electricity throughout the southern part of Mandalay Division. Electricity from the Paunglaung dam in the east is transferred directly to the main substation of Pyinmana which has been established by the government as the center of the national grid. The last area is situated around the confluence of Sinthe Creek and Paunglaung River, southeast of Pyinmana. This sector is the hub of Myanmar’s sugar-cane refineries and agricultural communities. Pyinmana Sugar Mill (Zeyawadi), other sugar refineries and many plantations are situated along the banks of the natural canals. Many villages such as Sibin, Wegyi and Sinthe have been developed by government projects to become self-sufficient communities in the future. Pyinmana comprises many uncultivated irrigated areas and self-sufficient community projects can open up new agricultural frontiers and attract farmers or residents of neighboring cities to settle in a long-dormant region. Furthermore, the government could also utilize many irrigated plantations and recruit farmers to supply the army in the event of fighting with internal or external enemies. In this respect, the new capital will be an agricultural and self-sufficient strategic city in the future (Dulyapak, 2009: 121–123) (Fig. 58.14).

58.6.3 Historical-Cultural Influences Historical significance can also be seen in the pattern of city planning and architecture of Naypyidaw. In this regard, there are two interesting case studies. First, the construction of three enormous statues of former monarchs; Anawrahta, Bayinnaung and Alaungpaya overlooking the military parade ground in Naypyidaw Command Center (Fig. 58.15).

58

Myanmar’s New Capital City of Naypyidaw

1039

Fig. 58.14 Yezin dam and agricultural areas in Northeastern Pyinmana. (Source: Dulyapak Preecharushh)

Fig. 58.15 Senior general Than Shwe and three monarchical monuments: Anawratha (left), Bayinnaung (middle), and Alaungpaya (right). (Source: Khim Maung Win/AFP/Getty)

These represent the spiritual and historical motives behind the relocation of the capital. Even though monuments to heroes are popular in every capital, these statues are spectacular (33 ft or 9.9 m) because of their great size. Interestingly, there are no statues in Naypyidaw of modern heroes such as Gen Aung San and U Thant. On 27 March 2006, Senior General Than Shwe presided at the Armed Forces Day ceremony. He stood in front of the gigantic statues of the three great monarchs and gave a widely reported public speech in which he said: “Our military should be worthy heirs to the traditions of the capable military established by noble kings; Anawratha,

1040

D. Preecharushh

Bayinnaung and Alaungpaya. (Shah Paung, 2006).” Thus, it is conceivable that the military junta erected these great statues to build the nationalism and patriotic spirit of the armed forces by looking back to a glorious past and clinging to historical icons (Campbell, 2000; Neill, 2004). Secondly, acknowledging the significance of the Shwedagon pagoda in Yangon as the spiritual center of Burmese culture, the military leaders have constructed a near-full size replica, called Oakpartathanti, just a foot or so shorter than the original, on a hill outside Naypyidaw, where it will be visible from all main roads leading to the new administrative city (Aung Lwin Oo, 2006). The Shwedagon pagoda is also called “Uppatasanti” which means development and stability. This name was devised by a monk in the early 16th century and is to be recited in time of crisis especially in the face of foreign invasion (Maung Aung Myoe, 2006: 12–14). Despite various and complicated problems, Yangon remains a sacred city and the location of the Shwedagon pagoda. In order to give the newly established capital greater sanctity, it is important to replicate there the spiritual symbol of national culture in the old capital. According to the Burmese worldview, a pagoda is a symbol of Lord Buddha, peace and purity, and plays a very significant role in Burmese culture. The new capital has a good basis to become a spiritual center because the majority of the population is Buddhist and there are approximately sixty temples and monasteries throughout the new capital networks. Therefore, the construction of Naypyidaw reflects the SPDC’s adoption and adaptation of spiritual and cultural heritage to enhance the capital’s image as a part of the Burmese historical and cultural tradition (Dulyapak, 2009: 126–127).

58.7 Naypyidaw Vs. Ankara/Islamabad According to my perspective, the establishment of Naypyidaw, interestingly, shares some characteristics with other regional capitals in various dimensions. One obvious example is the Turkish new capital of Ankara. Centrally located in Anatolia plateau, Ankara is an important commercial and agricultural city. It is the center of the Turkish Government and national military strategy. It is an important crossroad of trade, strategically located at the center of Turkey’s highway and railway networks, and serves as the marketing center for the surrounding agricultural area. Geographically, Ankara is situated upon a steep and rocky hill, on the bank of the Ankara Creek, a tributary of the Sakarya (Sangarius) River (Wikipedia). Although located in one of the driest zones of Turkey and surrounded mostly by steppe vegetation, Ankara can be considered a heartland of continental and agricultural development because of its complicated irrigation networks and its various local flora and fauna. Similarly, Naypyidaw is located at the southern periphery of the dry zone and is an important hinterland and agricultural city. It is situated upon a steep and surrounded by the Pegu Yoma Range and Shan Plateau, on the bank of the Ngalaik Creek, a tributary of the Sittang River. Moreover, it is centrally located and sits strategically on major highway and railway networks from Yangon to Mandalay and other hinterland cities throughout Mandalay Division.

58

Myanmar’s New Capital City of Naypyidaw

1041

Another example is when Pakistan’s government established a forward capital of Islamabad in 1960 due to Karachi’s peripheral location which is vulnerable to maritime invasion from the Arabian Sea and the necessity of building a new capital which is easily accessible from all parts of the country. The city is geographically located on the foot of Magala pass, being a strategic gateway to the Northwest Frontier Province. The city planning is well organized and divided into different sectors and zones such as Administrative zone, Commercial District, Residential Area, Rural Areas and Green Area. Also of interest is that when a master plan for Islamabad was designed, it was planned that Islamabad and Rawalpindi along with the adjoining areas will be integrated to form a large metropolitan network called Islamabad/Rawalpindi Metropolitan Area. The area consists of the developing Islamabad, the old city of Rawalpindi, and the Islamabad National Park (Sajida Iqbal Maria & Muhammad Imran, 2006). In another way, Islamabad is the hub of the governmental activities while Rawalpindi is the centre of all commercial and military activities. The two cities are considered sister cities and are highly dependent for the development of the metropolitan. Similarly, Myanmar’s new capital is well organized and divided into different zones, for example, Zeya Theiddhi Ward, Thabyegone Ward and Pyinnya Theiddhi Ward and the city composes of many parks and green areas, especially, the National Herbal Garden in Central Naypyidaw. The urban landscape comprises the twin cities of Naypyidaw (The center of the governmental activities) and Pyinmana (the old city and the center of agricultural and military activities). Although there are no solid evidences to confirm that the two cities are highly dependent in the context of metropolitan and cosmopolitan expansion, this urban planning, more or less, shares similar characteristics with Islamabad/Rawalpindi Metropolitan network.

58.8 Naypyidaw Command Center Vs. NORAD/Cu Chi Recently, the engineering document obtained by DVB (Democratic Voices of Burma) reveals the emergence of underground complexes, around the Naypyidaw command center, believed to house either military operational command headquarters or an advanced weapons factory. The tunnel site is near to the Pyinmana to Pinlaung road, between Kathedoo North Stream and Kathedoo South stream, and is designed to hold more than 1,000 soldiers for several months. The interior is divided into rooms that cater to varying amounts of people. Earth refilling and tree planting projects outside the tunnels have been carried out to camouflage their entrances. The main driving force for building the underground complexes in Myanmar’s new capital is believed to provide a strong command and control center in support of the military operations against air bomber threats, especially by western powers and neighboring countries (DVB, 2009). From my perspective, this phenomenon is not unusual and can occur under transforming security scenario and strategic pressures. Obvious example is the construction of the underground complex in Cheyenne Mountain, an integral part of

1042

D. Preecharushh

North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD) in Colorado Springs area. NORAD is a joint organization of Canada and the United States that provides aerospace warning, air sovereignty, and defense for the two countries. The original requirement for an operations center in Cheyenne Mountain was to provide command and control system in support of the air defense mission against the Soviet manned bomber threat. Several events during the Cold War and emerging technologies drove this mission to evolve. The launch of Sputnik, in 1957, demonstrated not only the accomplishments of the Soviet space program but also the capability to launch nuclear warheads or ballistic missiles from one continent to another. As a consequence, the old above-ground center, located on Ent Air Force Base in Colorado, was too small to manage the growing air defense system and was highly vulnerable to sabotage or attack. This new underground complex was to be remote from other prime targets and hardened to withstand a thermonuclear blast (Terdiman, 2009). In the same manner, the labyrinth of underground tunnels near Naypyidaw Command Center has continuously been constructed around the remote areas of northeastern Pyinmana in order to protect the Burmese soldiers from airstrikes and ballistic missiles by external enemies. Moreover, it is considered a strategic heartland for conducting guerilla warfare and tunnel warfare against the powerful enemy’s air superiority and airstrikes, similar to the underground complex in Cu Chi District (Near Saigon) of Southern Vietnam. The Viet Cong fighters conducted effective guerrilla warfare by using the mountainous topographies and underground fortifications to ambush and carry out counterattacks against the enemy, leading to the eventual defeat of the American forces in Vietnam War. Therefore, it is conceivable that the current military leaders are still paranoid about foreign invasion and the emergence of underground complexes inside Myanmar’s new capital might

Fig. 58.16 One of secret tunnels in Myanmar. (Source: DVB)

58

Myanmar’s New Capital City of Naypyidaw

1043

be an interesting mixing between the NORAD and Cu Chi underground labyrinth (Fig. 58.16). Moreover, it might reflect a harmonious combination between a strategic legacy during the Cold War period and a changing security scenario in the Post-Cold War circumstances (Taylor, 1987; Selth, 2001; Steinberg, 2001).

References Abbott, G. (1998). The traveller’s history of Burma. Bangkok: Orchid Press. Aoranut Niyomdham. (2006). Back to the past ‘Pyinmana’: The new royal capital of the union of Myanmar. Knowing Myanmar, April 23. Aung Lwin Oo. (2005). Rangoon moves ministries to Pyinmana. Retrieved November 30, 2006, from http://www.burmanet.org/news/2005/11/07/irrawaddy-rangoon-moves-ministriesto-pyinmana-aung-lwin-oo/ Aung Lwin Oo. (2006). A capital error. The Irrawaddy, 14(5), 20–25. Aung Saw. (2006). Behold a new empire. The Irrawaddy, 14(3), 24–25. Aung-Thwin, M. (1990). Irrigation in the heartland of Burma: Foundations of the pre-colonial Burmese state. De Kalb, IL: Northern Illinois University Press. Aung-Thwin, M. (2005). From Rangoon to Pyinmana. http://www.burmanet.org/news/2005/ 11/28/bangkok-post-from- rangoon-to-pyinmana. Accessed 5 December 2006. Brill, M. (1996). Building the capital city. New York: Scholastic Library Publishing. Campbell, S. (2000). Cold war metropolis: The fall and rebirth of Berlin as a world city. Retrieved March 26, 2007, from http://www-personal.umich.edu/∼sdcamp/capitals.Ch2.html Chiang Mai News. (2006). Off-limits: Asia’s Secret Capital. Retrieved June 28, 2007, from http://www.chiangmainews.com/ecmn/2006/jun06/42_43_limits.php Cornish, V. (1923). The great capitals: An historical geography. New York: George H. Doran. Dautremer, J. (1923). Burma under British rule. London: T. Fisher Unwin. Dhida Saraya. (1995). Mandalay the capital city, the center of the universe. Bangkok: Muang Boran Publishing House. Dulyapak Preecharushh. (2009). Naypyidaw the new capital of Burma. Bangkok: White Lotus. DVB-Democratic Voices of Burma. (2009). Special Report: Digging the Tunnels. Retrieved November 24, 2009, from http://english.dvb.no/special.php Fink, C. (2001). Living silence: Burma under military rule. London: Zed Books. Glassner, M. I. (1993). Political geography. Mississauga: John Wiley & Sons Canada Ltd. Gottmann, J. (1983). Capital cities. Ekistics, 50(299), 88–92. Hilberseimer, L. (1995). The nature of cities: Origin, growth, and decline. Chicago: Paul Theobald & Co. Lintner, B. (2000). Burma in revolt: Opium and insurgency since 1948. Chiang Mai: Silkworm Books. Maung Aung Myoe. (2006). The road to Naypyitaw: Making sense of the Myanmar government’s decision to move its capital. Singapore: Asia Research Institute, ARI Working Paper No.79. November. Maung Chan. (2005). Burma capital moves to Pyinmana, WHY? Retrieved December 12, 2005, from http://www.peacehall.com/news/gb/english/2005/11/200511110401.shtml Monson, C. (1985). Rangoon. San Francisco: Harper Collins. Morris, K. (2005). Burma begins move to new capital. Retrieved November 28, 2007, from http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/4412502.stm Myint Shwe. (2006). The move to Pyinmana. Retrieved January 1, 2007, from http://www.bangkokpost.com/Perspective/04Dec2005_pers01.php Nanda Kyaw Thu. (2006). Tyranny of the absurd. Assessing the implications of the Pyinmana move. Retrieved March 18, 2008, from http://www.burmaissues.org/En/Newsletter/BINews2006-0101.html

1044

D. Preecharushh

Neill, W. J. V. (2004). Urban planning and cultural identity. London: Routledge. Nwafor, J. C. (2005). The relocation of Nigeria’s federal capital: A device for greater Territorial integration and national unity. Retrieved January 28, 2007, from http://www.springerlink.com/content/f51hx07h27250687/ Naypyidaw: A dusty work in progress. (2006). The Irrawaddy, 14(10), 22–23. Paddock, R. C. (2006). Abrupt relocation of Burma capital linked to astrology. Retrieved June 5, 2006, from http://www.boston.com/news/world/asia/articles/2006/01/01/abrupt_relocation_ of_burma_capital_linked_to_astrology/ Parker, C. (2006). Inside Myanmar’s secret capital. Retrieved January 11, 2007, from http://www.atimes.com/atimes/Southeast_Asia/HJ28Ae01.html Pearn, B. R. (1939). A history of Rangoon. Rangoon: American Baptist Mission Press. Phayre, Sir A. (1998). History of Burma. Bangkok: Orchid Press. Potts, D. (1985). Capital relocation in Africa: The case of Lilongwe in Malawi. The Geographical Journal, 151, 182–196. Sajida Iqbal Maria and Muhammad Imran. (2006). Planning of Islamabad and Rawalpindi: What Went Wrong? Retrieved December 9, 2009, from http://www.isocarp.net/Data/ case_studies/720.pdf Schatz, E. (2003). What capital cities say about state and nation building. Nationalism and Ethnic Politics, 9(4), 111–140. Scupham, P. (1977). Hinterland. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Seekins, D. M. (2002). The disorder into order: The army state in Burma since 1962. Bangkok: White Lotus. Selth, A. (1996). Transforming the Tatmadaw: The Burmese armed forces since 1988. Canberra: Australian National University: Strategic & Defense Studies Centre. Selth, A. (2001). Burma: A strategic perspective. San Francisco: The Asia Foundation. Shah P. (2006). Junta moves to Pyinmana for Armed Forces Day. Retrieved April 9, 2008, from www.burmanet.org/news/2006/03/27/-64 k Smith, M. (1991). Burma: Insurgency and the politics of ethnicity. London: Zed Books. Silverstein, J. (1997). Burma: Military rule and the politics of stagnation. New York: Cornell University Press. Singer, N. F. (1998). Old Rangoon: City of the Shwedagon. Scotland: Paul Strachan/Kiscadale Publications. Steinberg, D. (2001). The state of Myanmar. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Taylor, R. (1987). The state in Burma. London: Hurst & Company. Terdiman, D. (2009). America’s fortress: Cheyenne mountain, NORAD live on. Retrieved December 8, 2009, from http://news.cnet.com/8301-13772_3-10274268-52.html Than Than New. (1997). Yangon: The emergence of a new special order in Myanmar’s capital city. Melbourne: Deakin University. The Military Government Designated Naypyidaw (2005). Myanmar Times, 15(292), 2–5. Vatikiotis, M. (1998). Political change in Southeast Asia: Trimming the banyan tree. London: Routledge. Woodman, D. (1962). The making of Burma. London: The Cresset Press. Wikipedia Free Encyclopedia, s.v. “Ankara”. Win Kyaw Oo. (2006). The Myanmar Times via BBC: Burmese paper says businessmen prefer Rangoon to new capital. Retrieved June 29, 2007, from http://www.burmanet.org/news/2006/ 03/31/the-myanmar-times-via-bbc-burmese-paper-says-businessmen-prefer-rangoon-to-newcapital/

Chapter 59

Event Engineering: Urban Planning for Olympics and World’s Fairs Mark I. Wilson

59.1 Introduction Ephemeral events, such as the Olympics and world’s fairs, play a significant role in the remaking of urban space. The global focus on one city for a specific event prompts substantial redevelopment and often the transformation of a city’s landscape and infrastructure. An Olympics or world’s fair will reshape hundreds of hectares of urban land and cost billions of dollars, leaving a legacy that history may remember, or perhaps wish to forget. The Olympics and world’s fairs are often seen as ephemeral events, yet the change to the built environment associated with them must be recognized and understood if the legacy is to be useful to the city. Only rarely do cities undertake massive redevelopment of existing urban districts. The Olympics and World’s Fairs offer opportunities for the remaking of large tracts of host cities and regions. Usually, hundreds of hectares are redeveloped for the site of the events, accompanied by large scale infrastructure projects to serve the needs of participants and visitors. While often popular, these events do not always receive the critical evaluation such major projects deserve. The popularity of the event blinds residents to the decisions and opportunity costs associated with hosting a major global event. The Olympics and World’s Fairs are complex economic, political, and planning events that combine decisions about a short-term festival with long-term land use management. While the public focuses on the glamour of a celebration, the event itself can obscure the many significant local and regional planning initiatives that occur using the Olympics and World’s Fairs as a vehicle. Many of the public spaces that grace cities today are remnants of past events, such as stadiums, new public transit systems, and landmarks such as the Champ de Mars and Eiffel Tower in Paris or Seattle’s Space Needle. While these events historically were celebrations of sports, science and technology, more recently they have also been driven by local desires M.I. Wilson (B) School of Planning, Design and Construction, Michigan State University, East Lansing, MI 48824, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_59,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1045

1046

M.I. Wilson

to elevate the global standing of cities and make major investments in infrastructure and urban redevelopment. This chapter will explore the urban planning dimensions of the Olympics and world’s fairs, with emphasis on several elements that tend to be ignored due to preoccupation with the event itself and not the preparation or after effects. First, the organization and preparation of the event usually takes specialized organizations and truncates existing development processes in order the meet the timelines for the event. Second, the massive scale of redevelopment associated with these events requires construction of event spaces and transportation infrastructure. Finally, postevent land use and the incorporation of the sites into the city will be discussed. Data for the paper are drawn from Olympics and world’s fairs held during the past 50 years.

59.2 Competing for Glory International expos and world’s fairs are sanctioned by an independent governing body, the Bureau International des Expositions (BIE) based in Paris, the expo analog to the International Olympic Committee (IOC). The first modern fair on which subsequent expos are modeled is the very popular 1851 Crystal Palace Exposition in London (Greenhalgh, 1988). The continued popularity of world’s fairs in the post World War I boom led to the establishment of the BIE in 1928. The BIE, initially comprised of 31 principally European countries, has expanded to more than 80 members. The BIE awards cities in member countries the right to hold world’s fairs based on a system of bids and votes by the membership and serves as a mechanism to control the supply of world’s fairs. BIE endorsement increases the likelihood of participation by other countries and organizations as BIE member countries agree to only participate in events sanctioned by the BIE (Heller, 1999). As a controlling and limiting body, the BIE maintains standards and the timing of world’s fairs to preserve the value of the event by limiting the supply. The International Olympic Committee was established in 1894 to reestablish the ancient Greek games. The organization is a nonprofit entity based in Lausanne, Switzerland that controls the identity, timing, and management of winter and summer Olympic Games (IOC, 2009). The IOC selects its members, and while many interests and countries are represented, the organization must be seen as a private entity with no expectations of equal representation by its 107 members. The Olympics remained an amateur oriented event and the IOC required only a small staff to manage the bidding process. With a change in the IOC charter in 1972 and the end of required amateur status for athletes, the Olympic Games became far more commercial (Preuss, 2004) and the events far more attractive for host cities. The IOC and BIE narrow down contenders for host to three to five cities and ask for detailed proposals. Part of the process is intense lobbying of voting members to secure their support. For Expo2005, there was intense competition between Calgary, Canada and Aichi. The cost of mounting a bid for a world’s fair is high, with Calgary spending C$5.5 million on its unsuccessful attempt, which included

59

Urban Planning for Olympics and World’s Fairs

1047

the mayor traveling 37 days to visit 15 countries for promotional purposes (Pommer, 1997). Calgary and Aichi both mounted sophisticated campaigns using the media, corporate ties, national political leaders, and entertainment stars. There was an intense contest for the hearts and minds of the voting nations of the BIE. Both Canada and Japan actively recruited new member nations to the BIE in order to improve their chances of success. Japan offered access to a frequently impenetrable but wealthy market, while Calgary led with its location within the NAFTA bloc of Canada, Mexico, and the United States. The total number of votes to be cast increased dramatically from 47 voting countries in 1996 to 82 nations in 1997, with many added to the rolls just before the final vote in June 1997 (Adams, 1997). After the vote, Japan planned trade fairs for many of the countries that supported its bid. Rationales for Olympics and world’s fairs vary, depending on the interests and needs of each host. The summer Olympic Games are sought most often as an announcement of a city’s or country’s achievement or place on the world stage. Cities stage the Olympics as a sign of development, in cases such as Tokyo 1964, Seoul 1988 or Beijing 2008. Often, rising cities use the Games as a way to gain attention, in the case of Barcelona 1992 or Atlanta 1996. The winter Olympic Games are smaller events, with fewer participants and a lower cost and impact. Hosting the winter Olympics does carry status, especially for countries with a winter sports tradition. The winter Olympics are also ways to establish or reinforce the winter sports infrastructure of a host, from well developed areas such as Salt Lake City 2002 or Vancouver 2010, to emerging resort areas of Nagano 1998 or Sochi 2014. The status of the Olympics and popularity of sporting events in most societies makes then the pinnacle of megaevents sought by cities. World’s fairs often need stronger rationales to attract local support. Unlike the Olympics, with their continuing themes of sports and peace, world’s fairs adopt a new theme for each event. Usually the theme links to an anniversary for the host, such as Lisbon’s Expo98 commemorating Vasco de Gama’s voyages or Australia’s bicentennial for Brisbane and Expo88. Another prompt is a celebration of achievement or announcement of arrival, such as development for Expo93 in Taejon or unification for Germany with Expo2000. While there is often a stated theme, there are many reasons individuals, firms, and organizations are drawn together to promote a bid. Among common reasons is use of the event to: (1) promote national/regional status and prestige; (2) capture commercial returns from business and tourism; (3) acquire new development and infrastructure; (4) drive political agendas and shape public attitudes; or (5) qualify for national or regional funds not otherwise available. Each event represents many interests and strategies. Burbank, Andranovich and Heying (2001) see Olympic bids as part of the growth regime of cities as they seek economic gains, while Olympics and fairs fit well with Logan and Molotch’s (1987) sense of the city as a growth machine. Huntoon (2009) notes how Spanish cities use the Olympics, world’s fairs, and museums as ways to build city identity and access national and European Union resources for local development purposes. The urban benefits and expedience of the Olympics are captured by Hiller’s (2000) assessment of the Cape Town bid for 2004, and Bocking’s (2001: 5) analysis of Toronto’s bid

1048

M.I. Wilson

for the 2008 games: “. . .the Olympics were seen as the latest, best hope for new direction, energy and vision – an essential boost of adrenalin. Only such a deadline could sweep away the obstacles to creating a new city on the waterfront.” Cities and regions approach the IOC or BIE for consideration through their country’s organizing bodies. Cities with an interest in hosting an event establish an organizing committee, with a budget drawn from donated and/or public funds and services. While the public sector is often actively involved at this stage, especially city and state governments, the public contribution comes through the services of its staff and commitments for later infrastructure development. For a city contemplating a world’s fair or Olympics, selection by the IOC/BIE is the first step in the process. The bidding process takes considerable time, funding, and experience (Lee, 2006; McGeoch & Korporaal, 1995; Hill, 1992). Each stakeholder participates in order to use and benefit from the event, so that coalitions of interested parties must work together to produce a cohesive bid. For example, Lee (2006) notes the Mayor of London supported the Olympic bid because it would generate significant regeneration of London’s East End and attract investment to the region. Conversely, once an event has been awarded, many interests seek involvement. After being awarded the 1996 Olympics, a “. . .hundred Atlantan special interest groups descended on Billy Payne, asking for and sometimes demanding “a piece of the pie” – monies that were non-existent.” Lucas (1992: 199). Cities often need to establish a record of successful events, often starting with trade shows, then regional sporting or cultural events. The Pan American games, Asian Games or serving as Europe’s Cultural Capital can provide valuable experience in international bidding. World’s fairs are often used as a way station to achieving global events such as an Olympics, Commonwealth games or World Cup. Vancouver cited its Expo86 experience when seeking the 2010 Olympics (JDP Econ, 2003), and Portugal used Expo98 to support its successful bid for the 2004 European Football Championship. The process is often marked by tensions between parties to the bid and changing relationships between stakeholders. The inner workings of the bidding system are often kept private to protect the nature of the bid from competing cities, which also means that the public is unaware of decisions and plans made for their city. Public support is important to the development of the event, as it serves as a vehicle for public and private investment. The excitement and prestige of the event is valued by many residents (Atkinson, Mourato, Szymanski, & Ozdemiroglu, 2008) and builds the brand of the city/region (Berkowitz, Gjermano, Gomez, & Schafer, 2007). Public opinion does shape decisions about megaevents, and most events do generate dissent. At the organizational stage, bids can fail due to a lack of political, public, or government support, or when efforts to raise public interest fail to gain traction. This case is exemplified by attempts in Chicago to hold a world’s fair in 1993, when public discussions of neighborhood displacement and likely operating losses ended Chicago’s bid (Shlay & Giloth, 1987). Lenskyj (2000, 2002) notes how community activism is prompted by bids that focus development on disadvantaged areas of the

59

Urban Planning for Olympics and World’s Fairs

1049

host city, or when constituents are excluded from the decision making process. Of note was the opposition in Toronto to its bids for the Olympics during the 1980s and 1990s. Failure is less likely once an event is awarded, but expos in Vienna and Budapest in the mid 1990s (MTI Hungarian News Agency, 1994), the Philippines in 1992 and Seine St Denis/Paris in 2004 were awarded, but the host cities could not underwrite the costs and cancelled the event. Hosts need to emphasize their ability to hold the event and to have all infrastructure and facilities ready. Bids are awarded 6–8 years in advance of the event because of the massive investments they require. After a franchise has been secured, an expo/Olympic operating authority is formally constituted that organizes and runs the event and also organizes both ephemeral and enduring event-related infrastructure and building improvements. The actors most involved in the bid and subsequent preparations vary from case to case, although the activities undertaken are strikingly similar. Government officials from local, regional, national, and supranational levels may participate, as do local leaders from business and the community. Administrative units of government, or a government-initiated authority, typically have control over various aspects of expo/Olympic planning and operations as an organizational structure is created. The participants in the design and planning of the event itself may vary substantially from the participants in the original political decision to undertake an expo or pursue a similar type of ephemeral event. The event authority takes responsibility for land assembly, site design and development, and liaison and direction with associated government departments. In addition to the site itself, considerable development work also takes place throughout the city and region, requiring the authority to direct and coordinate associated development, such as road improvements, airport expansion etc. The economic, social, and political life of the city and region focus on the event, calling forth new demands for city infrastructure and services and encouraging new private services. An Olympic Games or world’s fair provides a political and economic imperative that drives local government and event authority action for close to a decade. In the drive to host a successful event, other issues are often pushed aside or assimilated into event plans. In this process, the post-event phase and longterm development tend to be overlooked, with one test of a successful event being the ability to effectively utilize the facilities in the future.

59.3 Creating Event Spaces After winning the right to host the event, responsibility is usually shifted to a semi autonomous body to manage development and the event itself. An independent authority provides both focus on the event and distance between existing political and private entities, and less transparency than other entities may also be required. The events are large and the management infrastructure equally significant. For the 2012 Olympics, the London 2012 Organizing Committee is established as a company funded with £2 billion pounds by the private sector with responsibility

1050

M.I. Wilson

for staging the Olympic and Paralympic Games (LOCOG, 2009). The government role is managed by the British Department for Culture, Media & Sport, while legislation has been passed to serve the needs of the games and protect the identity of the event (Lee, 2006). Expo2010 is managed by World Exposition Shanghai China 2010 with site development by Shanghai World Expo Land Holding Co Ltd, which issued bonds to fund construction. Olympics and world’s fairs require vast tracts of urban land, often redeveloped to meet the specialized needs of the event. Events transform hundreds of hectares of land and create new districts to serve the need for sporting venues, or space for pavilions at a world’s fair. Expo2010 is on a site of 5.28 km2 (13.67 mi2 ) (Shanghai Expo2010), while the London Olympics will house venues on a 500 acre (202 ha) site (LOCOG, 2009). The cost of facilities and compressed preparation time often means that host cities seek to reuse existing facilities as well as create new ones. As part of the site development process is the creation of urban spaces to identify the event, such as the Birds Nest Stadium for the Beijing Olympics, or the construction of specialized pavilions or attractions (aquariums, towers, museums) for world’s fairs. The Olympics tend to focus on the development of venues for a range of sporting events, some of which exist, and others constructed for the event. World’s fairs take two forms, with major fairs, held every five years (2005, 2010, 2015) allowing the construction of specialized pavilions. Smaller fairs, held in other years (2008, 2012, 2017) usually construct common spaces that each country then designs for their needs. In both cases, the expectation for world’s fairs is that national pavilions be removed within six months of the end of the fair, while common spaces are reused or demolished by the expo authority. World’s fairs and Olympics are increasingly associated with environmental issues. Starting in the 1970s, world’s fairs started addressing the environment as a theme, so that for recent fairs the theme has moved away from science and technology as a consumer product to its role in environmental management. Similarly, the environmental impact of the Olympic Games started being an important selection criterion with the Sydney games, when issues of the ozone hole over Australia entered into the selection of host for 2000 (McGeoch & Korporaal, 1995). Environmental sustainability is now central to the selection of hosts for Olympics, major sporting events (World Cup, FA Cup) and world’s fairs, as both a theme and a long term impact (Collins, Flynn, Munday, & Roberts, 2007; Shipway, 2007). Conversely, Beyer (2007) notes that the environmental platform for the Beijing Olympics, while acknowledging many problems, also commits to substantial construction and development that may worsen environmental conditions. The costs and impacts of creating event spaces can be seen in narrow or broad terms. The narrow view concerns the event organizing committee and its immediate revenues and needs. The event organizer gains revenue primarily from ticket sales (world’s fairs) and sale of television rights (Olympics), and in return must provide facilities for the event. For world’s fairs this is the development of a district for the fair, and for the Olympics the venues for sporting events. In both cases cities try to use existing facilities, but also construct new facilities as needed. This

59

Urban Planning for Olympics and World’s Fairs

1051

narrow focus is often the subject of financial scrutiny, and usually the organizing body can show that its revenues and expenses roughly balance. Officially the 1988 Winter Olympics in Calgary produced a profit, but later analysis found that over $450 million in government subsidies was excluded from the calculation (Walkom, 1999). Beyond the narrow focus on the sites for each event, there is also substantial investment in infrastructure for the host city and region to handle visitors and the new facilities. Examples include upgrading the Beijing and Athens airports for the Olympics, or a new subway line and Tagus bridge for Lisbon Expo98. These investments in roads, bridges, airports, public transport etc. are rarely included in the calculus of costs by organizers as they fall outside the responsibility of the organizing body, yet are essential for the event to proceed. While the public financial data for events suggests that the events break even, the event spaces themselves (stadia, fairgrounds) may not offer much value into the future, while investments in infrastructure can, over time, become valuable amenities for the city. Mitigating the cost of ancillary investments may be that the event becomes a catalyst for valuable investments that otherwise would not garner public support. The event can be the rationale for undertaking investments that will have public benefit for which public support may be otherwise lacking. Public financial data often show that an event broke even or made a small surplus. Analysts investigating costs and benefits take a broader perspective trying to capture all costs and benefits. Results at this scale often show a poor return on investment. The cost of recent world’s fairs has been a minimum of $1 billion, while the 2004 Athens Olympics was estimated to cost over $10 billion and the 2008 Beijing Olympics over $30 billion. The Athens Olympics were a popular success, but in financial terms drew funds from Greek regions to the wealthier capital, and overspent on infrastructure by 37% (Gold, 2007). If not for EU Cohesion funds, the cost would have been far more burdensome to Greece. In analyzing the 2008 Beijing Olympics, Owen (2005) finds infrastructure investment nine times greater than revenues. Preuss’ (2004) analysis of recent Olympic Games underscores the lack of accurate financial data, and finds from available data significant variation in the interpretation of how costs are classified. Notorious for financial management, the 1976 Montreal Olympics were negotiated and planned in secrecy and left a debt that took thirty years to retire (Latouche, 2007), while the 1984 New Orleans world’s fair declared bankruptcy before the end of its run.

59.4 Long Term Legacies The challenge of ephemeral events is the very nature of the event itself. A short lived event that requires massive investment and urban redevelopment tends to focus on the needs of the event itself and ignore the long term implications. One measure of the successful planning for a megaevent is the ability to meld the needs of the event with the long term legacies left to the host city. Many successful

1052

M.I. Wilson

events (Montreal, 1976 Olympics, 2002 World Cup, Expo93) have left legacies of unused facilities or public debt, while less successful events (Expo2000, Expo2008) have provided valuable infrastructure and facilities. In a number of cases, (Brisbane Expo88, Zaragoza Expo98) organizers were able to undertake a popular event while contributing valuable urban regeneration. Generally, Summer Olympics leave a legacy of stadia and sporting venues, while Winter Olympics offer enhanced winter sports facilities and resort development. The broader range of world’s fairs themes and activities leaves a far more diverse legacy, including parks, landmarks, museums and theaters. Table 59.1 presents a summary of the Olympics and world’s fairs over the past thirty years, with details of the post event land use status. When the party ends, cities confront the legacy of the event. Both Olympics and world’s fairs make significant impacts to the built environment of the host city, and may influence the way the city functions. The most common legacy is enhanced infrastructure. Host cities invest heavily in improved and expanded transportation systems, such as new airports, terminals, or rail stations. Athens and Beijing redeveloped their airports, while Seville (Expo92) gained a high speed rail link to Madrid. Highway (Atlanta, Beijing) and public transportation systems (Lisbon, Sydney, London) are upgraded with new roads and subway lines. Improved infrastructure is one of the selling points used by host cities to gain public support for the event. The facilities for an event experience a range of fates; demolition, conversion, and continued use. World’s fairs usually demand that national pavilions are demolished and sometimes exported back to the country of origin. For this reason pavilions are built as temporary structures and designed for easy removal. Aichi aimed to restore the site to a greenfield state and developed many low impact and small footprint designs to achieve this goal. Fairs also convert buildings for commercial use, and release apartments for staff onto the housing market. Events usually require hundreds, if not thousands, of housing units for expo and pavilion staff. These are usually built as complexes close to the event grounds with the expectation that they can be sold or rented later. For Lisbon, Expo Urbe was a new housing development built for the fair but designed as a mixed use residential district for later development (Wilson & Huntoon, 2001). Much of the display space built for Expo2008 in Zaragoza was easily converted into office space for a business park, while Expo2000 was built on the site of its trade fair grounds with the intention of using facilities for trade and convention purposes. Some facilities remain in use, such as the aquarium and theaters at Expo98. The longer tenure of world’s fairs and the nature of the event mean that there is a wider range of post-event facility use for parks, attractions, and commercial space. The Olympics provide a narrower range of facilities, primarily sporting venues and housing in the athletes’ village. Sporting legacies enhance the ability of the host to develop resident’s abilities and to host later events. Venues become stand alone attractions, such as stadia, or are used by local teams, schools and universities. Beijing plans to use the Bird’s Nest stadium for a Beijing football club, and for the swimming center to take on training and recreation functions, but Athens has not been able to find viable functions for many of its venues (Lapidos, 2008).

59

Urban Planning for Olympics and World’s Fairs

1053

Table 59.1 Land use legacies of Olympic and world’s fair sites Year

City

Event

Legacy

1980 1980 1982

Moscow Lake Placid Knoxville

Summer Olympics Winter Olympics Expo82

1984

Los Angeles

Summer Olympics

1984 1985 1986 1988

Sarajevo Tsukuba Vancouver Brisbane

Winter Olympics Expo85 Expo96 Expo88

1988 1988 1992 1992 1992 1992 1993

Calgary Seoul Seville Genoa Barcelona Albertville Taejon

Winter Olympics Summer Olympics Expo92 Colombo92 Summer Olympics Winter Olympics Expo93

1994

Lillehammer

Winter Olympics

1996 1998

Atlanta Lisbon

Summer Olympics Expo98

1998 2000

Nagano Sydney

Winter Olympics Summer Olympics

2000 2002 2004 2005 2006 2008 2008

Hannover Salt Lake City Athens Aichi Turin Zaragoza Beijing

Expo2000 Winter Olympics Summer Olympics Expo2005 Winter Olympics Expo2008 Summer Olympics

Luzhniki Olympic Complex Sports Center/Museum World’s Fair Park, convention center, Sunsphere Memorial Coliseum, university sporting facilities Stadium/war damage Science city Mixed use Southbank Park, housing, entertainment, mixed use Canada Olympic Park/recreation Jamsil Olympic Stadium R&D Center Mixed use Estadi Olímpic Lluís Companys Sports facilities Amusement park/science museum–demolished 2008 Lillehammer Olympiapark, Sports facilities Centennial Olympic Park Parque das Nações, Expo Urbe; mixed use, entertainment Sports facilities/baseball stadium Sydney Olympic Park, Telstra Stadium; Sports facilities, housing Hannover Messe; Enhanced fair grounds Utah Olympic Park; Sports facilities Stadium/pool unused Greenfield Winter sports, soccer stadium Park and commercial space Soccer stadium, swimming center, mixed use

Source: Author and websites of the International Olympic Committee and the Bureau of International Expositions

Facilities for the Winter Olympics seem to have more success after the event as they tend to be dispersed across many sites, and are used to enhance the attraction and capacity of the resort for winter sports. Often, Olympic sites become training facilities for national teams participating in future events. Unfortunately, there are many examples of significant investments not being well used. For example, Japan and Korea built 15 stadia for the 2002 World Cup, and most now languish with little use after the event. Host cities usually are more successful with the housing built for the event, planning from the start to build apartments for the marketplace, or dormitories for local universities.

1054

M.I. Wilson

For most megaevents, benefits accrue to a limited number of groups and locations with costs spread across host city and country residents, and in Europe, the EU. Residents do benefit from the overall improvement in infrastructure, but major redevelopment can alter the form of an entire city, as Wilson and Huntoon (2001) and Huntoon (2007) found in their analysis of Lisbon after Expo98. French and Disher (1997) similarly found limited urban redevelopment benefits from the Atlanta Olympics. Often absent in the discourse about megaevents is the opportunity cost of spending, as funds tend to flow to the host city, often a successful location already. Lisbon, Athens, and Beijing already represented the strongest economies in their countries when they were awarded rights for a world’s fair or Olympics. Rather than reducing spatial inequality in many countries, spending on Olympics and world’s fairs tends to increase it, by concentrating development on the most successful regional economies in a country.

59.5 Conclusion Examination of the Olympics and world’s fairs reveals a complex set of forces and interests using the event as justification for urban development, with both positive and negative consequences for residents. The excitement, prestige, and glamour of the event bring together many interests that wish to use the event achieve goals of profit, social change, urban development and city branding. The event becomes a catalyst for large scale urban redevelopment that quickly converts hundreds of hectares into an event space serving specific needs for a month (Olympics) or 3–6 months (world’s fairs). In an optimum context, a thorough cost-benefit analysis would allow analysts to determine the economic and social values of these events and offer guidance for urban planning. It is unfortunate that event finances are rarely transparent and make meaningful calculations and comparisons almost impossible. In his discussion of world’s fairs, Alfred Heller (1999) notes that “. . .every world’s fair is a financial failure, though some are more creative in their accounting than others.” I leave the final word to Arthur Erickson, architect of the Canada pavilion at Expo70 in Osaka: Some people argue that international expositions are a waste of effort and money. But then almost everything, when you come down to it, is a waste of effort and money. The question is how to waste it well (Heller, 1999: 27).

References Adams, J. (1997). 53-27 vote for Japan ‘stunning.’ Calgary Herald, 13 June. Atkinson, G., Mourato, S., Szymanski, S., & Ozdemiroglu, E. (2008). Are we willing to pay enough to ‘Back the Bid?’ Valuing the intangible impacts of London’s bid to host the 2012 summer Olympic games. Urban Studies, 45(2), 419–444. Berkowitz, P., Gjermano, G., Gomez, L., & Schafer, G. (2007). Brand China: Using the 2008 Olympic games to enhance China’s Image. Place Branding and Public Diplomacy, 3(2), 164–178. Beyer, S. (2007). The green Olympic movement: Beijing 2008. Chinese Journal of International Law, 5(2), 423–440.

59

Urban Planning for Olympics and World’s Fairs

1055

Bocking, S. (2001). The games cities play. Journal of Canadian Studies, 36(2), 5–8. Collins, A., Flynn, A., Munday, M., & Roberts, A. (2007). Assessing the environmental consequences of major sporting events; The 2003/04 FA cup final. Urban Studies, 44(3), 457–476. French, S., & Disher, M. (1997). Atlanta and the Olympics: A one-year retrospective. Journal of the American Planning Association, 63, 379–392. Gold, M. M. (2007). Athens 2004. In J. R. Gold & M. M. Gold (Eds.), Olympic cities: City agendas, planning, and the world’s games, 1896–2012 (pp. 265–285). London; Routledge. Greenhalgh, P. (1988). Ephemeral vistas: The Expositions Universelles, great exhibitions and World’s Fairs, 1851–1939. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Heller, A. (1999). World’s fairs and the end of progress: An insider’s view. Corte Madera, CA: World’s Fair, Inc. Hill, C. R. (1992). Olympic politics. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Hiller, H. H. (2000). Mega-events, urban boosterism and growth strategies: An analysis of the objectives and legitimations of the Cape Town 2004 Olympic bid. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 24(2):439–458. Huntoon, L. (2007). Innovations in the sustainability of the built environment at Lisbon 1998. Bulletin du Bureau International des Expositions (B.I.E.), 181–199. Huntoon, L. (2009). Event space in the Spanish urban context. Tucson: University of Arizona Working Paper. International Olympic Committee. (2009). Organization. Retrieved February 20, 2009, from www.olympic.org/uk/organisation/ioc/index_uk.asp JDP Econ. (2003). The Vancouver games: A spectacular choice. Pottstown PA: JDP Econ Publications and Books. Lapidos, J. (2008). What’s next for the bird’s nest? Slate 8/26/2008. Retrieved March 10, 2009, from www.slate.com/id/2198671 Latouche, D. (2007). Montreal 1976 In J. R. Gold & M. M. God (Eds.), Olympic cities: city agendas, planning, and the world’s games, 1896–2012 (pp. 197–217). London; Routledge. Lee, M. (2006). The race for the 2012 Olympics. London: Virgin Books. Lenskyj, H. J. (2000). Inside the Olympic industry: Power, politics, and activism. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Lenskyj, H. J. (2002). The best Olympics ever? Social impacts of Sydney 2000. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Logan, J. R., & Molotch, H. L. (1987). Urban fortunes: The political economy of place. Berkeley: University of California Press. London Organizing Committee for the Olympic Games LOCOG. (2009). Retrieved from www. london2012.com/news/archive/bid-phase/major-boost-for-bid-as-olympic-park-plans-agreed. php. Accessed August 5, 2007. Lucas, J. A. (1992). Future of the Olympic games. Champaign: Human Kinetics. McGeoch, R., & Korporaal, L. (1995). The Bid. Sydney: William Heinemann Australia. MTI Hungarian News Agency. (1994). Parliament agrees to cancel 1996 Expo. 9 November. Pommer, D. (1997). Duerr went Extra Mile Calgary Herald, 4 July. Preuss, H. (2004). The economics of staging the Olympics: A comparison of the games 1972–2008. Cheltenham UK: Edward Elgar. Shanghai Expo 2010. (2009). Master plan. Retrieved March 15, 2009, from en.expo2010china. com/a/20081217/000003.htm Shipway, R. (2007). Sustainable legacies for the 2012 Olympic games. The Journal of the Royal Society for the Promotion of Health, 127(3), 119–124. Shlay, Anne B. & Giloth, Robert P. (1987). The social organization of a land-based elite: The case of the failed 1992 Chicago world’s fair. Journal of Urban Affairs, 9:305–324. Walkom, T. (1999). The Olympic myth of Calgary. The Toronto Star, 8 Feb. Wilson, M., & Huntoon, L. (2001) World’s fairs and urban development: Lisbon and Expo98 . International Review of Comparative Public Policy, 12, 373–394.

Chapter 60

Sustainable City Regions: Mega-Projects in Balance with the Earth’s Carrying Capacity Richard S. Levine, Michael T. Hughes, and Casey Ryan Mather

60.1 Introduction Cities are humans’ greatest and most complex constructions. They have been the cradle of civilizations and the crucible of humankind’s development and progress. All other great constructions have been built in one way or another to serve the interests and the culture of cities. Cities as constructions and institutions have well served the interests of society, that is, until recently. The gathering multiple crises of unsustainability have cast doubt on the ability and appropriateness of traditional urban forms and processes to endure much further into the future. The capitalistcorporatist control system that dominates urban and global economies has relegated both environmental and societal issues to be externalities to the operation of the economy of the city-system. The growing wealth, development, population, and the rising of peoples’ expectations increasingly overwhelms the capacity of nature to provide the city’s services and to balance out its offences to the environment. Another operating system and another urban model are needed. The Center for Sustainable Cities for more than 25 years has been researching two aspects of the sustainable city. The first is a study of historic cities in many different cultures that do things well and that have operated not far from sustainability, at least in their balance-seeking relationship with their surrounding and supporting environment. Through these studies the Center has evolved a family of urban forms that do not so much solve the problems that have become endemic in the modern city, but rather because of their unique syntheses they create places where these problems do not appear in the first place. The second aspect developed by the Center is the modern theory of the sustainable city and the attendant methods and processes for its realization. In late 2006 the government of South Korea sponsored an international competition to design a new city that would replace Seoul as the national administrative center of the country. It was actually a series of competitions, the first of which was R.S. Levine (B) College of Design, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_60,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1057

1058

R.S. Levine et al.

for an overall master plan to develop a constellation of towns. This was followed by a competition for the design of a Public Administration Town with sustainability as a major theme. One of the challenges of this competition was that “sustainability” was nowhere defined within the competition brief. Because of this, competition entrants were free to interpret the meaning of this contested term and indeed sustainability appeared in almost all the entries but only on a token level. In contrast, the entry, as presented here, is a serious attempt to demonstrate what the sustainable city of the 21st century will look like, the theory upon which it would be based and just how it will operate. Drawing upon the examples of cultural and environmental “proto-sustainability” found in historic and traditional settlements, the Center for Sustainable Cities’ competition entry offers a bold new vision for building cities of the future based upon lessons from the past. The design is called the Sustainable Public Administration Town-as-a-Hill or S-PATH (Sustainable-PATH); it was submitted as an urban design embedded in a sustainability process (Fig. 60.1). This paper examines the key aspects of this competition proposal: the Sustainable Area Budget (SAB) method, a design-based alternative to sustainability indicator and ecological footprint approaches; the Sustainability Game, a multiple scenariobuilding planning process; the Sustainability EngineTM , an urban modeling software that provides sustainability feedback to architect and stakeholder-proposed scenarios; and the Town-as-a-Hill, a dense, pedestrian-oriented urban model that places large scale components of the modern city such as parking, infrastructure, manufacturing facilities, and large scale commercial and convention spaces inside a built “hill” freeing the hill’s “surface” to be devoted to human-scaled, walkable urban fabric, services and public spaces.

Fig. 60.1 An aerial view of the sustainable public administration town-as-a-hill (S-PATH) for South Korea

60

Mega-Projects in Balance with the Earth’s Carrying Capacity

1059

The Sustainable-PATH design was built upon a robust operational definition of sustainability that has been developed and tested in previous projects in locations around the world. This definition asserts that: Sustainability is a local, informed, participatory, balance-seeking process, operating within its Sustainable Area Budget, exporting no harmful imbalances beyond its territory or into the future, and in so doing opens spaces of opportunity and possibility.1

Through the synthesis of scientific tools with design and participatory methods, this sustainability process seeks to avoid the narrow determinism of specialized scientific disciplines and, in so doing, to demonstrate a rich a complex means of accommodating diverse and conflicting interests in designing, maintaining, and governing the sustainable city.

60.2 Sustainable Area Budget (SAB) In efforts to reduce their load on the environment, towns and cities all over the world have relied on two principal quantitative approaches: the sustainability indicator approach (Bell & Morse, 1999) and the ecological footprint approach (Wackernagel & Rees, 1996). These methods in their various forms have proved to be extremely useful to inform both policy makers and the general public about the extent of the unsustainability problem. They have often been very effective in building momentum to lessen the pressures these problems place on the environment. But because they are analytical methods applied to existing towns and cities, their function is primarily to reduce the severity of existing problems, not to define, much less to create a condition or a process that could definitively be called sustainability. Indicator and footprint methods are only able to reveal our current degree of unsustainability within the various sectors in which their metrics are applied. These methods can be effective in a patchwork manner, that is, at slowing the rate at which a town or city’s metabolism is moving in the wrong direction. However, they cannot be used to develop the network of relationships and feedback loops that will be essential characteristics of any future sustainable urban system. As such they are unsuited to being used to create sustainable towns or cities. Thus the overall political strategy fostered by these methods of promoting resource efficiency and conservation is insufficient to realize the goal of long-term urban-regional sustainability. What is needed, and what our S-PATH proposal provides, is a design method that will lead to the emergence of a genuinely and verifiably sustainable town. The contribution of our Sustainable Area Budget (SAB) method is that it can both define the limits of the problem and at the same time provide the framework for exploring the universe of possibilities within those limits (Levine, Yanarella, Dumreicher, & Broyles, 2000). Both aspects are necessary for the implementation of a viable sustainable town. In principle, the SAB concept is simple. Each person is entitled to be sustained by his/her fair share of the earth’s bounty, viz., land, water and air, on a renewable, regenerative basis. The SAB for a town is in the same proportion of the

1060

R.S. Levine et al.

country’s total land area as the proportion of the town’s population is to the country’s total population.2 For Korea, a very dense country with a population of approximately 48.8 million people and an arable land area of 18,710 km2 (7,178 mi2 ), each resident would have claim to approximately .00038 km2 (00014 mi2 ) or 0.038 ha (0.09 acres) of arable land. In addition, the forest area of Korea is 64,000 km2 (24,518 mi2 ) km and each resident would have a claim to .00131 km2 (0.00014 mi2 ) km or 0.131 ha (0.323 acres) of forest land. This land would not be individually held, but would be aggregated to constitute the SAB of the town-region. Therefore the S-PATH, with a population of 20,000 people, would have an SAB of 7.66 km2 (2.93 mi2 ), or 766 ha (1983 acres) of arable land. Its SAB for both arable and forest land would be 33.8 km2 ((13 mi2 ) or 3,380 ha (8,352 acres). The SAB is a comprehensive way of addressing the problem by assembling scenarios from available sustainability oriented processes. It is a process that generates alternative designs in which unsustainability problems never appear. With a fixed area budget the decision makers and stakeholders of a town-region will have a clear understanding of the available resources within which to formulate their sustainable balances. As long as they do not export any harmful imbalances beyond their SAB, they are free to negotiate the design of their town and its way of life within those resource limitations. For the competition entry the SAB provides the land budget within which Koreans can collectively restructure their places, their processes, and their lifestyles to continue to live indefinitely in a democratic environment with a high quality of life. This is seen as the embodiment of Daly and Cobb’s poetic definition of sustainability as “equity extended into the future” (1989).

60.3 Town-as-a-Hill Korean rural development has often occurred on hillsides so as to keep valuable level land free for agricultural purposes. These hill towns are notable for their rich, flexible, and responsive urban fabric and the ways in which their citizens have historically maintained proto-sustainable, balance-seeking relationships with the surrounding agricultural and natural environment. Inspired by the numerous hill towns in Korea and around the world, S-PATH is a proposal for a Town-as-a-Hill, that is, a town that locates all the facilities whose scale and function exert destructive influences in the modern city within a constructed hill, below the compact pedestrian town that these facilities serve. This new urban model provides for a walkable pedestrian scale, which requires few vehicles, and allows for vital public spaces such as markets, squares, paths and pedestrian streets, unencumbered by either vehicular traffic or large buildings with blank facades. Whereas its historic counterpart was a city built on a hill, the new urban model becomes a city built as a hill, with the inner “hill” supporting all the large scale commercial, institutional and industrial facilities, most service functions, parking, highways, and other infrastructure that create dead zones in conventional towns. This plan makes for a much denser town covering a smaller area than would otherwise be possible. The construction of the hill is made possible by a flexible

60

Mega-Projects in Balance with the Earth’s Carrying Capacity

1061

structural system, the Coupled Pan Space Frame, a post-tensioned concrete structure developed at the Center for Sustainable Cities. This light, economical space frame is capable of spanning large distances (19 × 19 m or 62.3 × 62.3 ft) with moderate depth (1 m or 3.29 ft) and at the same time allows for systems infrastructure to be interwoven within the depth of the structure. The space frame system also easily accommodates future expansion and modification of the city, allowing the surface to evolve and increase in complexity over time as a response to continued stakeholder scenario-building planning/governance processes. A series of gently sloped streets, crisscrossing the hill at less than a 6% slope, ties the different levels together, starting at the lowest level (33 m (108.2 ft) above sea level) and rising to the main pedestrian concourse ten floors above. These sloped streets intersect with each of the ten horizontal paths and streets that encircle the gentle hill. As a consequence it is possible to reach the entrance of every building without encountering a single stair step. Most buildings also have the possibility of having entrances on two or more different levels. Major buildings, including all government buildings, also have direct elevator access from parking levels inside the hill. Stairs are distributed throughout the town directly linking different levels. They occur between building modules at the small scale and also manifest as monumental stairs linking major public spaces often integrated with gentle ramps. The Lower, Inner Hill levels starting from the ground and including Levels 0, 1, 2 and 3, are reserved for interior vehicular roads, parking (both public and secure government parking), services, construction staging and factories, and easy vertical access to all parts of town, and infrastructure. The Bus Rapid Transit Station and other vehicular access points to the inside of the hill are located on Level 0. There is a major circulation street at every third level (Levels 4, 7, and 10), where the sloped streets reach major public squares. From these public spaces large triple height gallerias cut through to the opposite sides of the hill. These provide for easy access to the larger scaled facilities inside as well as to the neighborhoods and facilities on the other side of the hill. These large interior gallerias are day-lit by generous light wells that are enclosed in the winter and are opened in the summer to bring fresh air into the hill. The main level streets are widened on levels 4, 7, and 10 to accommodate service and emergency vehicles, the possibility of public transit routes, and to create spaces for public life including local organic farmers’ markets. Level 4, the Platform Level, is the constructed level plane above which the rest of the city grows (Fig. 60.2) and is built as the first phase of construction. Located on this level are the schools, parks, public spaces (both inside and outside of the hill), and streets with mixed use and commercial corridors. On Level 7, two main public spaces are linked by an interior galleria lined with shops (Fig. 60.2). This interior galleria allows access to the Government Convention Center and International Exchange Facility and Conference Center which are both located inside the hill. Level 10 features the Grand Concourse that is the central axis of the government and commercial district, including the Central Administration Complex. This level offers ample space for rallies, public addresses, parades, and holiday celebrations. To the east on Level 10, a large public space faces Mt. Goehwa and provides a sloped Funicular Elevator to the waterfront park. An extension of one of the sloped streets

1062

R.S. Levine et al.

Fig. 60.2 Land use plans of the three major levels in the S-PATH: Level 4-Platform Level, Level 7, and Level 10-Grand Concourse (shown in Roof/Site Plan)

bridges across the reservoir to the Jangnam Plain where a sustainability oriented agriculture site is located. On the west end of the S-PATH, a large public square terminates at an entrance to the “Tube,” a sloped space that joins the Bus Rapid Transit Station and the river park to the Grand Concourse and the Central Administration Complex at Level 10. The Tube also connects with all levels in between via moving sidewalks and escalators, providing rapid access from the main entrance portal to the town (Fig. 60.3). The profile of the Central Administration Complex at Level 10 creates an iconic image, something strongly specified in the competition requirements for the new site for many of the national ministries. While it appears at first to be a large massing of typical high rise buildings, in actuality this Complex is a network of continuous building fabric, connected through a common base, through bridges, as well as through a joined fabric at the tops of the building that forms a continuous yet porous surface for photovoltaic panels while also allowing for light, air and views. This building complex also vertically ties together all of the levels into the hill and becomes an extension of the entire concept of the Town-as-a-Hill: that the city is conceived of as one very large building that can also be modeled and tracked like buildings are now tracked in BIM (Building Information Modeling) programs.

60

Mega-Projects in Balance with the Earth’s Carrying Capacity

1063

Fig. 60.3 (Top) The Eastern sloped elevator links the lakefront park and the stepped gardens to the Grand Concourse on Level 10. (Bottom) The Western “Tube” is the main hub for the Bus Rapid Transit System and the main pedestrian artery on the West

The Town-as-a-Hill urban form avoids many of the unsustainability problems of the modern city. Given the many means of mobility, private cars in the compact S-PATH are unnecessary. Residents would have access to a town car-sharing system that would adequately serve their needs for deliveries and travel outside of the S-PATH. Although the streets of the outer hill are not intended to accommodate private or commercial vehicles, they are well suited for use by emergency vehicles and service vehicles when they are needed.

1064

R.S. Levine et al.

The S-PATH is notable for the variety of its public spaces that support the town’s public life. From the intimacy of the narrow level streets along which most of the dwellings are located, to the spatial richness of the sloped streets and squares, to the grandeur and dignity of the Grand Concourse, each different spatial experience is appropriate to its location, role, and function. There are many ways of navigating through the town without the necessity of climbing stairs or even walking up gently sloped streets. The many stairs can become informal playgrounds, parks, amphitheaters, creators of viewscapes, monumental settings, or simply short cuts between level paths. Stairs also tie together different spatial conditions, such as occurs at the monumental stairs on the central axis of the south slope. Larger systems are integrated below the Platform at Level 4–rainwater retention, gray water and sewage retention and processing, composting, recycling, and energy production facilities are located here. Public parking, secure parking, elevator and stair access to the administration center and the town above are located in the Lower-Inner hill as well. It is the protected space below level 4 that would serve as the warehousing, building component fabrication and construction staging area for the town above. Roofs and other surfaces that are exposed to sun and rain serve a number of different functions. Some contain photovoltaic arrays to generate solar electricity, while others heat water through active solar collection for space heating and domestic hot water. Sun tubes will dot some roof surfaces for channeling sunlight into lower levels; green roofs will provide urban gardens and help cool the spaces below; other surfaces will collect rainwater for irrigation and for purification into drinking water. Many of these functions have counterparts within the hill such as battery storage and distribution of electric power, solar hot water storage tanks and distribution system, processing of roof crops, irrigation and purification systems, etc. The built form of the S-PATH occupies a remarkably small footprint (33%) of the given site – 93.6 ha (231.3 acres) out of a total site of 282 ha (697 acres) and this has been accomplished in a human scaled town that still meets all requirements of the competition program. Like many traditionally compact Korean hill towns, it also makes more surrounding land available for farming and recreation while facilitating the return of land back to wild nature, which is valued for its ability to balance carbon dioxide emissions. Because such natural landscapes become permanently partnered with the S-PATH through the Sustainable Area Budget concept, this land is protected into the future.

60.4 A Modular Systemic Approach The S-PATH is designed as an assembly of 27 × 27 m (88.6 × 88.6 ft) spatial modules placed within a 30 × 30 m (98.4 × 98.4 ft) planning grid. There are a number of types of modules, and many are interchangeable. The modules are also object-oriented, intelligent agents that contain in their interactive databases a complete inventory of details, materials, costs, systems, utilities, energy use, and water use as well as the consumption patterns associated with their occupancy. A library

60

Mega-Projects in Balance with the Earth’s Carrying Capacity

1065

of function modules and systems represents the different alternative sustainabilityoriented energy sources, waste treatment systems, water systems, material systems, and land use systems. All modules start out with the same basic template: a 27 × 27 m (88.6 × 88.6 ft) building square inside a 30 × 30 m (98.4 × 98.4 ft) block. This planning module underlies the entire site. Superimposed on the planning module is the Coupled Pan Space Frame with its 1.5 × 1.5 m structural module grid. Superimposed on the planning template are also additional grids: clockwise and counterclockwise pinwheeling grids composed of 3 m (9.8 ft) and 9 m (29.5 ft) squares. These pinwheeling grids allow for passive and active solar orientation of the building fabric while also allowing for a diagonal sloped street in both directions up the hill. The most typical configuration of the regular pattern residential modules has a 9 × 9 m (29.5 × 29.5 ft) courtyard in the center of the planning module. This courtyard is surrounded by residential building fabric that is also 9 m in width. The typical residential module is two or three levels high, never exceeding a floor area ratio of 1.5, but because the hill is assembled by stacking the modules, the two levels are staggered as they step up to form the constructed hill. Because the typical pattern of the S-PATH has building modules stepping up the hill, another common detail is the placement of small bridges from the lower roof of a building above the street to the upper roof of the building below the street. These bridges make almost all available roof surfaces accessible for greenhouses and green roof terraces. The modular planning dimensions create a dense, courtyard-centered urban fabric that allows for daylighting and passive solar gain while being differentiated by the major sloping and level paths that organize the urban flows. As the design of the S-PATH would progress in the Design Development phase, many modules would be developed to constitute a module library. Modules from this library would then be chosen for different locations to populate the S-PATH. Each particular module is then studied and detailed as a building, with its parts, components and subassemblies. There are, of course, many special conditions and many unique buildings within the S-PATH. Even these are developed as modules or as groups of modules where a large facility is involved. Many specific modules will only be used once. Some will be used a number of times, each time with variations. Regardless of their differences, all are module-based, to insure that variations will fit within the overall town plan and can be modeled as intelligent agents in the ongoing sustainability balancing of the town-system. The Town-as-a-Hill urban form utilized in the S-PATH competition entry is the culmination of over 20 years of research, student experimentation in design studios, and professional urban design commissions. The layered organizing systems employed that work together to create countless sustainability-oriented synergies are the result of this extensive design and research process.

60.5 The Sustainability Game A natural ecosystem passes through two distinct developmental phases. In the immature phase the ecosystem is dominated by growth and production. In the mature

1066

R.S. Levine et al.

phase, diversity, regeneration, and stability are favored, even as the actual level of productivity may decrease (Redclift, 1987). Historic Korean towns and villages that flourished over long periods of time naturally developed similar balance-seeking processes. Mature resilient economic, ecological, and urban systems were perpetuated in these towns through a continual process of dynamic rebalancing within the limits of available local resources. As a result, the culture grew to understand how accumulation of many small decisions affects the health of the whole town-system. In ancient Korea, many aspects of this understanding became institutionalized in the practice of Poong Soo (Feng Shui), which nurtured a balance between the built environment and its natural surroundings. Both natural ecosystems and traditional urban environments evolve slowly. The historic proto-sustainable town or village developed as a balance-seeking urban ecosystem through a lengthy trial and error process over many generations. The historic town or village would bring its local processes into balance within the limits of its supporting landscape or it would decline and eventually be abandoned. In contrast, the modern city is able, however briefly, to externalize its massive imbalances largely by dumping them into the environment or into the future. Spurred on by rapid industrialization, urbanization, and globalization, modern unsustainable development in Korea and everywhere else is rapidly exceeding its ecological limits. If our urban environments are simply left to evolve in real time through a trial-anderror process driven by external dynamics, the systematic ecological collapse and, as a result, economic collapse will likely occur for the first time on a global scale. To create a sustainable future for Korea and the world, what is needed is a synthetic process that can rapidly simulate the trial-and-error balance-seeking process found in nature and in the natural evolution of historic cities and villages. To do this the S-PATH project proposes using the Sustainability Game, an interactive construct that engages competing needs, interests, and proposals side by side within alternative scenarios which are modeled and displayed digitally. This “Game” can come into play once the Sustainable Area Budget for the town-region has been formulated and defines its sustainability limits. Most current decision making processes, because of competing interests, become highly charged power struggles that focus on single issues without considering the whole system’s viability or sustainability. In contrast, the Sustainability Game, which is developed as an extension of the traditional trial and error architectural design process is a democratic process, through which sustainability-oriented decisions can be pursued. Through the Game, a town’s stakeholders (from government officials to ordinary citizens) can negotiate among themselves how they will choose to live within the limits of their land budget, using their collective creativity and ingenuity. The Sustainability Game begins by encouraging stakeholder-players to place their needs and ideas on the table. These teams of diverse stakeholders, with help from designers, social scientists, natural scientists, and other professionals, assemble a number of different design scenarios that represent these competing interests. Design scenarios are then negotiated within the Sustainable Area Budget of the town. The design and development of the town becomes an empowerment process, engaging citizen stakeholders in the shaping of their common, sustainable future. Any urban

60

Mega-Projects in Balance with the Earth’s Carrying Capacity

1067

design that represents the needs or interests of only one stakeholder or group of stakeholders will appear grossly out of balance in its first trial run. The feedback of this imbalance becomes an important moment for the stakeholder-players. Very quickly the participants can observe that no matter how beneficial a given proposition may appear (or however politically powerful its proponent), it must attach itself to a more extensive network of mutually supportive proposals to form a larger, well balanced, synergistic scenario in order to remain viable as the Game progresses. Unlike a typical urban design process in which one best case proposal is either accepted or rejected, the Sustainability Game sets up a matrix of decision making information embedded in the flexible modular urban design components demonstrated in our initial design for the S-PATH. The Game demonstrates that seemingly beneficial detailed proposals can sometimes cause large imbalances as their effects reverberate through the town-system. It also demonstrates that seemingly counterintuitive early decisions can sometimes lead to a rich, synergistic end result in which most or all of the stakeholders’ initial desires are either met or exceeded as the system approaches equilibrium within the Sustainable Area Budget. This ongoing “Game” becomes the design, maintenance, and governance process for the sustainable city.

60.6 The Sustainability EngineTM Still under development, the Sustainability EngineTM will be a powerful software tool that integrates the capabilities of Building Information Modeling (BIM), GIS, and facilities management software with systems dynamics modeling software. The Engine will serve as the principal design, feedback, and management tool in the Sustainability Game (Levine, Yanarella, Radmard, & Dumreicher, 2003). It will provide feedback for effective sustainable town negotiation by modeling and displaying alternative scenarios digitally. It will be able to reproduce stakeholders’ proposed scenarios as both physical designs and energy and material flow models. In addition to displaying three-dimensional images and walk-throughs of the various developmental proposals, the Sustainability EngineTM will house a system dynamics model to track the state of balance of the town-system and of its many subsystems. With this processing capability, the Engine will provide feedback as to how a given proposal, such as a new factory or a farming operation, might add to the robustness of the economy in general and in detail. On the other hand, any new system component will likely unbalance the energy-material flow dynamics of a previously balanced system. It would then be necessary to make a succession of attempts to rebalance the system using local, regenerative resources. The fully developed Sustainability EngineTM will permit the stakeholders to play the Sustainability Game in real time and to ask “what if” questions of the town system such as: “What if we were to change one of the major energy sources from wind energy to biomass? What if we insert an aluminum recycling factory within the lower hill? How can we rebalance our energy flows within the SAB?” The Engine would provide dynamic

1068

R.S. Levine et al.

feedback to indicate the system’s state of balance until the stakeholders achieve dynamic equilibrium within their SAB. The Engine will compile module libraries of building blocks that contain universally applicable scientific data as well as data obtained from local conditions. The data would include: embodied energy, distance from source, cost, availability within the region, labor requirements, recyclability, land use implications, energy and material flow connections to other regenerative systems as well as the various inputs and outputs involved in the functioning of the module within the town-system. Some of these module-related systems are already widely available such as the DOE 2 building energy analysis software. The modules will function as plug-in, “free body” objects that provide inputs and outputs when attached to a larger sustainable town scenario model. The Engine, however, is not intended as a “black box,” where, if enough data are inserted it will produce perfect feedback. It is rather intended as a design modeling tool that will translate partial mental models of the city into a holistic computer model that will help inform stakeholders as to the systemic and often counterintuitive effects of their future urban scenarios.3 The scenarios and the feedback from the models will improve and increase in complexity with each design iteration and the stakeholders will develop more confidence in both the model as well as the design process of which they are a part. When fully developed, the Engine will be an essential technical means and public policy tool to facilitate a democratic participatory stakeholder process. The critical components of the Sustainability EngineTM include a scenario constructor, a 3-D town builder, and a policy simulator. This operability already exists in individual software components and awaits integration into a single, seamless software program.

60.7 Conclusion The town of the future will be the sustainable town-region. Current methods of approaching sustainability coming from other analytical disciplines propose that sustainability can be achieved only by cutting back on consumption and increasing resource efficiency by unimaginable amounts (by a factor of 4 or even a factor of 10) (Weizsacker, Lovins, & Lovins, 1997). Instead of a self-limiting analytical approach which would be politically impossible to impose in a democratic society, we have proposed a design approach that establishes a budget based upon access to an equitable use of the earth’s land-based resources. Within this Sustainable Area Budget, the citizens of a town-region are free to propose alternative designs representing their diverse interests and to enter into a participatory negotiation process where competing interests and ideas are assembled into parallel scenarios. Through iterations of this process, balanced through the use of the Sustainability EngineTM , the sustainable town-region of the future will emerge. The booming urban megaprojects of Korea, China, India, and the UAE, among other places, are equally threats as well as opportunities to global sustainability. These driving engines of development will either tip the scales of global climate change, pollution, sprawl, and unhealthy living conditions precipitously toward

60

Mega-Projects in Balance with the Earth’s Carrying Capacity

1069

decline, or they will become the testing grounds for large scale urban change that will revolutionize the way people live in cities and the way cities balance their metabolisms with the land that supports them. Specifically, Dongtan Eco-city4 outside of Shanghai and Masdar City5 outside of Abu Dhabi are important recent precedents of megaproject planning for new sustainable cities. The work at Dongtan is impressive in the scope and application of sustainability metrics, yet perhaps because of its design approach, which separates different aspects of its design into different disciplines, Arup, its planner reports that it will be falling short of its own disparate performance goals, which in any case have not been set according to an encompassing sustainability theory. Masdar City a newer project, has been planned by Foster and Associates to be a sustainable, zero-carbon, zero-waste city. It appears at this early stage to be following much of the sustainability indicator/separated discipline approach seen in the planning of Dongtan. These approaches tend to miss the sort of whole-system opportunities that can be found in S-PATH’s scenario-building design process. Also, S-PATH’s sustainability process is a highly democratic process that continually learns from local as well as “expert” knowledge, whereas Dongtan and Masdar both employ a much more “top–down,” technocratic design process. Because of this limitation we feel that S-PATH is an important first step toward providing the hyper-developing world with a process, the design and balancing tools, and an urban model that will lead to the generation of the first verifiably sustainable town-regions of the future.

Notes 1. Definition: Dumreicher, Heidi, Richard S. Levine, and Ernest J. Yanarella. (© Oikodrom The Institute for Urban Sustainability, Vienna, Austria and Center for Sustainable Cities, Lexington, KY), 1998–2001. This definition summarizes part of the Center for Sustainable Cities’ contribution to the European Charter of Cities and Towns Towards Sustainability (1994). This document, more commonly known as the Aalborg Charter, has become the principle vehicle in Europe for the implementation of the Local Agenda 21 provisions of the Rio de Janeiro Earth Summit of 1992 and has subsequently been ratified by over 1000 European cities. 2. As population densities for different countries vary considerably, there will eventually emerge a global consensus that will apply SAB entitlements on a Whole Earth basis. 3. From Sterman, John D. (2002). All models are wrong: reflections on becoming a systems scientist, System Dynamics Review, 18 (4): 525–526.: “The concepts of system dynamics people find most difficult to grasp are these: All decisions are based on models, and all models are wrong. These statements are deeply counterintuitive. Few people actually believe them. Yet accepting them is central to effective systems thinking. . . .we must recognize the inherent tension between being humble about the limitations of our knowledge on the one hand, and being able to argue for our views, respond to criticism, and make decisions on the other. Developing the capacity to see the world through multiple lenses and to respect differences cannot become an excuse for indecision, for a retreat to impotent scholasticism. We have to act. We must make the best decisions we can despite the inevitable limitations of our knowledge and models. . . Mastering this tension is an exceptionally difficult discipline, but one essential for effective systems thinking and learning.” 4. Arup’s Dongtan Planning: http://www.arup.com/eastasia/project.cfm?pageid=7047 5. Foster and Partner’s Masdar Planning: http://www.fosterandpartners.com/Projects/1515/ Default.aspx

1070

R.S. Levine et al.

References Bell, S., & Morse, S. (1999). Sustainability indicators: Measuring the immeasurable? London: Earthscan. Daly, H. E., & Cobb, J. B., Jr. (1989). For the common good: Redirecting the economy toward community, environment, and a sustainable future. Boston: Beacon Press. Levine, R. S., Yanarella, E. J., Dumreicher, H., & Broyles, T. (2000). Beyond sustainability indicators: The sustainable area budget. Making Sustainable Development Visible: Indicators for Regional Development Conference, Graz, Austria. Levine, R. S., Yanarella, E., Radmard, T., & Dumreicher, H. (2003). Sustainable cities: A strategy for a post terrorized world. Terrain.org: A Journal of the built and natural environments. 13 (Summer/Fall). Retrieved from www.terrain.org/articles/13/strategy.htm. Redclift, M. (1987). Sustainable development: Exploring the contradictions. London: Routledge, Kegan & Paul. Sterman, J. D. (2002). All models are wrong: reflections on becoming a systems scientist, System Dynamics Review, 18(4), 525–526. Wackernagel, M., & Rees, W. (1996). Our ecological footprint: Reducing human impact on the earth. Gabriola Island, BC: New Society Publishers. Weizsacker, E. V., Lovins, A. B., & Lovins, L. H. (1997). Factor four: Doubling wealth- halving resource use. London: Earthscan.

Chapter 61

Edge Cities in the Era of Megaprojects Selima Sultana

61.1 Introduction At the start of the 20th century almost all of America’s office space was clustered in the downtowns of cities and towns. But during the era of rapid suburbanization and freeway construction after World War II, giant multifunctional concentrations of employment, with skyscraper buildings many miles from downtown, have arisen. While some were noticed as far back as the 1960s (Kersten & Ross, 1968), it was in the late 1970s and 1980s that they became well known especially as large scale developments. Because they appeared to be an entirely new phenomenon, new names were devised to describe them, such as suburban downtowns (Baerwald 1978; Hartshorn & Muller, 1986), technoburbs (Fishman 1987), or urban villages (Leinberger, 1988), but the most well known term was edge city (Garreau, 1991). Edge cities are sites for large scale landscapes for consumption and the excess investment of capital, iconic architecture and design, and distinctive lifestyles. These display a potential for new freedom from existing ways of building and imagining a city (Koolhass, 1995). It is ironic that there is confusion in the contemporary urban geography literature because these suburban megaprojects re-create so many of the traditional meanings of a city that they seem to no longer need the city. They may even compete with it. Urban environments increasingly appear to be so fragmented, disintegrated or fractal that it is difficult to speak about the modern city “which sometimes is ceasing to be modern and [even] to be a city?” (Garcia Canclini, 2001: 3; Koolhass, 1995). Therefore, their existence in the contemporary urban system extends far beyond their architectural design and meaning. The aim of this chapter is to analyze the origin and evolution of edge cities in different local contexts and their associated impacts on the local urban landscapes in terms of physical, economic, and social conditions.

S. Sultana (B) Department of Geography, University of North Carolina, Greensboro, NC 27402, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_61,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1071

1072

S. Sultana

61.2 The Origin of Edge Cities in the U.S. While it is still common to depict suburbs as mere bedroom communities, it was obvious by the 1960s that they were becoming the center of retail activity in many cities, and it was not long after that other activities followed. From the 1960s to the early 1980s, U.S. businesses kept the demand for new office space at a high level in many cities because of corporate acquisition, mergers, and relocations of corporate headquarters (Feagani & Parker, 1990). During that period hundreds of major office towers and other corporate buildings were built, amounting to about 36% of all office space ever built in the U.S. As a result, office building construction became one of the most successful and profitable real estate businesses ever. The suburban office space development boom occurred largely in the 1980s, in response to the massive traffic jams around old downtown and availability of cheaper lands in suburban locations. In fact, 58% of the suburban office space that exists today was built during this office building boom, and the overall trend toward suburbanization continued at a rate that job growth in suburban areas outpaced population growth (Lang, 2003). Suburban office space provided something that downtown office buildings were not able to provide: abundant free parking, a perfect destination for car owners. The wave of decentralized office development that followed in suburban locations made these employment concentrations seem like a downtown. However, not all residential suburban areas evolved into an edge city. To form an edge city a suburban area had to be in close proximity to an older downtown or a matured edge city and have proximity to an educated and skilled labor force, as well as buying power so that firms could locate in close proximity to their workers and customers. The success of the edge cities was and is still determined by the types of employment activities and their affect on housing attractiveness in adjacent areas.

61.3 What Is an Edge City? Garreau suggested five criteria for defining an edge city, which requires at least 464,515 m2 (5 million ft2 ) of leasable office space accompanied by 55,742 m2 (600,000 ft2 ) of leasable retail space; it should have more jobs than bedrooms; was nothing like a city thirty years ago; and the place is known as single end destination (it has it all: entertainment, recreation, shopping etc). These criteria pose a number of difficulties in spatially defining them or studying them systematically. He did not discuss the number of jobs, any requirement for job or building density, or the contiguity of these places. Neither did he discuss how these places fit into census geography or if they were in unincorporated areas. Much of his approach was based on identifying megascale developments at suburban locations, and particularly skyscrapers in suburban Washington, DC. A large body of literature has developed about how to define and identify these places (e.g., Anderson & Bogart, 2001; Bogart & Ferry, 1999; Forstall & Greene, 1997; Fujii & Hartshorn, 1995; Giuliano & Small, 1991; McDonald & Prather,

61

Edge Cities in the Era of Megaprojects

1073

1994; Pivo, 1993; Sultana, 2000). Those works typically use the number and density of workers within contiguous census zones such as tracts or smaller units. These approaches look for employment concentrations rather than clusters of tall buildings. In fact most of Garreau’s edge cities would not qualify by these definitions. He himself was not consistent in defining some of his own edge cities with his office floor space criteria. For example, none of the edge cities in New Jersey that Garreau mentioned in his book qualify by his definition (Lang, 2003). Some of them are so close to downtown that they are essentially extensions of downtowns, such as Midtown and Buckhead in Atlanta. Also, Garreau believed that most of the edge cities clustered around retail centers, but empirical study does not support this. Rather the closest regional malls were found miles away (Lang, 2003). In my view edge cities can be defined as multifunctional employment centers that can be proactive economic boosters for the urban cores. Edge cities may have their own government, but would not exist in anything like their present form if not for the suburban expansion of their larger neighbor. These edge cities are activity nodes within a metro area’s economic network, not miniature cities themselves.

61.4 Building Edge Cities While edge cities are dependent on public infrastructure such as highway networks, with few exceptions (such as the I-80/284 center in New Jersey), the majority of edge cities in the U.S. were privately built (Bontje & Burdack, 2005). Large scale developers usually strategically predict a location for business clusters by taking into consideration the economic activities of firms, the behavior of households, and competition between land prices in downtowns (Henderson & Mitra, 1996). They also may manipulate the bureaucratic process, particularly the zoning board. Many of the nation’s largest edge cities were created by Gerald Hines, the legendary developer of several Galleria Malls in various cities (Lang, 2003). These include Gallerias in Dallas and in Uptown and Sugar Land in Houston, Texas, as well other edge cities without a Galleria, such as Westlake Park in Houston and Denver Technology Center in Denver. To prevent downscale retail centers around his developments, Hines influenced the zoning board to have surrounding land zoned for office space, hotels, and multifamily housing, with the goal of promoting the formation of large scale, mixed-use edge cities. Generally, developers purchase farmland or undeveloped land from large landowners/speculators or from local farmers. For example, the Perimeter Center Area business cluster in Atlanta was a planned development by Michael Gearon. He purchased farmland in 1969 when he had learned about the opening of the I-285 beltway. Gearon studied the pattern of interchanges with major radial arterials in order to determine the best location for his office complex. He chose a site adjacent to the Ashford-Dunwoody Road exit because it represented an ideal location due to the lack development, favorable street network, and desirable green space with the relatively affluent Dunwoody community to the north and east. Gearon realized that

1074

S. Sultana

new high-rise office space and large-scale shopping mall (Perimeter mall) would add prestige to the area for professional households (Hartshorne & Muller, 1989). The scale of these projects can be vast. CityCenter in Las Vegas, at $8.6 billion is the most expensive privately funded development in U.S. history. It will contain three hotel/condominium skyscrapers, two additional condominium towers, and a casino and shopping center (Freiss, 2009). However, this is just one of a large collection of multibillion dollar resort hotels along the Las Vegas Strip. Garreau listed the Strip as an edge city, though there is essentially no office employment, but it is outside the city limits of Las Vegas and was mostly empty land 30 years ago (documented by Venturi, Brown, & Izenour, 1972). On the other hand, some edge cities are really an outgrowth of community effort. A committee of government, university, and business leaders founded the Research Triangle Park in Durham, North Carolina in January 1959 as a model for research, innovation, and economic development. By establishing a place where educators, researchers, and businesses come together as collaborative partners, the founders of the Park hoped to change the economic composition of the region and state, thereby increasing the opportunities for the citizens of North Carolina. John Caldwell, the Chancellor of North Carolina State University, led the project. The office space has increased from only 18,581 m2 (200,000 ft2 ) in 1960 to more than 2.09 million m2 (22.5 million ft2 ) in 2007. In another example, government activity forms the nucleus of several edge cities in Virginia at Quantico (FBI and Marine Corps), Crystal City (Pentagon) and Langley (CIA headquarters). Tampa’s Westshore also serves McDill Air Force Base and Clear Lake is located next to the NASA Manned Spaceflight Center near Houston. The financing of megaprojects can be a complex process. Several powerful groups are involved: developers, financial institutions (domestic and foreign), private investors, top corporate executives, national chain stores, and smaller business tenants, and all must interact with various government officials (Feagani & Parker, 1990). However, developers are the shapers of these processes as they secure the construction and long-term financing, bringing banks and other financial institutions into the project. Hence since the late 1970s a new trend can be seen in the close organizational ties between lending organizations and developers. For example, Prudential and New York’s Guardian Life Insurance Company have been joint-venture partners in major New York office projects. Typically, the developers have leverage on prominent bankers for buying and developing property with other people’s cash. In this case private developers may retain majority ownership for decades, and their initial plans will contractually or institutionally define city development for decades. Developments can also involve public and private participation, with various arrangements involving the financing and provision of public infrastructure and services. Sometimes the developer is even a government entity that buys up, develops, and sells off space for profit. Regardless, there is effectively one large agent in each of these scenarios who develops these agglomerations on a massive scale (Henderson & Mitra, 1996). In today’s global market, money can also come from foreign sources such as from Europe, the Middle East, and Japan. For example, in

61

Edge Cities in the Era of Megaprojects

1075

Table 61.1 Selected megadevelopers by region in US South

Northeast

West

Midwest

CBL and Associates, Based in Chattanooga Turnberry and Associates, Florida Premier Properties, Indianapolis, Virginia Beach MG Herring, Dallas Kraft Group, Boston Area Simon Properties, KenAM, Meadowlands Donald Trump, NY and NJ Sturbridge Associates, Maryland Centra, Nevada Marcerich, Phoenix Las Vegas/Beverly Hills Steve Wynn, Las Vegas Harsch Investment Properties, Oakland Donald Trump, Chicago Tower Gershman, Brown and Associates, Indianapolis

Sunbelt cities one-fifth or more office construction money often comes from foreign sources such as Nippon Life Insurance and Kumagi Gumi of Japan (Feagani & Parker, 1990). Table 61.1 shows some of the megadevelopers by region in the U.S.

61.5 Characteristics of Edge Cities Edge cities often emerge along suburban freeways or near airports, and generally in the wealthier parts of metropolitan areas (Lang, 2003) (Fig. 61.1). The most famous two edge cities in Atlanta, Cumberland-Galleria and the Perimeter area, are located along the I-285 beltway and have high median housing values ($300,000 or more). Instead of a traditional street grid common in downtowns and older neighborhoods, their street networks are characteristic of postwar suburban construction, and are typically based on a hierarchical system of winding parkways that feed into arterial roads or freeway ramps. They often have a considerable mileage of private roads serving individual properties. In general, these are areas of lower building densities than downtowns, with large buildings widely separated from others by grass and parking lots with an excessive use of land area. For example, in regards to the Cumberland-Galleria and Perimeter areas in Atlanta, each has have a larger land area than downtown, but they also have a lesser density and fewer workers. Cumberland-Galleria includes 7,205 ha (17,805 acres) with more than four workers per .405 ha (per acre), compared to 3,493 ha (8,631 acres) for Perimeter, and 3,387 ha (8,370 acres) in downtown Atlanta (CTPP, 2000). However, the total number of workers in downtown Atlanta is double that of Cumberland-Galleria and almost three times more than the Perimeter area. Roadways in these areas often lack sidewalks, and combined with the low densities often make it obligatory for workers to drive between adjacent buildings (Downs, 1992). These areas typically have limited public transportation service

1076

S. Sultana

Fig. 61.1 Location of selected edge cities in North East US. (Cartography by Mathew Catanzarite)

(if any), with workers entirely dependent on driving their own cars. As a result, a sense of place or community seems to be lacking in many edge cities. The economic activity within edge cities shows some variation, as some are based on back office activities such as high-tech, financial and producer services. Others may be manufacturing production, and still others are mixed with corporate headquarters (such as Tyson corner, Virginia; Cumberland-Galleria and Perimeter area in Atlanta) (Bingham et al., 1997; Lang, 2003). Unlike downtown, museums, historical sites, landmarks, and prominent civic structures are lacking in most edge cities.

61.6 Metropolitan Impacts of Edge Cities As far back as the 1960s Webber (1963) and Vance (1964) explored the idea of separate urban realms, based on their experience with the San Francisco-Oakland metropolitan area. They suggested that people living in one realm may live, work, shop, and recreate entirely within one realm and seldom stray into another. The visibility of edge cities led to the polycentric model of urban structure, with the traditional downtown now just one of many employment centers, though with land uses still depending on distance from these centers. These centers were assumed to

61

Edge Cities in the Era of Megaprojects

1077

be the focus of commuting trips, leading to the expectation that polycentric cities would shorten the journey to work because more workers would be able to locate closer to their workplace in a city with multiple centers. However, the evidence for this explosion is mixed. Despite the mass relocation of jobs to the suburbs from 1977 to 1988, the mean journey to work for suburban Americans only increased from 17.06–17.86 km (10.6–11.1 mi) during this period (Klinger & Kusmyak, 1989). Since then commuting times have increased slightly, though with a slight decrease since 2000 (Crane & Chatman, 2004; CNN, 2006). The fact that there has been only a modest increase has been used as evidence that households are relocating to maintain desirable commuting times despite increases in traffic congestion (Levinson, 1998). Though some employees live nearby and have shorter commute times (Cervero & Wu, 1997; Sultana, 2000, 2002), overall commuting patterns at edge cities are more complicated than for traditional downtowns. Commuting patterns are no longer in one direction (suburb to downtown), as crisscrossing suburban-to-suburban commuting has become so prevalent that most employees experience a longer commute than the polycentric model would predict. The evidence for non-overlapping shopping realms was found lacking for Atlanta (Fujii & Hartshorn, 1995), and attempts by the city of Phoenix to designate neighborhood centers for shopping or recreation, with the expectation that these would become a part of resident’s behavior, were also unsuccessful (Pickus & Gober, 1988). However, Portland, Oregon, has put this idea into the future land use and transportation plan, with the goal of creating higher density regional employment and residential centers connected by transit (Metro, 1997). Edge cities provide a specialized labor market with a fairly specialized range of employment. The growth of edge cities, therefore, can exacerbate a region’s job-housing imbalance by providing a great concentration of employment with the potential for little housing nearby. They can also increase the potential for spatial mismatch by widening the distance between economic opportunities and concentrations of low income and African American families. As noted earlier, most of edge cities are located in the wealthy and largely white residential areas of metropolitan areas. All the edge cities in Atlanta (except for Hartsfield airport), are located in the northern part of the city, which is the wealthiest part of the metro area, whereas less wealthy African American families are concentrated in the central city and middle income African Americans in southern suburban areas (Sultana, 2005). The Cumberland-Galleria and Perimeter edge cities are the wealthiest areas in Atlanta with extremely median housing values ($300,000 or more) in surrounding neighborhoods, which force away moderate and low-income families (Sultana, 2002). Likewise, while edge cities may have helped reduce the gendered division of space within cities (England, 1991), they have not been accompanied by a change in the gender division of labor, and the relative isolation within which workers work within buildings does little to overcome the social isolation that hinders mobility (England, 1993; Hanson & Pratt, 1988). Edge cities do not just reflect urban disparities; they can perpetuate or increase them. A study in Cleveland, Ohio, found that employment growth in edge cities may have profound impact on the regional

1078

S. Sultana

housing development and population growth further outward (Ding & Bingham, 2000), creating their own suburban bedroom community at the expense of more complicated urban geographies over a larger spatial scale.

61.7 Edge Cities in Charlotte, North Carolina Charlotte, North Carolina is the nation’s fifth largest urban region and is a rapidly growing metropolitan area with 1.7 million people in 2009. Downtown Charlotte (known as Uptown) is an impressive collection of high-rise office buildings, including the 265 m (871 ft) tall Bank of America headquarters, symbolizing the city’s role as the second largest banking center in the U.S. Uptown is a classic example of an older downtown, characterized by small building lots on a dense grid dating back to 1770. It has seen considerable growth in employment, retail, and residential population in recent decades. However, the city also provides excellent examples of the growth of edge cities, though not all meet Garreau’s criteria. Currently, Charlotte (Fig. 61.2) has one edge city, Southpark, and two emerging edge cities: College Place and Ballantyne Village. Southpark has been absorbed by Charlotte through 40 years of annexation and is currently the second largest business district in the state with 392,980 m2 (4.23 million ft2 ) of office and retail space (Fig. 61.3). It was created by the son-in-law of Governor Cameron Morrison on the family farm. James Harris and several of his friends (who were part of the Belks Department Store and Ivey Department Store dynasties) constructed South Park Mall in 1970 on 38.6 ha (95.5 acres) of land, home to some of the country’s finest retailers, including Neiman Marcus. Charlotte’s “old money” migrated toward Southpark as the growth of the city outstripped the available high-end residential property near downtown. Today the Southpark area boasts a median household income nearing $200,000 with only a few census blocks below $75,000. The vast majority of employment is in medical arts and other financial and professional sectors. The area contains seven of the highest median family income census blocks in Mecklenburg County. In these blocks the white only population ranges from 95 to 100%. The average ages of homes ranges from 1958 to 1988 (measured by 2000 Census data) indicating an older but economically viable residential base. As can be seen, Southpark has a collection of large buildings, but at much lower densities than uptown. The tallest buildings have only 14 floors. There is no street grid and buildings occupy only a small portion of their lots. Private access roads provide automobile access to most buildings. Today the northern tip of the Southpark area is generally considered to be bounded on the north by a hospital and medical district that contain two levelone trauma hospitals and the corporate headquarters of Carolinas Medical and Presbyterian Hospitals. Together these entities employ nearly 40,000 workers. The core of Southpark is Southpark Mall and the southern boundary is the Quail Hollow and Carmel County Clubs, both private golf clubs that host a number of PGA and LPGA events per year. Most of Charlotte’s medical community and a great deal of its financial community live in Southpark.

61

Edge Cities in the Era of Megaprojects

1079

Fig. 61.2 Edge cities with median household income in Charlotte MSA, North Carolina

College Place is located 12.8 km (8 mi) north of Uptown (see Fig. 61.2). It is greatly influenced by the city of Concord and the population of Cabarrus County, although planners saw College Place as a way to relieve the development pressure on south Charlotte. Hugh McColl, the banking giant who made Charlotte the second largest banking center in the U.S., was important in its development, though he preferred to keep banks and skyscrapers in Uptown. The area did not really begin to take off until traffic problems in south Charlotte became acute in the early 1980s and when IBM located in College Place. Charlotte’s University Research Park is the private/corporate center of this edge city and was begun by city leaders and Duke Power in the early 1960s as a location for the University of North Carolina at Charlotte and other tenants including Duke Power, IBM, Southern Bell, AT&T, American Express, and Dow Jones. A number of 12 floor office buildings exist in this area totaling 343,741 m2 (3.7 million ft2 ) of office and retail space, but the closest regional mall, Concord Mills, is located several miles away.

1080

S. Sultana

Fig. 61.3 Southpark, Charlotte, North Carolina area looking to west

College Park boasts a very high Asian population and is perhaps the most ethnically diverse of the three edge cities in Charlotte. The area is also most diverse in employment with medical arts, education, and professional services having nearly equal shares of the employment mix. Only two of Mecklenburg’s top median family income census blocks are located in this area, with an average housing age of 15 years in 2000. These census blocks are also only 90% and 87% white, indicating a slightly greater degree of ethnic distribution of wealth. This area is the most spread out in spatial terms with multiple cores and very low densities (Fig. 61.4). A branch of Carolina’s Medical Center forms the northwest edge while the Charlotte Motor Speedway and an accompanying mall are to the northeast. Both of these have an important economic connection, as the northwest edge is connected to Duke Power’s Maguire Nuclear Station and the northeast being the connection to Phillip Morris. The University of North Carolina at Charlotte forms the southeast corner while the southwest corner is a collection of office parks developed over the last 20 years. College Place has not yet developed a fully independent identity as jobs outstrip residences, and many residents are transient as they are among the 30,000 students associated with UNC-Charlotte. A distinct identity is further complicated by the fact that College Place crosses into Cabarrus County, touches the city of Concord to the northeast, and nears the three rapidly growing communities of Davidson, Cornelius, and Huntersville near the Iredell County line to the northwest. A newer emerging edge city is called Ballantyne Village (see Fig. 61.2), located on Governor Morrison’s old hunting preserve about 8 mi (12.8 km) south of Uptown. Ballantyne Village’s core is a 378 ha (535 acres) corporate park and 809 ha

61

Edge Cities in the Era of Megaprojects

1081

Fig. 61.4 Eastern section of college place, Charlotte, North Carolina

(2,000 acres) resort, residential development and golf course totaling 268,490 m2 (2.89 million ft2 ) of office and retail space (Fig. 61.5). Immediately adjacent to this is the Carolina Place Mall and a number of other retail developments. The residents in the Ballantyne area are significantly more diverse than in the Southpark area, though occupations in this area are nearly the same as in Southpark. Much of Ballantyne is so new that the 2000 Census captures less than 40% of the population currently living there. It has one of Mecklenburg County’s wealthiest neighborhoods, with a median family income of $147,000 and an average home age of less than 5 years in 2000. There is no reason to assume there will not be additional employment clusters in Charlotte. It is possible the next one will be the UNC-Charlotte Research Park in Kannapolis. This is about 7 mi (11.2 km) north of College Place and outside the Charlotte/Mecklenburg County jurisdiction. Given that these edge cities are located in predominantly wealthy white areas it should be no surprise that the accessibility to jobs of African American workers is half that of white workers in Charlotte (Sultana, 2008). Hispanic workers have the lowest level of accessibility to work: almost ten times less than African American workers and 20 times less than white workers. This observation provides another example of how the rise of edge cities can exacerbate a region’s job-housing imbalance and spatial mismatch by widening the distance between economic opportunities and the concentration of low income and African American families.

1082

S. Sultana

Fig. 61.5 Typical building in Ballantyne village office park in Charlotte, North Carolina

61.8 Cross Cultural Perspectives on Edge Cities Western Europe has also experienced new suburban economic poles, though these differ from the American experience (Bontje & Burdack, 2005). Many of these developments result from a public-private partnership, they have far longer and richer histories of urban growth compared to the U.S. European edge cities also try to meet high sustainability standards (Bontje, 2004; Phelps, Nick, Dimitris, Andrew, 2006). As a result European edge cities are not a direct copy of American models. While the transition to a market economy created a newly emerging wealthy class in Russia, foreign developers are building speculative suburban communities with western style apartment complexes and even gated communities (Brunn, HaysMitchell, & Zeigler, 2008). Though Moscow has quickly developed financial and business centers to attract foreign investment, but they are still centrally located such as Moscow City in Moscow (Bontje & Burdack, 2005). There are number of small satellite cities in the periphery, however. Given the pace of increasing commercial and private vehicle use in Moscow, congestion in the central business areas is no longer just the phenomenon of morning or afternoon rush hours, and more accessible peripheral locations appear increasingly desirable. The North American edge city was fundamentally impossible without the automobile, and the lack of an automobile-oriented transport system has worked against the development of such edge cities in the developing world. However, many satellite towns or satellite cities have appeared at the fringe of large Asian cities such as Mumbai, Delhi, Kolkata, Dhaka, and Beijing. Conceptually, satellite cities could

61

Edge Cities in the Era of Megaprojects

1083

be (and once were) self-sufficient communities outside of their larger metropolitan areas, but they have become interconnected due to the suburban expansion of the larger metropolis. Recently, India welcomed its first edge city megaproject, Odyssey Science City in Anantapur; it is one of the poorest and most undeveloped parts of Andhra Pradesh (SkycraperPage Forum, 2009). This project is funded by foreign investors from Australia and Singapore. This Odyssey Science City will be built on 26,305 ha (65,000 acres) of land with an investment of $25 billion, and will employ over two million people. The city will be serve as a national center for technology and innovations and will host 500 companies in every field of manufacturing, financial services, retailing and transportation. It is no doubt that with the global shift of industrial capital from developed countries to India, the country will continue to foster new urban places with modern style high-rise office space and retail clusters in rural areas, but at the same time displaceing poor local residents. With the same philosophy of attracting foreign investment, megaproject edge cities have been present in Mexico’s landscape since the late 1980s. The Santa Fe urban megaproject (Fig. 61.6) was developed with an area of 946 ha (2338 acres) on the western fringe of Mexico City. To justify this city, the land was taken from the original users after local politicians presented an image of this area as underutilized. Santa Fe is now a major business district consisting of many high-rise buildings surrounding a large shopping mall, which is currently the largest mall in Mexico (Centro Commercial Santa Fe). There are three college campuses and the area has more jobs (70,000) than residents (about 5,000). Since Santa Fe was developed in the 1980s, it also has many problematic characteristics shared by American edge

Fig. 61.6 Street view of Santa Fe, Mexico

1084

S. Sultana

cities, such as being a car centered development with few roads connecting to central Mexico City, public transportation is almost nonexistent, and public space for pedestrians is very limited. Similarly, with the booming market economy in China there are edge city developments created to open new spaces for economic growth, and which cannot be explained by urban expansion and suburbanization (Wu & Lu, 2008). Unlike many American edge cities that are generally clustered around office and retail space, China’s edge cities are related to manufacturing development, especially for export oriented production. They are well connected with other cities by rail, and form part of a polycentric megaurban structure in areas such as such as Yizhuang of Beijing and Kunshan adjacent to Shanghai (Yi, Li, & Phelps, 2008). However, social space in these mega-urban places is changing quickly. Before the market economy, urban social space was more homogeneous and based on occupation category. For example, professors lived near universities, while manufacturing workers lived close by factories. Today it is more heterogeneous and increasingly based on factors such as affordability and individuals identity (such as migrants vs. local residents, ethnicity, etc.) (Wu & Lu, 2008). While edge cities can be found in many countries, they represent very different things in different parts of the world. Perhaps a more appropriate term for these would be “peripheral business cluster,” as they all share similarities to the function of North American edge cities and require massive amounts of land and capital investment. These places share important similarities as they are distinctly new and economically vibrant symbols of modernity and urban growth. They all developed during the time when the car culture became dominant in each particular country. However, there are other characteristics they do not share, such as their political economy and social culture, and they have varying spatial conditions that produce distinct urban forms.

61.9 The Future of Edge Cities All cities face challenges in the 21st century, including changing family structure, the impacts of information and communication technology, the possibility of disruptions to the supply of fossil fuels that run automobile oriented cities, and the specter of global climate change (Newman, Beatley, & Boyer, 2009). Traditionally, suburban areas surrounding edge cities were popular for two-parent households. If there is nothing in America’s history to suggest that Americans will dispense with their love affair with a yard when they are in their child rearing years, the edge cities are likewise not that attractive for them because of congestion. These types of family are more likely to move out to more peripheral or exurban locations. Married couple families with children are becoming less and less common, but edge cities are also less likely to have downtown assets that will attract childless residents. Edge cities are especially vulnerable to fossil fuel disruptions as they have a high dependence on automobiles. Because most are built at automobile scales, mass transit frequently cannot serve them well. Pedestrian circulation within an edge city

61

Edge Cities in the Era of Megaprojects

1085

is impractical even if residences are nearby. Increasing the density of these places will be difficult because of resistance from nearby residents. Rather than a new era in urban form, edge cities may turn out to have been a brief 20th-century phenomenon (Lang, 2003). Revitalization of edge cities may in fact be the major urban renewal project of the 21st century. The importance of edge cities can also be questioned by comparing the polycentric model with both the older monocentric model as well as a non-centered or edgeless urban form (Cervero, 1993; Fujii & Hartshorn, 1995; Lang, 2003). “Edgeless” refers to the wide dispersion of functions and activities, such that retail and wholesale functions are widely distributed over many locations but do not constitute specialized commercial nodes, which often appear in the early stages of suburban office development (Fujii & Hartshorn, 1995). With the impact of information technology, workers and firms have now more flexibility in their location choices. In fact, more office space was added after 1990 in sprawl locations than in edge cities (Lang, 2003). America’s many inner suburbs declined while outer suburbs or center city gained population after 2000 (Lucy & Phillips, 2006). With large amounts of population having moved to the outer suburbs and away from edge cities, the idea of establishing an employment center closer to the labor force makes sense. As a result, today’s norm for growth of metropolitan areas in U.S. is more of a hybrid model (polycentric and dispersed coexisting) than Garreau’s claim of edge cities as the norm for the growth of America’s future metropolises. However, it can be expected that edge cities will continue to develop across the globe during the next half century. Edge cities may be most likely in developing countries increasingly involved in the global economy, such as China, Malaysia, Indonesia, India, Philippines, Argentina, Brazil, as well as Moscow, Russia. In the U.S., new edge cities will likely be found in the Sunbelt area, particularly in midsized and fast growing metropolitan areas such as Atlanta, Charlotte, Raleigh, Las Vegas, and South Texas along the U.S.-Mexico border (especially McAllen). Edge cities are clearly common in cities well placed within the urban hierarchy, though it may be that these developments are working their way down to less important places, especially those that are susceptible to real estate booms associated with new industries or economic activities located away from traditional economic cores.

61.10 Conclusion It is noteworthy that edge cities seem to be a preoccupation of the postwar Baby Boomer generation (of which Garreau, born in 1948, is a member). These developments appeared at a time when Baby Boomers were entering professional life and provided a clear break from the urban patterns of their youth. It is hard not to notice that those developments that are changing middle or upper class white suburban areas have received tremendous attention. While public housing projects, downtown convention centers or festival marketplaces, or even satellite industrial districts are also large scale developments that may involve substantial private investment and master planning, they do not receive the same attention.

1086

S. Sultana

The substantial literature on edge cities avoids dealing with the many substantial problems cities face (such as worsening school and residential segregation, poverty, deindustrialization, or the environmental legacy of industrialization). Yet the growth of edge cities cannot be separated from issues of white flight and spatial mismatch. While edge cities may represent a new urban form, they clearly do not represent a new socioeconomic order for workers employed in these areas (and those excluded from employment by distance and lack affordable housing). There are serious threats to their future, and even the possibility that they will require a need for massive public subsidies or renewal funds. The benefits of these megastructures, as well as their current and potential future costs, need to be assessed carefully. The creation of most edge cities includes the historical fact that all edge cities were once low density suburban communities with a low density of economic activities (Lang, 2003). The high density Sandy Spring and Roswell areas of Atlanta are examples with a low density of employment as recently as 1990. These are not static features of the urban landscape, and their future remains wide open. It would clearly be naïve to assume that all edge cities have (or will) follow the same conceptual philosophy and have the same appearance. Edge cities have not proven as easy to identify and study as Garreau’s book suggested, and the variety of such places will surely increase in the future. As with other urban and economic megastructures, their final impacts on cities will be debatable for some time to come.

References Anderson, N. B., & Bogart, W. T. (2001). The structure of sprawl: Identifying and characterizing employment centers in polycentric metropolitan areas. American Journal of Economics and Sociology, 60, 147–169. Baerwald, T. J. (1978). The emergence of a new “downtown.” Geographical Review, 68, 308–318. Bingham, R. D., Bowen, W. M., Amara, Y. A., Bachelor, L. W., Dockery, J. et al. (1997). Beyond edge cities. New York: Garland. Bogart, W. T., & Ferry, W. C. (1999). Employment centers in greater Cleveland: Evidence of evolution in a formerly monocentric city. Urban Studies, 36, 2099–2110. Bontje, M. (2004). Sustainable new economic centers in European metropolitan regions: A stakeholders’ perspectives. European Planning Studies, 12(5), 703–722. Bontje, M., & Burdack, J. (2005). Edge cities, European style: Examples from Paris and the Randstad. Cities, 22(4), 317–330. Brunn, S. D., Hays-Mitchell, M., & Zeigler, D. J. (Eds.). (2008). Cities of the world: World regional urban development. New York: Rowan and Littlefield. Cervero, R. (1993). Changing live-work spatial relationships: Implications for metropolitan structure and mobility. Paper Prepared for the 4th international workshop on Technological Change and Urban Forms: Productive Sustainable Cities, Berkeley, CA. Cervero, R., & Wu, K. (1997). Polycentricism, commuting, and residential location in the San Francisco Bay area. Environment and Planning A, 29, 865–886. CNN. (2006). Study: Average commute shorter, albeit by 24 seconds. Retrieved September 12, 2006, from www.cnn.com Crane, R., & Chatman, D. G. (2004). Traffic and sprawl: Evidence from U.S. commuting 1985–1987. In H. W. Richardson & C. C. Bae (Eds.), Urban sprawl in Western Europe and the United States (pp. 311–325). Aldershot: Ashgate.

61

Edge Cities in the Era of Megaprojects

1087

CTPP. (2000). Census Transportation Planning Package data. Washington, DC: U.S. Census Bureau. Ding, C., & Bingham, R. D. (2000). Beyond edge cities: Job decentralization and urban sprawl. Urban Affairs Review, 35(6), 837–855. Downs, A. (1992). Stuck in traffic: Coping with peak hour traffic congestion. Washington, DC: The Brookings Institution. England, K. V. L. (1991). Gender relations and the spatial structure of the city. Geoforum, 22, 135–147. England, K. V. L. (1993). Suburban pink collar ghettos: The spatial entrapment of women? Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 83, 225–242. Feagani, J. R., & Parker, R. (1990). Building American cities: The urban real estate game. Englewood, NJ: Prentice Hall. Fishman, R. (1987). Bourgeois utopias: The rise and fall of suburbia. New York: Basic Books. Forstall, R. L., & Greene, R. P. (1997). Defining job concentrations: The Los Angeles case. Urban Geography, 18, 705–739. Freiss, S. (2009). Tower rising in Las Vegas but now, not so high. New York Times February 11, 2009. Retrieved from www.nytimes.com. 13 February 2009. Fujii, T. & Hartshorn, T. A. (1995). The changing metropolitan structure of Atlanta, Georgia: Location of functions and regional structure in multinucleated urban area. Urban Geography, 16, 680–707. Garcia Canclini, G. (2001). Consumers and citizens: Globalization and multicultural conflicts. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Garreau, J. (1991). Edge city: Life on the new frontier. New York: Doubleday. Giuliano, G., & Small, K. A. (1991). Subcenters in the Los Angeles region. Regional Science and Urban Economic, 21, 163–182. Hanson, S., & Pratt, G. (1988). Reconceptualizing the links between home and work in urban geography. Economic Geography, 64, 299–311. Hartshorn, T. A., & Muller, P. O. (1986). Suburban business centers: Employment implications. Washington, DC: U.S. Department of Commerce, Project No. RED-808-G-84-5. Hartshorne, T. A. & Muller, P. O. (1989). Suburban downtowns and the transformation of metropolitan Atlanta’s business landscape. Urban Geography, 10, 375–395. Henderson, V., & Mitra, A. (1996). The new urban landscape: Developers and edge cities. Regional Science & Urban Economics, 26, 613–643. Jones, G. A. & Moreno-Carranco, M. (2009). Megaprojects: Beneath the pavement, excess. Retrieved February 23, 2009, from http://eprints.lse.ac.uk/15127 Kersten, E. W., Jr. & Ross, D. R. (1968). Clayton: A new metropolitan focus in the St. Louis area. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 58, 637–649. Klinger, D. and Kusmyak, J. R. (1989). 1983–1984 National Personal Transportation Study. Washington, DC: Federal Highway Administration, U. S. Department of Transportation. Koolhass, R. (1995). Bigness in office for metropolitan architecture. New York: Monacelli Books. Lang, R. E. (2003). Edgeless cities: Exploring the elusive metropolis. Washington, DC: Brookings Institution Press. Leinberger, C. B. (1988). The six types of urban village cores. Urban Land, 47, 24–27. Levinson, D. (1998). Accessibility and the journey to work. Journal of Transport Geography, 6, 11–21. Lucy, W. H., & Phillips, D. L. (2006). Tomorrow’s cities, tomorrow’s suburbs. Chicago: American Planning Association. McDonald, J. F., & Prather, P. J. (1994). Suburban employment centers: The case of Chicago. Urban Studies, 31, 201–218. Metro (Metropolitan Service District). (1997). Regional framework plan. Portland: Metropolitan Service District. Newman, P., Beatley, T., & Boyer, H. (2009). Resilient cities: Responding to peak oil and climate change. Washington, DC: Island Press.

1088

S. Sultana

Phelps, N. A., Nick, P., Dimitris, B., Andrew, D. (2006). Post-suburban Europe: Planning and politics at the margins of Europe’s capital cities. New York: Palgrave. Pickus, J., & Gober, P. (1988). Urban villages and activity patterns in Phoenix. Urban Geography, 9, 85–97. Pivo, G. (1993). A taxonomy of suburban office clusters: the case of Toronto. Urban Studies, 30, 31–49. SkycraperPage Forum. (2009). High-tech science city to come up in Andhra. Retrieved February 27, 2009, from http://forum.skycraperpage,cin/sgiwtgread.php Sultana, S. (2000). Some effects of employment centers on commuting times in the Atlanta metropolitan area, 1990. Southeastern Geographer, 41(2), 225–233. Sultana, S. (2002). Jobs-housing imbalance and commuting in the Atlanta Metropolitan Area: Exploration of causes of longer commuting. Urban Geography, 23(8), 728–749. Sultana, S. (2005). Racial variations in males’ commuting times in Atlanta: What does the evidence suggest? The Professional Geographer, 57, 66–82. Sultana, S. (2008). Race and accessibility to work in Charlotte MSA, NC. Paper presented at the Race, Ethnicity, and Place Conference IV, Miami, FL, 6–8 November. Vance, J. E., Jr. (1964). Geography and urban evolution in the San Francisco bay area. San Francisco: Institute of Governmental Studies. Venturi, R., Brown, D. S., & Izenour, S. (1972). Learing from Las Vegas. Cambridge: MIT Press. Webber, M. (1963). Order in diversity: Community without propinquity. In L. Wingo (Ed.), Cities and space (pp. 23–54). Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University. Wu, F., & Lu, D. (2008). The transition of Chinese cities. Built Environment, 35(4), 385–391. Yi, W., Li, F.-L., & Phelps, N. A. (2008). Study on China’s edge city. Urban Planning International, 4. Retrieved February 28, 2009, from http://www.upo-planning.org/en/detail. asp?articleID=1286

Chapter 62

Engineering and the Architecture of Economic Recovery: TARP, the New Deal, and the Evolving Landscapes of Crisis Andrew Boulton

62.1 Introduction: Engineering Recoveries from Economic Crises The material landscape of the United States bears testament to economic crises and economic recovery plans past. Few cities, towns or national parks are unmarked by the infrastructural imprints of Great Depression-era construction projects built under the auspices of the New Deal. Dams, zoos, city halls, bridges, flood defenses, millions of trees, and hundreds of thousands of miles of paved roads are among the visible, tangible manifestations, and enduring material legacies, of the Roosevelt administration’s economic rationale (Fig. 62.1). If landscapes can be understood as “discourse materialized” (Schein, 1997), then Depression-era crisis discourse was materialized, above all else, in and through the labor of millions of Americans put to work in an unprecedented program of public works. The New Deal represents a megaengineering project par excellence, both in terms of scale (qua national extent) and cost, which transformed the infrastructure, economy and landscape of the United States for generations. Eight decades later, the “R” word (recession), and even the “D” word (depression), reared their ugly heads again, along with a new keyword: crisis. “We’re in the midst of a serious financial crisis,” declared President George W Bush on 24 September 2008 (CNN 2008). According to economic common sense, the proximate cause of this most recent crisis was the inevitable bursting of an unsustainable mortgage credit bubble that had grown throughout the 1990s and 2000s. The crisis, which became visible in 2007, resulted, in the words of Federal Reserve Chair Ben Bernanke, from the “poor lending” practices of “firms subject to little or no federal regulation” (US Federal Reserve, 2009). Bush, a self-declared opponent – in word, if not always in deed – of government intervention in the operation of markets spearheaded the drive to spend $700 billion of taxpayers’ money to intervene in financial markets, to “save” financial institutions, and (thus) to stabilize the economy. On 3 A. Boulton (B) Department of Geography, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_62,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1089

1090

A. Boulton

Fig. 62.1 Mammoth Cave National Park, Kentucky. “Enrollees brushing and rolling top surface of road leading to residence and utility areas, April 11, 1938.” (Courtesy of the Mammoth Cave National Park Museum Collection. Used with permission.)

October 2008, he signed into law H.R. 1424, better known as “the bailout,” creating TARP (the Troubled Assets Relief Program). A new year heralded a new presidency and a slight change in emphasis; 2009 and road construction was back. President Bush’s successor, President Obama, subscribed to the “credit crisis” meme du jour in supporting TARP (Obama, 2008) and, upon taking office, rapidly signed off on his own “stimulus” for the depressed economy: the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act (ARRA). While TARP and ARRA are often conflated in popular and political discourse, referred to interchangeably as “the bailout” or “the stimulus” (TARP, rather than ARRA is more “correctly” referred to as the former), a case can be made that the two programs are emblematic of distinct economic rationales and, represent, therefore, distinctive ideological/political moments in the construction of, and response to, crisis. Viewed up close, and without the distancing perspective of time and hindsight, perhaps the most visible manifestation of Obama’s stimulus is the nationwide proliferation of highway construction and repair projects. The physical engineering focus on highways and bridges is the most visible, and most tangible outcome of the ARRA, at least for commuters and residents at the sharp end of infrastructural improvement projects. At the time of writing, in the fall of 2009, the urban landscape of Lexington, Kentucky, like that of much of the U.S., is marked with cheery circular, or perhaps “O” shaped, Recovery.gov signs. Fluorescent “putting America to work” signs invite of the irate commuter a more charitable reading of traffic gridlock, noise and upheaval, while working also to map out a cartography of Obama’s hoped for recovery (Fig. 62.2). Such expenditure is based on the expectation that these infrastructural works will, in the words of David Harvey (2009), constitute “productive

62

Engineering and the Architecture of Economic Recovery

1091

Fig. 62.2 The American recovery and reinvestment act in Lexington, Kentucky. (Source: author, November 2009) Table 62.1 Allocation of federal recovery funds by sector in Kentucky Sector

Expenditure ($ millions)

Total allocation Medicaid Education Roads and bridges Health and welfare General fund Water and sewer lines Job training and public safety Energy projects Transit Community development

$3,000 $990 $924 $421 $272 $120 $71 $66 $63 $50 $12

Source: http://kentuckyatwork.ky.gov

state expenditures” and not “ ‘white elephants’ which, as Keynes long ago remarked, amounted to nothing more than putting people to work digging ditches and filling them in again.” Either way, “core” infrastructure investments, viz., roads, rail, sewers, bridges – the very essence of the New Deal – account for only a small fraction of an overall TARP/ARRA package, which makes provision for spending on government facilities, welfare programs, tax credits and, of course, state government and financial sector bailouts (Table 62.1). In all, highway construction accounts for a mere $30 billion of the ARRA’s $800 billion provisions (Congressional Budget Office, 2009).1

1092

A. Boulton

62.2 Engineering and Architecture Where the primary goal of the Bush administration (abetted by Obama and Democrats as well as Republicans on Capitol Hill) in response to economic crisis was to stimulate “the economy” by injecting liquidity, spending money, and (thus) spurring GDP growth, the Roosevelt stimulus had a very different short-term aim. Specifically, Roosevelt set out to provide for the employment, and welfare, of America’s unemployed. This focus, in the New Deal, on “putting America to work” in numbers and by means unconscionable in the present political/economic climate, is precisely what enabled the massive program of public works that comprises the enduring legacy of the New Deal project. Indeed, putting humanpower to work – and, as historian Susan Ware (1981) points out, it was almost invariably manpower that was put to work – via an alphabet soup of institutions, most notably the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) and WPA (Works Progress Administration), was both the means and the end of 1930s economic recovery policymaking. That is, federal employment programs were the “means” by which engineering, infrastructure and “progress” were materialized in the landscape. The longer run reputation of these projects as being net economic assets (bracketing here the fierce debates and conflicting cost-benefit analyses of, and ideological debate about, the economic and political wisdom of their implementation) is one of the less contested aspects of the New Deal and its material and imaginative legacy. In addition, the mobilization of a massive labor force can be seen as an “end” in itself. This mass employment, or deployment, in New Deal programs (albeit it on the Federal payroll and not, as the 2009 stimulus is keen to encourage, in the private sector) was one way in which the contemporaneously (seemingly) feasible dream of full employment could be brought a step closer (Table 62.2). Although there are various and distinct stated aims and agendas at work, both TARP and ARRA represent unprecedented interjections into financial markets aimed at guaranteeing credit and maintaining a functioning “free” market. In the remainder of this chapter, I trace the contours of the New Deal and TARP/ARRA economic recovery strategies, both attempts “to engineer a full economic recovery” (Krugman, 2008). I suggest that, heuristically, we can characterize the changes in emphasis between the New Deal and TARP/ARRA as corresponding to a shift in the overarching “model” of economic recovery from one centered on economic engineering to one centered on financial architecture. This changing emphasis in economic strategy from engineering to architecture does not represent a bright epochal line, but an analytical “cut” by which we might think critically about those economic/political strategies actualized, and perhaps even those foreclosed, among the flows of a “crisis”-charged discourse. The concepts of engineering and architecture are, quite deliberately, held in tension with one another, their particular empirical and ideological workings in each specific case forming a basis for a comparative commentary. More straightforwardly, my organizational heuristic argues that where the New Deal is characterized by its (literal) engineering of (material, economic) space, the more recent interventions, in the form of TARP/ARRA, are more consistent with the so-called “financial architecture” moment in contemporary

62

Engineering and the Architecture of Economic Recovery

1093

Table 62.2 WPA expenditures for projects completed to December 31, 1936 Type of project

Expenditure ($ millions)

New construction Highways, roads, and streets Public buildings Sewer systems and other utilities Other new construction Repairs and improvements Highways, roads, and streets Public buildings Sewer systems and other utilities Other repairs and improvements Other types of projectsa

$1,243 $414 $158 $241 $429 $1,487 $907 $232 $75 $273 $799

Adapted from WPA (1937, Table 13) a The “other types of projects” were diverse and numerous. From the WPA (1937): “(1) modernization and repair of many thousands of educational and other public buildings, and construction of new buildings and of additional units of existing ones; (2) development of various recreational facilities, especially parks, playgrounds, and athletic fields; (3) construction, extension, and improvement of public utilities, such as sewer systems and water works; (4) prosecution of white collar work, including not only statistical, research, educational and clerical projects, but also projects of an artistic and cultural nature, such as music, theater and recreation; and (5) preparation of various clothing and textile articles, of food and other products, for subsequent distribution to persons on relief rolls. Other important operations of the Works Progress Administration were directed toward flood and erosion control, irrigation and other conservation work, the development of airport and other transportation facilities and the improvement of sanitation and health conditions.”

economic discourse. Financial architecture describes, in short, the drive to “build in,” via institutions, norms, regulations, etc., to economic systems a degree of stability and resilience to crisis. My overall aim, then, is to suggest a framework within which to understand the multiple and complex roles of engineering and architecture within the context of economic crises. In the remainder of this chapter, I reflect on the key features of TARP/ARRA, with particular emphasis on their (dis)continuities with the engineering projects of the New Deal. I am suggesting that the change in focus from employment and infrastructure (via engineering) to the architecture of financial markets can best be understood with reference to the “financialization” of the global economy since the 1970s in ways that have fundamentally reformulated notions of economic crisis and, therefore, recovery. I proceed by suggesting how the engineering of economic recoveries relates to two other megaengineering tropes: the Pyramid (standing in for physically spectacular megaengineering projects in general) and the cloud (see Marsh and Jones, this volume; Graham, this volume). I show that the articulation between the spaces of the plan and the spaces of the laborer are common dimensions of the megaengineering project in general. I return, finally, to consider the specific role of the plan and of the laborer under the ambit of “engineering” (drawing on the work of the CCC at Mammoth Cave National Park) and “architectural” approaches to crisis.

1094

A. Boulton

62.3 The Cloud, the Pyramid and the Economic Recovery As feats of engineering or testaments to the decades-long labor of tens of thousands, they have awed even the most sober observers. (Shaw, 2003)

As Mark Graham (this volume) points out, the most obviously “mega” of the world’s great megaengineering projects, viz., spectacular physical structures, are, fundamentally, the outcome of thousands, perhaps even tens or hundreds of thousands, of laborers brought together in a place, working towards some more-or-less shared plan. Here, I bracket a more thorough discussion of the implications for “virtual” engineering projects of a place-based ontology of engineering, and instead make some brief synthesizing comments in which I seek to bring together, under a common analytical lens, the superficially dissimilar megaengineering projects of the informational cloud, the Egyptian Pyramid, and the economic recovery. Quite simply, megaengineering projects have in common the mobilization of massive numbers of laborers, and the actualization in place(s), on the basis of those laborers’ actions, of some more-or-less preordained plan or “script,” to borrow the language of critical geopolitics (see O’Tuathail, 2002). I proceed in this section by considering first the space of the plan, then of the laborer.

62.3.1 The Space of the Plan The qualification that the plan is a more-or-less shared vision is of some significance. Plans are not always as straightforward and univocal as they might at first appear. There may not even be a plan. In the case of collaborative online projects, in particular, we can imagine most readily the diverse motivations, orientations and personal projects enrolled under an apparently consensual banner or within an externally atomistic whole, such as Google Map Maker (see Boulton, 2010). Economic recovery plans work in similar ways. They have no single author; they too are the outcomes of the interactions, enactments, compromises and maneuverings of ideologically committed, more-or-less powerful, and socially situated actors. Among the multiple overlapping and conflicting personal and political positionalities motivating actors at all levels of the Roosevelt regime was a relatively small, but determined and organized, “network” of women. They sought, with some modicum of success given the circumstances, to guide New Deal policymaking towards a less masculinist framing of the unemployment problem (Ware, 1981). It was precisely these women’s counter-narratives, and their personal ideological/political and gendered subjectivities and commitments that found expression in the (albeit short-lived and underfunded) initiation of women’s employment camps in the approximate mold of the male-only CCC. My point, then, is to unsettle the plan as a coherent, bounded entity/actor in the space of megaengineering. Such behind-the-scenes “work” as that attributed to the women’s network underpins any plan formulation in ways that may be more subtle than outright dissent. Such

62

Engineering and the Architecture of Economic Recovery

1095

complexity may, in any case, be simply inaccessible in an ex post facto unsettling moment. (However, in the case of New Deal planning, the supposed internal wranglings have been, as we have seen, relatively well documented, albeit with recourse to the official record with all the particular kinds of biases and silences that entails.) What then of the Pyramid? Engineers’ drawings bring order and parsimonious elegance to the world, abstracting a proposed project from its context – the superfluous, unnecessary and messy (that is, the social) – in a double move. First, they abstract from the social contexts of production and authorship the plan itself as a stable, consensual and persuasive entity, and in a second movement, blast the object of engineering from its economic, social and spatial context. Note, as a paradigmatic example, the classic architect’s trick of picturing a proposed project in a sea of white: divorced from the streetscape, divorced from the complications of extant social and material conditions. To return to the quotation (Schein, 1997) with which we began this chapter, the plan itself is a social product, one component of a discourse, which may or may not be completely materialized in the ways in which its author(s) had intended. The engineer deals with the laws of physics, geometry, dimensions and material, with conventions of line weight, style and shading; the economist/politician deals with the laws of markets, GDP, multiplier effects, growth rates, unemployment rates, and opinion polls. Plans that purport to be authoritative, even authorless, are inherently social products; when they “touch the ground” (though of course they are already grounded), their complexities and contingencies become explicit. People construct narratives – official reports, impact assessments, works of art, commercials – to order judgments and make claims about the plan’s implementation, its meaning, and its efficacy. The Pyramids of Giza inspire awe and wonder in young children and seasoned Egyptologists and archaeologists alike. What were they used for? Who built them? The evidence shows that it was “free,” rather than enslaved Egyptians, tens of thousands of them, living in, perhaps, purpose-built villages around the construction site. But who designed them? To whose plan were they constructed? There is no dominant narrative, no common sense established answer: “on this day in 2680 B.C., this person designed the first Pyramid. . .” The Pharaoh? Mathematicians? God? Extraterrestrials? This is surprising. What is not surprising, however, is that the plans for the Pyramids, like that of the cloud, and like that of the recovery plan, have no single author, and no single meaning. They draw, rather, on the work of many individuals and on intellectual, ideological and imaginative lineages that are impossible to circumscribe. The megaengineering project is materialized, and therefore experienced, in the same way that it was planned: as complex, indeterminate, and, perhaps, messy. It is mindful of this character of the plan, and the resultant problematic of judging “in its own terms” the “success” of the plan, that we now return to our central theme via a consideration of the role of the laborer in the case of the Pyramid, the cloud, and the economic recovery: that the changing balance between the engineering and architectural moments in economic recovery plans can be accounted for by broader transformations in the dominant discourses of U.S. (and global) economics.

1096

A. Boulton

62.3.2 The Space of the Laborer I have suggested in the preceding section that the lexicographical similarities (physical architecture, Internet architecture, financial architecture) between the attendant jargons of (1) “material” engineering projects (the Pyramid), (2) “virtual” engineering projects (the cloud), and (3) the economic engineering projects that are the focus in this chapter (the New Deal, TARP, and ARRA) are more than clunky but convenient analogs. I am not arguing for a one-to-one mapping between signs (i.e. “architecture” in each of its three articulations), but a less determinate conceptual overlap between that which is signified, thus placing the Pyramid, the cloud, and the economic plan within a commensurable frame, under the broader heading “engineering.” In each case, these engineering projects represent monumental (in more than one sense) undertakings, enrolling large numbers of people both physically and imaginatively, and seeking, in the words of a stylized foundational statement of engineering’s purpose, “to make the world a better place” (or at least to change “it” in often quite dramatic ways). Thus, although cloud collaboration does not entail the simultaneity of laborers in time and place associated with classically conceived – that is, physical, material – megaengineering projects, or indeed with the more spatially dispersed agglomerations of labor associated with the individual WPA and CCC construction projects, there are clear continuities. In “cloud engineering,” labor (time, physical and emotional investment) remains central to the practices by which “virtual” spaces are produced and reproduced. This conceptual overlap merits further elaboration. Despite assorted futurist imaginations of a placeless, democratic and somehow autonomous cyberspace, the cloud is implicit in, and always experienced in relation to, not only other far-from-democratic (social) spaces but also material places too. Perhaps this truism is so “obvious” that it frequently goes unremarked. Googling for directions, checking restaurant reviews online, experiencing the city street, the museum, or the road trip in conjunction with the cell phone, the laptop, or the GPS (Global Positioning Satellite) navigation system. The everyday, more-or-less mundane examples of the ways in which the material and the “virtual” come together in what Zook and Graham (2007) call digiPlace are endless. As emerging work on such “neogeographies” attests, not only are the consumers of cyberspace dispersed, socially and spatially embedded actors, but so are its producers (if the informational producer/consumer binary is any longer useful in the “Web 2.0” era of “cloudsourcing,” collaborative mapping, and social networking). Thus, Zook and Graham (2007) draw attention to the “situatedness of individuals balanced between the visible and the invisible, the fixed and the fluid, the space of places and the space of flows, and the blurring of the lines between material place and digital representations of place” (p. 1327). Furthermore, as Devriendt, Derudder, and Witlox (2008) and Devriendt, Boulton, Brunn, Derudder, and Witlox (2009) point out, the speciously decentered worlds of teleworking, e-commerce, and international collaboration, as well as the superficially “placeless” cyberspace of hyperlinks, and bits and bytes are underpinned, in fact, by vast physical infrastructures of hubs, cables, institutions, and people.

62

Engineering and the Architecture of Economic Recovery

1097

Together, the space of the plan and the space of the laborer might be characterized as comprising the “production” moment of the megaengineering project, a project thereafter “consumed,” and used, perhaps by the planner and the laborer and perhaps by other individuals. It might be more satisfactory to suggest, however, that the production of the megaengineering project is never, in fact, complete. This ongoing “production” is most clear in the case of the cloud, where by its very nature, “it” is never finished. But long after any plan is enacted, long after the last worker dies or returns to Cairo, long after the CCC recruits go back to their families, or to war overseas, the meanings of the megaengineering project continue to be remade. The project’s insertion into people’s everyday experiences, political projects, and imaginations proceeds. Henri Lefebvre (1991), in his oft-cited tripartite scheme of spatial analysis offers the classic formulation of thinking through this palimpsest of place as always reproduced through the articulation of representations of space (plans and designs), spatial practice (day-to-day activity and actions) and representational space (the realm of ideas, ideology, imagination and “thought”). As I discuss in the next section: the New Deal is not dead; we can not simply compare the New Deal with TARP/ARRA in any straightforward way expecting the New Deal to sit still and tell us what it “is.” Rather, we recognize, instead, the multiple claims about the New Deal and the multiple temporalities and spatialities of the program in the collective memory: both in the popular imagination, and in the extant material landscapes of towns, cities and U.S. national parks. The Pyramids, Dubai’s Palm Island, the Panama Canal, vast, gravity-defying bridges, island-sinking skyscrapers and towering dams provide “visually unforgettable reminders of the feats that can be accomplished by the concerted efforts of thousands of laborers” (Graham, this volume). It is clear that, taken alone, no single mile of pavement selected from the thousands of miles of roads built under the auspices of the WPA, no single pedestrian bridges, no one section of concrete flood defense, no particular cluster of trees in a particular national park planted by the sweat and blood of CCC recruits, no individual government building, and no specific, small suburban schoolhouse measures up to the awesome physical presence of the world’s great material landscapes of megaengineering. But the New Deal, like the Pyramid and the cloud, mobilized and mobilizes a huge labor force in producing outcomes of huge economic, spatial and imaginative scale. I now consider further the (dis)continuities between the New Deal, a megaengineering project that does not die, and the TARP/ARRA.

62.4 The CCC: A “Tree Army” and Its Legacies In creating the Civilian Conservation Corps, we are killing two birds with one stone. We are clearly enhancing the value of our natural resources. And, at the same time, we are relieving an insatiable amount of actual distress. (Roosevelt, 1933 quoted in PBS, 2009) I remember having, you know, discussions with individuals who were so angry that they were saying, you know, ‘To heck with the government. Maybe this whole system maybe ought to be changed.’ (Vincente Ximenes, 1938 CCC recruit, quoted in PBS, 2009)

1098

A. Boulton

Of the multiple programs and agencies created under the banner of the New Deal, the CCC was generally considered to be the one closest to Roosevelt’s heart. On the basis of his own experiences and observations of farming at home in New York state (no matter that home was an 800 acre [325 ha] estate in the Hudson Valley), the story goes, Roosevelt had gained an appreciation of the very real problems of soil erosion, and specifically the need for tree planting. The CCC, as its name suggests, was the agency most closely associated with the various “conservation” projects of the New Deal: flood defenses, the construction of hiking trails and, above all, tree planting. Employing men aged from 18 to 25 years, the CCC required of its recruits manual labor in return for a modest $30 per month and three square meals per day. Amid fears of drunkenness, rowdiness and other social “ills” associated with congregations of young men, Roosevelt himself cultivated a “clean-living,” disciplined and wholesome image for the Corps, and the men were required to send home to their families $25 of their $30 incomes. In a richly detailed account, Neil Maher (2008) traces the evolution of the CCC remit from tree planting, earning the “CCC boys” the more-or-less affectionate moniker “Roosevelt’s Tree Army,” to a broader array of conservation and recreational projects. Within months of its inception, hundreds of thousands of men had enlisted in the CCC “army,” reaching a peak enrolment of 500,000 by 1935. In all, three million men were a part of the CCC across 2,600 camps encompassing every U.S. state. For example, five months in, 3,400 men had already been deployed in 17 camps within Kentucky alone. As Maher (2008) documents, throughout the country, the CCC came to be associated primarily with forestry: its protection (via firefighting), its improvement, and its (re)planting. Eight Kentucky camps were concerned with erosion and flood control, of which forestry and land terracing were integral parts. A further eight dealt explicitly with forestry on both public and private lands. The first camp to open in Kentucky, so-called “Camp 1,” was established in May of 1933 on the site of a former country club at Mammoth Cave. Enrollees set to work on thousands of acres of the newly-designated national park. The CCC at Mammoth Cave National Park Project, in conjunction with Western Kentucky University Library, provides this description of the recruits’ role: By the time the park was dedicated in 1941, the CCC had constructed water lines, a modern sewage system, telephone lines, picnic areas, maintenance buildings and park residences. Miles of park roads were improved. Cave tour route trails were constructed and hiking trails on the surface were established. Thousands of acres of former farmland were reclaimed by controlling erosion, planning trees, and removing hundreds of structures and miles of fences. (Western Kentucky University Library)

As was the case in other national Parks, and in communities across the U.S., the CCC transformed not only enrollees’ lives, but the lives and landscapes of millions of Americans. Whether or not visitors to Mammoth Cave today are aware, as they walk the trails and camp in the cabins, the very existence of these resources owes much to the labor of the CCC recruits (Fig. 62.3). The CCC, therefore, lives on in the material landscapes of this southwest corner of Kentucky, as well as in the collective imaginations of the recruits, their families, and broader communities.

62

Engineering and the Architecture of Economic Recovery

1099

Fig. 62.3 “Enrollees prepare to transplant shrubs and sod, March 1, 1937.” (Courtesy of the Mammoth Cave National Park Museum Collection.)

Quite apart from the ideological affirmation of the New Deal on the part of commentators and experts who would wish to create a “new New Deal,” the CCC, and its chief architect Franklin D. Roosevelt are frequently referred to in the same nostalgic way one might refer to military service, or an elderly uncle: “by and large, it was a warm feeling,” explains Harley Jolley, a 1937 recruit to the CCC (PBS, 2009), “this man [Roosevelt] is our man.” The question, for contemporaneous observers, of “how many” or “at what cost” were CCC enrollees employed, arguably paled in comparison with the ideological and imaginative “work” done by the CCC’s physically impressive outcomes, and the ways in which the CCC became intrinsic to individuals’ senses of identity and self worth.

62.5 The Financialization of Crisis The prediction, or anticipation, of the inevitability of “crisis” in the capitalist system is far from novel. Indeed, the degree of acceptance of the inevitably of fluctuation, if not outright “crisis,” is remarkable. Between the proto-Keynesian era of “big government” New Deal economic planning, and the parsimonious (at least in the view of such public intellectuals on the left as David Harvey and Paul Krugman), spending of TARP and ARRA, something happened to the collective economic imagination. What “changed,” I suggest, is the dominant economic discourse within the United States in ways that fundamentally reconfigured the field of possibility both in terms of crisis specification and crisis response. The notion of financialization is a fairly well worn concept in economic geographic and political science literatures. At its most basic level, financialization,

1100

A. Boulton

which is closely allied with the more extensively documented neoliberalization, entails a shift away from profit-making via productive assets and labor-intensive industrial economies towards a more prominent role for banking and financial service sectors (Krippner, 2005). That is, profits are increasingly concentrated in finance, rather than in trade, primary extraction, or commodity production. Perhaps the most sustained account of the longue durée of these shifts is that of Giovanni Arrighi (1994) who reflects on the polarizing tendency of increased financialization in driving wealth and power into the hands of small financial elite. One step removed from the analysis of the empirical/quantitative refocusing of economies on particular types of economic “activity,” is what might be termed the “financialization of everyday life:” that is, the ways in which “average,” middle class citizens come to see themselves, their lives, and their interests in “financial” terms, or at least as tied up in the operation of financial markets. This enrollment of a broader constituency in the project of financialization is not an imaginative, conspiratorial move, in which people are subject to propaganda about the desirability of such an economic order. Rather, the broad “acceptance” of the unprecedented concentration of economic power within the financial sector is achieved, arguably, above all else, by the investment – literally – of the real, economic interests of the middle class in the success (or failure) of global financial capital. The securitization of the mortgage market in particular, as well as the dependence of pension plans on stock markets, enrolls tens of millions of working- and middle-class Americans in the financial sector (Aalbers, 2008). When financial markets fail, it is the homes, retirements and futures of ordinary people that fail with them. While we must, of course, be careful about ascribing causal power to financialization, one of those monolithic narrative “izations’ ” like globalization that are so problematic, we can certainly suggest that the discourse of financialization as a way of identifying, then framing, economic “crises” was well ingrained into the collective imagination of economic policymakers, and the American public, by the time that the global downturn hit in 2008. As Krippner (2005) points out, Americans are well accustomed to reading stock markets as barometers for broader economic well being. Thus, the immediate response of the Bush administration, in a move supported by Obama, who authorized the release of the second half of the TARP funds, was to shore up the financial sector with a massive injection of liquidity. As Congress voted on the TARP funding, opinion polls showed that the American public was skeptical, not so much about the reality of the problems facing the economy, but of the role of government in “fixing” what had gone wrong. A plurality opposed a government plan of any kind; a majority (59%) agreed with the Ronald Reagan statement that “government is the problem, not the solution” (Rasmussen Reports, 2008). President Bush captured this tension succinctly in his widely reported, and entirely serious, statement: “I’ve abandoned free-market principles to save the free-market system.” The continuous quest for economic stabilization, or rather, the search for the magic consistent growth pill, implicit in the TARP plan, falls squarely under the heading “financial architecture.” Financial architecture is a fascinating

62

Engineering and the Architecture of Economic Recovery

1101

sub-discipline of economics and a buzzword of World Bank and IMF policymakers who seek to get the structure of the economy, the role of finance, and the level of regulation just right (Tadesse, 2001). At the international level, former World Bank Chief Economist Anne Krueger (2001) praises the response of particular debtor countries to the “financial crisis:” they reinstated “investor confidence” via “fiscal adjustment, financial sector strengthening, and more flexible exchange rate regimes.” Krueger, though, was referring to the 2001 financial crisis. The search for such a magic pill – growth without uncertainty, returns without risk – is nothing if not consistent.

62.6 A New New Deal? I really do not know what the basic principle of the New Deal is. – Alan Hansen, Chief Economic Adviser to the New Deal, March 1940 (Brinkley, 1998: 37).

It is tempting, with the benefit of hindsight, to attempt to characterize the New Deal as an ideologically coherent, spatially and temporally bounded project driven by specific motivations and enacted by named individuals, and with particular observable, empirical outcomes by which to judge it a success or failure. But the New Deal refuses to sit still and reveal itself as a discrete object of analysis. A movement spurred in part by anti-monopoly fervor, credited with “saving capitalism,” while buttressing labor unions and adding millions to the Federal payroll, defies the fixity one might wish to ascribe to a “dead” political project. Although the shorthand “Keynesian” can with some justification be applied to an economic strategy centrally concerned with employment and demand-side management, it is nevertheless possible to identify, as Brinkley (1998) illustrates, several contradictory and overlapping ideological stances, and numerous differentially interested parties, at all levels of New Deal planning and implementation. As many scholars have noted, the Roosevelt regime was, throughout the process of government expansion, concerned to maintain the fundamentally capitalist basis of the US economy and at least to pay lip service to the notion of a balanced budget (Krugman, 2008). The initial 1933 iteration of the New Deal preceded by some three years the publication of John Maynard Keynes’ magnum opus, the textbook of the “Keynesian revolution,” General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money (2006 [1936]). The distinction between the “intended” meaning of Keynes’ work, and the political-economic projects which came to be known, implemented, and ultimately demonized as Keynesian, represents a fascinating debate in the historiography of twentieth century economics. Defending Keynes against charges of Keynesianism (Toye, 1993) is beyond the scope of this discussion. Suffice it to say that “Keynesian” is a useful (and familiar) sign to use heuristically as a descriptor of New Deal era economics, even as we recognize that the New Deal’s various authors,

1102

A. Boulton

practitioners, and armchair pundits (like ourselves) will apply their own interpretive frames. Pinning down the precise “character” or fixed essences of the New Deal is, as its chief economist attested, a futile exercise. Typically, the New Deal narrative proceeds by attempting to periodize the program. Usually this is done by asserting a break between a “first” New Deal (1933–1935) and a “second” New Deal (1935s–1940s). In the first iteration the emphasis was on macroeconomic supply management, principally via price-fixing, which was designed to bring farm production in line with demand. The major basis of this price-fixing, the 1933 Agricultural Adjustment Act (AAA), was ruled unconstitutional in its original guise, but reintroduced by 1935. The “second New Deal” was the source of the WPA. It is this second New Deal era that is most readily classified as “Keynesian,” with its more obvious wage and labor focus, principally via the WPA. The New Deal is very much “alive” both as an object of scholarly inquiry, and also as a powerful, evocative, and controversial motif in the American politicaleconomic imagination. One can scarcely find a considered “expert” take on the present global financial crisis – or for that matter a polemical newspaper column or blog post – that does not make some more-or-less approving or disparaging connection between the crisis and the Great Depression or between current and past policymaking. The “specter of economic crises past,” in the figure of Franklin D. Roosevelt, re-emerged in 2008 and 2009, as opposing political ideologues made competing claims about the New Deal’s legacy. At stake are both the unclear impacts of the New Deal on employment and economic growth and, more virulently, the various ideological assertions about its effectiveness, its “morality,” its “socialism” etc. There are, perhaps, as many economists and political commentators as there are “verdicts” on the New Deal. William Shughart II, an economist who has written extensively on the New Deal, does not demur to declare that “whatever else might be said about the New Deal. . .the fact of the matter is that it did not work” (2003: 394). There is, of course, a need for caution in considering Shughart’s (or the contrary) analysis. What would it mean for an economic recovery plan “to work?” Did the New Deal work? How can we judge, less than a year in, the chances of success for the combined TARP/ARRA plans? We can address, if not “answer” this question about success with reference to our two cuts, viz., engineering and architecture. The open question about the “success” of the New Deal – insofar as such a question could ever be answered adequately – hinges, frequently, on the question of employment and economic growth. Analyzing the success of the New Deal on either dimension is not simply a matter of acquiring and studying unemployment and economic output numbers. In a time of crisis and upheaval, economic processes and “shocks” exogenous to the direct operations of government plans work to “force” economic data in particular ways. That is, the problem of judging “success,” even in terms of basic economic indicators, is one of knowing where to set the baseline. This uncertainty (how bad would the crisis have been without intervention?) formed a productive moment for the Obama administration and its advocates in seeking, explicitly, to account for (if not use politically) the fear of inaction in its economic strategizing.

62

Engineering and the Architecture of Economic Recovery

1103

62.7 “Saving” Jobs: Conclusions As the U.S. unemployment rate exceeded 10% for the first time in more than a quarter century in November of 2009, the “Jobs Created/Saved” ticker at the government’s Recovery.gov Web site rolled past 640,000. It was to much confusion, and not a little consternation and ridicule, that, eight months earlier, President Obama had made the highly nuanced promise that: Because of [ARRA], there will be teachers in the classroom and police on the beat who otherwise wouldn’t be pursuing their essential missions. . . . Altogether, we will create or save 3.5 million jobs – 90 percent of which will come in the private sector. (Obama, 2009)

Much of the debate around the “success” of the New Deal hinges on an interpretation of data – unemployment and GDP growth – and the baseline against which to judge those numbers. The Obama administration was keen to stress from the outset that an economic recovery might not necessarily entail a reduction in unemployment. This was a remarkable, if prudent, “admission.” The administration recognized in its political calculus that without some fundamental structural change to the global economic system the vagaries of the economy are far beyond the control of this or any other government. Instead, the administration sought to acknowledge, and to account for in its plan, the external economic environment, and broader economic trends. Christina Romer, chair of the Council of Economic Advisers and Jared Bernstein, the chief economist of the Office of the Vice President argued that, without a stimulus program, the U.S. economy stood to lose a further three to four million jobs over the ARRA period (Romer & Bernstein, 2009). The stimulus would need to counteract job losses to that point and future job losses. In this way, government intervention, having “saved” the free market, in the words of President Bush, would then “create or save” sufficient jobs to mitigate the worst effects of crisis (Fig. 62.4). When shoe store owner Buddy Moore in Campbellsville, Kentucky sold nine pairs of boots to the Army Corps of Engineers, he did not realize that he would become a national news story around which controversy about government Recovery statistics would coalesce (Radnofsky, 2009). Asked to fill out impenetrable online forms specifying the number of jobs created or saved on the basis of this $900 outlay of stimulus money, Moore’s daughter took a guess. Like those of the CCC boys 80 years earlier, the conservation and environmental jobs of the Army Corps personnel were safe in the present recession. “9,” she wrote, the number of “jobs for people to work for the Corp.” The disjuncture between the New Deal and TARP/ARRA as exemplary moments in the “engineering” and “architecture” modes of economic strategizing is not, as we have seen, absolute. As Roosevelt sought to put the unemployed to work on a program of public works, so infrastructure works are prominently featured in ARRA. The ongoing attempts to engineer an economic recovery in the early twenty-first century, albeit within a financialized economic landscape, are necessarily enacted in light of past experience. The American Recovery and Reinvestment Act is shot

1104

A. Boulton

Fig. 62.4 Actual and predicted unemployment rates under ARRA. After Romer and Bernstein (2009). (Graphic courtesy of Geoff Campbell, http://michaelscomments.wordpress.com/. Monthly, plotted unemployment data is sourced from http://bls.gov)

through with ideological, rhetorical, and material traces of economic recovery programs past. In the material and imaginative landscape of ARRA we see, again, the complex articulation between the space of the plan and the space of the laborer. In the case of the CCC, the men involved in tree planting, bridge building, and road construction were employed explicitly by the Federal government. There is no doubt that these “jobs” were, very much, “created” rather than “saved.” In the case of ARRA road construction (see Fig. 62.2), the labor involved is that of private contractors and (existing) government employees. The extent to which any of these engineering projects are facilitating, directly, the hiring of new employees is a hotly disputed topic. What is notable though is that job creation within the ARRA plan is sold as a long term outcome of the financial architectural interventions that are shoring up the economy, and of longer run investments in human capital (via training and education). As with the megaengineering projects of the Pyramid and the cloud, the meanings and the legacies of TARP and ARRA are, and will be multiple, contested, and complex. Like the Pyramid and the cloud, and like recovery plans past, this current recovery plan is busy producing and reproducing lasting imprints and contested places in the collective imagination, and the political, economic and material landscape. Acknowledgment Thank you to Vickie Carson at the Mammoth Cave National Park for sourcing the CCC photographs used in this chapter, and to Geoff Campbell and the folks at Innocent Bystanders and HotAir.com for their assistance with Figure 62.4. Big thanks to Sue Roberts for discussing with me some of the ideas in this chapter (errors and omissions are mine).

62

Engineering and the Architecture of Economic Recovery

1105

Note 1. In contrast, some 37% of the Works Progress Administration (WPA) budget was accounted for by highway construction and repair in the eighteen months to December 1936 (WPA, 1937).

References Aalbers, M. (2008). The Financialization of home and the mortgage market crisis. Competition and Change, 12(2), 148–166. Arrighi, G. (1994). The long twentieth century: Money, power, and the origins of our times. New York: Verso. Boulton, A. (2010). Just Maps: Google’s democratic Map-Making Community? Cartographica, 45(1), 1–4. Brinkley, A. (1998). Liberalism and its discontents. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. CNN. (2008). Bush: Bailout plan necessary to deal with crisis. Retrieved September 25, 2009, from http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/09/24/bush.bailout/index.html Devriendt, L., Boulton, A., Brunn, S. D., Derudder, B., & Witlox, F. (2009). Major cities in the information world: Monitoring cyberspace in real-time. Global and World Cities Research Bulletin, 308. Retrieved from http://www.lboro.ac.uk/gawc/rb/rb308.html Devriendt, L., Derudder, B., & F. Witlox (2008). Cyberplace and cyberspace: Two approaches to analyzing digital intercity linkages. Journal of Urban Technology, 15(2), 5–32. Harvey, D. (2009). Why the U.S. stimulus package is bound to fail. The Bullet: A Socialist Project e-bulletin, 184, February 12, 2009. Keynes, J. (2006 [1936]). The general theory of employment, interest and money. New Delhi: Atlantic Publishers and Distributors. Krippner, G. (2005). The financialization of the American economy. Socio-Economic Review, 3(2), 173–208. Krueger, A. (2001). International Financial Architecture for 2002: A New Approach to Sovereign Debt Restructuring. Address at the National Economists’ Club, November 26, 2001. Retrieved from http://www-personal.umich.edu/∼kathrynd/IMFDebtRestructuring.Krueger.pdf Krugman, P. (2008). Franklin Delano Obama? New York Times November 10, 2008. Retrieved from http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/10/opinion/10krugman.html?_r=1 Lefebvre, H. (1991). The production of space. London: Blackwell. Maher, N. (2008). Nature’s new deal: The civilian conservation corps and the roots of the American environmental movement. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Obama, B. (2008). Remarks of Senator Barack Obama. Toledo, OH. Retrieved October 13, 2008, from http://www.barackobama.com/2008/10/13/remarks_of_senator_barack_obam_136.php. Obama, B. (2009). Remarks at the National Conference of State Legislatures. Washington, DC: The United States Conference of Mayors. Retrieved March 20, 2009, from http://usmayors.org/recovery/documents/remarks-obama-to-ncsl.pdf O’Tuathail, G. (2002). Theorizing practical geopolitical reasoning: the case of the United States response to the war in Bosnia. Political Geography, 21(5), 601–628. PBS (2009). The Civilian Conservation Corps (program transcript). Retrieved from http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/ccc/transcript/ Radnofsky, L. (2009). In the battle for stimulus jobs, shoe Store owner tells War Story. Wall Street Journal Online. Retrieved November 2, 2009, from http://blogs.wsj.com/washwire/2009/ 11/02/in-the-battle-for-stimulus-jobs-shoe-store-owner-offers-war-story/ Rasmussen Reports. (2008). 63% say Wall Street, not taxpayers, will benefit from bailout plan. Retrieved October 3, 2008, from http://www.rasmussenreports.com/public_content/business/

1106

A. Boulton

federal_bailout/october_2008/63_say_wall_street_not_taxpayers_will_benefit_from_bailout_ plan Recovery.gov. “Track the money.” Retrieved from http://www.recovery.gov. Accessed November 1, 2009. Romer, C., & Bernstein, J. (2009). The job impact of the American Recovery and Reinvestment Plan. Obama Transition Document. Retrieved from http://otrans.3cdn.net/45593e8ecbd 339d074_l3m6bt1te.pdf. Accessed November 1, 2009. Schein, R. (1997). The place of landscape: A conceptual framework for interpreting an American scene. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 87(4), 660–680. Shaw, J. (2003). Who built the pyramids? Harvard Magazine July–August 2003. Retrieved from http://harvardmagazine.com/2003/07/who-built-the-pyramids Shughart, W., II. (2003). The new deal. In C. Rowley & F. Schneider (Eds.), The encyclopedia of public choice. Dordrecht: Springer. Tadesse, S. (2001). Financial architecture and economic performance: international evidence. William Davidson Working Paper # 449 (August 2001). Available from: http://citeseerx.ist.psu.edu/viewdoc/download?doi=10.1.1.135.6136&rep=rep1&type=pdf Toye, J. (1993). Dilemmas of development (2nd ed.). Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. U.S. Congressional Budget Office. (2009). H.R. 1, American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009. Retrieved February 13, 2009, from http://www.cbo.gov/ftpdocs/99xx/doc9989/ hr1conference.pdf US Federal Reserve. (2009). Chairman Ben S. Bernanke at the Morehouse College, Atlanta, Georgia. Retrieved April 14, 2009, from http://www.federalreserve.gov/newsevents/speech/ bernanke20090414a.htm Ware, S. (1981). Beyond suffrage: Women in the new deal. Malden, MA: Harvard University Press. Western Kentucky University Library. (2010). Project: Civilian conservation corps at mammoth cave national park. Bowling Green, KY. Retrieved from http://www.wku.edu/Library/nps/ccc/ about.html Works Progress Administration. (1937). WPA projects: Analysis of projects placed in operation through December 31, 1936. Washington, DC: USGPO. Zook, M., & Graham, M. (2007). The creative reconstruction of the Internet: Google and the privatization of cyberspace and digiPlace. Geoforum, 38, 1322–1343.

Part VIII

Tourism, Recreation and Amenity Landscapes

Chapter 63

Engineering Singapore as a City–State and Tourism Destination Joan C. Henderson

63.1 Introduction This chapter is concerned with the city state of Singapore and its rapidly changing landscape, a great many aspects of which are the result of government intervention. The environment is shown to be exposed to constant development and redevelopment in alignment with official plans, often directed at realizing clearly defined visions of the future. The dynamics of the planning process, outcomes and underlying motives are all explored and the general approach is reflected in the tourism arena, to which particular reference is made. Authorities are seen to be especially active in their attempts to shape tourism and leisure settings and experiences and in the provision of a supporting infrastructure, illustrated by a selection of recent projects. A final conclusion comments on key points emerging from the analysis and some of the more general lessons to be learned from the Singapore experience.

63.2 Planning in Singapore Located at the southern tip of Peninsular Malaysia, the city state of Singapore comprises the main island and a series of much smaller offshore islands which have a combined surface area of approximately 683 km2 (244 mi2 ). Formerly a British colony, it attained independence in 1965 and has been governed by the People’s Action Party (PAP) since 1968. The PAP dominates politics in a manner which has been criticized by external parties, but there is reluctance amongst nationals to challenge the status quo (George, 2000) and an appreciation of the high standard of living they enjoy. At the same time, the electorate is growing in sophistication and the regime is aware that it is likely to confront and must appear responsive to calls for greater political freedoms (EIU, 2008a). Nevertheless and at least in the medium

J.C. Henderson (B) Nanyang Business School, Nanyang Technological University, Nanyang Avenue, Singapore e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_63,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1109

1110

J.C. Henderson

term, the displacement of the government is unlikely and its longevity has made possible the prevailing system of strategic planning. Comprehensive planning is a defining characteristic of Singapore and the country has been described as a creation of official “planning, decision making, regulations and directives” (Savage, 1992a: 16) in pursuit of a “consciously visionary future” (Perry, Kong, & Yeoh, 1997: 192). Officials argue that attainment of their visions depends upon economic success (Tremewan, 1996) and that such advancement is fundamental to the republic’s survival. These goals underpin economic planning as a whole (ERC, 2003) and land use planning in particular which is strictly regulated in alignment with policies devised by the government. Strong centralized control can be traced back to the State and City Planning Project, drawn up in conjunction with the UN in the post-independence years. The ensuing 1971 Concept Plan outlined a land use strategy, updated in 1991 and 2001 (URA, 2001), which is the blueprint for Singapore’s future. The accompanying Master Plan proffers guidelines and both are subject to regular review. Planning is the responsibility of the Urban Redevelopment Authority (URA), a statutory body under the Ministry of National Development. It is in charge of both conservation and development, working alongside other agencies such as the Ministries of Environment and Economic Development. The state has a legal right of compulsory acquisition and the amount of land in its possession had increased to 80% of the total in 1992, up from 44% in the 1960s (von Alten, 1995). Some commentators maintain that planning procedures have become more open (CheongChua, 1995) against a background of tentative steps towards “controlled democracy” (Koh & Ooi, 2000: 5). However, a top–down mode of operation (Powell, 1997) persists and popular feedback may be called for about certain matters, but is not necessarily expressed or heeded (Lim, 2005).

63.3 Changing Landscapes Following independence, Singapore underwent a physical transformation and this was especially marked during and after the 1970s. The plans made reference to above ushered in an era of industrialization and urbanization which, in turn, precipitated economic and social change (Dale 1999). Inhabitants of kampongs, traditional villages, moved into government built high rise Housing Development Board (HDB) accommodation. Uncultivated land and that once used for farming was cleared to make way for housing, roads and factories (Humphrey, 1982). Extensive slum clearance occurred in the city and people were settled in satellite towns and suburban HDB estates, an example of which is shown in Fig. 63.1. Many older buildings and structures were demolished to make way for office and retail construction and Fig. 63.2 depicts the modern city skyline. It should be noted that this photograph and others used in the chapter were taken before 2008 and that Singapore may have changed again in the intervening years. The coastline too was affected by the creation of artificial beaches and commercial development which necessitated the destruction of native mangrove swamps (Yuen, 1998).

63

Engineering Singapore as a City–State and Tourism Destination

1111

Fig. 63.1 Housing Development Board estates. (Image Courtesy of the Singapore Tourism Board)

Fig. 63.2 City skyline. (Image Courtesy of the Singapore Tourism Board)

1112

J.C. Henderson

Despite the privileging of economics and commerce, more attention has been allocated in recent decades to the protection of natural and cultural resources and their role in improving resident life. The Master Plan revision exercise in 2003 (URA, 2003) produced parks and waterbodies and identity and heritage plans designed to deal with “heartware issues – identity and quality of living environment – to make Singapore a distinctive city” (URA & MND, 2002: 1). The inclusion of a Leisure Plan in the 2008 Draft Master Plan (URA, 2008a) is also an acknowledgement of the significance of leisure and it proposes the extension of parkland and nature-based attractions and activities (URA, 2008b). Interest in conservation within the government has become more apparent compared to earlier years when there was little enthusiasm about such issues in the rush towards modernization. The shift in emphasis is reflected in the Green Plan drafted in 1992 (MOE, 1992) which was revised in 2002 and runs until 2012. It promises that 5% of Singapore’s total land area will be reserved for nature conservation (EIU, 2008b). There are four formally “gazetted” Nature Reserves occupying about 3,000 hectares and 18 Nature Areas are identified in land use plans (URA, 2007). A degree of protection is also granted to listed historic structures and sites and the 1989 conservation master plan led to the designation of Chinatown, Little India and Kampong Glam as Historic Districts with their own Conservation Plans (URA, 1995a, 1995b, 1995c). These are zones of the city which were allotted to different ethnic communities by nineteenth century colonial administrators and views of Chinatown and Kampong Glam, the latter associated with the Malays, appear in Figs. 63.3 and 63.4. The URA contends that it seeks to strike a balance in the exercise of its dual responsibilities, but development and maximizing economic returns from the use of scarce land usually takes precedence over conservation in official decisions. Observers bemoan the loss of natural habitat, especially the removal and degradation of mangroves (Liow, 2004), and the Nature Society claims that large percentages of plant, animal and bird species are extinct or at risk of extinction (Lee, 2003). The United Nations calculates that only 2.2% of the country’s surface area is protected for biodiversity and there are 100 threatened species (UN, 2007). There are also complaints about the approach to built and living heritage and its conservation, not least within a tourism context (Teo & Huang, 1995). In the case of the traditional ethnic enclaves, landlords are urged to undertake refurbishment and contemplate adaptive reuse in accordance with the belief that conservation and commerce are compatible and can engender productive synergies. Not everyone agrees with the appropriateness of the outcomes and the redevelopment of Chinatown and Kampong Glam and their presentation as visitor attractions has meant overcommercialization and a loss of perceived authenticity for some denizens and visitors (Henderson, 2000; Ismail, 2006; Yeoh & Huang, 1996). Irrespective of conservation efforts, development and redevelopment has been relentless overall and prompted comments on and criticisms of an excessively engineered and sterile environment (Chua & Edwards, 1992; Savage, 1991, 1992b; Waller, 2001; Wong, 2001). This includes neatly organized green spaces given over to “nature” and the coast where beaches of imported sand have been manufactured. The built environment too, especially in the satellite towns, displays uniformity

63

Engineering Singapore as a City–State and Tourism Destination

1113

Fig. 63.3 Chinatown. (Image Courtesy of the Singapore Tourism Board)

and lack of individuality. Parts of the island are no longer recognizable to older Singaporeans (Yeoh & Kong, 1995) or even the younger generation; much natural and cultural heritage has been lost forever and some of that which remains is threatened.

63.4 Underlying Imperatives The attractiveness and aesthetic appeal of Singapore’s urban, rural and coastal planned landscapes may be a matter for debate. However, the factors driving the planning process are less ambiguous and pertain to economic, socio-cultural and political considerations. The economic rationale is centered on fully exploiting the revenue generation potential of scarce land. Shortage of space is a serious problem and pressures are aggravated by the fact that a proportion of the island is reserved for

1114

J.C. Henderson

Fig. 63.4 Kampong Glam. (Image Courtesy of the Singapore Tourism Board)

military training and vital reservoirs. While there has been expensive and extensive land reclamation from the sea, this is reaching its technical limits. The economic security that accompanies efficient planning is also a means of averting tensions in a young nation of mixed ethnicity. Some facets of planning are directly concerned with race relations in Singapore’s multi-cultural society of Chinese (75%), Malays (13.7%), Indians (8.7%) and Others (2.6%) (Department of Statistics, 2007). Despite an absence of direct conflict, there can be frictions beneath the surface of harmonious co-existence which is officially promulgated. Nation building is a preoccupation of government and ethnicity is carefully managed, illustrated by the quotas imposed in HDB housing to prevent the emergence of ghettos. Certain manifestations of difference and ancestral cultures are celebrated, but feelings of an all-embracing and unifying Singaporean identity which transcends race and religion are promoted. Chang (2000: 35) writes about the government’s

63

Engineering Singapore as a City–State and Tourism Destination

1115

attempts at molding “activities, community and identity” in what has been termed its “social engineering agenda” (Ooi, 2002:701). In addition, nature and culture are forms of economic capital and their planning, encompassing conservation and development, can yield financial gains. Social stability too has economic implications and its presence reinforces Singapore’s reputation overseas as a safe destination for tourists and foreign investment, helping to ensure the foreign trade on which it depends. Finally, the political dimension cannot be ignored and the cultivation of prosperity and patriotism serve to consolidate the power of the state and strengthen the position of the government which presents itself as the creator and custodian of the country’s successes. Hegemonic motives thus unite with other factors to determine policy and planning can be a powerful political and social tool. Endeavors to shape environments may thus be symbolic of the official pursuit of order and control which is evident in other domains.

63.5 Tourism Policies and Plans Tourism is an important field of policy making and planning and this is disclosed in reviews of Singapore’s history as a destination (Henderson, 2005; Tan, Yeoh, & Teo, 2001; Teo & Chang, 2000). Physical constraints are accepted, but offset by product innovation and upgrading and creative and expensive marketing. Statistics for 2007, when over 10 million international arrivals and almost S$ 14 billion (US$ 10 billion) in revenue were recorded (STB, 2008a), attest to achievements. Many government agencies play a part, led by the Singapore Tourism Board (STB) which has a mission of building tourism into a “key driver of economic growth for Singapore” (STB, 2007a: 2). There was a fall of 1.6% in inbound tourists in 2008, although expenditure rose by 4.8% (STB 2009), attributed to the global economic downturn. The onset of a recession in Singapore and much of the rest of the world will clearly have consequences for tourism and poses new and unexpected challenges, but the ultimate outcomes have still to be determined. With regard to former challenges, ensuring an ample stock of accommodation and suitable attractions was a priority in the two decades after independence (STB, 2007b). The focus then moved to conservation of heritage and exploiting it as a tourism resource, reflected in the 1986 Tourism Product Development Plan (MTI, 1986), which highlighted the ethnic quarters and Civic District of the colonial period as sites with tourism potential. Another proposal concerned the Singapore River, lined with decaying go-downs (warehouses) and other business premises which were to be conserved and turned into new leisure spaces of restaurants, bars and shops. Such initiatives had a place in the more comprehensive Tourism 21: Vision of a Tourism Capital campaign which was introduced in 1996 and looked ahead to the new millennium when, it was planned, Singapore would be a pre-eminent leisure and business tourism destination (STPB, 1997). Existing assets were upgraded and novel projects instigated under its auspices; by this stage, Chinatown and Kampong

1116

J.C. Henderson

Fig. 63.5 Esplanade-Theatres on the Bay. (Image Courtesy of the Singapore Tourism Board)

Glam were undergoing development as tourist attractions. Complementary strategies included the positioning of Singapore as an international artistic centre in order to generate arts and cultural tourism (MITA, 2000). Critical to this objective was the construction of the Esplanade-Theatres on the Bay which was completed in 2002, at a cost of S$ 595 million (US$ 413 million), on 6 ha (14.8 acres) of reclaimed land where the Singapore River widens to meet the sea. The design of dual domes with an exterior of glass cladding, as seen in Fig. 63.5, aspires to be a national cultural icon and has fundamentally altered the waterfront and city skyline. The most recent strategy, dating from 2005, is Tourism 2015 which sets goals of 17 million international arrivals and receipts of S$30 billion (US$21 billion) by 2015. These ends will be pursued by enhancing Singapore’s stature as a “leading Asian leisure destination” while consolidating its standing as a premier convention and exhibition city and provider of healthcare and education services. An S$2 billion (US$1.4 billion) Tourism Development Fund (TDF) is a core element aimed at stimulating infrastructure and product development (STB, 2005a). The next sections outline activities in the spheres of leisure and related infrastructure where striking developments have been completed or are underway, hailed as part of a tourism metamorphosis.

63

Engineering Singapore as a City–State and Tourism Destination

1117

63.6 Redefining Singapore as a Tourism Destination The STB is committed to making Singapore the “events and entertainment capital” of Asia and one of its “most compelling shopping and dining destinations” (STB, 2008b). Official agendas and the scenarios of the future which dictate these goals give considerable attention to attractions which are built specially for tourism and leisure purposes. There is an emphasis on dramatic schemes, intended to revitalize and occasionally reinvent Singapore as a destination, and several of the enhanced or new amenities are characterized by their largeness of scale and ambition. According to the STB’s 2006 Annual Report, entitled “Uniquely Transforming to Greater Heights,” these possess the “wow” factor which will “help to transform Singapore into a vibrant global city and enable the tourism industry to make a quantum leap” (STB, 2006: 9). Advances are documented in the 2007 report, “A Unique Transformation Gains Momentum” (STB, 2007a). Marketing messages reinforce ideas of a destination which is lively and exciting, confounding commonly held opinions of the city state as safe and efficient, yet somewhat dull and repressive (Henderson, 2007a). Two integrated resorts exemplify these trends and were originally due to open in 2009, but will now do so in stages between 2009 and 2010. Marina Bay Sands, developed at an estimated cost of US$ 4.5 billion by the American Las Vegas Sands Corp., is oriented towards business travelers. The 20.6 ha (50.9 acre) site has over 120,000 m2 (11,148 ft2 ) of meetings and conferences space, a museum, shops and six restaurants affiliated to celebrity chefs. Architectural drawings in Figs. 63.6 and 63.7 afford insights into what the finished product will look like. It is located in

Fig. 63.6 Marina Bay Sands: Back view. (© Marina Bay Sands Pte. Ltd. 2006. All rights reserved)

1118

J.C. Henderson

Fig. 63.7 Marina Bay Sands: View from bay Aerial. (© Marina Bay Sands Pte. Ltd. 2006. All rights reserved)

Marina Bay, 360 ha (890 acres) of reclaimed land in close proximity to the city centre, which is slated to be a waterfront precinct with commercial, residential and leisure functions. The S$ 240 million (US$ 170 million) Singapore Flyer, a giant observation wheel (STB, 2005b), began operating there in 2008 when it could claim to be the tallest in the world, and the National Parks Board is creating Gardens by the Bay as a second Botanic Gardens. To date, government has invested almost S$ 2 billion (US$1.4 billion) in the Marina Bay infrastructure (URA, 2008c). The second integrated resort, occupying 42 ha (103.8 acres), is on the largest offshore island of Sentosa which houses assorted leisure amenities and is linked to the mainland by a causeway. Sentosa itself is in the midst of a 10 year masterplan, embarked on in 2002, to “refresh, renew and revamp” the entertainment and accommodation offerings there (MTI, 2007). Resorts World is geared to families and will have hotels, spas, dining, retailing, a maritime museum, waterpark and Universal Studios theme park. The Malaysian Genting International and Star Cruises are partner developers and final costs are anticipated to be S$ 6 billion (US$ 4.2 billion). A crucial component of both resorts is a casino, made possible by the government’s reversal of a ban on casino gambling which had been in existence since independence. The decision was controversial and caused an unusual amount of public debate about negative repercussions. The idea of the resorts was conceived by the government and execution followed a clearly delineated path from a request for proposals through to final selection in which exacting guidelines, project specifications and evaluation criteria were laid down (Henderson, 2007b). Official support was emphasized by the Prime Minister who spoke of the resorts as crucial to meeting the “overriding need to remake our city and economy” if it was to be “vibrant and dynamic” and a “cosmopolitan hub”

63

Engineering Singapore as a City–State and Tourism Destination

1119

rather than a backwater (Lee, 2005). The resorts are lauded as iconic structures of outstanding quality and visual impact which are being designed, built and run by some of the world’s foremost companies. Objections have been countered by assertions that they are central to Singapore’s prospects as a tourism destination and hence to the services industry which, in turn, is a pillar of the wider economy (ERC, 2002). Within the city, Singapore’s main shopping belt of Orchard Road is envisaged as “one of the world’s greatest shopping streets”, full of international brands (STB, 2008c). The road, pictured in Fig. 63.8, has been the subject of a two-year rejuvenation program which was concluded in 2009. Approximately S$ 40 million (US$ 28 million) was spent on illuminations, furniture, signs and event spaces and the street is divided into flowers, forest and fruit themes (STB, 2007c). The exercise is an example of collaboration in which the STB, Land Transport Authority, National Parks, URA and traders all took part. In addition, sites were tendered out and architectural restrictions were relaxed for two malls which will be ready in 2009. They each cost about S$ 700 million (US$ 490 million) and are filled by about 400 shops and food outlets. One purports to be Singapore’s tallest mall and publicity material for both talks of enticing jaded shoppers with innovative and stunning merchandise, shop design and architecture (The Straits Times, 2007). Further projects completed since 2005 are an evening entertainment complex in a conserved power station and Singapore’s biggest mall which accommodates 300 retailers in over a million square feet of sales floor. These are on the main island immediately opposite Sentosa and the two locations are marketed as a single leisure venue named the Southern Waterfront (STB, 2006). Agreement was also reached with the sport’s authorities for the hosting of the inaugural Singapore Formula 1 Grand Prix in 2008, the first of an annual series which entailed a degree of

Fig. 63.8 Orchard Road. (Image Courtesy of the Singapore Tourism Board)

1120

J.C. Henderson

disruption in the centre of the city where the race is run. Works included road widening, building a 1.2 km (0.75 mi) stretch of new road, removal and repaving of sidewalks, track resurfacing and erection of an S$ 40 (US$ 27 million) pit building which is accessible by an underpass and service road. The race is held at night on a circuit covering parts of Marina Bay and the Civic District and the lighting system involved the installation of 1,500 pylons and aluminum trusses around the track (The Sunday Times, 2008). Elsewhere, the Singapore River and its environs are set to be revamped once more by infrastructure improvements in a multi-million dollar two year program. This is spearheaded by the STB and URA, but backed by private interests (The Straits Times, 2008a). A group of six small islands to the south of Sentosa are also being amalgamated by land reclamation to form a new tourist facility, although its final character is uncertain. The original consultant’s plan of an “eco-paradise” seems doubtful due to investor opinions that it would be “complicated to maintain the islands’ pristine environments while generating maximum yields” (The Straits Times, 2008b).

63.7 Transport and Accommodation Infrastructure With regard to international tourism and economic activity at large, there is recognition that the “provision of world-class – and in some cases world-beating – infrastructure” is vital to preserving Singapore’s “competitive edge.” The same analysis concludes that the country’s “transport services are excellent” (EIU, 2008b: 14). Singapore’s Changi Airport is renowned for its standards of service to both airlines and travelers and it can now accommodate 54 million passengers after the opening of a third S$ 1.75 billion (US$ 1.2 billion) terminal in 2008 (Changi Airport, 2008). The other terminals are regularly upgraded and there are already plans for a fourth (TTG, 2008). Changi is home to Singapore Airlines which purchased several of the latest Airbus A380s, requiring airport adaptations to handle this largest of passenger aircraft. An additional budget terminal started operation in 2006 and has since been expanded (CAAS, 2008). These facilities allow Singapore to act as a regional and international air transport hub and connect it to the rest of the world in a manner on which its tourism depends. Singapore’s ports are amongst the world’s busiest for container movements and sea transport is another means of access for visitors. The Cruise Centre, built in the early 1990s and refurbished at considerable expense subsequently, is used by ferries and cruise ships. However, there is insufficient capacity for the super size vessels currently favored by major cruise companies and a terminal able to deal with the latest generation of liners is planned. Due to be ready by 2010 and located in the Marina Bay area, it will assist in realizing Singapore’s aspirations to be a primary Asian Pacific cruising hub. Internally, there is a well organized and affordable public transport system which integrates comprehensive bus and Mass Rapid Transport (MRT) services. The MRT

63

Engineering Singapore as a City–State and Tourism Destination

1121

is an above and underground urban railway with feeder Light Railway Transit (LRT) lines in some areas. The MRT is being expanded with a 33 km (20.5 mi) Circle Line and extensions in the west and south, the latter Downtown Line running to Marina Bay. Roads are of a high quality and a number of expressways cross the island, most lined with trees and plants to accord with notions of a garden city. Network upgrading is continuous and a new coastal expressway will be completed in 2013. Traffic management measures ensure that traffic keeps moving and there are few of the gridlocks which plague several Asian cities. Adequate accommodation is also a prerequisite for tourism development and most of the well known international hospitality chains are represented in the city with the densest concentrations near to Marina Bay and along or adjacent to Orchard Road. Many are high rise and of unremarkable architectural design, often belying luxurious interiors. While much attention is devoted to attracting upper scale brands, the importance of a balanced portfolio is appreciated and more middle scale hotels and budget hostels are being approved (STB, 2008d). The STB oversees a Tourism Accommodation Masterplan and Hotel Refurbishment Program, as well as acting as a facilitator in the review of streamlining hotel start-ups. Land use plans delineate sites for the purpose of hotel construction which are retained or offered for tender in response to market conditions. There have been concerns about a shortage of hotel rooms, especially given that 2015 targets call for a doubling in supply, and government has been releasing more plots of land for hotels in the city and suburbs. A total of 12 were offered in 2008. Innovative solutions have been considered by state agencies such as the conversion of vacant state properties into hotels and administrative procedures pertaining to hotel development have been simplified in a bid to avoid delays (The Straits Times, 2008c).

63.8 Partnerships in Development Singapore’s style of governing is agreed to be “highly interventionist” and this applies to management of the economy whereby “individual industries have been encouraged and the government is deeply involved in economic development, not only through its macro and micro economic policies but also through its ownership of firms in many sectors” (EIU, 2008b: 19). Physical planning is closely aligned to economic planning and both are underpinned by political imperatives, although socio-cultural and environmental determinants are also at work. Nevertheless, parties besides government contribute to the devising and execution of plans and these include domestic and international private businesses. In terms of tourism, it is understood that the STB alone cannot secure and sustain a successful industry and officials stress the imperative of partnerships within government and between public and private sectors. The schemes already made reference to in the chapter have provided examples of cooperation and suggest the involvement of architects, developers, investors and construction and other companies. An assortment of financial incentives is proffered to promote business start ups and growth together with investment, especially from abroad (Enterprise One,

1122

J.C. Henderson

2008). The STB administers Tourism Development Assistance grants for corporate efforts, separately or collaboratively, which are deemed likely to boost Singapore’s tourism. Tourism businesses can also take advantage of tax inducements such as concessionary rates for approved major events and an investment allowance for flagship retail, food and beverage and entertainment outlets. Those involved in inbound tourism promotion and local trade exhibitions can also claim a double tax deduction (STB, 2008d).

63.9 Conclusion The city state of Singapore as a whole might be perceived as a mega-engineering project which has still to be completed. Development is constant, reflected in the changing physical landscape of parts of the island and previous construction booms which resulted in a shortage of contractors and laborers. While some relatively undisturbed areas of nature do remain, especially amongst the offshore islands, and certain built heritage sites have been conserved in their original or adapted state, observers may be left with the impression of a work in progress. All places evolve due to multiple forces operating individually and collectively and many of Asia’s principal cities have seen transformation. However, the speed of evolution and redevelopment in Singapore is more unusual. The size of the country also means that development is spatially intense, rendering it hard to escape its effects. Government direction is very marked and there appears to be a resistance to organic growth and its attendant untidiness, as well as the disorder of nature, with the exercise of controls in pursuit of conformity with officially sanctioned ideas and visions. The philosophy and its practical expression are exemplified by aspects of tourism planning designed to revise and sometimes reinvent images and realities of Singapore as a leisure destination. Successes are evident, but excessive control can undermine the spontaneity and variety in atmosphere and physical surroundings which add vibrancy and interest to many world cities. Artificial attractions cannot always claim to be unique and may be bettered elsewhere while certain amenities and experiences may be widely available to tourists nearer home. There are dangers of globalization overwhelming local distinctiveness and the attractiveness to visitors of some manifestations of the latter should not be overlooked. The planning of Singapore as an economic, social and political entity in general and as a tourist destination in particular has thus resulted in physical changes. Many of the consequences might be deemed favorable and indicative of the benefits which can accrue from bold and visionary strategies devised by a capable and well resourced government with ample investment funding at its disposal. Such strengths can assist in overcoming tourism weaknesses of small size and a narrow attractions base. At the same time, the approach adopted has its limitations and could generate new tensions in various domains while overlooking outstanding concerns. The unique attributes of the city state may also limit lessons to be learnt and their wider applicability. Nevertheless, the case of Singapore merits further study as it advances

63

Engineering Singapore as a City–State and Tourism Destination

1123

on its journey to nationhood, full economic development status and perhaps a final stage of slower and less restrictive physical development.

References CAAS. (2008). CAAS awards contract for upgrading of Changi Airport Terminal 1, Civil Aviation Authority of Singapore Media Release, 14 February. Chang, T. C. (2000). Theming cities, taming places: Insights from Singapore. Geografiska Annaler, Series B Human Geography, 1, 35–54. Changi Airport. (2008). Singapore Changi Airport registers another record year for passenger traffic, Changi Airport Media Release, 28 January. Cheong-Chua, K. H. (1995). Urban land-use planning in Singapore: Towards a tropical city of excellence. In G. K. Ooi (Ed.), Environment and the city: Sharing Singapore’s experience and future challenges (pp. 109–128). Singapore: Institute of Policy Studies and Times Academic Press. Chua, B. H., & Edwards, N. (1992). Public space: Design, use and management. Singapore: Singapore University Press. Dale, O. J. (1999). Urban planning in Singapore: The transformation of a city. Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press. Department of Statistics. (2007). Singapore 2007 statistical highlights. Singapore: Ministry of Trade and Industry. EIU. (2008a). Singapore country report 2008. London: Economist Intelligence Unit. EIU. (2008b). Singapore country profile 2008. London: Economist Intelligence Unit. Enterprise One. (2008). Welcome to Enterprise One. Retrieved September 12, 2008, from http://business.gov.sg/ ERC. (2002). Economic Review Committee, Sub Committee on Services Industries, Report of Tourism Working Group, Ministry of Trade and Industry. Retrieved September 13, 2003, from http://www.mti.gov.sg ERC. (2003). Economic Review Committee: Report. Singapore: Ministry of Trade and Industry. George, C. (2000). Singapore: The air-conditioned nation: Essays on the politics of comfort and control. Singapore: Landmark. Henderson, J. C. (2000). Attracting tourists to Singapore’s Chinatown: A case study in conservation and promotion. Tourism Management, 21, 525–534. Henderson, J. C. (2005). Planning, changing landscapes and tourism in Singapore. Journal of Sustainable Tourism, 13(2), 123–135. Henderson, J. C. (2007a). Uniquely Singapore? A case study in destination branding. Journal of Vacation Marketing, 13(3), 261–274. Henderson, J. C. (2007b). Managing the planning and development of new visitor attractions: A Singapore model. Managing Leisure, 12(1), 24–42. Humphrey, J. (1982). The urbanisation of Singapore’s rural landscape. In C. MacAndrews & L. S. Chia (Eds.), Too rapid rural development: Perceptions and perspectives from Southeast Asia (pp. 334–365). Athens: Ohio University Press. Ismail, R. (2006). Ramadan and Bussorah Street: The spirit of place. Geojournal, 66, 243–256. Koh, G., & Ooi, G. I. (2000). State-society relations in Singapore. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lee, H. L. (2005). Proposal to develop integrated resorts, Ministerial Statement by Prime Minister, Singapore Government Press Release. Lee, P. O. (2003). Nature conservation versus development: The challenges ahead. Institute of South East Asian Studies Viewpoints, 5 May. Lim, C. (2005). A new model of PAP governance: Utopia or dystopia? The Straits Times, 10 May.

1124

J.C. Henderson

Liow, L. H. (2004). Mangrove conservation in Singapore: A physical or a psychological impossibility. Biodiversity and Conservation, 9(3), 309–332. MITA. (2000). Renaissance city. Singapore: Ministry of Information and the Arts. MOE. (1992). The Singapore green plan: Towards a model green city. Singapore: SNP. MTI. (1986). Tourist product development plan. Singapore: Ministry of Trade and Industry. MTI. (2007). Speech by Minister of State for Trade and Industry. Ministry of Trade and Industry Press Release, 26 March. Ooi, C. S. (2002). Contrasting strategies: Tourism in Denmark and Singapore. Annals of Tourism Research, 29(3), 689–706. Perry, M., Kong, L., & Yeoh, B. (1997). Singapore: A developmental city state. Chichester: John Wiley. Powell, R. (1997). Erasing memory, inventing tradition, rewriting history: Planning as a tool of ideology. In B.J. Jones & R. Jones (Eds.), Contested urban heritage: Voices from the periphery (pp. 85–100). Aldershot: Ashgate. Savage, V. (1991). Singapore’s garden city: reality, symbol, ideal. Solidarity, 131/133, 67–75. Savage, V. (1992a). Human-environment relations: Singapore’s environmental ideology. In K. C. Ban, A. Pakir & C. K. Tong (Eds.), Imagining Singapore (pp. 187–217). Singapore: Times Academic Press. Savage, V. (1992b). Landscape and change: From kampong to global city. In A. Gupta & J. Pitts (Eds.), Physical adjustments in a changing landscape (pp. 187–217). Singapore: Singapore University Press. STPB. (1997). Singapore 21: Vision of a tourism capital. Singapore: Singapore Tourist Promotion Board. STB. (2005a). Singapore sets out to triple tourism receipts to S$30 billion by 2015, Singapore Tourism Board Press Release, 11 January. STB. (2005b). The Singapore Flyer: One of Asia’s most exciting visitor attractions, Singapore Tourism Board Press Release, 13 September. STB. (2006). Uniquely transforming to greater heights. Annual Report 2005/2006. Singapore: Singapore Tourism Board. STB. (2007a). A unique transformation gains momentum. Annual Report 2006/2007. Singapore: Singapore Tourism Board. STB. (2007b). Our history, Singapore Tourism Board. Retrieved February 15, 2008, from http://app.stb.gov.sg STB. (2007c). Orchard Road rejuvenation kicks into high gear. Singapore Tourism Board Press Release, 29 October. STB. (2008a). Visitor arrival statistics, Singapore Tourism Board. Retrieved February 16, 2008, from http://app.stb.com.sg/asp/tou/tou02.asp? STB. (2008b). Overview, Singapore Tourism Board. Retrieved February 15, 2008, from http://app.stb.gov.sg STB. (2008c). Tourism shopping and dining. Singapore Tourism Board. Retrieved June 15, 2008, from http://app.stb.gov.sg/asp/common/print.asp?id=8&type=0 STB. (2008d). Hospitality business. Singapore Tourism Board. Retrieved September 12, 2008, from http://app.stb.gov.sg/asp/common/print.asp?id=59&type=0 STB. (2009). Tourism sector performance for January to December 2008. Retrieved May 19, 2009, from http://app.stb.gov.sg Tan, E., Yeoh, B., & Teo, P. (2001). Tourism management and policy: Perspectives from Singapore. Singapore: World Scientific. Teo, P., & Chang, T.C. (2000). Singapore: Tourism development in a planned context. In C. M. Hall & S. J. Page (Eds.), Tourism in South and Southeast Asia (pp. 117–128). London: Routledge. Teo, P., & Huang, S. (1995). Tourism and heritage conservation in Singapore. Annals of Tourism Research, 22, 589–615. The Straits Times. (2007) CapitaLand Far East unveils first new Orchard malls in 10 years. The Straits Times, 17 July.

63

Engineering Singapore as a City–State and Tourism Destination

1125

The Straits Times. (2008a). Snazzy water taxis to liven up the river. The Straits Times, 20 February. The Straits Times. (2008b). Singapore southern islands at crossroads. The Straits Times, 13 August. The Straits Times. (2008c). Twelve sites set aside for new hotels to ease room crunch. The Straits Times, 15 February. The Sunday Times. (2008) Grid and grit. The Sunday Times, 31 August. Tremewan, C. (1996). The political economy of social control in Singapore. London: Macmillan. TTG (2008). Singapore defends aviation hub status. Retrieved March 7, 2008, from TTGTravelHub.Net. [email protected] UN. (2007). Environment statistics country snapshot: Singapore. United Nations Statistics Division. Retrieved September 6, 2008, from Unstats.un.org/unsd/environment/envpdf/ Country%20Snapshots_apr2007/Singapore.pdf URA. (1995a). Chinatown historic district. Singapore: Urban Redevelopment Authority. URA. (1995b). Kampong Glam historic district. Singapore: Urban Redevelopment Authority. URA. (1995c). Little India historic district. Singapore: Urban Redevelopment Authority. URA. (2001). Concept plan 2001. Singapore: Urban Redevelopment Authority. URA. (2003). Master plan 2003. Singapore: Urban Redevelopment Authority. URA. (2007). The balance between development and nature conservation. Singapore: Urban Redevelopment Authority. URA. (2008a). Master plan 2008. Urban Redevelopment Authority. Retrieved September 6, 2008, from http://www.ura.gov.sg/DMP2008 URA. (2008b). URA launches new island-wide leisure plan. Urban Redevelopment Authority Press Release, 21 May. URA. (2008c). Explore Marina Bay. Marina Bay. Retrieved February 24, 2008, from http://www.marina-bay.sg URA, & MND (2002). Parks and Waterbody identity plan: Rustic coast. Publicity leaflet. von Alten, F. (1995). The role of government in the Singapore economy. Frankfurt: Peter Lang. Waller, E. (2001). Landscape planning in Singapore. Singapore: Singapore University Press. Wong, P. P. (2001). Managing beach tourism in Singapore. In T. E. Ser, B. Yeoh, & J. Wang (Eds.), Tourism management and policy perspectives from Singapore (pp. 266–288). London: World Scientific. Yeoh, B., & Huang, S. (1996). The conservation-redevelopment dilemma in Singapore: The case of Kampong Glam Historic District. Cities, 13(6), 411–422. Yeoh, B., & Kong, L. (1995). Portraits of places: History, community and identity in Singapore. Singapore: Times Edition. Yuen, B. (Ed.). (1998). Planning Singapore: From plan to implementation. Singapore: Singapore Institute of Planners.

Chapter 64

Val d’Europe: A Mega Urban Project Partnered by Walt Disney Company and the French State Anne-Marie d’Hauteserre

64.1 Introduction Enormous socio-cultural, economic, technological and spatial changes are re-inventing the city. The public sector had planned the “urbanization” of this sector in the early 1960s, twenty years before the Walt Disney Company showed an interest. The localities of the city are part of a wider set of relations, an ensemble of the economic, political and cultural moments which are also shaped by the effects of the changing global and national positions of cities bound in turn to the changing fortunes of capital. Shifting landscapes created by multinationals in their quest for the best return on their investments illustrate the structural changes of the global economy which have, for example, led an American corporation to implant a major American artifact in the Francilian landscape. Val d’Europe, the urban project that contains the park Disneyland Paris, is embedded in the French state’s New Towns project (Fig. 64.1). Economic success does not last forever. To remain vital, economies need to continually assess their assets and liabilities, redeploy their unique qualities, capacities and comparative advantages and redefine their vulnerabilities. Policy-makers have attempted to capitalize on service-sector advantages, including new leisure activities and real estate development (planning for tourism has been attractive because tourist destinations combine these elements), as a way of dealing with otherwise intractable economic and social problems brought about by the transformation of cities into sites of consumption. Policies promoting physical redevelopment through publicprivate partnerships were heralded as the key to economic success (Fainstein, 1994) as “otherwise capitalism could not avoid socialization deficits” (Altvater, 1993: 15). Such partnerships offer a framework within which strategies of accumulation can be developed for all partners. This chapter examines the origin, successes, challenges, and a possible future for Val d’Europe, the fourth sector of the new town of Marne-La-Vallée, a project of A.-M. d’Hauteserre (B) Department of Geography, University of Waikato, Hamilton, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_64,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1127

1128

A.-M. d’Hauteserre

Fig. 64.1 The location of the new town of Marne-La-Vallée and of Val d’Europe (sector IV)

national importance built in partnership by the French state and the Walt Disney Company (Fig. 64.2). The original plan for the 1943 ha (as expressed in the Projet d’Intérêt Général) (4799 acres) sought to combine: (a) the largest tourism destination in Europe, (b) a large urban centre with 1 million m2 (10.7 million ft2 ) of offices, a 100,000 m2 (1,076,000 ft2 ) commercial centre accessible by the regional metro, a university and a hospital, housing and a TGV station and (c) housing developments and services around the existing five rural villages. The project has had impacts on the space it occupies and on its occupants (past, present and future), on the organization of everyday life and as representations of modes of living. It demonstrates the spatially extensive character of the economic networks that our lives depend on. It has created issues about power, leisure, government priorities, representation, quality of life and environmental footprint. Both sides remain comforted in their partnership by the brisk sale of the properties and the continually large numbers of visitors to all the tourist attractions in and around Val d’Europe.

64

A Mega Urban Project Partnered by Walt Disney Company and the French State

1129

Fig. 64.2 The extent of Val d’Europe and the area developed by the Walt Disney Company (as Eurodisney SCA)

64.2 Origins: The Framework The implementation of the Disneyland Paris project in France would have been impossible without the planning culture and structures set up by the French government. Many governments have identified planning as an appropriate device to

1130

A.-M. d’Hauteserre

address social objectives, environmental protection, and landscape enhancement. Beauregard (1990) and Friedmann (1987) emphasize the morality of planning, its goals of social justice and redistribution. This project happened because it could be included in the Master Plan devised for the Paris Basin (SDAURP, 1965) and because of the structures set up to ensure the implementation of the plan. The many criticisms leveled at the French government for inserting this foreign project in the French landscape were answered by mechanisms which have since protected the area from unscrupulous activities the Walt Disney Company might have reverted to in free market conditions. The French state and its representatives have always believed in state intervention and state planning. A committee for the expansion of Paris was established by the Prefect of the Seine as early as 1910. Between 1960 and 1980 France was flourishing economically and the future seemed assured thanks to state planning. The state developed flexible SDAU (Schémas Directeurs d’Aménagement Urbain), which organized future development along chosen axes for major urban areas and later for smaller ones (SDAURP, 1966, 1992; SDRIF, 2006 for the Paris region). These plans included the implementation of New Towns based on ZADs (Zones d’Aménagement Differé). ZADs permit land to be pre-empted long before it is purchased, 8600 ha (16,796 acres) in the case of the new town of Marne-La-Vallée (Roullier, 1993). They were an attempt to respond to the challenges of the new urban order, reshaping and restructuring initiatives. In the spirit of the original legislation for New Towns, the goals of the Val d’Europe urban project remain the creation of a harmonious urban environment. In order to manage its territory, the community must come up with a strategy to control investments and land uses that it can oppose to private strategies. The Prost plan of 1941 served as a basis for the PADOG (1960), a mid-term plan (40 years) to control the growth of the Paris conurbation. Three of the main urban nuclei that it suggested creating in the suburbs now exist, notably La Défense, West of Paris. The present Regional Express Rail (RER), one line of which gives access to Disneyland Paris and motorway networks follow the palimpsest it had set up. The French New Town project was established to also solve two of the main problems of planning: purchasing adequate land resources and avoiding chaotic urbanization of rural areas. A policy of anticipatory funding or long-term investment under government supervision was initiated together with land price control policies to channel development in the periphery of urban areas under the DATAR (Délégation à l’Aménagement du Territoire et à l’Action Régionale) created in 1963, a commission for land management and regional action. The state is still active in the 2006 SDRIF, the plan for the continued development of the Ile de France, to enable cooperation of various levels of government, a problem which the decentralization decrees had overlooked. A report in 2004 concluded that the New Towns played a major role in the rational and orderly urbanization of the Ile de France. Nowadays, they are more participants than managers of the ex-urbanization in the region (Programme InterMinistériel, 2005). One third of the new residents of Ile de France, since 1968, have opted for the New Towns. The state has proved that a land resource policy tailored to clear development objectives is not wasteful or too expensive: of the 40,000 ha

64

A Mega Urban Project Partnered by Walt Disney Company and the French State

1131

(98,800 acres) bought by the state over the 30 year history of the new towns, about 90% have been resold or definitively assigned a function. The Disney project will have used less than 5% of that total when completed in 2017. The New Towns have since become true employment centers. They were intended as highly heterogeneous agglomerations of commerce, culture and entertainment, and industrial production as well as providing residential neighborhoods with a close ratio of residents to jobs. The Company’s priority has always been the coherence of the project. It defines coherence as the perfect articulation of all concepts used, their logical sequencing, their consistent functionality as well as their manifest aesthetics all organized in harmony so the end product seems to have always existed. This is particularly true for its parks, but has been systematically adopted in its urban projects. Quality directs work methods and methodologies as well as its spatial organization, within existing pricing constraints. The image dictates spatial norms. French companies learned to assume their respective responsibilities so the project could be completed by the deadline, avoiding bitter recriminations. Attention to detail and to the finish was essential. Some have admitted that narrative architecture and construction are just as “modern” as technological prowess. Another lesson has been the usefulness of a long term strategy of competitivity that includes productivity, proper salaries and continued education. The notion that “the customer is king/queen” has flabbergasted many, as well as continual last minute checks for errors, however small. The Company kept hovering over every detail of the construction of the parks and remains extremely vigilant over what others do in its name as they develop Val d’Europe (Architecture Intérieure, 2002). While the Walt Disney Company worries about coherence, the role of EPAFrance has been to maintain the objectives and the constraints of the urban characteristics of the project: an appropriate density of land use to give it/keep its urban character, the integration of the many elements which are being built over a thirty year period, into the final project and its high degree of functionality. This translates into instructions for each specific development: for example, the backside of the parks along the circular boulevard must not mar the view of future developments on the other side of the boulevard. Residential neighborhoods need to privilege diversity rather than autarchic social homogeneity. Discussions centered on different conceptions of this urbanity: Americans favor stacked parking lots above ground; the French prefer to build them underground. Americans favor segregated land use with larger buildings and roads, and broad open spaces. Europeans prefer denser and more diversified city blocks. The high quality of the projects resulting from these contentious discussions is recognized unanimously.

64.3 Economic Justifications The French government, in opposition to the intellectuals it subsidizes, concluded that the Walt Disney Company was a capitalist venture in search of increased profits. It was a successful enterprise whose continued growth the French government desired to foster because many of the government’s projects could benefit from such

1132

A.-M. d’Hauteserre

a partnership in order to revitalize the economy by attracting businesses and residents to the East of the Paris Basin. The French state was ready to shift its power towards service and commercial interests. The Fench economy was losing steam by the late 1970s, and the Paris Basin was unevenly developed; most urban and economic investment had, until then, occurred to the West of the capital city (the new Défense neighborhood, and automobile manufacturing in Boulogne Billancourt, two of the earlier successful new towns, etc). Representatives of the state never advertised such an agenda, but many indicated that they had encouraged the company to consider more than building just one theme park (interviews 2005, 2006). Bernard Ousset (the vice director of EPAFrance) confirms that “the challenge was not just to create a tourist destination. We also had to integrate that project into the SDAU plan to develop an urban centre at that location” (quoted in Belmessous, 2002: 23). France then could demonstrate its definite advantage over any other country in Europe since it was the only one that could provide the required acreage in a convenient location. The Walt Disney Company was to provide an economic growth pole in the eastern part of the Paris Basin. It offered an injection of capital and of specific activities that could encourage other investors to build the missing elements. In the Brie region, density of land occupation had been decreasing since the eighteenth century causing a reduction in the number of service centers. Industrialization and major transport routes would also shun the area. Few factories were constructed and those mostly to process food (e.g. Meunier chocolates). Local developers and community leaders also recognized that the coming of the Company seemed to represent a fantastic opportunity. As an official explained: “Disney guarantees us notoriety and invaluable credibility with international CEOs. The Walt Disney Company could not have chosen Marne-La-Vallée by chance” (Vachez, 1989). Urbanization of sector IV had been halting because of the 1973 petroleum crisis and the 1978 recession so only 60% of the housing assigned to the new town by the 1971–1975 plan had been built by 1985. The French state invested large sums in the creation of this important primary attraction because it wanted to position Paris as a major beneficiary of urban tourism: a “politics of space” at the national, regional and local levels (Storper, 1997). The French state wanted to create a site for the production of value that would be competitive in the new Europe as the Union is further enlarged towards the east: “the first priority is undoubtedly the opening of our economy to the outside world” (DATAR, 1970: 59). Disneyland Paris and the Walt Disney Company have been an integral part of the urban development plan for the capital region even as the central government was run by different political parties. They have all provided continuous support for the implementation of the project. The main characteristic of the project is that it is a public-private partnership, that is, the government and the private company each assumes those risks and responsibilities that are specifically theirs (EPAMarne, 1994). The state assumes judicial risks such as those linked to environmental impacts or the buying and selling of real estate. It thus assumes the cost of holding land until it can be resold. The Company takes on the risk of

64

A Mega Urban Project Partnered by Walt Disney Company and the French State

1133

exploiting and commodifying the various developments within the time frame dictated by the Convention. The French state was not interested in a temporary speculative investment disruptive of its surroundings. The insertion of Disneyland in the Francilian landscape was regulated by (1) its location in a new town. It enabled the resort to take advantage of policies that guaranteed the provision of infrastructure and supported economic development and (2) The Convention (1987) between the company and the state government. This latter established the relationship between the company and the state and other public authorities and their laws. Smadja, one of the main French critics of the project, described it as “an arid directory of soporific legalese and old fashioned language” (1987: 91). It permits the development of 1943 ha (4799 acres) according to a detailed plan, the Projet d’Intérêt Général, “to guarantee the harmonious integration of the Eurodisnuyland project in France.” The PIG sets out in great detail not just the time when, or the areas where the Company can build (Fig. 64.3), but also what, down to the exact number of hotels, housing estates, restaurants, etc. over these thirty years. The Convention determines duties and responsibilities of each partner, not just those of the French government, which critics have often confused with concessions to the Walt Disney Company. The state is in charge of building the infrastructure (roads, sewers, water mains, etc.) while the Walt Disney Company develops housing, commercial centers, industrial areas and builds and manages the parks. The 1994 financial restructuration did not modify the document in any way. The Walt Disney Company had to accept rules that discouraged speculative hoarding of the land acquired at low cost through eminent domain. It cannot buy more land than it can offer detailed development plans for, and such plans can only

Fig. 64.3 Modernist architecture of public buildings, Serris town hall

1134

A.-M. d’Hauteserre

be created together with the French authorities, represented by EPAFrance. Should the Company not complete its projects in time, the land reverts to the French government. EPAFrance was created (on the basis of article L321-1 of the Code de l’Urbanisme) specifically to protect the public and the local governments who would be heavily impacted by the project. This Etablissement Public d’Aménagement (EPA) would also guarantee the coherent development of such a large area through a well coordinated public sector. EPAFrance represents all public authorities in negotiations with Euro Disney SCA. The EPA is the master builder of the secondary infrastructure, for the French state, not simply as Disney’s proxy. No thought has been given, however, to the acceptability of the project by local residents or to the governance of the project when the contract ends in 2017.

64.4 The Company’s Perspective on its Invasion of France The Walt Disney Company, comforted in the early 1980s by the success of its franchise in Japan, conceived the notion of large real estate developments based on complete tourist resorts (Flower, 1991). Tokyo Disneyland had been consistently successful thanks to major modifications made by its Japanese owners to suit Japanese cultural preferences. The Walt Disney Company was not totally aware of these changes when it built and then started exploiting Disneyland Parks. Aviad Raz (1999) shows that Tokyo Disneyland is an example of successful important, adaptation, and domestication and that it has been successful precisely because it has become Japanese even as it markets itself as foreign. It is owned and operated by the Oriental Land Company, entirely Japanese owned, with a license from the Walt Disney Company which was little involved in any of the planning or running of the resort. The resort opened on 15 April 1983, as a single theme park (Tokyo Disneyland), but has since become a resort with a second theme park (Tokyo DisneySea opened in 2001), three (Disney) hotels and a shopping complex. It employs more workers than Disneyland Parks, but only 19% are fulltime. Ten million visited the year the park opened. Tokyo Disneyland receives an average of 16 million guests per year: 15,815,000 in 1996, 18 million in 2001, but only 13 million in 2002. Tokyo DisneySea welcomed 12 million visitors in 2002, in addition to those who went to Disneyland! The Tokyo resort celebrated its 400th million visitor in October 2006. The Paris resort is still dreaming of such numbers. Disney’s philosophy is to build an integrated system in which each Disney property enhances and reinforces the whole. “Disney is a real-estate enterprise which must exploit its holdings to the last square inch, without giving competition the slightest break” affirmed its then CEO, M. Eisner, in a press conference defending the Company’s penetration of the French market. It is also illustrated by the actions of the Japanese owners of Tokyo Disneyland who built a resort around it. The Company’s plans in the eastern Paris Basin, which ambitiously combined tourist and urban functions, that is, theme parks and other attractions together with offices, hotels, retail shops, housing, and sports complexes, required considerable

64

A Mega Urban Project Partnered by Walt Disney Company and the French State

1135

space. The Company had already recognized the significant advantages of a site in the New Town of Marne-La-Vallée as it had scouted sites in Europe since the 1970s. The decision to internationalize is a major strategic decision. Disney was looking for economies of scope and coordination (Dicken, 1992: 143). As the product matured, to prevent further market entry by competitors, it developed the resort in Florida and licensed the “Magic Kingdom” to a Japanese company (Lanquar, 1992). Disney’s ownership specific advantages reside in three intangible assets, its perfected knowledge in resort development, its ability to create new imaginative visual consumption products, and its sophisticated “Imagineering” skills. It developed a globally integrated competitive strategy to focus on its knowhow in resort development. The very localized consumption spaces that are its theme parks limited their (and their markets’) expansion. The Company needed to serve new markets in different locations directly even though the good was virtually identical (for more details see d’Hauteserre, 1997: 18–23). The company wanted to insure that it would remain the industry leader while it captured more of the world’s market share and augmented the size of the firm (Grover, 1991). The Walt Disney Company also relied on the fact that its products-division received 50% of its worldwide revenues from Europe. The global dominance of most of the Walt Disney Company’s products has made them recognizable standards. The Company also found a site that is an unavoidable through fare: its transport network could bring in millions of visitors (see Fig. 64.1): Spain or the London area would have given access to the European Union market too, but from a peripheral location. Spanish sunshine was not a sufficient lure and some architectural changes were made to protect visitors from inclement weather. The Company assumed it might practice the same kind of employment relations as in the US, which are considered regressive by the French. These have caused labor unrest and forced some changes on the Company, which might be partly responsible for a turnover of 50% (Guelton, 2003). There were some questionable concessions made by the French government, especially in financial matters (e.g. Lipietz, 1987). The Company, for example, had maneuvered to invest only 4% of the total value and yet own 16.7%. The French state would have showered the Company with gifts, but these critics forgot that the European Union prohibits any country from offering more generous financial deals that its competitors. It was falsely accused of selling land below market value (d’Hauteserre, 1997). The possibility that both were creating a synergetic partnership had not occurred to any of the critics. Michael Eisner had boasted in March 1994 at the time of the financial restructuring of Euro Disney SCA that he would prefer to close the park than bow to pressure by banks. He was posturing for the American public as the Convention signed in March 1987 stipulated that if the project were abandoned by the Company before completion, it would have had to pay EPAFrance to bulldoze all that had been erected to clear the site for other urban investments. It also had had to offer financial guarantees over three years to the French state to indemnify local authorities if it abandoned its project (EPAFrance, 1994). Most of all it would have been a great blow to the Company’s image, which is one of its main assets.

1136

A.-M. d’Hauteserre

Disneyland Paris, the park, recorded profits only after 1995 and these have grown very slowly since, muting all complaints about excessive earnings, and especially that it is not a space of leisure for the urban poor to enjoy since entry fees are very high. This relatively lackluster success has been attributed to the lack of renewal of Disneyland Paris and the small number of attractions at the second park, which are based on movie sets. Only ten were available when Disney Studios opened. Three new major rides were scheduled in the last years, but the heavy losses of the first few years of operation of both parks have restricted investment. The Company opened itself to criticism when it declared that “we want to create a site of creative synergy between leisure, economic activities and everyday living; we call this the Imaginative City” (Humanité, 1999). The “narrative of local adaptability and accommodation, inadvertently establishing the dominance of global restructuring over local social and cultural life” was reversed in Val d’Europe as the Company multiplied its cultural faux pas.

64.5 Environmental Consequences France might not harbor ecological radicalism, but its residents are sensitive to their environment. They have reacted to increased pollution and biological endangerment by demanding solutions to counteract their consequences. Environmental laws have existed in France since Charlemagne’s capitulary “. . . of Willis” was signed in 812 to limit the use of forests: the emperor sought to protect them from further shrinkage. Today France possesses the largest wooded area of Western Europe: it covers 26% of the country (CFNG, 1996). When the Walt Disney Company agreed to preserve a small wood stand at the very edge of Disneyland Paris, it was neither just an effort by Disney to look “green,” nor a token demand on the part of the French state. It was a requirement engendered in a long history of French environmental regulation. Protecting the environment was, however, neglected between 1914 and 1968. The first Ministry of the Environment was set up in 1971, and the law of July 1975 defined France’s waste policy. For the French, the environment is broadly interpreted to include jobs, demographic characteristics, and other social conditions, not just nature (Commissariat, 1993). The creation of the original park alone required the movement of four million cubic meters of land, the molding of 68,000 m3 (2,400,400 ft3 ) of rocks, and the construction of the equivalent of 17 large buildings. In addition, 85,000 trees were planted shortly after the signing of the Convention, and the sanitation and drainage work was equivalent to that required by a town of 50 to 60,000 inhabitants (Nouveau Courrier, 1992). While 11.8 ha (29.1 acres) of woods were scheduled to be razed, the company planned to plant the equivalent of 38 ha (93 acres). Of the remaining woodlands, 58.4 ha (144 acres) would be disturbed (some of the trees would be culled for camping spaces), and 84.6 ha (209 acres) would remain untouched. Untouched woodlands would suffer, though, from their proximity to the resort. More than 250,000 trees and bushes were planted, making Disneyland Paris one of the most wooded areas in France.

64

A Mega Urban Project Partnered by Walt Disney Company and the French State

1137

New towns were to provide a high quality urban life. They were required to maintain 20% of their area as open space in the form of parks, rather than just greenery. They had to manage precipitation run-off in association with water bodies and areas of vegetation and use them to structure leisure space. Many new water bodies, covering 32 ha (79 acres), were also part of the Walt Disney Company development. These might be used by the local fauna and would absorb some of the runoff created by the new park. This runoff (from 225 ha (556 acres) of constructed and paved land, including parking lots) was calculated to increase from 620,000 to 1,800,000 cubic m (21.1 million to 63.5 million ft2 ) a year. A station was built to clean it of toxic discharges. Most of the environmental evaluations of the Disneyland park that did surface were positive (Lanquar, 1992). The state had commissioned a cost/benefit analysis to help in its decision-making as well as an environmental impact statement (SETEC, 1985, 1986, 1987; EPAMame, 1988; IAURIF, 1988). Disney’s meticulousness fit well into the state’s new town project although it has never relied on nature itself, however carefully controlled. The Company is expert at exploiting imaginaries that exalt nature, obfuscating how manipulated its gardens are. The Company pays particular care to the landscaping of its projects, right down to its backstage areas, especially since they will become visible to the occupants of newly urbanized plots (Fig. 64.4). The Company has thus been accused of creating a “décor” that resembles more a stage set than nature; but it does not seek to blend into but rather to separate itself from the environment. The consumable “magic” in its parks is generated by technologies that improve upon the natural world. In Val d’Europe, the Company would be guilty of paving over nature and farmers for its own financial benefit (Alphandéry, 1996).

Fig. 64.4 Hiding the back stage of Disney’s theme parks

1138

A.-M. d’Hauteserre

The disappearance of agricultural land was the most publicly debated aspect of the resort’s development, together with the inevitable lifestyle change that it would bring to the villages included in Sector IV. Agricultural land has been transformed since 1979 in many parts of the country. Some lament that “fewer and fewer people can be seen in the fields” (CFNG 1996). The Brie area historically benefited from quality soils and a major nearby market (Paris) which had maintained high incomes for its farmers from growing estates. However, large farm properties have led to a continued loss of population. In 1960, 60% of the townships in Brie had smaller populations than in 1806 (Elissalde, 1991). After 1921, the largest farms had to employ mostly foreign seasonal workers. The number of farmers who lost their land to the Disneyland Paris resort was small. The French government recognized the legitimate concerns of the farmers to find equivalent working conditions elsewhere and it responded on a case by case basis. Farmers received sufficient monetary compensation so that very few complained (Rencontres, 1992). Those displaced by the larger urban project have had the opportunity to lease back their land and exploit it until it is urbanized. Capitalism’s most lasting product is new landscapes, which, in many places, it has rendered impermanent, forever exhibiting a new repertoire. But perhaps it can also support the discovery of the pleasures of wishful projections, the opening of perspectives on what might be. Planning in the face of the crisis of modernist urbanism need not signify a retreat from dreaming utopian alternatives, although it has often been accused of an authoritarian production of spaces that deny differences. Much urban planning has sought to escape from urban ills through selective regeneration. Val d’Europe was an opportunity to experiment on a large scale, thanks to a major investor, with progressive politics that seek social integration.

64.6 Challenges to the Walt Disney Company Walt Disney Company had to rebrand its park by changing its name from Euro Disney to Disneyland Paris within two years of opening. It reduced its pan-European ambitions and integrated it better within the company’s complex of family destinations. The theme park had to be modified so that it would not be so blatantly Americanizing . . . just American. Visitors to Disney readily embraced the enjoyment of flâneurs rather than the role of consumers: strolling to gaze at the magic tableaux and to be gazed at. They enjoyed the practice of social exchange but participated little in commodity purchase (Shields, 1992: 102). A French intellectual had predicted even before its opening that “of course, Euro Disney will be a success; people will visit . . . too anxious to find places where they can marvel. But they might not return” (Bakeroot, 1992). Return visitors reached 30% only, six years after the opening against 70% in Disney World. Publicity for the Park had to be adjusted to fit the specific parameters of each European country’s culture. Many Europeans consider America’s conflation of the various separate national identities in Europe as European, an act of American

64

A Mega Urban Project Partnered by Walt Disney Company and the French State

1139

cultural hegemony (Varenne, 1993). Some executives of the company made statements about its cultural mission in Europe that have led to a more critical scrutiny of its activities. An early publicity announced that Disneyland will be based upon and dedicated to the ideals, the dreams, and the hard facts that have created America. It will be uniquely equipped to dramatize these dreams and facts and send them forth as a source of courage and inspiration to the entire world.

The Walt Disney Company proclaimed that “it would help change Europe’s chemistry.” It could hardly mould a European culture since “a consciousness of Europe has never existed” (Benda, 1946: 96) which is still confirmed today by the difficulties of creating a political European Union. The Company’s opposition to Euro-cultural demands had sufficiently diminished the returns to investors by 1993 that the Company had to compromise. Although it counted 6 million visits over the first six months after its opening, their number started to decline. The amount of money spent per visit which was already lower than expectations (31 instead of 33 dollars) diminished over the first three years down to 22.5 dollars in 1995. The number of visitors reached breakeven point only in 1995 (11.2 million). The Company could have learned from other multinationals who had to negotiate culturally so that it would not have had to discover that “seducing the French government was only the first of many challenges” (Sehlinger, 1993: 11). French managers have been in charge and they have implemented policies more attuned to local cultural preferences so that this recombinant landscape is as much about importation as about exportation (as is the case of Tokyo Disneyland). The Walt Disney Company’s relations with Val d’Europe although distanciated penetrate thoroughly this area; they seem to have confused and juxtaposed times and places. One critic reproached the Company for its lack of innovative urbanization: its ideal city is naively perfect but, in contrast to the New Towns, lacks the ability to evolve dynamically (Vexlard, 2000). The architecture appears pluralistic and chaotic. The Magic Kingdom, true Americana, is invisible except to its visitors when they reach the gates. The Company insists, however, that urbanized areas around the Park must be developed coherently, especially those close to the ancient villages. The outward appearance, which has inspired the Village Outlet Shopping area (Figs. 64.5 and 64.6), of these five small rural villages that have always existed in Sector IV cannot be modified to avoid their invasion by parasitic activities, but many buildings have been renovated for their integration into the new urban area. The Company cannot be continually accused of creating heterotopias; agents of the French state and French architects too, have responded to the neo-traditional style(s) of the Company with provocative and sometimes disruptive “modern” designs (see Fig. 64.3). The Company is also constrained by the Convention conceived in 1987 that will continue to direct the urbanization of Val d’Europe. Few changes are permissible even if adhering to the original plans has sometimes resulted in convoluted adaptations. One example was how to bridge the railroad and regional metro tracks that were dug through the center of the future Val d’Europe. The commercial center has been built astride the tracks, becoming the main pedestrian thoroughfare of the

1140

A.-M. d’Hauteserre

Fig. 64.5 An old village street and its traditional architecture

Fig. 64.6 The “valley shopping centre” (selling luxury goods at “factory outlet” prices), copying “traditional” French village architecture

64

A Mega Urban Project Partnered by Walt Disney Company and the French State

1141

neighborhood. The Company is concerned with exchange values and profits from its real estate deals, while the present and future inhabitants are concerned with use values, such as the quality of life the neighborhood offers. These became confrontational when profits meant poor workmanship and unfinished lodgings and the only recourse being to obtain repairs from the Company. So use value would be restored through advertisements that the public could see: big ugly posters on the front lawns (Humanité, 21/09/1999: 41). Such confrontation illustrates “the complex articulation between symbolic universes of meaning, capital accumulation and space” (Gottdiener, 1985: 155).

64.7 Challenges to French Authorities Reproaches have been mostly cultural and financial: The state’s partnership with the American company was criticized as a “sudden, unmitigated introduction onto the Briard lands of part of the American dream (or nightmare), indeed a piece of subculture” (Lanquar, 1992). He may have based his critique on an earlier statement by Alain de Benoist who declared in 1981 that American imports would provide France “with a free world in the shape of Disneyland which leads to the creation of happy robots. It air-conditions hell. It kills the soul.” The 1994 financial restructuring of Euro Disney SCA and the fact that the venture has provided positive returns to all levels of government since the opening of the park (d’Hauteserre, 1997) quelled concerns about foreign exploitation. Some did resurface in 1999 when plans for the main commercial centere of Val d’Europe were made public (Duval, 1999). One French critic (Smadja, 1987) declared: “we are not basically witnessing the construction of one theme park, but the largest real estate development and construction deal of the end of the century,” surmising the complete smothering victory of the Company over a helpless state and the ensuing colonizing of the (ever so vulnerable?) French culture and economy. Another suggested that rather than invest heavily in new infrastructure and favoring a foreign company oblivious of the consequences on its surroundings, the state should have encouraged densification of the northern and eastern suburbs (Jacquin, 1993). The French state has affirmed that it would ensure, or at least not sacrifice, socially equitable and environmentally sustainable development on the altar of job creation and capital accumulation. It would also avoid that improvement explicitly reject the social variety of habitation and functions or explicitly seek safety by exclusion (CFNG, 1996). The concept of governance reveals unequal access to information and thus unequal power of stakeholders especially in global cities challenged by the governance of complexity. The power structures of local authorities, individually or when regrouped, overlap and compete with those of larger authorities such as the départements and the Région (Boyer, 1993). Yet, local authorities are now one of the partners of the development of Val d’Europe (as a SAN, Syndicat d’Agglomérations Nouvelles) and their interests do not always converge with those of the state or of the Company. The area the five small rural villages governed was limited at first to

1142

A.-M. d’Hauteserre

their villages. It has since been extended so that all of Val d’Europe is under the jurisdiction of one or the other of these communes (see Fig. 64.2). The area they govern does not correspond necessarily with that of the morphology of the urban areas: each one covers segments of developments. The five villages were extremely weak, even powerless when the project began: they were never consulted about it. Originally cooperation (and the will to cooperate) was totally absent. They will eventually (at the end of the contract) become one governing authority: only one mayor will be elected in Val d’Europe, creating frictions between the five who now share its governance. Decentralization prevents the state from overseeing local political coordination. There is no common pool of understanding in matters of public policy. Elected officials need to develop a learned understanding to create an integrated vision. Resistance is often due to a lack of information or from feeling left out of the loop, or from fear of making the wrong decision. The public interest or the desire of constituents is often ignored. Does Val d’Europe have character, which implies an identity with authenticity? The news magazine Express (Sept 12 2007: 7) worried about the sharp increase of real estate prices, a sign of the changing social character of the area. It also underlined the lack of sociability inherent in new developments. This last was denied by residents of Val d’Europe (IAURIF, 2006). Character is often an attempt to locate the social in built form (Dovey, Wood, & Woodcock, 2008), which the French state says it fights against, as per the law that demands that 20% of housing in any commune must be occupied by poorer families. The law does have loopholes. One of the five mayors of Val d’Europe declared that “we did not really want lower social classes to settle here as it would have cost us,” strange attitude considering the large tax pay-outs by the Company (95% of the budget of that commune). He added: . . .you understand, we do not want a city that becomes unfashionable. Just like Disney, we do not want our villages to become new towns [where poorer and/or migrant families represent over 40% of the population]. You will notice a great coherence in all the urban developments close to the park: the air is breathable and everything is clean. (quoted in Belmessous, 2002: 21)

Local authorities do not necessarily possess a common understanding of their public obligations: one commune (local government) refused for several years to participate in concerted discussions for the development of the region while its revenues (from taxes paid by the Company) were more important than those of the other communes (interviews 2006). It did permit the commune to avoid sharing its wealth with the other four concerned by the project. The promise of Val d’Europe is guaranteed well-being and safety. Lower priced housing and public transportation have, however, been made available so employees of the Parks can also live close to work.

64.8 Conclusion It is fashionable in France to critique any manifestation of American or capitalist (the two are often conflated as interchangeable synonyms) global hegemony and to

64

A Mega Urban Project Partnered by Walt Disney Company and the French State

1143

turn against the French government if hegemony seems to have gained the upper hand. France is, after all, supposed to uphold the ideal of an egalitarian society. The majority of the people, on the other hand, not only favors the Company but also often rejects any serious criticism of the meaning and impact of its representations and of its actions. The Company does carefully present itself as a soft friendly form of globalization so that criticism becomes difficult, even as its penetration is intense and persistent. It is much easier to vilipend the French state. All criticism cannot be easily dismissed in its case either since it has skillfully engaged through its institutions and agencies in the empowerment of preferred imaginaries. The existence of the Magic Kingdom and of its specific location as well as those of the Val d’Europe project is the result of the deployment of capitalist circuits on the part of the Walt Disney Company and of social action by the French state. Their combined aspirations created a partnership that settled on the New Town site of Marne-La-Vallée. It became the sole potential location in Europe for Walt Disney theme parks. Place is always in contention and embodies contradictions, but so does the partnership between the French state and the Walt Disney Company. The state is interested in developing spaces, in creating a city, while the Company concentrates on controlling the aesthetics of developments around its parks. Both, however, have worked in concert to find compromise solutions satisfactory to both sides so the project is still on track at least for the foreseeable future. Any change has the potential to affect a place; change is not synonym of positive development, but it can be guided to ensure integrity and vitality. Together, the Company and the state have created a kind of « exopolis » whose functioning is synchronized with the hyper complexity of contemporary urban life. Urban tissue responds to the demands of its occupants as much as to planning directives and pressure from capital flows. The French state can, however, assert that its urbanization project, the economic development of the Eastern Paris Basin and the attraction of Ile de France as a tourist destination, have all greatly benefited from the partnership with the Walt Disney Company (Guelton, 2003). The state must, however, continue to assert its presence for the duration of the project otherwise Val d’Europe could easily become Disneyville (Belmessous, 2002: 23). It will also need to consider transition modes at the expiry of the Convention.

References Alphandéry, P. (1996). L’espace d’Euro Disneyland. In F. Chenet, (Ed.), Le paysage et ses grilles (pp. 71–85). Paris: L’Harmattan. Altvater, E. (1993). The future of the market: Essays on the regulation of money and nature after the collapse of actually existing socialism. London: Verso. Bakeroot, W. (1992). Le dossier selon Disney. Projet, 229, 77–102. Beauregard, R. A. (1990). Bringing the city back in: The ambiguous position of US planning. Society and Space, 7, 381–95. Belmessous, H. (2002). Disney à Val d’Europe: la ville rêvée des anges. Urbanisme, 323, 18–25. Benda, J. (1946). L’esprit européen. Neuchatel: Editions de la Baconnière de Benoist, A. (1981). Le Monde, May 20. Boyer, J. C. (1993). La proche banlieue parisienne: une difficile intercommunalité. Laboratoires des mutations urbaines, 5, 31–36.

1144

A.-M. d’Hauteserre

CFNG, Comité National Français de Géographie. (1996). Les Français dans leur environnement. Paris: Nathan. Commissariat Général au Plan. (1993). L’économie face à l’écologie. Paris: La Découverte. DATAR. (1970). Commission d’Aménagement du Territoire, Sixth Plan. Paris: Ministère de la Planification. d’Hauteserre, A.-M. (1997). Disneyland Paris: A permanent growth pole in the Francilian landscape. Progress in Tourism and Hospitality Research, 3, 17–33. Dicken, P. (1992). Global shift: The internationalization of economic activities. New York: Guilford. Dovey, K., Wood, S., & Woodcock, I. (2008). Senses of urban character. In F. Vanclay, M. Higgins, & A. Blackshaw (Eds.), Making sense of place (pp. 229–237). Canberra, ACT: National Museum of Australia Press. Duval, R.-L. (1999). Euro Disney 2: les cadeaux de Chirac à Mickey. National Hebdo, 21/27 October. Elissalde, B. (1991). Marne-La-Vallée. Paris: Edition Moniteur. EPAFrance. (1994). Note de synthèse: le partenariat public-privé dans le projet EuroDisneyland. Noisiel: EPAFrance. EPAMarne. (1994). Analyse des retombées économique et sociales d’Eurodisney, Bilan 1993. Paris: Société de Tourisme International. EPAMame. (1988). Etude d’impact de la première phase de I’Euro Disneyland. Noisiel: EPAMarne. Fainstein, S. (Ed.). (1994). City builders. New York: Blackwell. Flower, J. (1991). Prince of the magic kingdom. New York: Wiley. Friedmann, J. (1987). Planning in the public domain. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Gottdiener, M. (1985). The social production of urban space. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Grover, R. (1991). The Disney touch. New York: Irwin. Guelton, S. (2003). Le partenariat public-privé dans une opération d’urbanisme: Euro Disney Resort (unpublished manuscript). Noisiel: EPAfrance. IAURIF. (1988). Effets prévisibles de I’Euro Disneyland dans son environnement de Seine et Marne. Paris. IAURIF. – Institut d’Aménagement et d’Urbanisme de la Région d’Ile de France – (2006). Modes de vie en villes nouvelles: le point de vue des habitants. Paris. Jacquin, J. (1993). Parcs de loisirs et développement local; deux expériences divergentes: le Futuroscope et Euro Disney. Laboratoires des mutations urbaines, 5, 37–54. Lanquar, R (1992). L’Empire Disney. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Lipietz, A. (1987). Eurodisneyland, un Projet sans Intérêt Public? Etudes Foncières, 34, 3–8. Nouveau Courrier (le). (1992). Eurodisney une aubaine pour les entreprises? April, 10–13. Programme Inter-Ministériel. (2005). Villes nouvelles françaises: rapport final. Paris: Ministère des transports, de l’équipement, du tourisme et de la mer. Raz, Aviad, E. (1999) Riding the black ship: Japan and Tokyo Disneyland. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Rencontres. (1992). La gestion territoriale des grands aménagements de loisirs. Paris: Ed Van Wilder. Roullier, J.-E. (1993). Twenty five years of French new towns. Paris: GIS Villes Nouvelles de France. SDAURP. (1966). Schéma Directeur d’Aménagement et d’Urbanisme de la Région de Paris, 1965. Paris: La Documentation Française Illustrée. SDAURP. (1992). Projet de schéma directeur pour l’Ile de France. Paris: Les Editions Porte Plume. Sehlinger, B. (1993). The unofficial guide to Euro Disneyland. New York: Prentice Hall Travel. SETEC. (1985, 1986, 1987). Impact socio-économique de l’implantation du projet de Marne-LaVallée. Paris. Shields, R. (1992). Lifestyle shopping, the subject of consumption. London: Routledge.

64

A Mega Urban Project Partnered by Walt Disney Company and the French State

1145

Smadja, G. (1987). Mickey l’Arnaque. Paris: Messidor. Storper, M. (1997). The regional world. New York: Guilford. Vachez, D. (1989). Mayor of Noisiel, quoted in Rencontres (1992: 52). Varenne, H. (1993). The question of European nationalism. In T. M Wilson & M. E. Smith (Eds.), Cultural change and the new Europe (pp. 223–240). Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Vexlard, G. (2000). Interview in La Croix, May 10.

Chapter 65

Dredging Paradise: The Making of San Diego’s Mission Bay Aquatic Park Larry R. Ford

65.1 Introduction San Diego has been dredged far beyond the abilities of local governments to pay; most of the money has come from the federal government. The Navy has been involved in most of these dredging projects since without dredging San Diego Bay would be too shallow for aircraft carriers and other large war ships. Massive dredging projects have also been important in the replenishing of 70 mi (113 km) of coastal beaches that are no longer natural beneficiaries of the now-dammed rivers (Keen, 2004). Most of the dredging projects have been in San Diego Bay where artificial peninsulas and waterfront extensions now dominate the shoreline, but the focus of this paper is on the creation of the 4,600 acre (1,860 ha) recreation area known as Mission Bay Aquatic Park. Beginning in the 1940s and continuing today, this huge, attractive and sometimes environmentally controversial park provides an excellent example of the role that megaengineering projects can play in the creation of a region’s sense of place (Gabrielson, 2002). A major question that emerges here concerns the role that such engineering and design efforts will be able to play in American cities in the future. While Boston, New York, Seattle, San Francisco and a number of other cities in the U.S. have leveled hills and modified shorelines in the past, environmental concerns, costs, and political conflict may limit such efforts in the future, especially compared to cities in the U.A.E. and China (Ford, 2008).

65.2 The Early Years At first glance, it appears that San Diego is an aquatic paradise with two huge bays, 70 mi (113 km) of coastline beaches, and a green river corridor lined with bike paths. What is not so obvious is that it took a long time and many expensive projects to L.R. Ford (B) Department of Geography, San Diego State University, San Diego, CA 92182, USA e-mail: (contact [email protected])

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_65,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1147

1148

L.R. Ford

create this paradise. We have no written records of Native American impressions of the aesthetics of the region, but we know for sure that the first Europeans to visit San Diego were not impressed. In 1542 the Spanish explorer Juan Cabrillo visited San Diego Bay while looking for a shortcut to China but apparently, he found little to be thrilled about and his reports were not glowing. No other Europeans visited the area for another sixty years until Sebastian Vizcaino gave the bay the name San Diego since he happened to arrive on the feast day of that name. Again there was little to write home about since the desolate and lightly inhabited region appeared to offer little reason for a return visit. No one returned for another 150 years. Even then, the area was seen as having no great importance (Ford, 2005). Father Junipero Serra arrived in 1769 after traveling overland from Mexico City. His goal was to establish a mission to save souls and to establish a presidio or fort. There was no interest in establishing a major settlement in this “paradise” and although this date is used for the official founding of the city, in fact it was little more than a cluster of huts. San Diego was lacking in both site and situation. Not only was it a long and difficult journey to any other place, but the semiarid countryside contained no dependable water supplies and no forests for the construction of buildings and ships. There were no apparent minerals or other valuable resources and the native population was small and scattered. Perhaps most importantly for the purposes of this discussion was the fact that the huge bay was shallow and surrounded by mud flats, making the off-loading of ships awkward. In addition, the (San Diego) river occupied a varying and unpredictable channel sometimes flowing into San Diego Bay and sometimes into a mudflat known as False Bay. As the river changed course, it sometimes flooded the small mission settlement of San Diego (Fraser, 2007). The river flowed intermittently with alternating floods and droughts. When floods came, so did soil scoured from the mountains resulting in a rapid accumulation of silt in the shallow bay. Something had to be done to make the place safe for living and good for shipping if the region was going to thrive. In the short run, however, things went from bad to worse. The native population was decimated by disease and declined from about 40,000 (in the region) to about 5,000. As late as 1850, just two years after the area became part of The United States, there were only about 250 “whites” (out of maybe 600 residents) in San Diego (Ford, 2005). The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo (1848) put the new international boundary just far enough south so that all of San Diego Bay was in the U.S.

65.3 New Town San Diego, 1850 The site of the original mission and presidio (now Old Town San Diego) proved difficult to occupy due to the changing course of the San Diego River. In 1850 a new town was laid out by entrepreneur William Heath Davis on San Diego Bay. This is the site of downtown San Diego today and also the location of the port. It did not take long for the new city government to officially recognize that the river was silting up the bay and destroying its capacity to serve as a port. This recognition

65

The Making of San Diego’s Mission Bay Aquatic Park

1149

marked of the first attempts by engineers to create a new San Diego. In 1853 The U.S. Corps of Engineers began work on what was known as Derby Dike and a channel to funnel the river into False Bay. The project was too small and the flood of 1855 sent the river and its silt back into San Diego Bay. The flood of 1862 was worse and many of the houses of the original (Old Town) settlement were swept into the sea. Floods and droughts continued throughout the late 19th century and the government dike was raised periodically in order to direct the river into False Bay (now Mission Bay) (Papageorge, 1971). San Diego was a small city of 18,000 at the turn of the 20th century. Its port depended on long wharves built out into the middle of San Diego Bay since sand bars and mudflats defined the waterfront. Even the main channel was still shallow, normally less than 25 ft (8 m). There were some attempts to dredge and fill in the bay in order to expand the downtown waterfront, but they were small and underfunded. Meanwhile, Mission Bay had become a marsh and worthless waterway as the silt-filled river now emptied into it on a regular basis. San Diego was far from being either a significant port or an aquatic paradise. It was not until the early 1950s that a major flood channel was built by the Federal Government to take the river directly into the ocean. It consisted of over 3 mi (5 km) of rock-revetted levees 25 ft (8 m) high. In addition, a separate channel entrance to Mission Bay was built in the hope that someday it too could have value. At the time, only a small spit of land along the ocean had been developed (in the 1920s) as an amusement park and beach resort. The remainder of the 4,000 acre (1,860 hectares) bay consisted of marshes and mudflats (Gabrielson, 2002).

65.4 The Navy Comes to San Diego The transformation of San Diego’s various shorelines began in earnest with the arrival of the Navy. The Spanish-American War of 1898 led to the acquisition of the Philippines and other Pacific territories (to go with Hawaii) which required a “two-ocean” Navy with significant bases on the West Coast. Teddy Roosevelt’s Great White Fleet visited San Diego in 1908 in search of possible sites (Liewer, 2008). San Diego had both pluses and minuses – a shallow and muddy bay was less than ideal but, unlike Los Angeles, there was a large protected harbor more like San Francisco. Another plus was the fact that there was little competition for space in San Diego. The bay was there for the taking. San Diegans wined and dined the officers of the fleet and convinced the Roosevelt Administration that San Diego could become an ideal Navy base. With the opening of the Panama Canal in 1914 along with the beginning of WW I, the Navy arrived in full force. The first bases opened in 1917 and eventually, the military occupied nearly ten square mi (26 km2 ) of land around San Diego Bay. At last, here was money and enthusiasm to dredge the bay and make it suitable for large ships. Over the next few decades, massive dredging operations took place and the fill was used for the expansion of the downtown waterfront and the Navy bases close by,

1150

L.R. Ford

and in Coronado’s North Island across the harbor. Fill land was also used building the city’s airport and a variety of aircraft and other defense industries in and around downtown. The Federal Government also played a role in bringing water to San Diego via various water projects because the Navy along with the giant defense industries needed lots of it and San Diego was small, dry and poor. As a result, San Diego got not only improved waterfronts and harbors, but green and pleasant landscapes to go with them. A paradise was gradually emerging.

65.5 Having Our Fill: Harbor Island, Shelter Island, Marina Park and the Coastal Beaches The Navy’s impact on San Diego during WW II and the Korean War was huge. Not only did the city’s population explode to more than a half-million, but also the bay was called upon to shelter giant aircraft carriers as well as a vast flotilla of support ships. Shipbuilding facilities and repair stations also needed space around the bay along with air bases and defense industries. By the 1950s the downtown waterfront, airport, and the various Navy bases around the bay had “had their fill” and it was time to find new uses for silt. The needs of the embryonic recreation and tourism industries gradually came to the fore. Two of the most significant projects involved the creation of peninsulas known as Harbor “Island” and Shelter “Island”. These were begun in the 1950s and opened for business in the 1960s. Both include public parks along the shoreline backed by giant resort hotels, yacht clubs and commercial marinas, restaurants, and shops. They are located close to the airport and a mile or so seaward of downtown. By 1970 they were playing a huge role in the tourist landscape of the city since downtown had no resort hotels and few tourist destinations. The biggest hotels along the bay were located on the islands. Not only did they have views of the downtown skyline, but also views of the aircraft carriers across the bay whose needs had led directly to the creation of the “island” resorts and parks (Canada, 2006). Another transformation of the downtown waterfront occurred in the 1970s with the creation of Marina Park. A large and underutilized fill area known as Navy Field was cleared and two “arms” were extended seaward to create a marina and park space. Seaport Village, a festival marketplace with shops and restaurants, was built and high-rise hotels and a convention center were added during the 1980s. Continuous expansion of these facilities during the past two decades has meant that downtown San Diego is now a major tourist destination. The dredged and totally reorganized shoreline has helped to transform the city from a place dependent only on the military to one known far and wide as an aquatic paradise with a wide variety of boat rides, harbor excursions, seafront shops, cafes, waterfront parks, and promenades. Even with the re-routing of the San Diego River and the many massive dredging projects over the decades, the build-up of sand bars is still a problem that must be dealt with continuously in San Diego Bay. Smaller rivers still flow into the bay and

65

The Making of San Diego’s Mission Bay Aquatic Park

1151

waves create “shoaling” or the movement of sand bars causing interruptions to the shipping channel. The Navy continues to play a major role in this dredging. Since most, if not all, of the major land-fill projects have been completed around the Bay, most of the sand is now taken out to replenish various ocean beaches that have been eroding in recent years. The rivers that once brought fresh sand to San Diego’s 70 mi (115 km) of beaches have been dammed, and so many beaches would be greatly diminished without these efforts. Care must be taken, however, because sometimes there are environmental reasons, such as kelp or reef protection, not to dump sand on certain beaches. In addition, there can be dangers associated with San Diego’s role as a military town. The dumping of dredged sand was stopped on at least one occasion in 1997 when mortars and ammunition from WW II were found on the beach at Oceanside after the Navy dumped dredged sand there. For a while, the sand was dumped 5 mi (8 km) offshore until new screening methods could be devised (Perry, 1997).

65.6 Mission Bay Aquatic Park: A New Scale of Shoreline Transformation While downtown San Diego and several other locations around San Diego Bay have become famous as tourist destinations, the vast majority of dredge and fill projects have involved the creation of space primarily for the military and secondarily for the expansion of downtown and port facilities. Recreation still plays second fiddle to Navy bases, military and civilian airports, defense industries, and a variety of traditional central city land uses. The entire bay front has been administered by the San Diego Port Authority since the early 1960s and housing is not designated an acceptable land use under its guidelines. The waterfront (except in the city of Coronado) is entirely military and commercial with a bit of park space here and there. San Diego, therefore, does not differ a great deal from cities such as Boston, New York, and San Francisco where dredge and fill operations have allowed for the expansion of downtown commercial districts along with port and shipbuilding facilities and military bases. The San Diego projects were also done piecemeal over many decades and often without an overall plan so again, there are similarities with other cities. The creation of Mission Bay Aquatic Park, however, is a different story. Over time, False Bay gradually became known as Mission Bay (Fig. 65.1). This is not surprising since lots of places in San Diego are called “mission” something – Mission Valley, Mission Hills, Mission Boulevard, Mission Valley Shopping Center, Mission Trails, etc. Of course, it was less a bay than a wetland or marsh, especially after the San Diego River was diverted into it more or less permanently. There were discussions about doing something with the 4,000 plus acre (1,860 ha) area as early as the 1920s, but nothing happened until after World War II. Only the sand spit known as Mission Beach, complete with an amusement park, was laid out in 1922. Visitors passed the wetlands by car and streetcar but there was little reason to stop.

1152

L.R. Ford

Fig. 65.1 Mission Bay aerial photo

The State Harbor Board controlled the area that was to become Mission Bay until 1929 when it was turned over to the State Division of Parks which then began to acquire additional land by purchase and from the contributions of local landowners. Getting this land transferred from to local authorities was not easy, but in 1945, it was officially transferred from the State Division of Parks to the City of San Diego. Several restrictions accompanied the transfer that made it certain that it would be a public park with only a limited amount of commercial-recreational leases and no residential land uses. Although the state legislature had designated the land to be a park in 1929, nothing much happened for a long time (Gabrielson, 2002). A Preliminary Plan for the Mission Bay State Park was completed in 1930 and a landscape plan followed in 1935, but the Great Depression and World War II kept people busy on more pressing matters. As the war came to end, however, two important issues involving Mission Bay came to the fore. One was the ever-present issue of the San Diego River and the need to create a better, more permanent flood channel. The other, was the looming threat of a return to an economic depression once war spending, an overwhelming component of the San Diego economy, wound down. The prospect of turning a “useless” marsh into a major tourist destination while controlling an occasionally rampaging river began to have some appeal. To create an aquatic recreation area in Mission Bay, the river would have to be channelized so that it flowed only into the ocean and not into either San Diego Bay or Mission Bay. Mission Bay Park was seen to be so important in the transition from war to peace that the mayor and council created a special unit within the government to deal with it in 1944. Glenn A. Rick, an engineer and former city planning director, was placed in charge of the operation (Rick, 2002). By 1945, Rick, with a staff of two, had developed a plan complete with an artistic diorama to present to the voters. Rick visited a variety of other cities from

65

The Making of San Diego’s Mission Bay Aquatic Park

1153

San Francisco to Boston to examine waterfront developments. In 1947 the governor authorized $1.8 million for work on the improvement of the river channel and Mission Bay. The city took on the biggest burden agreeing to spend $16.5 million on dredging, bridge construction and other improvements. By 1948 the federal government added $10.3 million to the project and work was underway. Between 1945 and 1962 the city undertook the dredging and reorganization of Mission Bay Park in accordance with a master plan first drawn up in 1935 and finalized in 1958. Glenn Rick retired in 1955 and by then the river was under control and most of the initial dredging projects had been completed. By 1962 massive dredging had created the basic form and structure of the park that we see today including islands, peninsulas and coves. The project may never be completely finished since dredging for new beaches and promenades is nearly continuous. Throughout the decades there have been controversies about just what Mission Bay Park should be and just what procedures should be used to create it. From the beginning there were many different interest groups competing to influence the development of the emerging park. Boating interests, including sailing, rowing, sculling, kayaking, and later wind surfing, wanted to maximize the water area of the park (Fig. 65.2). Environmentalists wanted to maximize the “natural” area to be preserved as marsh for habitats for birds and other types of wildlife. The tourist industry wanted to maximize space that could be leased to hotels, marinas, restaurants, and other active recreational areas. Cyclists, hikers, runners, skaters, and walkers wanted to have more trails, promenades, and bike paths. Others wanted to increase the areas at the edge of the park that could be used for beach cottages and upscale housing. Over the years, compromises were achieved and today the

Fig. 65.2 Kayaking at the park

1154

L.R. Ford

park consists roughly of 46% land, 54% water with 27 mi (44 km) of shoreline, 19 mi (30.5 km) of which are sandy beaches. No more than 25% of the land area and 6% of the water area can be used for commercial purposes such as hotels, Sea World, and private marinas and yacht clubs. Altogether over 25 million cubic yds (19 million m3 ) of sand and silt have been dredged to form an almost entirely human-made landscape of islands, peninsulas, and coves. There are residential neighborhoods on the edge of the park in Mission Beach and the Crown Point section of Pacific Beach, but the park itself has no houses. The seven square mile (12 km2 ) park is made up of many distinctive places, each with its own identity and set of land uses. Ingraham Street bisects the park with the help of two bridges, two peninsulas and an island (Vacation Island). Sail Bay, to the west, was the first to be created by dredging and it was carved out between 1946 and 1956. It is slightly smaller and calmer than the eastern bay and is dominated by rowers, kayakers, and sail boats (Fig. 65.3). The Mission Bay Yacht Club, The Mission Bay Aquatic Center, and the Coggeshall Rowing Center are all located here. There are speed limits over most of this part of the bay and there are seven relatively quiet coves as well as a larger (Quivira) basin. This was the first part of Mission Bay to be dredged beginning in the 1940s and some silt removal continues as new pathways and bike trails are built along water’s edge. There are also a number of major commercial leases, especially for large hotels, meeting spaces, and private marinas. Mission Bay Channel, the outlet to the ocean, lies just to the south of Sail Bay. Larger vessels, including sailboats with tall masts, anchor in Quivira Basin so that they can reach the sea without going under a bridge. The western edge of Sail Bay is defined by the “sand spit” community of Mission Beach and its many nice beaches are heavily used. The funky restaurants and bars of Mission Beach along with a 1920s era roller coaster attract locals as well as tourists.

Fig. 65.3 Sail Bay

65

The Making of San Diego’s Mission Bay Aquatic Park

1155

The eastern two-thirds of the park is dominated by Fiesta Bay and Fiesta Island. Fiesta Bay is home to the faster boats, skiers, personal watercraft, and, once a year, the big jet boat races. Fiesta Island is the largest island in the park and remains largely devoid of development. It is used by dirt bikers and 10 K runs. It has an unfinished look with little or no vegetation and often smells since it is the destination of more recent dredging material, including some particularly hard to compact silt. Since the late 1950s it has been the main deposit site for dredged material. The Northern Wildlife Preserve is located at the northern end of Fiesta Bay and this wetland constitutes the largest natural preserve in the park. Sea World amusement park is located at the southern end of Fiesta Bay. It is a major tourist destination and includes a large surface parking area. Nearby a tangle of highway interchanges facilitates access to Sea World, Mission Beach, Pacific Beach, and Ocean Beach. The eastern edge of Mission Bay Park is a narrow strip of land that parallels the Interstate Five freeway. Mission Bay Drive passes by a series of small green spaces and beaches as well as several major hotels. This is the Mission Bay that most commuters and visitors see when driving in or out of the city. A narrow waterway called North Pacific Passage to the east of Fiesta Island separates Fiesta Bay’s motorboats from the beaches, but offers relatively few cozy coves (Fig. 65.4).

65.7 Paying for the Park Creating a series of bays, coves, islands, and peninsulas out of a 7 mi2 (18.1 km2 ) marshy wetland has required a great deal of money over the past six decades. During the early years, the state and later city bought up land piecemeal which often involved interminable lawsuits. Dredging costs were always covered by a complex combination of federal, state, and city funds which depended on arguments that flood control as well as recreation were essential parts of the operation. For the most part, however, the city is now the “owner and manager” of Mission Bay Aquatic Park. The huge park is expensive to maintain since there are public beaches with lifeguards, restrooms, bike trails, a plethora of exotic vegetation, and the necessity of continued dredging. As a result, between 1962 and 1965, the city used scarce capital outlay funds to construct roadways, parking lots and other improvements in the park, San Diego voters turned down a $12.5 million bond issue (it required 2/3 approval). Since then, the city has turned to commercial leases to pay for the maintenance of the park, which has been a very successful strategy. Major hotels include the Hilton San Diego Resort, Catamaran Resort Hotel, Dana Inn and Marina, Hyatt Regency Islandia Hotel and Marina, Bahia Hotel and Resort, and Paradise Point Resort and Spa (Gabrielson, 2002). There are thousands of hotel rooms and a huge amount of meeting space in the park in addition to the yacht clubs, marinas, boat and bike rentals, and restaurants. Today, Mission Bay Park is a moneymaking operation for the city. San Diego collects about $27 million a year from hotel and business leases, but it spends less

1156

L.R. Ford

Fig. 65.4 Map of Mission Bay. (Cartography by Harry Johnson)

than 10% of that amount on the park. Supporters of Mission Bay Park argue that it is being overwhelmed by the 15 million visitors who visit each year and that it would take at least $400 million to restore the park and fix its problems. A measure was passed in November 2008 to require returning 75 % of lease revenue (that currently exceeds $23 million) to the park. Proposition C should raise $5–12 million for the park coffers annually. Opponents argued that this will tie the hands of the city to deal with all the other crises taking place throughout the city from fires and floods to landslides and education. In addition, some of the problems may be hard to fix. Toxic run-off, in part from streets, often befouls the bay after a rain and traffic congestion during summer months is an inevitable result of the park’s popularity. Maintaining a huge aquatic park takes money.

65

The Making of San Diego’s Mission Bay Aquatic Park

1157

65.8 The Future of Megaengineering and Monumental Projects in San Diego Will it be possible to carry out such massive projects in the future? Many of the leaders of San Diego concur that it is increasingly difficult to get big projects accepted and completed. In the past, visionary leaders faced little if any opposition as they planned and completed San Diego’s major landmarks. Balboa Park (with its Prado and zoo), the San Diego River channel, and Harbor and Shelter Islands were all completed relatively quickly. There are many more layers of government and far more regulations today since the Coastal Commission, Port Authority, State, and several municipalities must agree when it comes to big projects along the coast. In addition, there are many more special interest groups ranging from the Chamber of Commerce and other pro-tourist organizations to environmental advocates. Even relatively small projects like getting a new downtown ballpark constructed usually involved long periods of conflict, including lawsuits. San Diego’s light rail system has been under construction for twenty-five years even though much of it utilized existing rights of way. The prospect of carving a 7 mi2 (12 km2 ) mile aquatic park out of an environmentally sensitive wetland in the future seems remote. Although competing interest groups pose obstacles, the main problem for huge projects these days is cost. Citizens complain of potholes and street lights needing repair as well as deteriorating schools and other everyday infrastructure needs. Big projects have been proposed for the waterfront but the question of “who is going to pay” always arises. The one thing San Diego has going for it compared to most American cities is a heavy presence of the military. When the military wants something, such as a hospital in the middle of Balboa Park, it usually gets it even if there is intense local opposition. In the future, the trick will be to convince the federal government that we need major projects to “shore up” our national defense. Coastal megaengineering projects now seem to be proceeding mainly in other parts of the world such as Dubai where artificial islands in the shape of palm trees and even continents are being dredged out of the gulf. It seems likely that China and Russia, where there is much money and little political opposition, will create some of the most visible megaengineering projects in the future (Dredging Engineering: Dubai Projects, 2008). Perhaps, given the economic climate as it stands in late 2008, huge projects will be a thing of the past everywhere, despite the large number of “pyramid schemes” (like those in Las Vegas or at the Louvre). Even in Hong Kong, public opposition to unlimited dredging and land reclamation has become pronounced. Already the harbor has been reduced to half its original size by 3,200 ha (7094 acres) of reclaimed land and the government is proposing another 636 ha (1571 acres) reduction. So far, no such concerns have arisen in Dubai where multibillion euro projects are proceeding. At the moment, dredging appears to be an Asian phenomenon. In retrospect, San Diego’s past leadership had the foresight to dig us into a pretty nice place.

1158

L.R. Ford

References Canada, L. (2006). Sitting on the dock of the bay 100 years of photographs from the San Diego historical society. The Journal of San Diego History, 52(1 and 2), 1–16. Dredging engineering: Dubai projects. (2008). Retrieved October 29, 2008, from http://www.dredgingengineering.com/dredging/default.asp?id=38&mnu=38 Ford, L. (2005). Metropolitan San Diego. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Ford, L. (2008). World cities and global change: Observations on monumentality in urban design. Eurasian Geography and Economics, 49(1), 237–262. Fraser, S. (2007). The need for water: The federal government and the growth of San Diego, 1940–1955. The Journal of San Diego History, 52(1 and 2), 53–68. Gabrielson, E. (2002). Mission Bay aquatic park: The history of planning and land acquisitions. The Journal of San Diego History, 48(1), 1–7. Keen, E. A. (2004). Beaches, bays, and boats: San Diego’s coastal and marine environment. In P. R. Pryde (Ed.), San Diego: An introduction to the region (4th ed., pp. 109–124). San Diego, CA: Sunbelt Publications, Inc. Liewer, S. (2008, April 13). Great white fleet visit put city on navy’s map. The San Diego UnionTribune. Retrieved from http://www.signonsandiego.com Map of Mission Bay [map]. (2008). Scale not given. “Map of Mission Bay Park – San Diego, California”. Retrieved September 8, 2008, from http://gothere.com/sandiego/ MissionBay/map.html Mission Bay Park [map]. (2008). Scale not given. “Park Facilities and Permit Sites Map”. The City of San Diego: Park and Recreation. Retrieved September 4, 2008, from http://www.sandiego.gov/park-and-recreation/parks/missionbay/facilities.shtml Papageorge, N. (1971). The role of the San Diego River in the development of Mission Valley. The Journal of San Diego History, 17(2), 1–24. Perry, T. (1997, December 14). Navy under fire for San Diego dredging snafu. Los Angeles Times. Retrieved from http://articles.latimes.com Rick, W. (2002). Mission Bay: An engineer’s vision come true. The Journal of San Diego History, 48(1), 1–8. Skole, R. (no date). The big dig – America’s greatest highway robbery. Retrieved October 29, 2008, from http://www.bigdighighwayrobbery.com

Chapter 66

Earth as a Medium: The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction John Strawn, Jim Barger, and J. Drew Rogers

66.1 A Brief Social History of Golf 66.1.1 Origins Golf’s origins are obscure. Games resembling it, involving hitting a ball with a crooked stick, have appeared in various times and places, ranging from a sport called paganica played by the ancient Romans, to Song Dynasty China’s chuiwan, recently discovered evidence for which has helped legitimize golf in modern China. Similar pre-Columbian ball games in North America evolved into hockey and lacrosse. References to golf in Scotland go back at least as far as the 13th century. The sport now played worldwide on 18-hole courses, consisting of teeing grounds, fairways, hazards and greens, originated without doubt in Scotland, where its rules evolved after 1500 and were firmly in place by the end of the 18th century (Cornish & Whitten, 1993: 3; Price, 1989: 1–5). It is the Scottish version of a stick-hitting ball game, whose competitive object is to sink a ball into a small hole in the ground over distances ranging from roughly 100 yards (91.5 m) to as many as 650 or so yards (595 m) in the fewest possible strokes, which has spread around the world. The original rules of golf, emphasizing personal responsibility and steadfastness (“If a Ball be stopp’d by any Person, Horse, Dog or anything else, The Ball so stop’d must be play’d where it lyes”), reflected the Calvinist cultural ethos of the early modern Scots. The attitudes embodied in golf’s rules are as much a part of its legacy as the layout of a typical course or the manner of competing, whether by stroke play, where the lowest numbers of strokes over the entire 18 holes is recorded and the lowest score wins, or match play, where players compete for the best score hole-by-hole, with the player winning the most holes the winner of the match. Hurdzan (1996: 3) writes that: “Basically, a golf course is a spatial arrangement of holes on the tract of land with clearly designated

J. Strawn (B) Hill and Forrest, International Golf Course Architects, Portland, OR 97212, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_66,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1159

1160

J. Strawn et al.

starting points called tees and specific finishing points of four and one-quarter inch holes cut in the ground.” Today’s courses bear as little resemblance to the ancient Scottish golfing greens (the name originally applying to the entire playing ground and not simply to the closely-mown areas of turfgrass where the holes are cut) as modern playing equipment bears to the simple hand-crafted wooden playing clubs used in the game’s infancy. Golfing grounds are also often referred to as “links,” a name reflecting the typical landscape on which the first courses arose. Linksland refers to the sandy junction of earth and sea, where the dual effects of estuaries and tides deposited soils unsuited for agriculture but capable of sustaining grasses, sedges, heather and gorse. Linksland was typically part of a community commons (similar to the village green). On these treeless windswept tracts, dense with rabbit burrows and grazing sheep, Scottish fishermen and shepherds laid out the first golf courses. The patches of heather and impenetrable thickets of gorse among the fairways, along with the sandy bunkers where sheep sought shelter during inclement weather, provided the original hazards that made a trip around the links an exercise requiring forbearance as much as skill (Hurdzan 1996: 7–9; Ward-Thomas, Wind, Price, & Thomson, 1976: 12–13). Price (1989: 6) writes that “Townspeople [had] the right of using the links [in St. Andrews] for golfe, futeball, shuting and all games as well as casting divots, gathering turfs (to roof their houses) and for pasturing their livestock.”

66.1.2 “Scotland’s Gift: Golf”—Exported to the World It was C. B. MacDonald (1928), one of the most influential figures during the infancy of American golf, who used the phrase “Scotland’s Gift: Golf” as the title of his book on golf’s early history in America. He was also a seminal figure among the gentlemen golfers designing courses in the first decades of the 20th century. MacDonald also coined the term “golf course architect.” Although India’s Royal Calcutta Golf Club lays claim as the oldest established golf club outside the UK, going back to 1829, it was not until the second half of the 19th century that golf crossed the border from Scotland into England, and not long after that the first courses were established in North America. In these new environs golf was a favored pastime for gentlemen of wealth and leisure and not, as in Scotland, a game also enjoyed by working people. The Scottish game retained its popular status, enjoyed by traders and farmers as well as lords and gentlemen. The first Scottish golf professionals were also drawn from the trades, club-makers as well as tutors in the fine points of playing the game. Golf grew in Scotland simultaneously with British colonial expansion. “Between 1850 and the end of the century the number of golf clubs in Scotland increased from 17 to 195” (Price, 1989: 10). In 1859 there was only one course for every 120,000 people, by 1986 there were enough courses to make that ratio one course per 12,750 people (p. 21).

66

The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction

1161

It was the English social model of the golf club that would spread throughout the British Empire, while in America golf was yoked to a new kind of social organization, the country club. Officers of the British military and officials of the Empire built courses everywhere they went. Today the largest owner of golf courses in India is the military, a legacy of the Raj. A country club differed from a golf club in having private ownership of the grounds, and additional amenities such as tennis courts, swimming pools, or polo grounds. In America, too, as the game grew in popularity early in the 20th century, publicly-owned courses, or munis (short for municipal), arose alongside the country club courses, echoing the Scottish manner of publicly owned golfing grounds. In Scotland a course was typically supported by one or more private clubs, while the American munis were supported by green fees—that is, payments per round rather than annual subscriptions or dues. In St. Andrews, for example, the Links Trust owns the famed golfing grounds made up of seven courses in total, with the Old Course preeminent. The Royal & Ancient Golf Club, the most famous of the town’s golfing societies, with its grand clubhouse adjacent to the first tee, is both a rules-making body and historically the golf club for lords and gentlemen (Fig. 66.1). The New Club was the traditional golfing association for the professional class and the home club for lawyers, professors, and clerics. The St. Andrews Club was the artisans’ club, open to carpenters and masons and cabinetmakers. The first golf professionals were members of the St. Andrews Club. There are also three clubs for women at St. Andrews: the St. Rule Club, the St. Regulus Golf Club, and the Ladies Putting Club (Cornish & Whitten, 1993: 1–9; Ward-Thomas et al., 1976: 8–9).

Fig. 66.1 The royal and ancient club house, St. Andrews, Scotland. (Source: Geography project collection; copyright: Gordon McKinely, reused under the CreativeCommons AttributionShareAlike 2.0 license.)

1162

J. Strawn et al.

66.2 The Origins of Golf Course Architecture as a Profession 66.2.1 Golf in the British Isles Golf’s migration into new regions created a demand for experts in laying out courses, a service first provided on a casual basis by Scottish golf professionals and green keepers, roles often embodied in the same person, such as St. Andrews’ Old Tom Morris. Morris was not only the winner of the first important golf competition, The Open Championship (Fig. 66.2), he was a missionary for the game, planting seeds of its expansion throughout the British Isles. Old Tom’s portfolio included such famous courses as Carnoustie, Cruden Bay, and Prestwick in Scotland, and Ballybunion in Ireland (Fig. 66.3). Unlike modern golf course architects, who often work on marginal land or degraded sites such as abandoned quarries or landfills, Old Tom could scout for suitable sites first, and then lay out the holes with surveying instruments no more sophisticated than the reliable length of his stride. He would start by finding the best green sites, and then work backwards to the turning points and tees. Kroeger (1995: 35) wrote that: Tom Morris . . . would walk the property . . . in the morning and place wooden stakes to locate positions of greens, tees, and bunkers. Often in the afternoon of the next day Old Tom would play a match on the “new course.”

His courses are still much-loved by players and admired by contemporary golf course designers, who envy him his choice of sites. Very little or no earthwork was required in building a 19th century golf course. Axes and scythes and torches were the tools for the job. The occasional scraping pan, pulled by a horse or mule (Fig. 66.4), was sufficient to grade a teeing ground, but

Fig. 66.2 Old Tom Morris’s son, Young Tom Morris, like his father an Open Champion, wearing The Open Championship’s original prize, the Champions Belt. (Source: http://commons. wikimedia.org/wiki/File: Young_Tom_Morris.jpg)

66

The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction

1163

Fig. 66.3 Old Tom Morris. (Source: http://commons. wikimedia.org/wiki/File: Old_Tom_Morris.jpg)

Fig. 66.4 Building a golf course by hand in the “Golden Age.” (Source: Some Essays on Golf Course Architecture by Colt and Alison, copyright 1993, reprinted by Grant Books)

1164

J. Strawn et al.

this tool was invented in the U.S. and not available in the U.K. until after 1900 (see Kroeger, 1995: 35 and Price, 1989: 48–62 for a detailed account of Scotland’s geomorphology). Mowing, too, was primitive. Grazing sheep was the standard method of course maintenance, adding fertilizer as they went, until the English company, Ransomes, invented the lawn mower toward the end of the 19th century.

66.2.2 The Evolution of the Parkland Course The ideal terrain for golf flows in gentle swales and graceful mounds with slopes seldom exceeding 10%. The ideal soils for turfgrass are well-drained, sandy or loamy, with few or no trees to block the sun and wind. Until after World War Two, most golf courses were built on such terrain, although the soil types and vegetation might diverge from the ideal. In England first, and then at an accelerated pace in the U.S., a new type of course evolved, based on the English-style garden and known as a parkland course. Inland courses built on sites with links-like characteristics were called heathland courses (Hawtree, 1983; Ward-Thomas et al., 1976). Unlike the typical links course, a parkland course had tree-lined fairways and ponds, two entirely new kinds of hazards. American golfers would come to regard the parkland course as the standard type. When a group of course designers reintroduced the idea of links-style golf to the U.S. in the late 20th century, its work was regarded as innovative and daring, though applauded and approved by keen students of golf course architecture. The re-introduction of links-style designs was partly in reaction to decades of courses designed and built on less than ideal sites, often as amenities to sell real estate. The post-WW II era of golf design in the U.S. set the stage for contemporary golf course developments around the world (Hurdzan, 1996).

66.2.3 The Cultural Context of Golf’s Global Expansion As golf radiated out from the U.K. in the 19th and 20th centuries, following the lines of colonial expansion, it acquired an association with European imperialism which still hampers its growth in some regions. The model of golf as it was played in its homeland of Scotland was largely forgotten and abandoned as the game spread. Golf’s image as a hobby for the rich and entitled settled into popular consciousness. Golf’s most recent expansion, fueled by an enormous Asian interest in the game, may permanently change that perception. China now has perhaps 500 courses, with hundreds more in planning. The announcement by the International Olympic Committee in the fall of 2009 that golf would become a medal sport beginning with the 2016 Summer Games in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, provided another strong impetus to global golf development. Malaysia, India, Indonesia, and Vietnam, too, have embraced golf and encouraged its development, regarding golf as both a symbol of modernity and an economic driver attracting tourists and investment. Korea’s embrace of the game has inspired golf development projects fitted into some of the most inhospitable terrain for golf anywhere in the world. Korean golf course

66

The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction

1165

construction is often a megaengineering project, with up to, and even exceeding, 10 M CY (7.7 M CM) of earthworks over 200 AC (81 HA). China, despite some official concerns about environmental impacts and an occasional moratorium on new development, has embarked on an era of course building which in retrospect may rival America’s golden age.

66.3 Golf as an Engineering Challenge So how did the process of designing and building a golf course change from the relatively simple act of selecting an appropriate site and laying out the routing plan, to a feat of megaengineering? To understand how this transformation took place, we need to look at golf’s history in America, from its Golden Age in the 1920s to the full flowering of the megaengineered course in golf’s post-WW II boom.

66.3.1 Golf’s Axis Shifts to North America Golf’s growth in the U.S. in the early 20th century was extraordinary. Between the construction of the first American courses at the very end of the 19th century and the onset of the Great Depression just over thirty years later, 5,648 courses were built in the U.S (Cornish & Whitten, 1993: 84). Many courses failed and were plowed under in the thirties, but as Silverman and Garrity (2009) note, some new public courses were funded and built by the Works Progress Administration (WPA) to provide jobs during the Great Depression, among them Bethpage Black, one of America’s most celebrated munis. As many as 600 courses had opened per year in the 1920s, a pace that would only be matched again at the end of the 20th century (and in each case the boom would be followed by a mighty crash). (Note should be made that the stimulus bill enacted under the Obama Administration in 2009 rejected any public investment in golf-related projects, placing it in the same repudiated category with zoos, aquariums and casinos (Russell, 2009)). The U.S. population in 1920 was about 100 million, while in 2000 it was nearly 300 million, meaning that on a per capita basis, the expansion of the 1920s was much greater than during the turn of the 21st century boom. The creation of a typical course in the 1920s followed the classical model: devotees eager to have a course either laid it out themselves or solicited the services of a course designer—often an ex-pat Scottish professional, such as Donald Ross, or a gentleman devotee turned course architect such as A. W. Tillinghast or Alister Mackenzie (1920, 1995)—to help them select an appropriate site. The designer laid out the holes in the field with few drawings beyond a simple routing sketch and little or no modification of the landforms. Modest earthworks might be required, but most of the work was done by hand or with the assistance at most of horse or mule-power. Small tractors and the occasional steam-shovel appeared on a golf course construction site during this era, but mass earthworks of the sort associated with a typical contemporary golf course project were employed only on costly public works projects such as dams, highways, or bridges. Elaborate earth work was

1166

J. Strawn et al.

regarded as much too expensive for something as frivolous as a golf course during the glory years of the hand-built course (Cornish & Whitten, 1993). Turfgrass science was another important development that arose during golf’s golden age. The United States Golf Association started a consultancy early in the 20th century to advise its member courses on maintenance practices, recruiting experts in forage grasses from the U.S. Department of Agriculture and land grant universities such as Penn State and Michigan State to assist its efforts. In time, this would lead to an extraordinary growth in knowledge about turf grasses, and to a large industry devoted to creating and marketing cultivars appropriate for the closely-mown turf ideal for playing golf. Many universities would offer degree programs in golf course maintenance, and the old fashioned seat-of-the-pants greenskeeper in the Old Tom Morris mold would give way to trained agronomists using the best scientifically-based practices available to maintain their courses. Their professional organization, the Golf Course Superintendents’ Association of America (GCSAA) (www.gcsaa.org), has more than 35,000 members, and its annual convention has evolved into the Golf Industry Show (GIS), the largest and most important golf industry gathering, held every winter in a sun belt city in the U.S. The professional publication of the GCSAA is Golf Course Management (GCM) and is available online at http://www.gcsaa.org/gcm/. Contemporary golf course maintenance is a high-tech operation, using satellite weather data, locally adapted plant species, and IPM (Integrated Pest Management) to create healthy, safe and waterefficient stands of turfgrass. The achievements in turf grass mirror the success of the land grant universities in leading the way to the Green Revolution in crop science.

66.3.2 Site Planning the Post World War II Golf Course Community In the 1950s, the growing families of the baby boom era and the opportunities provided by the expansion of the post-WW II economy fueled an explosion in suburban development. Golf courses were often provided as amenities in these new suburban communities. Sometimes the courses were privately owned, sometimes publicly, but in either case they were typically “core courses,” that is, all the holes were contiguous, as in the historic courses of the British Isles, but with housing arrayed around the perimeter. The nomenclature about ownership of golf courses can be confusing. There are both publicly-owned and privately-owned courses which are open for public play. As a whole, this class is referred to as “daily fee” in the U.S. and “pay for play” in much of the rest of the world. Private courses which do not allow daily–fee play can be owned by a single owner or by the members, which is more typical. These latter are called “equity clubs.” Often developers of real estate country club communities will retain ownership of the course until the housing is all sold, at which time they convey ownership to the members. There are many variations on this theme. In Europe, many private country club courses encourage outside “green fee” play. In the U.S. such a course would be called “semi-private.”

66

The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction

1167

Real estate developers discovered that houses with golf course frontage sold at a premium. Consumers liked both the green space and the proximity to recreation. Land planners and engineers, in collaboration with golf course architects (who had formed their own professional organization, the American Society of Golf Course Architects (ASGCA) (www.asgca.org) in 1949, with only nine charter members) then began to experiment with master plans integrating golf courses directly into their real estate developments. The apotheosis of this approach from the developer’s point of view was the “double-loaded fairway,” where individual holes were laid out like links on a sausage with housing lining both sides. It was an excellent strategy to maximize real estate values, but the golf courses it yielded were less than ideal (Fig. 66.5).

Fig. 66.5 The “Double-Loaded” fairway. (Reproduced with permission from Arthur Hills/Steve Forrest and Associates)

1168

J. Strawn et al.

In order to create adequate safety standards and not bombard the houses with errant balls, the golf corridors had to be wider than a normal fairway on a core course required. Maintenance costs also typically rose, as the green-keeping crews had farther to travel to reach each hole and then more area to maintain and groom once they arrived. But the biggest argument against the double-loaded fairway was not so much practical as aesthetic and sporting. It was not much fun to play through corridors of housing. Planners therefore sought refined methods of integrating golf with housing. Among the variations were playing corridors at least two holes wide, or alternatively pods of holes, ranging from three to six or even more, with housing on the perimeter of each pod. This commonly referred to as a “core” golf course routing (Fig. 66.6). This trend toward the integrated housing development golf course, or the “golf course community,” a subset of the Planned Unit Development, or PUD, represented another major shift in the evolution of the golf course. Sites for such projects were selected for demographic and commercial reasons rather than for their inherent topographical and physical suitability for golf. This dual combination made designing and building a golf course a series of compromises among the golf course architect, the project engineer, land planners and the developer. A golf course in Florida, for example, built on a very flat site, would involve digging lakes to create materials for constructing housing pads and roads as well as the features of the golf course itself. (“Features” refer to tees, bunkers, greens, lake edges, and any other modification of the landscape, such as swales and mounds, required for aesthetics, strategy or playability.) A typical 18 hole course in this scenario would

Fig. 66.6 Plan view of core development. (Reproduced with permission from Arthur Hills/Steve Forrest and Associates)

66

The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction

1169

involve earthworks of 500,000 CY (382,000 CM) or more, and thus require both an artistic grading plan drawn by a golf course architect and an engineered plan showing lake construction, cut and fill, retaining walls, littoral shelves, storm water retention, interconnected drainage plans, etc., done by a civil engineer in collaboration with the course architect (Strawn, 1991). These plans in turn would guide the work of the golf course builder. The number of consultants on the team required to design and build a golf course grew commensurately, with golf course architects, builders, engineers and planners joined by hydrologists, agronomists, soil scientists, geologists, irrigation designers, botanists, ecologists, and other specialists. Detailed contour maps and vegetation surveys were now essential tools for the designer. The Old Tom Morris style of “18 stakes on a Sunday afternoon” would no longer suffice. The tool kit of the modern civil engineer was essential to bringing the contemporary golf course to life, whether in flat terrain, in desert climates, or in rocky and steep alpine sites. Golf was moving into entirely new regions because new technologies made it possible to build golf courses wherever consumers wanted them, assuming permitting obstacles could be hurdled. Environmental regulations, adopted in the 1970s and beyond, meant that building a course in Florida or similar low-lying terrain also required preserving wetlands, or creating new wetlands and littoral shelves in the process known as mitigation, in order to provide habitat for protected wildlife and plant species. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers asserted authority over permits involving “waters of the United States,” a commodious jurisdictional claim that was stretched to include any water that a migrating duck which had crossed a state line might settle into. Entitlements and permitting would evolve into a major component of any development as a consequence of the new regulatory environment, adding a layer of lawyers to the constellation of consultants already in place (Fig. 66.7).

66.3.3 Golf Construction Comes of Age Horses and mules pulling scraper pans across aborning fairways were thus replaced by the steel and smoke of diesel engines driving heavy equipment, with blasting as common a procedure in building a golf course as it had become in a typical public works project. In fact, the expertise acquired in dam building, road building and other mass excavation projects was easily transferred to golf construction. The first modern golf course contracting firms were organized in the 1950s and some are still in business today. The Golf Course Builders Association of America (GCBAA) (www.gcbaa.org), a nonprofit trade association of prominent golf course builders, was founded in the early 1970s. Its members represent all segments of the golf course construction industry today, including suppliers of irrigation equipment, earth-moving machinery, drainage pipe, culverts, and other tools of the course builder’s trade. There are approximately 60 companies specializing in course construction in the U.S. today. Among the original members of the GCBAA

1170

J. Strawn et al.

Fig. 66.7 The integrated golf course, South Florida. (Reproduced with permission from Arthur Hills/Steve Forrest and Associates)

were: Wadsworth Golf Construction, whose influential founder, Brent Wadsworth, is regarded as the pioneer in the creation of the modern golf course construction industry; Landscapes Unlimited, the co-author’s firm, which has ranged from its home in Nebraska to build courses throughout the United States, Caribbean, Middle East and China; and RyanGolf, a Florida company which has constructed courses for such prominent golf course architects as Tom Fazio, Arthur Hills and Rees Jones. Roughly half of these GCBAA builders are “certified,” having demonstrated through experience as well as classroom instruction and examinations designed to determine their expertise in all phases of golf course construction that they are capable of handling a golf course construction project from site preparation through grassing and grow-in.

66.3.4 Techniques of Construction The modern golf course contractor may chose between performing earthworks and mass excavation with its own equipment and operators, or subcontracting it out to local excavators familiar with the best techniques for moving earth in their regions. The tools of the earth-moving trade add a modern definition to the term “horse power” (Fig. 66.8).

66

The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction

1171

Fig. 66.8 Tools of the modern course builder. (Reproduced with permission from Landscapes Unlimited, LLC)

The discipline of earthmoving for golf courses differs from a typical engineering project in one significant way: building a golf course is still as much about art, that is, achieving in three dimensions the architect’s vision as drawn in plan, as it is a function of engineering and construction. Golf course construction therefore involves combining the art of golf design with engineering, or, occasionally, supervising a controlled collision between the two. The final form of a golf course does not conform to conventional methods for earthworks set upon grids and squares in the service of geometry. Rather, golf course architects, no matter what the terrain upon which they are designing, aspire to a final product that has “natural” shapes and flowing contours. The product of the golf course builder is a manufactured one, but most golf course architects employ a series of techniques to make the final product look, as nearly as can be achieved, as if it were simply there, the product of the same forces that created the local landscape. Among these techniques is the art of “borrowing” the distant silhouette of the horizon line when the course is built in hilly terrain, an idea inspired

1172

J. Strawn et al.

Fig. 66.9 A Florida fairway. (Reproduced with permission from Arthur Hills/Steve Forrest and Associates)

by Japanese painting. On a golf course, imitating the horizon line but keeping the earthworks in scale with the golf course features is an effective way to “naturalize” a landscape. A heavy equipment operator who develops a feel for what the golf course architect wishes to achieve, and can use a machine weighing more than thirty tons to mold the ground into the subtle contours flowing from the architect’s pen, is known as a “shaper.” Shapers are among the most highly-regarded and well-remunerated members of any golf course construction team. Although machines can now be equipped with GPS and AutoCAD drawings to generate close approximations of the architect’s grading plans, preserving flexibility through a close relationship with a shaper and the construction crew is still the architect’s preferred mode to achieve his/her ends (Fig. 66.9).

66.4 Golf as a Mega-Engineering Project We have already discussed how the site dictated the character of a course throughout most of golf’s history and how selecting the site was the most crucial component in early course construction. The opportunity to build on natural sites, while rare, does still happen today. Contemporary courses such as Sand Hills in Nebraska and

66

The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction

1173

Fig. 66.10 Sand hills, Western Nebraska: A contemporary example of a “natural site.” (Reproduced with permission from Sand Hills Golf Club and Geoff Shackelford Photography)

the four courses at the Bandon Dunes Resort, on the Oregon coast, are regarded as prime contemporary examples of “minimalist” course designs, that is, courses built on sites whose natural topography and soils are so ideally suited to golf that only minor adaptations to the natural topography are required to build a playable, maintainable course (Fig. 66.10). In these rare opportunities, geological forces have engineered the site, and it is up to the builder and designer to use that gift with a light hand. It is a fiction, of course, to say that “nature has designed the course,” because the creation of a golf course still requires the architect’s imagination to discover the ideal green sites, and to provide the links among the holes, with an appropriate pace and rhythm. Architects seek to vary the lengths and par values hole to hole, to keep the golfer’s mind as well as his body engaged throughout the round. The direction of the holes, knowledge of the prevailing wind, and their orientation toward such visually distinctive features as the sea or local mountains are all taken into account by the best designers. While every golf course architect aspires to design an oceanfront course, even given that most grand of opportunities, it is important to turn away from the sea to keep the experience of playing along the coast fresh and exhilarating. A well-routed ocean-side or lake-side course, such as Cypress Point on the Monterey Peninsula, California or Ballybunion in County Kerry in southwest Ireland, turns its back to the water for at least part of the round in order to make the tour along the sea the thrilling experience every golfer seeks.

66.4.1 “Natural” Vs. “Artificial” While a “natural” site is the preferred medium for routing a course, golf is just one component of the overall site development plan in a typical master planned real estate or resort project today (Fig. 66.11). The tracts set aside for courses in large

1174

J. Strawn et al.

Fig. 66.11 A rendered master plan. (Reproduced with permission from Arthur Hills/Steve Forrest and Associates)

scale master plans have often been identified as unsuitable for anything other than green space or open space, due to environmental constraints, structural issues, or a location within a floodplain. Golf can be a practical solution to multiple engineering challenges in these instances, serving to address issues ranging from flood control to bio-remediation. Since golf in its final form does not have to meet the structural requirements typical in heavy highway and other such civil works, golf is also a suitable use for otherwise unproductive sites such as landfills, ash deposits, and other sites unable to support vertical construction. Earthmoving for golf courses can be precise and technical in certain applications, such as lakes, spillways, landfill capping, floodplains, compensatory storage and other engineered solutions. But for the most part, these sidelines are stretched widely, and often times wildly from the builder’s point of view, to achieve the architect’s design intent.

66.4.2 Whistling Straits The architect’s desire to create natural-appearing golf courses on uninspiring, degraded, or brownfield sites has lead to significant lessons in how mass earthwork can achieve these effects. At Whistling Straits (Fig. 66.12) near Sheboygan, WI,

66

The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction

1175

Fig. 66.12 Whistling straits—Hole #7. (Courtesy of the Kohler Company)

earth was imported from off-site and then placed according to architect Pete Dye’s instructions to emulate the shapes found in the rolling coastal links of Scotland and Ireland. Looking at them today from within the confines of the golf course and not lifting one’s eyes too far in the direction of the surrounding topography, one would believe that the courses at Whistling Straits were simply discovered among natural dunes such as one finds along the North Sea or the Atlantic coast of Europe, and not created by the imagination of Dye guiding heavy equipment to place and manipulate huge volumes of material upon the blank slate of an abandoned Army air base along the shores of Lake Michigan (Fig. 66.13).

66.4.3 Bay Harbor Located across Lake Michigan from Whistling Straits, Bay Harbor is an example of a private company partnering with a local government to restore a degraded landscape by integrating golf and other amenities into an overall master plan for remediation and development. Managing water was also a central component in the transformation of this degraded and marginalized site into a beautiful, sustainable landscape that enhances wildlife habitat, improves storm drainage, and restores wetlands and waterways to health. When a cement plant on the southern shore of Little Traverse Bay in northern Michigan ceased operations in 1981 after seventy-five years of pulling shale and limestone from the ground to use in the manufacture of cement, it left behind

1176

J. Strawn et al.

Fig. 66.13 Whistling straits—after and before. Creativity and megaengineering applied to a stark canvas. (Courtesy of the Kohler Company and 3deagleview; Historical image via Google Earth)

an almost 400-acre brownfield that “looked like the moon.” Cement kiln dust, the residue from limestone and shale that didn’t quite make it into cement, was contaminating ground water, leaching into Lake Michigan and, in dry weather, launching airborn contaminants that included arsenic and lead. Distributed across 120 acres in layers from five to eighty feet deep, the cement kiln dust was alkaline and laden with dissolved salts. Nothing grew on this sterile material. Steep sided quarry pits covered about 200 additional acres. This moonscape was transformed into the following amenities: a marina (created when a hole was blasted through the narrow rock wall separating a 90-acre quarry from Lake Michigan); a 27-hole golf course (under part of which the cement kiln dust is buried); a resort hotel (built upon the old factory grounds); and 800 residences, primarily vacation homes (some built skirting the artificial bluffs of the quarries, converted now into marina and golf course view lots) (Fig. 66.14). The project’s consulting engineers worked out the details of a Closure Activities Plan that committed the developers to certain reclamation protocols in exchange for an agreement by the state not to sue over liabilities arising from historic contamination. The agreement also provided for on-going monitoring of groundwater, and “sampling strategies” to monitor the areas designated for housing, to assure against the persistent effects of contamination. The key challenge that emerged was how to manage the kiln dust. Firming up the inward side of perched lakeside bluffs—that is, artificial mesas created by inland quarry operations—was a second demanding task. Using plans developed by the golf course architecture firm Arthur Hills/Steve Forrest and Associates, a number of tracts were identified where the kiln dust could

66

The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction

1177

Fig. 66.14 Bay Harbor, Michigan: Golf and Marina: A created golf course. (Reproduced with permission from Arthur Hills/Steve Forrest and Associates)

be used as fill. Just as imported fill was placed at Whistling Straits according to Pete Dye’s direction, the material at Bay Harbor was transported, placed and shaped according to Hills/Forrest’s grading plan. A layer of clay and heavy soils roughly 18 in (45.7 cm) deep blanketed and stabilized the relocated kiln dust. Topsoil, either screened from material discarded during the quarry operations (particles up to one inch (2.54 cm) in diameter are acceptable in fairways), or imported from elsewhere on the site, completed the rough profile of the graded fairways. Six of the twenty-seven golf holes were created in this way. The golf course contours were designed to take stormwater into manufactured wetlands rather than allowing it to flush directly into the lake. Integrating wetlands into the design is an increasingly common approach, as we have noted, in golf course architecture. Placing tees, fairways and greens in diagonal proximity to the wetlands creates a strategic challenge for golfers. A shot kept well away from the wetlands is safer but results in a longer second shot. Manufactured and preserved wetlands provide the environmental benefits of stormwater retention, wastewater polishing, and enhanced wildlife habitat.

1178

J. Strawn et al.

Siting golf holes rather than housing on the shoreline bluffs was another crucial feature of the land plan, protecting the viewshed for the houses clustered inland. Rather than planting trees on the bluffs, Hills/Forrest chose to create a links-like landscape, its tribute to the classical seaside courses of the British Isles. From here the course flows into either the parkland-style Preserve nine or the Quarry, where the golfer plays within steep-walled canyons created by the limestone and shale mining. Bay Harbor converted a stained and cankerous eyesore into a healthy, functioning landscape, with the golf course as a central element of the overall design. The designers and developers used the amalgam of “opportunism and artifice” that was characteristic of Fredrick Law Olmstead’s work to convert this brownfield site into a project so successful that it now represents 28% of the tax base of the town of Petoskey, Michigan, where Bay Harbor is located. (It was Olmstead who created the profession of landscape architecture, which is now the mother discipline of most golf course design professionals receive their training in departments of landscape architecture.) Into the bargain the State has rid itself of a dangerous nuisance at no cost to the taxpayer (all closure activities and redevelopment were accomplished with private funds).

66.4.4 Grading and Mass Earthworks In topographically severe regions, particularly in alpine or hilly locales, course builders manipulate massive amounts of material to fit a golf course onto a site. It is not uncommon today to move well over 1,000,000 yards3 (785,000 m3 ) of earth for a single 18 hole golf course. In extreme examples, the earthwork volume can reach or even exceed 10 million cubic yards (7,700,000 m3 ), an amount that surely qualifies as megaengineering (Fig. 66.15). A mountainous site offering 0–45% grades provides a particular challenge. Whereas in flat terrain an area of 150 acres (61 ha) or so acres can be sufficient for a core-type course, in mountainous terrain as much as 250 acres (101 ha) will be required to accommodate a buildable, playable and maintainable golf course. Generally speaking, such a site needs 2–5% lateral slopes engineered, and 5–10% longitudinal slopes, the general parameters required to accommodate golf. Providing playable space for golf, along with producing suitable plots for development, steers the engineering. On these dramatic sites, it is typical to start with a 16 ft (5 m) contour plan to create space. The architects and engineers then develop a 6.6 ft (2 m) contour plan to define that space. And lastly, the team produces a 1.6 ft (0.5 m) plan, which will give the golf course its form and function (Fig. 66.16). From this point forward, field direction and small scale detailed drawings complete the design process. Ground that was first worked with iron and diesel in its mass excavation stage is often finished to the “natural dimensions” sought by the designer using rakes and other hand tools. In this final stage, builders are imitating once again the ancient practices of the Old Tom Morris era, but on a site that was purely manufactured and engineered, not “discovered” (Fig. 66.17).

66

The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction

1179

Fig. 66.15 Grading a mountainside. (Reproduced with permission from Landscapes Unlimited, LLC)

66.4.5 Concepts and Plans Most golf course architects still practice the art of drawing their concepts and contours by hand and illustrating their designs with perspective views and field sketches. But technology has also found its way into golf course design. These concepts and contour plans are typically digitized into AutoCAD and other programs which enable engineers and constructors to coordinate the project’s infrastructure and evaluate its scope. Some younger golf course designers rely more heavily on computer-assisted programs to produce their design documents and are very skilled at this approach. In either application, golf course design is an artistic and fluid process that does not conclude with the production of a set of plan documents, but rather continues through the construction phase with on-site review, evaluation and re-interpretation to achieve the final implementation of the designer’s intent.

66.5 The Economics of Golf Development and the Future of the Industry Highest and best use is a term often heard in land development. Feasibility studies are engaged to study demographics and demand for varying developmental scenarios, including residential, commercial and hospitality options, and the amenities that go along with them. When golf is chosen as a development component, it is expected

1180

J. Strawn et al.

Fig. 66.16 Mass grading plan for a par 5 golf hole. Typically provided in 100 scale. Centerline indicated by SW/NE line. (Source: Printed with the permission of Arthur Hills/Steve Forrest and Associates)

to provide some type of dividend. Most owners hope and expect their courses to turn a profit, if not right away, certainly at some point. The return may not always be measured purely in financial terms however. Golf can be a source of pride for a developer, a kind of patronage. Municipalities, too, can invest in courses not merely as recreational amenities, but as community assets, such as the recent project in Pierce County, Washington, Chambers Bay, which converted an abandoned quarry into a golf course good enough to host the U.S. Open in 2015. Estimates are that the U.S. Open brings $100 million of benefits into the local economy (Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 2008).

66

The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction

1181

Fig. 66.17 30-scale detail green drawing. (Reproduced with permission from Arthur Hills/Steve Forrest and Associates)

For some developers, golf courses can be a “loss leaders,” intended to attract home buyers to one residential real estate community over another. Golf courses are expected to provide premiums for lot sales. Casino owners may also not expect their golf courses to cash-flow, but will be content if they attract patrons to their casino, especially knowing that golfers tend to spend more than the average patron. Resorts, too, develop golf courses in order to drive more lucrative guest traffic. Construction costs vary significantly due to scope and geography. In modern times, golf course construction ranges have generally spanned from $100,000 per golf hole to over $2,000,000 per golf hole. The major variables determining construction costs include the quantity of earthmoving, soil type, total irrigated area, extent of landscaping and specialty features such as rock and water features. Just as construction costs vary widely among golf courses, so too do operational costs. While there are rare examples of new golf facilities that can service their development debt and provide a modest return during early operations, most new facilities require a significant subsidy on the capital costs to construct them and further subsidies in operations until stabilized in the market. The larger the capital cost to construct the golf course, and the greater the amount of operational subsidy required, the larger the opportunity must be elsewhere in the development to cover these costs. It is for all of these reasons that developers often regard golf as a “loss leader.”

1182

J. Strawn et al.

Certainly, there are many examples of very successful golf facilities. But most projects take several years to reach stabilized earnings and expense coverage. Most developers would be satisfied with a golf facility that eventually supports itself and has a modest return. Once the project has reached that point, the developer may seek a qualified buyer in order to recoup some of their initial investment.

66.5.1 Construction Issues As in any project requiring mass earthworks, golf course construction projects face numerous constraints. Entitlements, permitting, archeological, environmental, ecological and infrastructure needs must all be addressed before a project may move forward. Utilities, site development and project phasing must also be analyzed and understood during a project’s constructability analysis, its project programming, and in the establishment of its financial pro formas. From a marketing perspective, golf may be sequenced to mirror the absorption schedules in the development and sales plans in a phased offering. There are buyers at every price point and at every stage of development. There is the value-buyer who understands the market and/or does not mind taking a little risk. This buyer makes decisions based upon an idea, a poster board, marketing materials and summary business plans. Other, more cautious customers, will want to see the earth turned, streets and infra-structure under development and amenities well underway. The class of the most cautious consumers wants to see evidence that the development has experienced some success before their purchase. Developers need to understand what motivates and attracts each of their potential customers. In normal economies, price points rise during the build-out. Each of the amenities, but especially golf, play an important role in the pricing-and-offering strategy. Other than the administrative and marketing areas mentioned above, other project constraints extend to the physical and climatic environments, each of which can be mitigated, to some extent, through pre-planning and programming. Physical elements are centered on the amount of earth to be moved and the existing conditions of that soil. Software programs such as AgTek (Fig. 66.18) and Civil 3D are valuable tools to determine overall quantities, section planning, cut/fill routings and making minor adjustments to achieve balance, a leeway that is unique to golf. The programs mentioned above may also be used to load in geotechnical information to plan for changing conditions through the soil stratum and to identify the quantities of each major category of earth (Fig. 66.19). This is an invaluable tool when managing soils that may serve purposes ranging from structural fill, non-structural fill, harvested material for specialty use, screening material and planting medium. After an earthwork execution plan is established as described above, resources are estimated to meet production and schedule requirements. In most environs, climatic elements are the single most unpredictable element. A golf course is basically an earth environment until the very end of its development cycle. There is no roof or shelter to facilitate work in inclement weather. Golf courses are also often used to convey storm water through a master planned community development, so if a heavy storm hits before the turfgrass has been fully established, it can obliterate weeks of work, the results of which can be devastating

66

The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction

1183

Fig. 66.18 Illustrative cut and fill map. (Source: Printed with the permission of Landscapes Unlimited, LLC)

Fig. 66.19 Subsurface modeling. (Source: Printed with the permission of Landscapes Unlimited, LLC)

1184

J. Strawn et al.

Fig. 66.20 The impacts of severe weather. Storm damage to a newly turfed golf hole. (Reproduced with permission of Landscapes Unlimited, LLC)

(Fig. 66.20). This is an especially troublesome prospect in building a golf course because getting off-schedule by a week or two can mean missing the prime planting window and thus as much as an entire year’s delay. To mitigate the impacts of weather, normal occurrences for moisture and seasonal changes are built into the project program. Resources are established and float times are built in to accommodate some fluctuation to a schedule based upon “usual events.” The best planning preserves float time for the end of the project, when weather has the greatest impact. For this reason, earthmoving and civil works are often accelerated in a golf course schedule. However, even with the best-laid plans, Mother Nature may have a different idea at times. On these occasions, accelerating the work by adding resources is the only option to maintain the completion date.

66

The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction

1185

Golf has migrated from the coastal plains of a marginal European country to the suburbs and cities of our global community. Golf is now played by 50,000,000 people worldwide. 28,000,000 of these golfers live in the U.S., but the game’s fastest growth is in Asia (Golf 20/20 Vision for the Future). China, in keeping with its national passion for megaprojects, such as the Three Gorges Dam, has developed golf’s largest-ever project: Mission Hills in Shenzhen, consisting of twelve golf courses, all built more or less simultaneously, and each with its own private membership. Mission Hills’ developer started construction on an even larger 18 course project on Hainan Island, near the northern city of Haikou, in the summer of 2009. A Middle East example is the portfolio of golf courses under construction in the United Arab Emirates, providing a regional case in point of accelerated regional golf development (Fig. 66.21). While other geographic regions have witnessed extraordinary periods of golf development—Spain’s Andalucía, the Algarve in Portugal, the Robert Trent Jones Trail in Alabama and Myrtle Beach in South Carolina are perhaps the most notable examples—none were undertaken by a single developer, but instead were the product of public/private partnerships or tax and investment policies designed to stimulate growth. At present, only South Korea has announced its intention to undertake projects on the scale of China’s monumental undertakings. There are risks in accelerated development, as Japan learned in the early 1990s and as the U.S., Spain and Portugal are discovering today. Japan’s property bust in the 1990s was closely linked to a process of financing and building overpriced and unsustainable golf courses, whose shares traded at vastly inflated premiums in the late 1980s. Once the bubble burst, the economy entered a long period of stagnation in the golf sector from which it is yet to emerge. Property values in Spain and Portugal have plummeted since 2007s peak. Only the Asian markets outside Japan have demonstrated a capacity for sustained growth.

Fig. 66.21 Dubai sports city. (Source: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Dubai_Sports_ City_on_8_May_2008_Pict_2.jpg)

1186

J. Strawn et al.

Golf remains, nonetheless, a big business globally. Consider these facts (Golf 20/20 Vision for the Future). • The golf industry provides 2,000,000 jobs in the U.S. and a total wage income of $61 billion. • The total economic impact of golf in America has been measured at $195 billion, including golf’s direct, indirect and induced impacts. • The golf industry is larger than the motion picture and video business; larger than performing arts and spectator sports; and larger than the newspaper industry. While 28 million is a significant number, it also tells us that the vast majority of people in the U.S. do not play golf. It is no surprise, therefore, that new golf developments often find themselves under assault. A hoary misconception in the U.S. (and elsewhere) holds that golf is only for the social elite or the privileged, a belief that derives not from anything inherent in the game itself, but from the manner of its introduction into the U.S. Golf grew in two directions in America: as a popular recreation and as a symbol of status. Although many more rounds are played on daily-fee courses than on country club courses in the U.S., the perception persists that the game is a rich person’s pastime. A pastime perceived as suitable only for the privileged will produce opposition. In reality, this perception could not be further from the truth. The golfing public has access to a wide and distinguished array of courses, ranging from modest public facilities to high-end daily fee courses designed by the biggest names in golf course architecture. A round of golf has never been more accessible for all income levels than it is today. And yet the myths persist. In America, organizations such as The First Tee, Sticks for Kids, Play Golf America, the YMCA and local community programs provide not only a golf experience and lessons in golf etiquette, but also golf equipment. These programs also encourage family participation. Golf is a community amenity and recreational space that is available and affordable to all residents. This approach is similar to the initiatives in Scandinavia that have not only made the game popular there, but have sent many world-class professional players such as Annika Sorenstam onto the world scene. Another standard element in the argument against golf development contends that a golf course impinges on open space and shrinks wildlife habitats. A corollary belief holds that golf destroys “virgin” land. Although there surely are cases of golf courses built in inappropriate places, given the environmental regulations and land-use laws in place, such events are rare and contrary to the approach the modern golf industry has taken. Golf courses provide and preserve valuable green space. We have seen in the case of Bay Harbor how a degraded site was converted into a high-end resort with golf as a key element. Examples of golf’s ameliorative role abound and would include: the Three Crowns Golf Course in Caspar, WY, an abandoned BP refinery site converted to a golf course with engineered wetlands integrated into the golf plan along with scrubbing pumps designed to clean toxics from the soil and purify ground water; The Mines in Malaysia, once the

66

The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction

1187

largest open-cast tin mine in the world, and now a luxury resort with multiple golf courses, apartment buildings, shopping centers, hotels, business complexes, and parks, all connected by an artificial canal; and Liberty National Golf Club in New Jersey, a high-end private club with the outline of the Manhattan skyline providing the near horizon, built on a landfill. Out-of-play areas on thousands of golf courses offer a wide range of wildlife habitats, providing food and cover for mammals, migrating and resident birds and reptiles (Golf 20/20 Vision for the Future). Organizations such as the Environmental Institute for Golf, Audubon International and the Golf Course Superintendents Association of America (GCSAA), as noted above, provide guidelines, support and training for the professional staff who manage and maintain golf courses. These organizations provide course operators with the resources, the education and the programs to guide them in the implementation of sound practices. Golf courses are professionally managed by staff members who have been educated, certified and/or licensed to ensure that their golf facilities are operated in an environmentally responsible manner (Golf 20/20 Vision for the Future). In the spirit of these initiatives, and in conformity with the stringent requirements put in place during the planning and construction phases of a golf course development though the oversight of public agencies, the golf industry has asserted itself as a responsible player in the drive for sustainable development and environmental stewardship.

66.6 Golf in the Global Economy Golf has reached a new stage in its long history, one reflecting the maturity of the industry in regions such as the UK, the USA and Japan, and one recognizing its vast potential for growth in the developing economies of Asia, Eastern Europe, Africa and South America. The building boon of the last years of the 20th century resulted in growth that outstripped demand. The number of courses closing each year now exceeds the number opening in the U.S. Shuttered golf courses are frequently converted to alternate uses. The growth in new facilities in the U.S. will be very flat until growth in participation can drive the demand higher again, a prospect whose likelihood is very much open to debate. As we have noted above, the growth of golf is taking place in Asia and other developing regions. Places historically underserved in golf due to economic constraints are now experiencing an expansion of their middle classes, along with favorable terms to international investors, increased tourism, and access to land which has a clearer and straighter path to entitlements. In these regions, golf is aspirational, a desired component of a modern economy. Technological advancements and innovation in golf course development will continue to be driven by the game of golf itself, primarily in the equipment used and the conditions, especially in the area of grass types, on which it is played. Little is likely to evolve in the mechanics of site development. Physical attributes, however, such as the overall length of a course required given improvements in equipment,

1188

J. Strawn et al.

Fig. 66.22 Large contemporary construction site during megaengineering. (Reproduced with permission of Landscapes Unlimited, LLC)

Fig. 66.23 The results. (Photo courtesy of Sequoyah National Golf Club and Russell Kirk/GolfLinksPhotography.com, used with permission)

and the width of safety corridors commensurate with those improvements, will still drive space requirements. The direction in the leading advancements we see in place today will continue in the future. Environmental stewardship, the value of golf as an engine of remediation

66

The Art and Engineering of Golf Course Construction

1189

on degraded sites, drainage improvements and flood control, water conservation and the expanded usage of effluent water are all trends which will continue to flourish. The expanded use of salt tolerant grass varieties, of smaller maintained areas, the expansion of wildlife habitat within golf corridors and continuing education about stewardship and the protection of resources among golf professionals and the golfing public are also trends which the industry must encourage and sustain. Although golf course development has nearly halted in the U.S., the need to provide replacements for closed facilities in some markets as the economy recovers, and a demand for new courses in niche markets, will continue to provide some new development opportunities domestically. Growth in the rest of the world, as new regions adopt the game and nativize it, just as the U.S. did more a century ago, will drive global golf development for the foreseeable future. In both domestic and international markets, mega-engineering will continue to serve a predominant role in golf course construction (Figs. 66.22 and 66.23).

66.7 Bibliographic Note While the literature on golf as a game is vast, a comprehensive collection of books on golf design would fit into a single bookcase, while the subset of volumes on construction alone would fit on a single shelf. The most important reference work on golf course architecture is The architects of golf: A survey of golf course design from its beginnings to the present, with an encyclopedic listing of golf architects and their courses, by G.S. Cornish and R.E. Whitten, 1993. This is a revised and update version of their 1981 publication, The Golf Course. In addition, see their 2006 book, Golf course design: An annotated bibliography.

References Cornish, G., & Whitten, R. (1993). The architects of golf: A survey of golf course design from its beginnings to the present, with an encyclopedic listing of golf architects and their courses. New York: HarperCollins. Doak, T. (1992). The anatomy of a golf course. Springfield, NJ: Burford Books. Golf 20/20 Vision for the future. The 2005 Golf Economy Report. Graves, R. M., Cornish, G., & Marzolf, T. A. (1998). The history of golf and golf course design. In R. Graves & G. Cornish (Eds.), Golf course design (pp. 3–22). New York: Wiley. Hawtree, F. W. (1983). The golf course: Planning, design, construction and maintenance. London & New York: E. & F. N. Spon. Hunter, R. (1998). The links. A facsimile of the 1926 edition with a Forward by John Strawn. Far Hills, NJ: The USGA. Hurdzan, M. J. (1996). Golf course architecture. Design, construction & restoration. Chelsea, MI: Sleeping Bear Press. Klein, B. (2001). Discovering Donald Ross. The architect and his golf courses. Chelsea, MI: Sleeping Bear Press. Kroeger, R. (1995). The golf courses of Old Tom Morris. Cincinnati, OH: Heritage Communications.

1190

J. Strawn et al.

MacDonald, C. B. (1928). Scotland’s gift: Golf. New York: Charles Scribner’s & Sons. MacKenzie, A. (1920). Golf architecture: Economy in course construction and green-keeping. London, UK: Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent and Co. MacKenzie, A. (1995). The spirit of St. Andrews. Forward by Bobby Jones. New York: Broadway Books. Price, R. (1989). Scotland’s golf courses. Aderdeen: The University Press. Richardson, F. (2002). Routing the golf course: The art & science that forms the golf journey. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Russell, G. (2009). Report: stimulus package excludes golf. Golf Digest.com. 28 January 2009. Retrieved October 2, 2009, from http://www.golfdigest.com/magazine/blogs/ deedsandweeds/2009/01/report-stimulus-package-exclud.html Seattle Post-Intelligencer. (2008). Retrieved February 9, from http://www.seattlepi.com/ golf/350594_usopen.html Shackleford, G. with an Introduction by Hanse, Gil (2003). Grounds for golf: The history and fundamentals of golf course design. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Silverman, J., & Garrity, J. (2009). Going public. How FDR brought golf to the people. Sports Illustrated. Retrieved April, 2009 from http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/ magazine/MAG1156523/1/index.htm Strawn, J. (1991). Driving the green. The making of a golf course. New York: HarperCollins. Ward-Thomas, P., Wind, H. W., Price, C., & Thomson, P. (1976). The world atlas of golf: The great golf courses and how they are played. New York: Gallery Books.

Chapter 67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos: The Toronto Case Study∗ Paul Harpley

67.1 Introduction The public institution of the zoo has been changing and evolving to meet the dynamic aspirations and needs of its visiting public and managing bodies and to reflect the diverse habitat needs of animals in various geographic sites. Zoo exhibit design and site architecture have followed a number of directions over the years, ranging through realistic, abstract sculptural, architectonic, romantic, formal, impressionistic, representational and ornamental (Polakowski, 1987). More broadly, zoos must be regarded within the wider category of wild animal keeping, a practice with deep roots in human culture. The domestication of animals and our developing knowledge of the natural environment allowed the evolution of animal husbandry into animal collections, from menageries through zoological gardens, the zoo, and now conservation parks and many related constructions (Kisling, 2001: Preface). We see today a certain urgency for a better understanding of the connections between humans and nature. Relationships between human culture, nature, wilderness and conservation and our view of the environment are fundamental to our daily lives. Nowhere are these issues more apparent than at the modern zoo, where visitors are confronted with native and exotic animals and plants in integrated habitats. This resource has incalculable value for scholarly interpretation and public education in such matters. The planning, design and construction of large zoo projects are intimately involved in the recreation of place, ecosystems, habitats and landscapes. Many of the modern zoo exhibit design initiatives can be considered megaengineering projects by virtue of their large size and cost. Also the ancient history of the zoo institutions in various forms has always been of a dynamic and large scale. Megaprojects and

P. Harpley (B) PhD candidate, Department of Geography, York University, Toronto, ON, Canada; Director of the Zephyr Society of Lake Simcoe, Sutton West, ON, Canada e-mail: [email protected] ∗ Retired, Manager of Interpretation, Culture and Design Branch at the Toronto Zoo, Toronto, ON, Canada.

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_67,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1191

1192

P. Harpley

their interrogation in planning and development forums and resource analysis studies have a long history (Mitchell, 1989: 91). The foundation of all large zoo outdoor exhibit projects rest on the physical geography of unique zoo sites. Though there is relatively little work by American geomorphologists in the new field of megamorphology (Abler, Marcus, & Olson, 1992: 269) the development of zoo megaprojects has zoo professionals, engineers, architects and landscape specialists involved in complex interdisciplinary collaborations with a foundation rooted in physical geographic manipulation. Successful zoo exhibit megaprojects consequently rely on local geomorphologies using local features to emulate larger scale landscape and environmental features in the animal habitat recreations. The Toronto Zoo, in large outdoor recent megaprojects and, indeed, its original creation and installation in 1974 relied on it.

67.2 Ancient Origins of Animal Keeping and Zoos The development of the institution of the zoo from its ancient origins and forms to the early western zoos and their evolution from the colonial period to the present are an area of study only now being documented (Hanson, 2002; Kisling, 2001; Rothfels, 2002). Wild animal collections, menageries and related constructions have existed for centuries, principally in ancient Mesopotania, China, India, Greece, Roman Empire, Persia and Europe (Kisling, 2001: Preface; Polakowski, 1987: 18). The beginnings of recorded human history must lie somewhere in the fifth millennium B.C. from about that time date the earliest artistic achievements worthy of superior cultures, the first decipherable records of humans’ higher rational development, and the beginnings of political and social organizations which deserve to be called “states” (Kirchner, 1960: 2). In the human cradle area between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, prehistoric Mesopotamia and its immediate surroundings, the most important thing is that it supported an unbroken chain of occupations which led, stratum by stratum, to the beginning of recorded history (Speiser, 1963: 743). The essential spine of the developments of human history, and cultural and social chronologies has been delineated for the Near East and related places (Egypt, Hittites, Syria and Palestine, Mesopotamia, Crete and Indus) (Saggs, 1989: 4–9).

67.3 Origin of Civilization and the Development of Zoos The history of zoos has a similar genesis to the evolution of other western human social institutions such as museums, botanical gardens and universities. With civilization came urbanization. Shortly after we had developed cities on a grand scale, zoos and botanical gardens sprang up in countries as far apart as Egypt and China (Robinson, 1996: VII). It is not surprising, therefore, that there is a strong and ancient bond between humans and the acclimatization, keeping, and exhibiting of animals in virtually all human cultures through time. There can be no question about the real authorship of the civilization which we know as Mesopotamia (Speiser, 1963: 734–739).

67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos

1193

As Zuckerman (1980: 3) notes, no one knows exactly when or where zoos first appeared on the scene. What we would be inclined to say is that zoos certainly existed in ancient Egypt, but by then they had already become so full-blown, so much part of a codified form of life, that it is hardly possible that they did not develop from something more primitive. The first zoo may have been a collection of several thousand animals in Saqqara, Egypt around 2500 B.C.; the first botanical garden was probably the Shen Ming garden in China at about the same time (Robinson 1996: VII). The royalty of ancient Egypt, Rome, and China had collections or menageries of caged animals for their personal entertainment and that of privileged guests (Polakowski, 1987: 18).

67.4 The Rise of Cities and The Relationship Between Humans and Keeping Animals The rise of cities represents the first most important development in civilization affecting the keeping of wild animals in urbanized human settlements. The earliest settlements known in south Mesopotamia date from 5,000 B.C., or a little before (Saggs, 1989: 31). The ancient origins of zoos are shrouded in the historical, archaeological and social excavations of ancient city sites. Around the world at varying times, the first human animal collections emerged as the broad range of ancient collections of animals we might term zoos today, from the very ancient to contemporary is represented chronologically as an historical summary of zoos. Actually, Kisling (2001: 8, 9) has documented ancient animal collections in Mesopotamian societies developed as riverine city-states along the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. By the later Babylonian and Assyrian period, between 1000 and 330 B.C., references to gardens and the larger royal parks become even more common. Likewise, land records during this later period indicate the extent to which gardens had become common features of the wealthy citizen’s property holdings. Interestingly, the animal keeping practices, exhibitry and animal capture methods were quite similar to methods used even into the nineteenth century: Property holdings included both domesticated and wild animals. Animals kept included household pets, fish in ponds, birds in flight cages, falcons for sport, lions in cages, and wild game in parks. Individuals used blunt arrows to stun wild animals, and traps (usually concealed pits) were used to catch these wild animals alive for pets, collections, and trade. Some animals, particularly those species rarely seen, were valuable luxury items. Royalty frequently kept tame lions as pets, and other lions were used for hunting or fighting. Lions and other animals were kept in cages and pits during the Ur III period (beginning ca. 2100 BC). It is conceivable, therefore, that cages were constructed to hold other dangerous or rare species as well (Kisling, 2001: 10)

Eventually, the ability to maintain animals and plants in large park areas was taken to a new level of sophistication with the re-creation of entire habitats. Sennacherib (Assyria, 704–681 B.C.) simulated a marsh environment of southern

1194

P. Harpley

Babylonia to exhibit rarely seen marsh species from that region of Mesopotamia (Kisling, 2001: 12). He also re-created mountain habitats, one of which is now thought to have been the site of the fabled hanging gardens of Babylon (actually in Nineveh), regarded as one of the wonders of the world and which new evidence suggests were actually at the palace garden of Senacherib located in Nineveh, also known at the time (ca. 700 B.C.) as Old Babylon. There is also recent evidence of the northern Palace of Babylon, at the time of Nebuchadnezzar as being the site (Dalley, 1993: 8–10; Finkel, 1998: 38–58; Kisling, 2001: 12; Finegan, 1963: 426): His (Nineveh) successor, Esarhaddon (Assyria, 680–669 B.C.) and Ashurbanipal (Assyria, 668–627 B.C.), also provided mountain habitats that resembled the nearby Amanus mountains. Within the cities, the terraces of the monumental, pyramid-shaped, terraced buildings known as ziggurats sometimes were planted with trees, shrubs, and vines to give a mountain-like appearance, similar to the hanging gardens of Babylon. (Kisling, 2001: 12)

Ancient Babylonia and Assyrian royal parks and hanging gardens were the result of Mesopotanian garden evolution. Some of these parks and gardens may have been public parks for the benefit of the cities in which they were established. However, for the most part, they were for the use and enjoyment of the royal family. Royal parks and gardens were often the site of royal hunts, a place to entertain guests, and a place to keep animals. The conquering Achaemenid (Persian) kings (539–331 B.C.) and Greek rulers that followed continued this tradition of extensive gardens, parks, and animal collections. Some of these collections still existed when Roman armies invaded the region in A.D. 363. The gardens were fabled throughout the ancient world for their magnificence. Recent artists’ renderings of them show terraced promenades lined with plants and statues, with ziggurats (spiralling towers) and wild and domestic animals (Finegan, 1963: 426, 428). Clearly, naturalistic immersive zoo exhibits, the standard today are not new. Even in ancient times the naturalistic re-creation of place and landscape was practiced. Some of the descriptions, especially those involving mountain landscapes are remarkably similar sounding to the famous so-called revolutionary theatrical exhibit constructions of Carl Hagenbeck in Germany in the by the 1870s to be discussed later.

67.5 Western Perspectives on Nature and Zoos The western relationship between nature and humans is well known and yet confused. Historically, they have been viewed as separate one from the other (Glacken, 1967). The modern view of nature continues to see the mind as separate from nature. Nature has been seen as something essentially mechanical and non-mental. The mind makes nature; nature is so to speak, a by-product of the autonomous and self-existing activity of mind (Collingwood, 1957). It is vitally important that zoo staff, designers and those responsible for the interests of zoos understand these ideas because zoos are about nature and humans, probably more so than any other public institution. Our human attitudes toward nature have influenced our understanding

67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos

1195

and knowledge of animals, in the wild, in captivity, their keeping and exhibition. Indeed, nowhere else is our relationship with nature more close than at the zoo (Harpley & Simpson-Housley, 1998). In the history of Western thought there have been three previous periods of constructive cosmological thinking, first recognized by Hegel. At these times the idea of nature came into the focus of human thought. At these times nature has become the subject of intense and protracted reflection, and consequently acquired new characteristics, which in turn, have given a new aspect to the detailed science of nature that has been based upon it (Collingwood, 1957). These three periods were the Greeks Ionian philosophy, the Renaissance in Europe, and the modern view of science from the end of the 18th century to present. Zoos and their design have rarely been seen within the context of the broad development of Western thought, even though they are well established and accepted institutions. Nature today in the zoo is being seen as more than the animal alone. Important interpretive themes of historical relationships between animals and humans are common in the history of the West and are only now being recognized in contemporary zoo design and philosophy (Cherfas, 1984; Polakowski, 1987). In science and geography texts where animals do make an appearance, there is still something missing: a sense of animals as animals; as beings with their own lives, needs, and (perhaps) self-awareness, rather than merely as entities to be trapped, counted, mapped, and analyzed; as beings whose lives are indelibly shaped by the uses that humans formulate for them, but whose fates resulting from these taken-for-granted uses (along with the human rationales behind these uses) are almost never subjected to critical scrutiny (Philo, 1995). At the zoo this is most certainly the case. It is often thought that people visit zoos because there is something very rewarding about being in the presence of wild animals. Respect for animals, contempt for animals, oneness with animals, all are feelings that we need to express and we can do so at the zoo. People are fascinated by animals. I think this is something to do with our evolutionary past, when we depend on an intimate association with, and knowledge of, animals to survive as gatherers and hunters. Perhaps it goes even deeper than recognition that no matter what are religions tell us, we are indeed related to those creatures (Cherfas, 1984). Ancient human associations and the relationship of ideas to nature and the formation and development of zoos is, I would contend, ancient, and complex like the dualism of humans and nature in broader society. Zoo administrators should be aware of and plan with knowledge of these complexities that go right to the heart of our pluralist societies. Modern social science researchers must also be very aware of the ancient notions of western and other perceptions of nature in informing their work about modern zoos today. It is perhaps the venerable relationship between animals and art that is most clearly indicative of the creative connections with humankind that is the zoo. Artists have rendered their feelings about animals, their intimate relations with animals and their habitats from ancient cave paintings in Niaux, France to the most contemporary interpretations (Lank, 1975). Cherfas (1984) has described the captivation by drawing attention to the caves shaped since the Pleistocene Ice Age. Here in the

1196

P. Harpley

mountains of the Pyrenees between France and Spain can be seen the famous Salon Noir of Niaux painted by early people some 15,000 years ago. Bison, horses and other hunting animals are rendered by humans intimately involved with the animals. Historical excavations of Western thought, particularly the relationship between humans and nature, are vital to our understanding of the zoo. Postcolonial theories and the study of collecting, including animal collections is explored. Social constructions of nature and recent postcolonial and related feminist critiques are informing ancient historical perspectives on captive wild animal’s management and exhibition. Arguably, the most important public part of the zoo, the exhibit, is here studied and future prospects of this most important of zoo sites are discussed in the difficult, ecologically challenged future of the 21st century.

67.6 Colonial Zoos and Gardens Geography in the service of Colonialism started early with Western science tools like the map and survey instruments. It celebrated a certain idea of history, and at the same time obscured the fundamental geographical and political reality empowering that idea. Literary critique has recently exposed the salutary vision of a “world literature” . . .and “world empire” commanded by Europe found in the works of early professional Geographers Halford Mackinder, George Chisholm, Georges Hardy, and others (Said, 1993: 46). The importance of science and the colonial penchant for collecting is clearly seen in the creation and evolution of museums, botanical gardens and zoos. Indeed, many early East African explorers, even missionaries demonstrated strong interest in science and observation. James Hannington, an English missionary leader, was an excellent example. To the end of his life Hannington reportedly could not resist turning aside to see some strange insect, or to note some new plant, or examine some interesting geological specimen. “Of this faculty for observation and interest in that book of Nature the pages of which are opened wide-spread before him who has eyes to see, there are many traces in his Letters and Journals” (Marsh, 1961: 93). The taking of observations was a central part of any expedition especially those of the Royal Geographical Society. However, only recently (since the eighteenth century) was the scientific motif for exploration a significant consideration. Historically, plunder and trade were the main motivations, and East Africa prior to the 18th century was not known for riches (MacNair, 1954: 12). These varied collections arrived in Europe and almost immediately private and public spaces were needed for their storage, study and eventually exhibition; whether, rock, animal, ethnographic or plant. . . .the Crystal Palace gallery was also a direct descendant of the gallery in the botanical hothouse, which functioned as a watering platform and a vantage point from which to view the plants. An engraving of the Kew palm house in the Illustrated London News of 1852. . . shows visitors ‘transported into a tropical forest’, wandering along shaded walks among ‘the vegetable Titans’ while above, on the gallery, others look down not on the people below but on the profusion of the forest. The text accompanying the engraving invites the visitor to

67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos

1197

enjoy a ‘bird’s eye’ view from the gallery, but it is a view of the gardens outside, not of other members of the general public. (Driver & Gilbert, 1999: 186)

The development of the institution of the zoo as a colonial and imperialist institution, viz., the modern zoo as we know it dates most definitely from late 18th century Europe. The problem of keeping up to date in terms of policy and presentation was certainly very difficult for the old established collections. The Menagerie du Jardin des Plantes in Paris is an early example, originally founded in 1626 by Louis XIII with plants and later animals added by 1794. Later the Emperor Napoleon added several animals to this collection and the menagerie grew in importance until, by 1841, the Jardin des Plantes was also boasting a zoological museum, a museum of comparative anatomy, botanical and geological museums, and a library of some 28,000 books (Hancocks, 1971). The similarity of these colonial institutions in Europe in the 18th century and the Mesopotamian sites like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and the Egyptian Great Library of Alexandria are stunningly similar, all great engineered earth and architectural feats of their time and place. Vestiges of these early zoo institutions’ form and architecture can still be found in cities almost anywhere in the world today in various stages of devolution. Dating from 1894, Toronto’s Riverdale Zoo, located on the banks and tableland of the Don River in the eastern Toronto, Ontario, Canada is a representative example. Critical to our understanding of modern zoos is the realization that although animals have been exhibited for thousands of years, the greatest changes in this phenomenon have taken place in the last one hundred years, following the evolution of public zoos from private menageries in 18th and 19th century imperial Europe (Polakowski, 1987: 19). Most references to these historical zoos and human geographic sites are skeletal and anecdotal (Hancocks, 1971; Hanson, 2002; Polakowski, 1987). Little empirical work has been done to fully and critically document specific colonial zoos. Colonial zoos in Europe were intimately related to, and enmeshed in, ideas of exploration, the exotic and the pursuit of scientific knowledge, too. Western science accompanied colonialism in the exploration and exploitation of lands perceived as virgin wilderness territory with ideas of science and technology, nature and culture, heroism and progress, and national destiny. The era of exploration included geographers, geologists, botanists and missionaries. These adventurers collected an incredible range of items from rocks and minerals to plants, sundry cultural objects, and live animals. The history of the Western zoo institution is similar to other related institutions like the botanical garden, museum, and public art galleries. Collections of exotic animals have a long history preceding the zoological parks built in the United States, of course, and much has been written about them. American zoos took inspiration most directly form European zoos, and in some cases looked to them as specific models. In Europe, during the late 18th and through the 19th century, menageries that had once been the property of royalty increasingly became open to the public. Paris had the oldest public animal collection, founded as part of the Museum National d’Histoire Naturelle during the French Revolution. In London, animals that had been displayed in the Tower menagerie, as well as animals collected in the colonies of the British

1198

P. Harpley

Empire, were incorporated into a new zoo in Regents Park that opened in 1828. Because the Paris and London zoos were founded to serve scientific research and education –they were intended as more than just exhibitions of curiosities—chroniclers of zoo history often point to them as the first modern zoos. (Hanson, 2002: 14)

The idea of zoos quickly spread throughout Europe, America and other parts of the world, similar to societies of science and exploration, most particularly The Royal Geographical Society of Britain (Heffernan, 2003: 8–11). A zoo, in its most meagre sense, is a collection of wild animals on display; it has ancient roots, as discussed previously above. Both the Chinese and the Romans had court menageries, and subsequent rulers in Europe followed their example. The only surviving example of these royal collections is the garden at Schonbrunn, near Vienna, founded in 1752 by the Austrian Emperor Franz I. It typifies the essential difference between a menagerie and a zoological garden, for it was built with the attitude of displaying animals so that they could be admired by their royal owners and the cages were designed more for the convenience of the spectators than that of the inhabitants (Hancocks, 1971). By the late 1860s, there were zoos and related professional associations in Europe in Germany, France and Britain. In 1903, a guide book to European zoos was published; it described sixteen in German cities, four in Britain, and four in France (Hanson, 2002: 15). The word “zoo” was appropriately coined for the Zoological Gardens of London in a popular music hall song of 1877, called “Walking in the Zoo is the OK thing to do.” Appropriately, the London Zoo is the oldest surviving example of the proper zoological garden (although in recent years many changes have been made), as opposed to the exhibition of animals in a menagerie. It should be remembered, the concept of displaying animals in a garden setting had not been seen for thousands of years, since the great temple gardens of China and Egypt, and in its history London Zoo has presented many other novel inventions, which have since become familiar throughout the world’s zoos. In 1849 it opened the first reptile house, followed by the first public aquarium in 1853 and the first insect house in 1889 (Hancocks, 1971). The collection administered by the Zoological Society of London was granted a royal charter “for the advancement of zoology and animal physiology.” Intended as more than just facilities for exhibiting curiosities, the Paris and London zoos were founded to serve scientific research and education. Chroniclers of zoo history thus often point to them as the first modern zoos (Hanson, 2002: 14, 15, 16). American zoos took inspiration most directly from European zoos, and in some cases looked to them as specific models. The Philadelphia Zoo, which opened to the public in 1874, took the London Zoo as a model for organization. The Riverdale Zoo in Toronto, had first animal acquisitions in 1894 (Rust-D’eye, 1975). It is a metaphor for the colonial zoo in Canada. Indeed, Rust-D’eye documents the Harry Piper Zoo in Toronto which commenced in 1872 and would challenge previous assumptions about the earliest zoo in North America. Similarly, Andrew Downs Zoological Gardens In Halifax, Canada, established in 1847 pre-dates even the Harry Piper Zoo (Dougan, 2004: 1; Canadian Parks Index, 2010: 1).

67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos

1199

But arising as a colonial and imperialist institution, the modern zoo as we know it dates from late 18th century Europe. Some of these sites at their time involved major earth works and architectural and engineering works. Usually the type of housing provided for any animal was never designed around its requirements, but often rather to try and create a mood which seemed sympathetic to its legendary history or its country of origin. For example the ostrich house at Cologne which was founded in 1860 typically was built to resemble a mosque. Indeed, the imagination in producing exhibition architecture for the European menageries was, quite literally, fantastic. Dusseldorf (opened in 1896) built a ruined castle at vast expense for their Barbary sheep, and it was popular for lion cages to include fanciful grottos or painted backcloths to convey an “Eastern” image. At Leipzig, founded in 1876, the lion house included a large stained glass window showing two lions, among rocks, looking out over an open plain. It was amidst this impressive setting that Miss Heliot, the famous lion-tamer, had attracted over 17,000 people to her show in August 1900 (Hancocks, 1971).

67.7 Twentieth Century, the Modern Zoo and Design At the same time, however, we can see a transition in zoo design and purpose as early as the start of the 20th century with the opening of the zoo at Hamburg-Stellinger, Germany, in 1907. The figure of Carl Hagenbeck is important here. Partnering with the skilful architect, Urs Eggenschewiller, Hagenbeck used reinforced concrete to create artificial rock formations as a backdrop for the wild animals. The cage bar was eliminated as a physical and visual barrier and replaced by moats, many of which were hidden, to contain the animals and to permit unobstructed views of the staged display (Polakowski, 1987: 20). Ironically, this artificially created landscape was intended to give the illusion of animals within a “natural habitat.” Like the colonial zoo, Hagenbeck’s design presented wild animals for the entertainment and enjoyment of the general public. But his creative approach also recognized the importance of the setting, the position of observer and the spatial needs of the animals in exhibits developed as panoramas (Hanson, 2002: 140; Polakowski, 1987: 21). He advertised these exhibits as “Carl Hagenbecks’s Zoological Paradise—The Zoological Garden of the Future” (Rothfels, 2002: 165). It inspired similar zoo design by others and changed the appearance of zoos forever, marking the passage from what I am calling the colonial zoo to more contemporary forms of the institution. For the most part, it eliminated such sites as the “Bear Pit,” the “Monkey House,” and the “Cat House.” These transitions in the development of Toronto Zoo, out of Riverdale Zoo to the modern Toronto Zoo, are complex and involve master planning, multivariate analysis, and major landscape design and earthworks (Fig. 67.1). Most zoo development goals underlie modern management philosophy in major zoo institutions. These goals form the basis for formulating strategy with regard to Zoo Development and Exhibit Design. Central to the modern zoo is multidisciplinary planning and a design team spanning many specialties and expertise. A fundamental and very important foundation to Exhibit Design is an understanding

1200

P. Harpley

Fig. 67.1 Riverdale zoo monkey cages, 25 September 1913. (Credit: City of Toronto Archives— archives for use must be secured)

of the physical geography of the local zoo site to be developed. Also essential is the knowledge of the geomorphology, climate, vegetation and related geographic awareness of the place to be recreated and the relationship of that place to the animals, geography, geology and plants exhibited. These are first and foremost issues relevant to geography. Previous to the 1970s analysis of zoo planning issues of design dilemmas, illusions of place recreation, exhibit design and long range development planning were not well developed. In particular, the exploration of perspectives on site organization themes for zoological parks and landscape aspects of exhibit design, especially with respect to the central importance of landscape and the role of physical geographic features in the modern zoo exhibit. The modern period brought foundations in site organization themes for zoos and set their importance in design and construction of contemporary zoos. Polakowski identified the three key zoo organizing themes in modern zoos. Virtually all established institutional zoos can be categorized as Taxonomic, Zoogeographic (the original Toronto Zoo organizing system) or Bioclimatic in organization. Taxonomic is clearly a zoological organization and the most traditional system. These early western zoos began as menageries, for the collection and exhibition of animals (usually exotic). Historically, zoos have concentrated on collecting and exhibiting animals from all regions of the earth. The success of the zoo was equated to the number of different species. The more exotic the species the better. Today as Polakowski (1987) points out, it appears that the majority of zoo planners, managers, and staff believe a zoo must contain some exotic animals (e.g. tigers, elephants, etc.) to attract

67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos

1201

the visitor. Modern taxonomic zoos (traditional zoological gardens) in a sense are simply sophisticated menageries (Kisling 2001). In recent decades most zoos have been moving away from this organizational model. The Zoogeographic theme (the original Toronto Zoo system) groups animals in accordance to natural geographic regions. The elements that contribute to this diversity are the selected geographic region, animals to be exhibited, size of the site, physical conditions (eg. vegetation, soil, climate) interpretation goals, and the development history of the zoo. Indeed, Toronto Zoo was the first large zoo collection to be arranged entirely zoogeographically representing much of the world in its collection. As Cherfas (1984) states, the Metropolitan Toronto Zoo was the first collection to be arranged zoogeographically and on which, the more recent Minnesota Zoo, which Polakowski (1987) discusses, was similarly modeled. Academically, Zoogeography is an old and established sub field of Biogeography also known as Animal Geography being the study of the relations of living and extinct faunas as elucidating the past changes of the earth’s surface (Wallace, 1962). At Toronto the conception of the original Metropolitan Toronto Zoo from 1969 to its opening in the summer 1974, an intense public support process, the “Zoo Fund” combined with strong community support, school programs and academic interest resulted in the conception of a revolutionary new large world zoo. In the late 1960s to the early 1970s the relatively cheap cost of labour and materials, expanding economy combined with a brave new world attitude in Toronto for architectural renewal and public works made possible the new Zoo, replacing the old colonial Riverdale Zoo that was on a different site. Third is the Bioclimatic organization theme and is the result of analyzing the world environments from an ecosystem point of view. This theming focuses on the habitat of the animals to be exhibited. Consequently, Polakowski (1987) points out, we find animals in the rainforest of Brazil similar in form and behavior to the rainforest animals of Malaysia. He recognizes that animals are usually found in areas created by the unique cause-effect relations of climate and vegetation. This system organizes the world into similar natural units or biomes, irrespective of their geographic location. In instituting this organization system, zoos become increasingly concerned with the habitat of the animal. An example of the application of this approach is the Indianapolis Zoo where water and its relevance to biomes is the common feature recreating desert, forest and plains biomes and animals not from particular geographic locations. Zoo exhibit design is dependent on existing site physical geography and existing landscape features. Polakowski (1987), in a discussion regarding duplication and simulation of Bioclimatic Zones in zoo design, notes that an analysis of the zoo’s site conditions is an extremely important task when planning design/development. All aspects of physical geography must be considered. In addition to geomorphology the microclimate of the site is influenced by existing factors like aspect, slope, soil, vegetation, water features etc. These site factors should guide the selection and location of the bioclimatic zones to be represented. Indeed, the microclimatic conditions of the zoo’s site will be the primary factor in determining the feasibility of duplicating the bioclimatic zones.

1202

P. Harpley

Even basic Site Organizational Themes for Zoological Parks are dependent on physical geographic features. For example, in the design approach used for the P.J. LaFortune North American Living Museum it was accepted that the entire site should be looked upon as having exhibit potential with the animal specimens interacting with their environment and the visitor being offered an interpretation of the scene before him/her. The individual display was not to be viewed in isolation (Zucconi & Nicolson, 1981). Exhibit design is characterized by Polakowski as the complete interpretation process through which a person conceives, in the light of group judgment, an understanding of the natural, physical, cultural, and behavioral data to be used in creating a zoo exhibit. It is an act of synthesis that combines diverse concepts, elements and parts through a systematic set of theories, ideas, principles, and procedure, into a harmonious whole. The wide range of spatial characters associated with the term “natural” defies precise classification. Polakowski (1987) clarifies the variances within this “natural” continuum more clearly by detailing three exhibit habitat types. The Realistic Natural Habitat reproduces the real habitat in appearance (landforms, plants etc.). The Modified Natural Habitat uses the elements of the real habitat, but substitutes plants, landforms etc. and integrates the habitat into the existing surroundings. Naturalistic Habitats makes little or no attempt to duplicate elements of the real habitat. The definition of what is meant by realistic, natural exhibits, and the impact and effect of them on the animals exhibited compared with previous methods of zoo exhibitry is touched on, but not well developed. New ideas in this area are emerging and represent future works. I would conclude that most zoos are moving toward more natural based exhibit concepts, but they also provide a good analysis of their difficulties and surveys arguments against the approach such as safety, exhibit honesty, construction and maintenance costs, and veterinary problems.

67.8 Post-Colonialism and Zoos The issue of control has implications for “the nature of nature” for wilderness, conservation, wild animals and zoos, and in particular animal geographies within the modern critique of “social nature.” As Whatmore (2002: 7) reminds us, “social nature” and hybrid geographies work to invigorate the repertoire of practices and poetics that keep the promise of the geographical craft alive to the creative presence of creatures and devices among us and the corporeal sensibilities of our diverse human being. The binary “civilization” and “the primitive” seems too rigid, and the boundary between “human” and “animal” blurs (Wolch & Emel, 1995, 1998). As my analysis will reveal, such complex relationships between animal geographies, hybrid geographies and social nature have informed and continue to inform the theory and practice of wild animal keeping and zoo design at Toronto Zoo, particularly

67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos

1203

in the development of the African Savanna, the Gorilla Rainforest, the Tundra Trek project. In another context, evolutionary and developmental theory has played a part in the history of wild animal keeping and zoos. The concept of change in nature and its application to the zoo need to be taken into account. In the past, zoo exhibits confined animals to small, static, often sterile compounds. Modern ideas of ecosystem change, notably our understanding of the dynamic global energy systems of the biosphere, bring new ideas to zoo design and development and to wildlife management. Animal geographers and animal managers in zoos have begun to think about new concepts of naturalization, mixed species exhibits, exhibit rotations and the creation of activation structures, like animal enrichment devices. Engagement with such concepts and their implementation in contemporary zoo design and wild animal keeping constitutes what the author calls the “future zoo,” following Adams term “future nature.” It is now increasingly accepted that there are very few genuinely wild places left in the world. Human influence has been almost universal. It has seemed that nature retreated in the face of massive economic and social forces (Adams, 1997: 27). But a future nature, a new nature is unfolding in our midst. It is much like the constructed nature in parks and zoos. It is this nature that is forming the basis of the contemporary zoo exhibit. Constructing nature, particularly wilderness, evolved where wilderness could be controlled, managed, even re-engineered to serve human conceptions of wilderness at the time. Cronon (1996: 41, 91) provides two examples: (1) Frederick Law Olmsted’s designs for Central Park, Yosemite National Park, Niagara Falls Park and Biltmore (Pisgah) National Forest in North Carolina at the turn of the twentieth Century; and (2) the more contemporary example of nature recreated by California planners of the city of Irvine in the 1960s. There are many possible future natures, but Adams stresses the creative design future (1997: 159). With regard to zoos, conservation parks and related modern constructions, future nature begins with fundamental questions about what society “does” to nature (and vice versa), and who constructs what kinds of nature(s), to what ends, and with what social and ecological effects? (Castree & Braun, 2001: xi). Most zoos have yet to really explore the implications of these questions for the future zoo, taking particular account of recent debates about conservation, environmental activities and contributions toward sustainability solutions, as these matters are reflected in the design and construction of new exhibits at Toronto Zoo. The concept of Engineering Earth and the impacts of these megaengineering projects like large zoo projects raise many environmental, engineering and social and cultural issues that are only now being uncovered. A continuing discourse is needed to support sustainable design and development of these initiatives at zoo sites that can lead us into the future as we re-envision nature in our design of the future zoo. Today the close relationship between art, animals and the zoo is strong. In fact nowhere is this more the case than in zoo exhibitry. At the Toronto Zoo virtually all the exhibit designs for the five (5) major habitats in the African Savanna project were tied directly to the author’s field sketches from Kenya. Indeed, the original creative resort to nature through field work, sketches, photographs and casts of objects supported the final design development experience. This experience and knowledge

1204

P. Harpley

informed the reflective recreation of place and time in the project and should be the foundation of all zoo exhibit design. Hog-backed ridges and termite mounds are typical examples. Similarly, the role of geography and its accurate, creative and original rendition in zoo exhibitry is essential to successful recreation of place and habitats. In the African Savanna project physical geographic features were recreated from field sketches, field measurement and observation and surface casting of geologic formations with academic understanding of geographic feature genesis and erosion. In other respects, the ways in which human beings relate to components of the natural environment are expanding quickly beyond traditional Western perspectives. Scientific analyses of environments of subsistence, like hunter-gatherer societies, do not always ring true in terms of the ways in which the inhabitants of such “lifeworlds” imaginatively construct themselves and their relations to their environment in myth, religion and ceremony. For example, in the eastern boreal forest of Canada, the attitudes of Cree indigenous hunters and the accounts of Western biologists differ with respect to caribou behavior in episodes of predation. Such perspectives have been shown to be culturally constructed (Ingold, 2000: 9). Restoration and recovery have become important areas of ecological and environmental theory and practice. Animal stories, whether of traditional aboriginal or of “indigenized” western origin, are a vital resource for interpreting and understanding how we view the world and our relationship to animals and their habitats, and in these respects, such discourses have obvious importance for zoos and the motives and goals informing wild animal keeping. The recent Toronto Zoo Tundra Trek project interpretation explores this relationship by presenting zoo visitors with Western science and traditional and contemporary Cree and Inuit knowledge and perspectives about animals, habitats and environment in exhibits, signage and interactive media.

67.9 The Toronto Zoo and Megazoo Projects When the Toronto Zoo opened to the public in August 1974, it was one of the largest zoos on one site and the first fully zoogeographically organized zoo in the world (Cherfas, 1984). With an area at 710 acres (1754 ha) only 340 acres (722 ha) are intensively developed. The rest of the site is a wild urban forest and wildlife refuge now part of the famous Rouge Park, the largest urban wilderness park in Canada. The current Toronto Zoo replaced an old city zoo called the Riverdale Zoo. The Toronto Zoo 35 year anniversary arrived in 2009. In the last 15 years the Zoo has been involved in a major project management program of planning, redevelopment, and construction of capital and operating project improvements. Since its initial construction the world has changed greatly. Labor, materials and other resources are much more expensive. The role of the Zoo in conservation, environmental programs, animal breeding, arts and social issues and many other areas of operations increased greatly. In response, the Toronto Zoo embraced project management some 15 years ago and began, with a systems approach to

67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos

1205

project, implement necessary change working on up to 20 projects a year, varying from small indoor and outdoor exhibit renovations to large many acre redevelopments. A strong goal of current planning at the zoo is consolidation and shrinking the developed part of the site providing a more intensive educational and recreational experience stressing environmental themes of sustainability, conservation and research. It is essential for the modern zoo to understand deepening perceptions of its visiting public. For example as Ittelson et al. (1974) comments “What we properly seek today, therefore, is a relationship with the environment that not only preserves what we have, but indeed, may help to recapture what has been lost.” A major thrust in natural history museums and zoo exhibitry today is striving for this ideal around the world. The African Savanna, Gorilla Rainforest, and the recent Tundra Trek exhibit are project initiatives at the Toronto Zoo in this direction. The need to ensure appropriate academic social science research and evaluation, consultation, and collaboration with diverse human communities, with reflective design thought and action before final concept design decisions are made, is essential. Zoos, through exhibiting wildlife, plants and landscapes, are of great importance as an aid to nature interpretation and experience. Indeed, they perhaps operate more immediately and directly than any other institution or collective kind of public space to impart complex environmental information to lay members of society in an accessible and comprehensible way. This engineered earth approach in megazoo projects through landscape manipulation, place recreation, and the vehicle of the emotional device of the animal on exhibit is very powerful in the outside context of extensive spaces like the Toronto Zoo African Savanna and Tundra Trek, and intimately successful in a large indoor tropical rainforest development like the Gorilla Rainforest (Fig. 67.2).

67.10 Toronto Zoo Exhibit Design and Replication of Place: Gorilla Rainforest, African Savanna, and Tundra Trek Projects Past exhibit planning and design at the Toronto Zoo has evolved extended inquiry, probing visitor knowledge and understandings of connections between the zoo “place” (site), conservation, human culture and art (broadest sense/aesthetic). The role of designs and the creation of varied art objects, senses, and presentation were integral to three large capital projects conceived, planned, designed and constructed in Toronto in the past decade. Especially relevant to environmental interest is the scientific/artistic dynamic of the recreation of unique accurate physical geographic and geomorphic forms to replicate the real landscape forms (place). Below I discuss specific place recreations in three large Capital projects, the African Savanna, the Gorilla Rainforest, and the Tundra Trek. All exhibit projects at the Zoo, regardless of size, benefit from this design approach today.

1206

P. Harpley

Fig. 67.2 Metropolitan zoo map, 1992, showing three project locations. (Photo by Author)

67.10.1 The Gorilla Rainforest The Gorilla Rainforest project is a redevelopment of the northern half of the African Pavilion at the Zoo (Fig. 67.3). The original Pavilion, almost 2 acres (0.8 ha) under glass, was for many years the largest such building in a zoo anywhere in the world. It has of course been eclipsed in recent years, but was named a millennium building in Canada by the Canadian Architects Association in 2000 for its unusual, aesthetically and environmentally designed original building by Canadian architect Ron Thom. Planning for the $6 M project began in 1993 with the preparation of a staff Concept Report. The feasibility study, with detailed designs and construction, included Canadian and U.S. consultants as part of a collaborative design process managed by the Zoo. Planning the new Rainforest included design solutions within the great light and space assets of the existing structure respecting the architectural integrity of the building. The exhibit won the Canadian Zoo and Aquarium Association (CAZA) 2001 Baines Award.

67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos

1207

Fig. 67.3 Gorilla rainforest very early concept plan. (Photo by Author)

The gorilla habitat was designed as four times the size of the original exhibit. The exhibit is for a group of eight Western Lowland Gorillas. The new natural rainforest was based on the ecology of lowland forests of Cameroon. A Jane Goodall grant was secured that provided for field work for staff in Cameroon which informed design details of the natural habitat geography, ecology, plants and the wide range of animals of the lowland forest habitat. Collaborative concept design workshops with Zoo staff and other advisors, and later with consultants and others, confirmed a naturalistic rainforest theme direction for the exhibit development. The project provides for a more stimulating environment for the gorillas, such as climbing trees, nest sites, “feeder logs,” a play puddle and an “interactive” log (visitor on one side, a gorilla on the other). Spectacular viewing is from an overlook, a bamboo forest screen and a large glassed area. The exhibit is the largest indoor Gorilla Rainforest. With creative design layout and on-going horticultural management, the exhibit remains grassed and clearly is a rare natural recreation rainforest habitat. The device of the painted mural is used to a great effect in the exhibit and transforms the exhibit to a truly inspiring immersive environment in combination with planting and layering which provides a tremendous depth effect. The device of the mural has been generally poorly used in zoos. Unless it is well planned, uniquely devised and competently painted a mural is rarely successful. Images of the Toronto Zoo Gorilla Rainforest exhibit shows the aesthetic combination of real plant shrubs, living grass, a logged rainforest mural, a real and artificial log, and a silverback and other gorillas in the Toronto Zoo exhibit. The program included a new and separate Play Room that was a building addition to the Pavilion. It was located at a strategic location linking the large new exhibit,

1208

P. Harpley

the original holdings and the existing outdoor exhibit. It was equipped with a jungle gym, platforms, ropes, and scramble nets, as communal area where the primates can be together at night and when not on display. In the evening it is a family night room, in the management of the Gorillas as communal space. The project is distinguished by having indoors the three existing barriers of Gorilla exhibit viewing, traditional glass, large overview moat and an artificial bamboo barrier in naturalistic sensitive detailing. There are many African tropical plantings strategically located throughout the rainforest. The common bamboo, fragrant dracaena, oil palm and leafy canes of spiral ginger are examples of species planted. The project includes more than a Gorilla exhibit. Indeed, it is a complex recreation of an entire rainforest habitat. There are other animal exhibits including dwarf crocodile, spotted-necked otter, hingeback tortoise, green-crested touraco and violaceous plantain eaters and other planned free-flight birds. There are two large and dramatic aquaria, one of African Congo River fish, the larger tank with Lake Malawi cichlids highlighting the beauty and diversity of African aquatic life of the Great Lakes of Africa and riverine sources of Central Africa. Project signage was originally collaboratively designed and sensitively sited with African Cultural Advisors and Zoo staff input. Many interactive media distinguish the project, including an Overlook Research Station, a Loggers’ Shack, a Rainforest forest cutting interactive display, original West African animal theme carvings, an indigenous Fishing Camp and an associated dugout canoe. These are a few of the many experiential educational elements of the project.

67.10.2 The African Savanna The African Savanna, a major capital project during early planning, was the subject of a perception of environment survey designed to test zoo visitor knowledge and perceptions of actual East African landscapes. Response to notions of Western conceptions of nature and savannas, recreation of landscapes and related issues, and their planning value to exhibit designs and interpretations were probed. The African Savanna, a 30 acre (12.1 ha) redevelopment project, resulted in an existing rolling field, drop moat, and a fenced original African paddock landscape re-designed to simulate natural African geomorphologic formations, and plant and animal species associations and habitats (Fig. 67.4). The project won the Canadian Landscape Architects Annual Design award in 2001. 67.10.2.1 Recreation of Place: The African Savanna Project—Metaphor and the Visitor Survey Device Modern zoo exhibits, created through the imaginative process, with fieldwork in wild places and solid connections to conservation projects are also cognizant of historical influences with authenticity, emotion, feeling, and the perceptive recreation of place all will attain higher levels of success than with traditional survey methods. The question of how well zoo visitors’ perceptions, goals and aspirations, arising from the burgeoning conservation and environmental movement favored by the

67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos

1209

Fig. 67.4 African Savanna very early illustrative concept 1987. (Credit: Coe, Lee, Robinson, Roesche Design)

general public are being reflected in zoo design, needs more rigorous study and evaluation. Numerous commentators have stressed the lack of rigorous psychological support for many routine architectural design decisions (Sommer, 1966).

1210

P. Harpley

A realization is developing that indicates other avenues of inquiry regarding human perception and experience of environments may be more rigorously derived and supportable than traditional architectural approaches (Sommer, 1966) Social scientists, psychologists, sociologists and geographers have much to contribute in this regard to the design of zoo places. To understand public perception with reference to specific recreations of natural landscapes in zoos, the testing of zoo visitor reactions to specific visual images of natural landscapes concerned can be conducted before a project is designed (Harpley, 1992, 1999, 2005; Harpley & Simpson-Housley, 1998). The survey instrument was designed to seek insight into specific themes of zoo exhibit design. Through the research instrument of the survey, visitor knowledge and understanding of African Savanna landscapes were measured and evaluated before the project entered the detailed design process. Visitor responses were considered a reflection of the public’s notions of nature and wilderness (Frome, 1984; Olwig, 1984). Participants in the study included a representative random sample of visitors to the Zoo’s African Pavilion in a random selection method of sampling from a population which satisfies the purpose of probability sampling (Babbie, 1990). Study results indicated a lack of knowledge of African people and culture; this finding was considered important given present relationships between humans and wildlife conservation in East Africa (Anderson & Grove, 1987; Newark, Leonard, Sariko, & Gamassa, 1993). The results also showed the importance of African cultural perspectives, providing new directions to detailed design, including and important parallel planning process with the academic, African Canadian cultural community and an East African NGO, where a rigorous and on-going African Advisors committee with Zoo staff was struck. Valuable new ideas emerged, like a working African “Shamba” farm, a Market Bazaar entrance with “Duka” building structures, an overnight Serengeti Bush Camp experience, and African food being offered at the new Simba Safari Lodge; also a Baobab tree Termite mound and Nomadic structure interactives were some of the creative ideas realized from the process (Fig. 67.5). Current issues of post colonial literatures, the politics of representation, and cultural representations of place were discussed and mediated into supportive project design with broad community concurrence. Information arising from the environmental perception was instrumental in project design. Survey results suggested that it is appropriate to question the philosophical basis of some past zoo exhibit design methodology. Rather than copy other zoo replications, innovative ideas based on sound informed decisions of front-end social research findings were sought based on rigorous knowledge of the Toronto zoo audience. Recognition of the problem of replication, very prevalent in zoo project design recognizing that only a few consulting firms specialize in zoo design and it is often more economical for them and their undiscerning client zoos to afford copies of other zoos exhibits in their developments. This problem has been recognized in discourses on issues of zoo design, with Plowman and Tonge (2005) providing the most critical examination of this issue. Frequently, the landscape and architectural consultants are hired precisely because they created the same design in two or three other institutions. Replication is indeed pervasive in our

67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos

1211

Fig. 67.5 African Savanna project, baobob tree. (Photo by Author)

collective consciousness at zoos, and original reflection on ideas, themes, features and experiences, is often lacking. In sharp contrast to the concerns above about the Toronto Zoo exhibit development, and where the three megaprojects discussed above were conceived. Originality was at the foundation of the planning process. Although all benefitted from so-called Zoo designer expertise the essential uniqueness of vision and final detailing of all the projects were informed by Toronto Zoo interpretation, culture and design development (Harpley, 2005). There was an awareness of what Hancocks (2001) observed, viz., that in many cases modern rainforest exhibits bear virtually no visual, ecological, or other resemblance to real tropical rain forests because they are not modeled on real ones. At Toronto many planning components of the design have ensured originality of the megazoo projects. These include original field research in project location habitats, local Toronto academic institutions’ involvement in design, local cultural communities’ invitation and cooperative design of interpretive features, and the sustainable selection of unique existing geographic site features to design the final engineered landscape solutions for the place recreations of the megazoo projects. 67.10.2.2 Cultural Advisory Committees These are keys to authenticity of recreation of place. Clearly, with issues of post colonialism, the politics of representation and cultural sensitivity are issues every zoo should be aware of if they are representing human culture in their exhibitry. This is particularly important for zoos whose exhibits are usually large and do not get up-dated for many years. Rigorous and appropriate, social science based research, and formal liaison with the local cultural community members and academics is essential to avoid current and future problems. At the Toronto Zoo, establishment of an African Cultural Advisors Committees was set up to mediate the planning and design of these features of the African Savanna and the Gorilla Rainforest.

1212

P. Harpley

Fig. 67.6 Consultation about Tundra Trek project with Inuit elders at Baker Lake in Nunavut, Canada

This planning tradition was continued and extended into the Tundra Trek project to include travel, consultation, and cooperative design and interpretation input from Cree and Inuit representatives in Ontario, Manitoba, and Nunavut as collaborators and partners in the project (Fig. 67.6).

67.10.3 The Tundra Trek The Toronto Zoo completed a major capital project the Tundra Trek; it opened in August 2009. The project is approximately 10 acres (4.47 ha) in size and cost $10 million. The philosophy and design/development foundation of the project is the interpretation of the Canadian subarctic and Arctic tundra landscape. The development includes polar bears, Arctic wolves, Arctic fox, reindeer, snowy owl, Canada geese and snow geese. Higgs (2003: 263) contends that ecological restoration must develop beyond western ecological science to include non-Western cultural perspectives. Similarly, Cajete’s (1994: 29.30) account of new non-aboriginal approaches to environmental education shows how many of the ideas they contain reflect ancient aboriginal principles. These important relationships between the environment and indigenous traditional knowledge are developed in the Tundra Trek project. Also considered is the relationship between sacred landscapes, sense of place, reverence for nature and local knowledge so prominent in aboriginal North American cultures, especially with respect to historical and contemporary relationships between the polar bear and

67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos

1213

Fig. 67.7 Hudson bay coast entrance, bowhead whale skeleton entrance, Tundra Trek design. (Photo by Author)

its habitat and the indigenous Cree people in the Hudson Bay lowlands of Ontario (Fig. 67.7). The nature of tundra wilderness, Cree traditional knowledge, and its value and application to non-aboriginal knowledge of animals and their conservation is presented. Ecotourism and the rapid shifting of resource uses farther north, that is, above the 50th parallel, are beginning to indicate a new urgency in natural and cultural conservation. Numerous contemporary government projects attest to this concern. The recent Cochrane Polar Bear Habitat facility is a new model of ex-situ animal keeping and management (zoo) and conservation interpretation in the north; it is close to the animals “natural” habitat. This facility also participates in the species survival plan for polar pears. An extensive settler culture recreated Pioneer Village is also part of the attraction. Contemporary societal issues thus inform this research. Toronto Zoo staff, including the lead design involvement by the author in this project, ensured the highest level of design for this facility; he took the lead on the project construction. The Cochrane facility participates now as a partner institution with Toronto Zoo in the Species Survival Plan (S.S.P.) for the American Zoo Association (A.Z.A.) for polar bears. The importance of habitat conservation, the global environmental crisis, and effects on peripheral biomes like tundra and Polar bears are an international concern. Specifically, the Tundra Trek project research examined the importance of different perceptions of polar bear wilderness habitat in the planning and development of exhibit design, natural area recreation, and the interpretation of relations between humans and nature. Interpretive, educational and research philosophy and methodology from field study at Moose Factory, the Polar Bear Provincial Park,

1214

P. Harpley

Fig. 67.8 Hudson bay coast Tundra Trek project (a) Freighter Canoe for field research; (b) Field sketch of the region. (Photos by Author)

and adjacent Aboriginal communities of Peawanuk and Fort Severn, the Churchill area of northern Manitoba, Baker Lake in Nunavut provided keys to the habitat recreations of the engineered earth manipulations for Tundra Trek (Fig. 67.8). In the Tundra Trek megaproject physical geographic features of the Canadian tundra landscape are skilfully woven into the existing geomorphology of the project site. Key in the recreation are Hudson Bay coastal bars, the complex geology of the Churchill area protoquartzite low coastal ridge formation intruding through Paleozoic bedrock (Riley, 2003) at the Polar bear exhibit, and riparian riverine bluffs at the Arctic wolf exhibit, Inuit interpretive node and reindeer exhibit, and the Arctic River Oxbow Lake at the Snow and Canada geese exhibits.

67.11 Architectural and Engineering Design Plans and the Toronto Zoo The issue of interpretation of contemporary place verses historical place and their recreations in museums and zoos is an important area of thought to explore. It has been common and relatively easy to create historical structures and landscapes in western zoos of places like Africa, South America or Southeast Asia, and even the Canadian Arctic. But how accurate are these representations? In many cases they are generalized creations out of context, often historical, architectural structures and landscape features simply copied from another institution, from travel pictures and similar reference with no real connection to actual geographic landscape, people or experiential connection of the institutions to place. Clearly, the entrance of multidisciplinary expert design teams of engineers, architects and landscape specialists in recent decades has advanced the science of zoo design immensely. It has also formalized design and helped lead to better design and construction standards everywhere. However, the propagation of vernacular landscape and architecture is often the artistic standard in zoo projects delivered by consultants, and has been carefully

67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos

1215

recognized, managed and rejected consistently in Toronto Zoo projects where zoo staff have provided unique, academically supported research, information, sketches and designs incorporated into final project designs. It is important that in Engineered Earth megaproject designs the client Zoo lead design with local knowledge and vision supported by unique research and design. At the Toronto Zoo for the African Savanna project the issues above were considered and the decision was made at the feasibility design stage to undertake an original East African field trip to East Africa. Six Toronto Zoo staff representing a broad representation of expertise, field of interest and ability to creatively contribute to later translation of ideas to detailed design, traveled to Kenya with one consultant to experience the geography, natural history, human culture and conservation concerns first hand in the Reserves and other places for over three weeks (Fig. 67.9). Much information, field sketches, measurement documentation, photographs and even casts of rock formations, termite mounds and other features were documented to be utilized later at detailed design and construction. It must be stressed that the cost of the field reconnaissance to East Africa was modest compared to the overall cost of this large 30 acre (12.1 ha) redevelopment project. Many of the unique site and routine design decisions could not have been sensitively and as successfully rendered, especially the balance between indigenous and post colonial representations in the project without recourse to experiential observations and information. One important example of the success of the field information is the themed tourist experience of the Simba Safari lodge and Serengeti Bush Camp overnight tented experience contrasted with the African Shamba farm midway in the savanna experience. The Simba Safari Lodge features a covered outdoor restaurant coloniallooking lodge complex with a covered eating area where visitors can eat and overlook the large Rhino and mixed hoof stock and ground birds’ waterhole. Through the East African Cultural Advisors Committee planning process the introduction of East African food “A Taste of Africa” was accomplished. The lodge is comprised of a large rustic round wood structure with cedar shakes roof with seating capacity of up to 150 people.

Fig. 67.9 African Savanna field trip by Toronto zoo staff. (Photo by Author)

1216

P. Harpley

The Serengeti Bush Camp is a seasonal (May to September) overnight camping adventure themed like an authentic Game Drive overnight camping experience the project design team had in Kenya. Visitors are campers and provided special recreation educational activities while at the camp and throughout the African Savanna exhibit. Often groups rent the experience for company retreats, family functions or childrens’ groups. This is a post colonial component of the project that is rustic and rooted in indigenous forms and modern western contemporary ecotourism features. Interpretation with special education/recreation staff provide campers with special programs when they are at the Bush Camp. The African Shamba farm is an interactive working farm that was developed through the African Cultural Advisors Committee. In East Africa, shambas are small (often under 2–3 ha; 4.9–7.4 acres) vegetable garden and fruit farms. They are often associated with shifting agriculture; a patch in the bush is felled and burned to provide fertilizing ash, then planted with food crops, primarily for family subsistence, with any surplus being sold for cash. Main crops are maize (corn), beans, potatoes, spinach, cow peas, coco yams, sweet potatoes, cabbages, cauliflower, bananas and mangoes. In some cases coffee and avocado trees also accompany the garden. At the Toronto Zoo the Shamba is about a third of an acre ((0.7 ha) in size. It has a small out building/shelter associated with it that exhibits farm implements and related signage and artifacts. It is an operating farm designed by Toronto African community members and jointly maintained by them and Zoo staff. In the spring there is a ceremonial planting, throughout the summer weeding and tending occur as needed and in the fall it is harvested. During these periods there is active authentic interpretation as farmers interact with Zoo visitors. As far as we are aware this facility is the only working Shamba in the western Hemisphere. In 2009 Toronto Zoo also initiated an annual African Arts and Culture Festival in the Savanna experience centred on a Market Bazaar area designed for artists, artisans and performers to activate the human aspects of the African experience. Initial public response has been good. The actual envisioning of engineered landscape reproductions for the Savanna, and the Gorilla Rainforest and the Tundra Trek all benefited from the central role of an understanding of geography and its accurate, creative and original rendition in zoo exhibitions, all which are essential to successful recreations of places and habitats. In all cases designs for the major landscape areas were informed by original field sketches and photo reference panels of places (Fig. 67.10). Models of significant geographic features and geologic formations were modelled for integration into exhibit and public area design (Harpley, 2005: 57).

67.12 Reflection on Lessons Learned and Future Zoo Engineered Earth Landscapes The relationship between science and philosophy has always been intimate. The detailed study of natural fact is commonly called natural science or, for short, simply science and the reflection on principles is commonly called philosophy. Before the

67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos

1217

Fig. 67.10 Models and sketches used in Toronto zoo projects: (a) African Savanna Lion Kopje Model; (b) Gorilla Rainforest Concept Sketch, Dja Reserve Research Station; (c) Hudson Bay Tundra Trek Project Sketch; (d) Inuit Node Design Sketch, Tundra Trek Project. (Photos by Author)

19th century the more eminent and distinguished scientists had always, at least to some extent, philosophized about their science (Collingwood, 1957). The period of the last few decades of detailed work of exhibit design in zoos, in animal husbandry, behavior, new exhibit materials and techniques, and human social and behavioral research at zoos has left us questioning what has been won. This questioning is normal and we are now in a period of reflection on the principles which logically underlie our successes. In reflecting on the megaengineering necessary in the recreation of place in zoo exhibits through the physical engineering of landscapes, one could not help but think that a more reflective philosophy of exhibition of wild animals in zoos would be desirable. An emerging focus on social and cultural aspects, major environmental issue interpretation (climate change in Tundra Trek) and accurate geographic representations of place of zoo megaprojects occurred; these initiatives are being led by new approaches to design and construction at the Toronto Zoo. Other zoos have also been developing social and cultural aspects of their megaprojects. The authentic and original interpretations of these place recreations are avoiding simple replications; these remain challenges for many zoos. The more sophisticated our public becomes, the more we consider our animal charges’ needs, keeper and administrative wants and accurate interpretations of nature in our exhibits. Consider the myriad of other design decisions to be made today as compared to only twenty years ago in zoo exhibit design, from, for example, the colonial

1218

P. Harpley

zoo. Becoming part of a larger global scientific community of collaboration (animal research, species survival plans (SSP’s), mixed species exhibitry, animal enrichment and the like) has focused the public gaze on zoos as more than places to see live animals in cages. The additional environmental responsibilities zoos have taken on are focusing on many additional implications for zoo design and interpretation of place, environments and habitats.

67.13 The Large Scale Mission of Zoos and the Importance of Engineering Earth in Exhibitry Delivery The serious and rapidly changing global environmental conditions and human responses to them underlie a certain urgency to the success of the zoo exhibit. Indeed, the institution of the zoo can contribute greatly, through exhibitry, to nature education and social change. The Toronto Zoo is implementing this perspective in exhibit design initiatives. The African Savanna and Gorilla Rainforest projects are examples of what can be achieved with original thought, field research, design planning and rigorous accurate recreation of place. These are engineered places, one a large outdoor space and the other an intense and intimate indoor environment of complex architectural elements and engineering structures and controls. The kinds of exhibits being built from design approaches today are becoming increasingly sophisticated, utilizing revolutionary building materials, and techniques and, in some instances, costing a great deal of money (Cherfas, 1984). Critical analysis of philosophical and epistemological foundations for natural landscape re-creations is essential and, ideally in the future, must be guided by informed, enlightened insight as well as sound artistic, social and aesthetic judgment. Design decisions must be based consistently on original social research, unique field science background and art.

67.14 The Future of Zoo Exhibit Design in the Changing Global World The institution of the zoo can contribute greatly to society in the future through outstanding exhibitry, new approaches to nature education, accurate geographical representation of sense of place perceptions, and social change to affect future conservation and habitat understanding. The quality of engineered earth projects and the complexity of the management of wild animal populations in these landscapes could in the future lead to animal management ideas and innovations that could be useful in wildlife management in wild situations. Indeed, some Nature Reserves and Parks, for example in East Africa with elephants, are similar to zoo exhibits as the animals are confined to controlled areas due to poaching concerns, elephant damage to crops in surrounding agricultural lands or elephant browsing damage to surrounding vegetation. In fact, as early as 1975 Cynthia Moss noted in Uganda in particular, after the

67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos

1219

creation of national parks and reserves in East Africa in the 1940s and 1950s, that elephants were coming into conflict with humans as the human population rapidly grew and elephant ranges shrank (Moss, 1982: 2). This situation could be a project for polar bears, wolves and other large fauna in North America. Zoos and their engineered earth megaprojects might become designed models for a future nature, one unfortunately more and more designed and controlled by humans. The more we know, and the better this is done will define how we preserve, and as Ittelson has remarked, “may help to recapture what has been lost” (Ittelson et al., 1974). It must be remembered that modern zoos today are custodians of vast genetic storehouses of endangered and stable representative wildlife resources. In the increasingly urbanizing future world, lessons learned from large scale zoo engineered earth projects could be very useful in designs and management decisions in natural wildlife areas in the future, and more even more important than breeding and trying to release endangered species to the wild. Zoos’ greatest mission in the future could be the leading the way in recreating a new nature subtly managing habitat, humans and wildlife, where original wilderness is no longer possible to conserve or has been long ago destroyed. There is not great storehouse of animal genetic diversity for study, which would be an entirely new role for zoos. In fact, most of the early animal behavior observation and related research began in the controlled environment of the colonial zoo. Konrad Lorenz, Sir Solly Zuckerman, and W. Kohler (Ardrey, 1970) and Hediger (Moss, 1982) are only a few pioneer researchers who used zoos as key centers of their varyingly controlled studies in the 19th and early to mid 20th century. In the future the new engineered earth large scale landscapes of the new zoos should serve as much better laboratories of study of their animal residents. Over a decade ago, large engineered earth zoo projects like the African Savanna at Toronto Zoo hinted at these possibilities with large animal paddocks, drop moats, sophisticated earthworks and moats, mixed exhibits and multiple paddocks and modern animal holding buildings. Today, with large scale world environmental stresses like global warming, deteriorating polar ice and sea-level rising, and potential pandemics for humans and other species, megaprojects like the Tundra Trek and Toronto Zoo with Polar bears and other arctic species may be much more significant arks for the future than they were intended to be. The awakening knowledge and concern for wildlife conservation around the world demonstrates the very real need for educational prospects in zoos, and their exhibits. The necessity to interpret new viewpoints of wildlife and conservation, different from historical standard zoological conceptions, is recognized today. Long gone is the singular spectacle of the colonial zoo cage. Perhaps the new engineered earth megaproject design methodology of new zoo exhibits can be extended further to a radical move away from traditional exhibitry in zoos focused centrally on animals on exhibit, to explore the periphery of present mainstream notions of nature to develop other emerging viewpoints of conservation and the aboriginal cultural approaches and non-Eurocentric perspectives, all which are needed. At the Toronto Zoo traditional aboriginal knowledge was being explored in the African Savanna project in 1989, in a Canadian Aboriginal Trail opened in 2004, and the

1220

P. Harpley

Tundra Trek megazoo project in 2009. The recent relationships of Western zoos to postcolonial and feminist critiques (Anderson, 1995; Harpley, 1992; Harpley & Simpson-Housley, 1998; Whatmore, 2002) are recognized, but the larger ancient relationship of humans, nature and zoos is considerable. That historical and the contemporary are both in need of more study and potentially even further applications in zoos in the future is widely recognized. The synthesis of arrangement of the myriad perceptual exhibitry elements identified by environmental behavior methods and converted, with reflection, through the artistic process like in the African Savanna, Gorilla Rainforest and Tundra Trek projects at Toronto Zoo make possible a new generation of rigorously definable, unique zoo exhibits in the future. Modern zoo exhibits, created through the imaginative artistic process, with rigorous social science research to inform decisions and that are cognizant of historical influences and with emotion, feeling, and original experiential connection to place, will attain higher levels of exhibitry methods of success. With the coordinated implementation of planning design and construction of Zoo staff, engineers, architects and community partners and with engineered earth methodologies, these exhibits could become landscapes that are symbolic of tourist and commercial traffic. Zoo exhibits (as recreated place) can thus become metaphors for current natural and human circumstances situations and become appropriate interpretive vehicles for education and communication of an unlimited range of modern natural and social research findings. Indeed, the zoo exhibit can “. . .reinforce that the importance of the relationship between human culture and our view of the environment is fundamental to our daily lives” (Glacken, 1967). Nowhere is the relationship more apparent or urgent than in the visioning of the ever changing world of the ancient and contemporary institution of the zoo.

References Abler, R. F., Marcus, M. G., & Olson, J. M. (1992). Geography’s inner worlds: Pervasive themes in contempory American geography. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Adams, W. M. (1997). Future nature: A vision for conservation. London: Earthscan. Anderson, K. (1995). Culture and nature at the Adelaide Zoo. At the frontiers of ‘Human’ geography. Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, 20, 275–294. Anderson, D., & Grove, R. (Ed.). (1987). Conservation in Africa: People, policies and practice. New York: Cambridge University Press. Ardrey, R. (1970). African genesis, A personal investigation into the animal origins and the nature of man. New York: Dell. Babbie, E. (1990). Survey research methods. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth. Cajete, G. (1994). Look to the mountain: An ecology of indigenous education. Durango, CO: Kivaki Press. Canadian Parks Index. (2010). Closed Canadian Parks (1847–1867 and 1869–1872) (pp. 1–3). Website: http://cec.chebucto.org/ClosPark/Downs.html/ Castree, N., & Braun, B. (Eds.). (2001). Social nature: Theory, practice, and politics. London: Blackwell. Cherfas, J. (1984). Zoo 2000: A look beyond the bars. London: British Broadcasting Corporation. Collingwood, R. G. (1957). The idea of nature. Toronto, ON: Oxford University Press.

67

Engineering Metaphorical Landscapes and the Development of Zoos

1221

Cronon, W. (1996). Uncommon ground: Rethinking the human place in nature. London: W.W. Norton. Dalley, S. (1993). Ancient Mesopotamian gardens and the identification of the hanging gardens of Babylon resolved. Garden History, 21, 1. Dougan, B. (2004). Canadian Association of Zoos: Newsletter. Autumn, Ottawa, ON. Driver, F., & Gilbert, D. (Eds.). (1999). Imperial cities: Landscape, display and identity. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Finegan, J. (1963). Babylon; Babylonia and Assyria. Colliers Encyclopedia (pp. 425–427). The Crowell-Collier. Finkel, I. L. (1998). The hanging gardens of Babylon. In P. A. Clayton & M. J. Price (Eds.), The seven wonders of the ancient world (pp. Chapter 2). London: Routledge. Frome, M. (1984) Battle for wilderness. Boulder, CO: Westview. Glacken, C. J. (1967). Traces on the Rhodian Shore. Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press. Hancocks, D. (1971). Animals and architecture. New York: Praeger. Hancocks, D. (2001). A different nature: The paradoxical world of zoos and their uncertain future. Berkeley: University of California Press. Hanson, E. (2002). Animal attractions: Nature on display in American zoos. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Harpley, P. J. (1992). Western perceptions of savannas: Perspectives from visitors to the Toronto zoo. MA thesis, York University, Toronto, ON. Harpley, P. J. (1999). People and passion: The African savanna project. Toronto: Canadian Museums Association Annual Conference, Session on People, Power, Passion: Museum Performance in the 21st Century. Harpley, P. J. (2005). New exhibitry in a changing world. In A. B. Plowman & S. J. Tonge, (Eds.), Innovation or replication? Proceedings of the 6th international symposium on zoo design (pp. 49–60). Devon: Whitley Wildlife Conservation Trust Paignton. Harpley, P., & Simpson-Housley, P. (1998). Response to a zoo creation of an African savanna landscape. Great Lakes Geographer, 5(1–2), 67–76. Heffernan, M. (2003). Histories of geography. In S. J. Halloway, S. P. Rice, & G. Valentine (Eds.), Key concepts in geography (pp. 3–22). London: Sage. Higgs, E. S. (2003). Nature by design: People, natural process, and ecological restoration. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Ingold, T. (2000). The perception of the environment. London: Routledge. Ittelson, W. H., Rivlin, L. G., Proshansky, H. M., & Winkel, G. H. (1974) An introduction to environmental psychology. New York: Holt, Rhinehart and Winston. Kirchner, W. (1960). Western civilization to 1500. New York: Barnes and Noble. Kisling, V. N., Jr. (Ed.). (2001). Zoo and aquarium history: Ancient animal collections to the zoological garden. New York: CRC Press. Lank, D. (1975) Animals in art: An international exhibition of wildlife art. Toronto: Royal Ontario Museum Show, 7 October–14 December. Catalogue. MacNair, J. I. (Ed.). (1954). Livingstone’s travels, London: J. M. Dent and Sons. Marsh, Z. (1961). East Africa through contemporary records. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mitchell, B. (1989) Geography and resource management. Essex, England and New York: John Wiley, Longman Scientific & Technical Publication. Moss, C. (1982). Portraits in the wild: Animal behaviour in East Africa. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Newark, W. D., Leonard, N. L., Sariko, H. I., & Gamassa, D. -G. M. (1993). Conservation attitudes of local people living adjacent to five protected areas in Tanzania. Biological Conservation, 63, 177–183. Olwig, K. J. (1984). Nature’s ideological landscape. London: Allen and Unwin.

1222

P. Harpley

Philo, C. (1995). Animals, geography, and the city: Notes on inclusions and exclusions. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 13, 655–681. Plowman, A. B., & Tonge, S. J. (Eds.). (2005). Innovation or replication? Proceedings of the 6th international symposium on zoo design. Devon: Whitley Wildlife Conservation Trust, Paignton. Polakowski, K. J. (1987). Zoo design: The reality of wild illusions. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan School of Natural Resources. Riley, J. L. (2003) Flora of the Hudson Bay Lowland and its postglacial origins. Ottawa, ON: The Nature Conservancy of Canada, NRC, Research Press. Robinson, M. (1996). Foreword. In R. J. Hoage & W. A. Deiss (Eds.), New worlds, New animals: From menagerie to zoological park in the nineteenth century. Washington, DC: National Zoological Park, Smithsonian Institution. Rothfels, N. (2002). Savages and beasts: The birth of the modern zoo. Baltimore and London: The John University Hopkins Press. Rust-D’eye, G. (1975). The Riverdale Zoo. The seven news (pp. 6, 7). Riverdale Residents Association Toronto, ON, Canada. Said, E. W. (1993). Culture and imperialism. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Saggs, H. W. F. (1989). Civilization before Greece and Rome. London: B.T. Batsford Ltd. Sommer, R. (1966). Man’s proximate environment. Journal of Social Issues, 22(4), 59–69. Speiser, E. A. (1963). Mesopotamian – Ancient civilization. Colliers Encyclopedia, 15, 731–743. Wallace, A. R. (1962). The geographical distribution of animals. London: Hafner Publishing Co. Whatmore, S. (2002). Embodying the wild: Tales of becoming elephant. In S. Whatmore (Ed.), Hybrid Geographies: natures, cultures, spaces (pp. 35–58). London: Sage. Wolch J., & Emel, J. (1995). Bringing the animals back in. Guest editorial. Society and Space, 13(6), 632–636. Wolch, J., & Emel, J. (Eds.). (1998). Animal geographies. London: Verso. Zucconi, D. G., & Nicolson, J. A. (1981). Robert J. Lafortune North American living Museum. In P. J. Olney (Ed.), International zoo yearbook 21 (pp. 41–49). London: Zoological Society. Zuckerman, L. (Ed.). (1980) Great zoos of the world – Their origins and significance. Boulder, CO: Westview Press.

Chapter 68

An Uncomfortable Fit? Transfrontier Parks as MegaProjects Elizabeth Lunstrum

Megadevelopment projects are no stranger to Sub-Saharan Africa. The colonial period was marked by massive projects ranging from those aimed at the extraction of natural resources, to large scale agricultural schemes and megadams. With the fall of colonial rule, independent governments took over and expanded many of these projects and invested in other large scale development initiatives to help move beyond colonial legacies of exploitation, to build modern nation-states and economies, and to display to their citizens and the world their power as the newly independent states behind these projects. Today many African governments, routinely backed by international donors, have continued to “think big” as a way of promoting economic development and ensuring that African economies do not fall further behind in the world economy. The largest of these new megadevelopment projects in terms of geographical size is not the megamining projects like Botswana’s Jwaneng diamond mine, nor the megadams like Kariba, Cahora Bassa, or Congo’s Inga project, set to produce twice as much energy as China’s Three Gorges Dam. Rather, it is the continent’s national parks and protected areas. And given recent trends in global conservation toward conservation projects that span international borders, these spaces are growing ever larger as many existing national parks, reserves, and other protected areas are united with one another and with newly created conservation spaces to form transfrontier parks, that is cross-border megaparks. While the literature on mega projects has contributed extensively to our understanding of the social, political, economic, and environmental significance and impacts of large dams, agricultural schemes, mining operations, and transportation projects, this body of scholarship has paid little attention to national conservation spaces, let alone transnational ones. In this paper, I situate transfrontier parks (TFPs) within the literature on megaprojects to argue for treating large scale conservation projects and in particular TFPs as megaprojects. As I illustrate, approaching and theorizing TFPs as megaprojects expands our understanding of both. In the first part of E. Lunstrum (B) Department of Geography, York University, Toronto, ON M3J 1P3, Canada e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_68,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1223

1224

E. Lunstrum

Fig. 68.1 The Great Limpopo Transfrontier Park, part of the larger Great Limpopo Transfrontier Conservation Area. (Map created by Elizabeth Fairley, University of Minnesota Cartography Laboratory)

the paper, I take up the relatively straightforward grounds on which TFPs fulfill the defining criteria of megaprojects, ranging from their vast size to their public character and ability to attract and generate private investment. Yet on other grounds, expansive conservation initiatives appear as fundamentally different from, if not deeply at odds with, megaprojects. I illustrate, however, that even and especially on these registers, TFPs merit entry into the realm of “the megaproject.” But they do so in ways that are masked by assumptions that megaprojects are necessarily

68

An Uncomfortable Fit? Transfrontier Parks as MegaProjects

1225

Fig. 68.2 Southern entrance gate to Mozambique’s Limpopo National Park. (Photo by the author, 2005)

environmentally harmful and by more problematic notions that protected areas, especially (trans)national wildlife parks, are “natural,” “pristine,” “untouched,” and hence a-modern spaces of “wilderness.” While my concern is with TFPs in the general context of sub-Saharan Africa, I will ground many of my observations in the Great Limpopo Transfrontier Park (GLTP), the site of my own empirical research. As Sub-Saharan Africa’s flagship TFP, the GLTP unites South Africa’s Kruger National Park, Mozambique’s Limpopo National Park, Zimbabwe’s Gonarezhou National Park, and several smaller conservation areas into a 35,000 km2 (13,514 mi2 ) mega-park (Figs. 68.1 and 68.2).

68.1 Expansive and Expanding Spaces of Conservation: TFPs as Megaprojects While there is no single definition of “megaproject” and while many studies of megaprojects take the definition as a given, scholars and planners tend to agree at a minimum that they are projects that are large in size and/or cost (see, for example, this collection). Other authors have offered more specific definitions, which are equally helpful in analyzing whether and the extent to which it makes sense to categorize and theorize TFPs as megaprojects. Drawing on Altshuler and Luberoff (2003), Van Der Westhuizen (2007:335) contends that [m]egaprojects can be defined as initiatives that are physical, very expensive and public, involving the creation of structures, equipment and/or prepared development sites. They are generally, wholly or in large part, publicly financed.

1226

E. Lunstrum

Rather than offering a precise definition, Frick (2008: 40) notes that megaprojects share common qualities, what she terms the “Six Cs”: they tend to be “colossal in size and scope,” captivating, costly, controversial, complex, and “laden with control issues.” Gellert and Lynch (2003: 15–16) offer a more explicitly spatial definition: We define megaprojects broadly as projects which transform landscapes rapidly, intentionally, and profoundly in very visible ways, and require coordinated applications of capital and state power.

Whereas a specific megaproject may not fulfill each of these criteria, it will likely fulfill many of them. So while large scale mining and extraction operations, hydroelectric and other large dams, and urban renewal initiatives surely count as megaprojects given these criteria, what about large scale conservation projects, transfrontier or otherwise? With few exceptions, including Geisler (2003: 74) who sees them as “close relatives of megaprojects,” expansive conservation initiatives have not been seen or analyzed as megaprojects in either the conservation or megaproject literature.1 Focusing on large scale conservation spaces and more specifically TFPs in terms of how they are built, why they are built, and certainly their size allows us to see that they are not merely “close relatives” of megaprojects, but are themselves megaprojects. In this section, I show the relatively straightforward grounds on which this is the case. Let me begin by situating the recent rise of TFPs in sub-Saharan Africa. Global conservation policy and practice in the last decade has been marked by a commitment to the development of Transfrontier Conservation Areas (TFCAs). TFCAs consist of both mixed-use zones, where human habitation, agriculture, hunting, and even some industry are allowed, and more restrictive parks. Unlike mixed-use zones, parks are spaces designated primarily for wildlife habitat and tourist consumption and hence are spaces where activities like hunting and human settlement are generally prohibited, except in specially designated areas like buffer zones located on the parks’ edges where settlement is sometimes allowed. Some of these parks are themselves transfrontier parks (TFPs) as they span international borders or meet one another at (mostly) unfenced international borders, providing large expanses where wildlife are free to roam unhindered by artificial political borders.2 Supporters argue these spaces promote and protect wildlife and biodiversity, undo colonial histories that left peoples and ecosystems artificially split by arbitrary political boundaries, enable economic development via the growth of lucrative tourist economies, and in their role as international “peace parks,” promote peace and goodwill among the member countries (Peace Parks Foundation, 2009b; Sandwith, Shine, Hamilton, & Sheppard, 2001; Wolmer, 2003).3 Nowhere has this commitment to transfrontier conservation been more profound than in Sub-Saharan Africa and in particular southern Africa where there are at least 13 existing and planned land-based TFCAs and TFPs that cover an impressive 1.2 million km2 (463,323 mi2 ) (GLTFCAAHEAD, 2008) (Fig. 68.3). TFPs vary quite radically in terms of their geographical location and biophysical features, yet one thing they share is their immense size, which positions them at the forefront of megaprojects at least in terms of sheer geographical extent. For

68

An Uncomfortable Fit? Transfrontier Parks as MegaProjects

1227

Fig. 68.3 Transfrontier parks (TFPs) and transfrontier conservation areas (TFCAs) in the Southern African Development Community (SADC). (Map created by Carolyn King, York University Cartography Laboratory)

instance, the 36,000 km2 (13,900 mi2 ) Kgalagadi Transfrontier Park and 35,000 km2 (13,514 mi2 ) Great Limpopo Transfrontier Park (GLTP) each occupies spaces larger than Belgium.4 To comprehend why they are so expansive, it is necessary to turn to the historical contingencies shaping these projects, or more accurately shaping their component parts, as TFPs and TFCAs are not cut from whole cloth, so to speak. The majority in fact have been built by combining often quite sizable existing national parks and protected areas, many of which were established during the

1228

E. Lunstrum

colonial period. For instance, this is a history shared by two of the GLTP’s constitutive national parks, South Africa’s Kruger and Zimbabwe’s Gonarezhou (Carruthers, 1995; Wolmer, 2003). Although established in 2001, the third of the GLTP’s national parks shares a similar colonial history as it was created through legislation that gazetted Mozambique’s Coutada 16 into the Limpopo National Park. The coutada was a sizeable hunting reserve established in 1969 on the border of Kruger by colonial Portuguese administrators to provide sport opportunities for European hunters (Lunstrum, 2007). Once the coutada was transformed into a national park, it was possible to unite the Limpopo with the Kruger and Gonarezhou National Parks to create the tri-national GLTP, with each park retaining its status as an autonomous national park.5 Hence, the vast size of the GLTP, as with other Sub-Saharan African TFPs like the Kgalagadi Transfrontier Park (Ramutsindela, 2004), can be explained by the actions of colonial administrators who set aside large tracts of land for conservation and/or tourism. Uniting existing national parks and conservation areas into TFPs is, however, a relatively recent phenomenon in Sub-Saharan Africa, one that only took place once contemporary government officials, donors, and others saw their potential to promote conservation, attract tourists and private investment, and in the process generate capital. Such potential is crucial in understanding the vast size of these initiatives and the related grounds upon which they fit comfortably within the company of other megaprojects. Most obviously, more expansive, uninterrupted conservation areas, as we see with TFPs, enable more diversity of wildlife, facilitate the reestablishment and expansion of wildlife migration routes, and ultimately make space, quite literally, for healthier ecosystems. As the official GLTP literature explains, the park’s “unimpeded ecosystem will. . . be jointly managed according to harmonized wildlife management policies, promoting the return of a larger and more resilient ecosystem with greater chances of long-term sustainability” (GLTP, 2009; also see Peace Parks Foundation, 2009b; c.f., Wolmer, 2003). Larger conservation areas which enable more wildlife, also translate into more space for tourists, tourist activities and accommodation, tourist dollars, and related possibilities for private investment. The extensive Kruger National Park, for example, is surrounded by private and often lucrative tourist lodges and game reserves. Across the border, the administration of the Limpopo National Park is working to sell concessions to private companies interested in offering tourist services within the park, with private parties also seeking possibilities to invest beyond park borders (Ministério do Turismo, 2005; Palalane, G., 2008, personal communication, June, Maputo). In fact, more critical voices suggest that the primary rationale behind constructing the Limpopo National Park is that it opens opportunities for South African investors who can no longer invest in and near Kruger given market saturation. Rather, Kruger from this perspective is expanding into Mozambique in the form of the Limpopo National Park, resulting in an immense cross-border megapark, indeed a megaproject, rich in tourism and investment potential (Anon, 2004; Wolmer, 2003). Private investment in fact helps establish the megaproject credentials of TFPs in two ways. First, as we just saw, it helps explain their vast size, as larger parks mean

68

An Uncomfortable Fit? Transfrontier Parks as MegaProjects

1229

more investment opportunities. Second, private investment is increasingly playing a defining role in the development of megaprojects, as these are made possible by private investment, shaped by the interests of private investors, and promoted on the grounds that they involve, if not generate, rich opportunities for the private sector (Altshuler & Luberoff, 2003; Flyvbjerg, Bruzelius, & Rothengatter, 2003; Koppenjan, 2008). Similarly, attracting private capital, especially given hopes it will promote economic development, is one of the primary rationales behind the establishment and expansion of protected areas in general and TFPs more specifically (Dressler & Büscher, 2008; GLTP, 2009; Peace Parks Foundation, 2009b). In fact, the South African Department of Environmental Affairs and Tourism, supported by eight other countries of the Southern African Development Community (SADC), organized the “TFCA 2010 Tourism Investment Conference” in 2008 in Johannesburg. The purpose of the conference was, as the name suggests, to promote private investment opportunities in TFCAs including TFPs. More explicitly, South Africa Minister of Environmental Affairs and Tourism Marthinus Van Schalkwyk (2008) explained during his speech that: The aim of this conference is. . . to raise awareness of the region’s significant investment potential and market a portfolio of unique, packaged tourism investment opportunities in the seven existing TFCAs. . . . The nine SADC countries which are part of the initiative have therefore been working together to build a pipeline of bankable projects and embark on joint investment promotion efforts. . . . You will at this conference be presented with a catalogue featuring a total of 51 investment opportunities. . . [with] an estimated value of. . . R785 million [USD $78.5 million]. . .We believe that investment in tourism facilities and services will unlock the tremendous potential of the industry to address current regional development needs.

And as Van Schalkwyk indicates, it is various SADC countries and not just South Africa that see TFCAs/TFPs as a promising means of generating private investment. If private investment is important in the creation and justification of megaprojects including TFPs, so too is their status as public projects. This is the case even in an age of neoliberal economic reform where the role of the state has often shifted from actively directing megaprojects to enabling them (Gellert & Lynch, 2003; c.f., Brenner, 2004). Van Der Westhuizen (2007: 335) in fact defines megaprojects as “large-scale public funded constructions to which certain political objectives are linked.” The necessarily public nature of TFPs is, however, explained neither by cost nor by the ability to provide basic public services like transportation as we see with many other megaprojects. Although TFPs are certainly expensive to develop and maintain, which fulfills another criterion of megaprojects,6 many Sub-Saharan African states like post-war Mozambique lack sufficient resources of their own and so rely heavily on donors to fund these projects.7 And even though TFPs contain often newly built transportation networks, enabling transportation is not their primary purpose. TFPs are inevitably public megaprojects, rather, because of their size. Put simply, it is only the state, often working in partnership with international donors and investors, that has the power to secure such considerable tracts of land. This is something few, if any, private companies, conglomerates, or organizations would be

1230

E. Lunstrum

able to accomplish at least on their own. As we saw with the GLTP, national governments either already have the space, often in the form of existing protected areas, or else they have the legal means to create such spaces through eminent domain legislation that enables land appropriation for the “public good.”8 In addition, unlike most other megaprojects, TFPs are necessarily public projects given their transnational character. Ratifying treaties, razing international borders, and harmonizing conservation and border control policies among member countries, all necessary for the creation of TFPs and TFCA, necessarily require national governments to engage in state-to-state negotiations. Megaprojects as public projects are, moreover, routinely rationalized on the grounds that they will benefit the public, for example, by creating electricity, building or upgrading transportation infrastructure, and promoting national or regional economic development. Yet critics of megaprojects have convincingly shown that the benefits to the public are often overstated and that, while opening spaces to certain groups (e.g., investors, shoppers, tourists) these projects often reproduce certain types of exclusions and limitations regarding who benefits from them, who can enter the spaces they occupy, and for what purposes (Flyvbjerg et al., 2003; Karaman, 2008; c.f., Majoor, 2008). TFPs share many such affinities. They are justified by promises of conservation and economic development, both for the public good, and they open spaces to certain groups. For instance, these are public conservation spaces whose managements actively seek visitors. On the other hand, TFPs, like other megaprojects, are often marked by exclusions and conscribed understandings of publicness. For example, the public, as the beneficiary of these projects, is positioned as visitors to these spaces who must pay to enter them. For those who cannot afford park entrance fees, these spaces are more difficult to enter if not effectively closed off to this group. In my current research on the impact of the GLTP on labor migration, I have found this is a common criticism voiced by Mozambican migrant laborers who want simply to travel through the Limpopo and Kruger National Parks to find work in South Africa, which requires them to pay entrance fees for both parks. This leaves a number of migrants who cannot afford the fees to walk without permission through one if not both parks, risking encounters with dangerous wildlife.9 (On the other hand, migrants who can afford transportation and park entrance fees have found moving through the GLTP on the new road that links the Kruger and Limpopo National Parks is a much quicker and safer way to travel than previously available options). Furthermore, public megaprojects like large-scale dam, transportation, and extraction projects routinely physically displace those parts of the public “standing in the way” of development and the “greater good,” leaving them to experience megaprojects as sites of sacrifice (Gellert & Lynch, 2003; McCully, 2001). Many large scale conservation areas, including TFPs, are no different in this respect, either historically or today, which is a point I will return to below. Suffice it to say for now that, as with other public megaprojects, different members of the public have starkly different relationships to TFPs as public spaces.

68

An Uncomfortable Fit? Transfrontier Parks as MegaProjects

1231

68.2 An Uncomfortable Fit? Megaprojects as Spaces of Conservation and “Wilderness” If TFPs warrant entry into the realm of megaprojects on relatively straightforward grounds, ranging from their vast size to their status as publically funded projects with potential for private investment, on other registers they seem to fit uncomfortably if not stand in profound opposition to megaprojects. It is thus not surprising that conservation areas including TFPs have been overwhelmingly overlooked in the megaproject literature and that the conservation literature has not approached them as megaprojects. Such exclusions, as I aim to show, rest on ways in which notions of the environment and “nature” are implicated in investigations of megaprojects and TFPs alike. These exclusions rest specifically on assumptions that megaprojects are necessarily environmentally harmful and deeply entrenched notions that conservation areas and especially (trans)national wildlife parks are “pristine,” a-modern spaces of “wilderness.” Arguably the most clear-cut way in which conservation areas seem unlike (other) megaprojects is tied to the assumption shared by many critics of megaprojects that the latter are predominantly, if not inherently, ecologically damaging, as well as socially, economically, and culturally destructive to those communities who depend on these now threatened or destroyed resources. Such an argument is common in critiques of megadams (e.g., McCully, 2001), transportation projects (e.g., Guzman, Cipriani, & Jackson, 2008), and extractive economies including oil (e.g., Watts, 2001) and timber (e.g., Butler & Laurance, 2008). Gellert and Lynch (2003: 17) establish a more general link between megaprojects and (socio-) environmental harm in their discussion of the displacement-inducing effects of these projects. They explain: So, when we think about displacement by megaprojects, we need to look [at]. . . (1) displacement of significant volumes of rock and soil, (2) displacement of hydrological patterns, (3) the displacement of natural habitats and the creation of new ones (e.g., stagnant pools of water for mosquito breeding or open fields on military bases), (4) displacement of species and plant and animal communities that goes along with displacement of niches, and (5) the resultant disappearance of livelihood opportunities for resource-dependent communities.

Flyvbjerg (2005: 18) similarly contends that those megaprojects that actually get built are not the best projects, but rather ones whose supporters “best succeed in conjuring a fantasy world” of, among other factors, “undervalued environmental impacts.” Megaprojects in this sense appear antithetical to conservation initiatives. Moreover, according to Geisler (2003: 70), megaprojects are often assumed to create a need for conservation as an “antidote” to the environmental costs of such projects and “a bulwark against [their] externalities, be they market failures or market successes,” an assumption Geisler finds problematic. Yet if we accept that megaprojects are not inherently or entirely environmentally destructive, while not denying that many do indeed have adverse if not catastrophic environmental impacts, there is no reason to exclude large scale conservation areas from the likes of other megaprojects on such grounds.

1232

E. Lunstrum

However, even if we agree that megaprojects are defined by their propensity to induce environmental destruction, large scale conservation initiatives can themselves cause environmental harm. This can take the form of the overpopulation of certain species, especially charismatic megafauna like elephants which threaten vast landscapes given their daily food requirements. This is a particularly acute problem for Kruger National Park whose administration has experimented with elephant birth control, translocated elephants from Kruger into the Limpopo National Park, and renewed discussions of culling, all to keep elephant populations at a more ecologically-sustainable number (Lange, 2008; Scholes & Mennell, 2007). Large numbers of tourists within conservation spaces can similarly cause environmental damage. As tourists bring needed currency, they often leave behind immense amounts of refuse, upset or destroy sensitive ecological communities, contribute to soil erosion, and disturb wildlife. Such a recognition has led to growing calls for more “sustainable tourism” (Fennell & Ebert, 2004; Lansing & De Vries, 2007). Certainly conservation areas play a vital role in conservation efforts, so this is not to claim that these spaces are inherently or overwhelmingly environmentally destructive. Nonetheless, they, like other megaprojects, have contributed to environmental harm on several registers. If large scale conservation projects including TFPs seem opposed to megaprojects on environmental grounds, there are larger, more entrenched obstacles blocking their entry into the category of “the megaproject.” These obstacles are rooted in stubborn and profoundly problematic assumptions that these are sites of “wilderness” that are in their essence “natural,” “pristine,” “untouched” both by humans and time, and ultimately a-modern. This is especially the case for African conservation spaces which are celebrated as paradigmatic spaces of wilderness (Fig. 68.4). The Peace Parks Foundation (2009b), for instance, as the most influential organization promoting the development of transfrontier or “peace parks,” asks us rather boldly to: Dream of ancient migration trails trodden deep by an instinct that time has never contained. Dream of a wilderness where the elephant roams and the roar of the lion shatters the night. Dream, like us, of experiencing Africa wild and free, where people can reap the benefits of nature and in turn support her. This is. . . [a] dream that will only be realised through the establishment of peace parks. [emphasis added]

Similar descriptions grace the advertisements of tourism companies selling “African safari” experiences. For instance, Transfrontier Trails do Limpopo (2008), the main provider of tourism opportunities in the Limpopo National Park, offers “unspoilt, pristine, [and] pioneering” experiences of the park’s “magnificent” and “remote wilderness.” If we compare these descriptions with Gellert and Lynch’s (2003) definition of megaprojects given earlier, that they are “projects which transform landscapes rapidly, intentionally and profoundly in very visible ways,” conservation areas understood as “pristine wilderness” are excluded by definition from the company of megaprojects. The problem here is not with Gellert and Lynch’s insightful definition, but rather with notions of “pristine wilderness.” Such notions are not only

68

An Uncomfortable Fit? Transfrontier Parks as MegaProjects

1233

Fig. 68.4 “Wilderness” image for tourist consumption in South Africa’s Kruger National Park. (Photo by the author, 2005)

infused with colonial and racist tropes of an amodern African other (Neumann, 1998; c.f., Cronon, 1995), they also conceal the many ways in which conservation spaces have been intentionally and intensively transformed. Put simply, these are heavily engineered spaces. For instance, the creation of many conservation areas including TFPs has required the dislocation of people living within their limits, what stands as one of the most contentious aspects of TFPs. In the case of the GLTP, to make space for wildlife and tourist consumption, the Mozambican Ministry of Tourism with assistance from various donors is working to relocate approximately 7,000 people living in communities along the Shingwedzi River in the heart of the Limpopo National Park; although the Ministry has promised no forced relocations, it is strongly encouraging residents to leave.10 Their homes occupy some of the most desirable spaces for conservation, wildlife viewing, and tourist accommodation given that they rest near sources of water, which attracts abundant wildlife (Republic of Mozambique, Ministry of Tourism, 2008; Spierenburg & Milgroom, 2008). The Ministry and World Bank, one of the project’s initial funders, argue relocation is necessary for the safety and general well being of village residents, as the park is currently being restocked with wildlife after the decimation of animal populations during the apartheid South African-backed Mozambican “civil” war in the 1980s and 1990s (Lunstrum, 2007; Republic of Mozambique, Ministry of Tourism, 2008) (Figs. 68.5, 68.6, and 68.7).11 In fact, between 2001 and 2008, 4,148 animals have been translocated from Kruger into the Limpopo National Park, with many more migrating from Kruger on their own; this movement has been enabled by the removal of

1234

E. Lunstrum

Fig. 68.5 Relocation of rhinoceros from South Africa to restock the Limpopo National Park with wildlife. The international border fence between Mozambique and South Africa is shown. The truck carrying the rhinoceros is waiting for the Mozambican authorities to clear the appropriate paperwork so that the truck can pass from South Africa into Mozambique. (Photo taken by John Gaalaas, 2004)

large stretches of fence between the parks precisely to create a functioning, unified transfrontier park (Peace Parks Foundation, 2009a).12 The removal of park residents, however, is not merely an exercise in removing communities and signs of their labor or in returning the area to its “natural state” or even what it was before the war left wildlife populations dwindling. Human communities have lived in the region for centuries if not millennia; with them gone, the space can hold higher densities of wildlife because there will be no humans occupying this space with homes and farms, none protecting their homes, farms, and transportation routes from wildlife intrusion or attack, and none hunting wildlife, at least not legally so. Drawing attention to previous dislocations of human communities, this region of Mozambique is marked by a history of profound, intentional, and rapid landscape transformations, including socialist villagization and the construction of the Massingir Dam in Mozambique in the 1970s and 1980s, which displaced communities and relocated them into the highly rationalized communal villages. Set against this backdrop, the Limpopo National Park exists as the latest and most profound megaproject reshaping the landscape (Lunstrum, 2007, forthcominga). Similarly, the administration of Zimbabwe’s Gonarezhou National Park has recently relocated several hundred families from the park, although the major resettlement took place in the 1950s and 1960s when Gonarezhou was being established (Kruger2Canyons, 2006; Wolmer, 2003). In the same way, communities living in South Africa’s Kruger National Park were removed to make space for conservation and wildlife decades ago (Carruthers, 1995; Ramutsindela, 2002). So whereas these “wilderness” landscapes of Kruger and Gonarezhou are not presently being transformed intentionally, profoundly, and (somewhat) rapidly, this is because this transformation has already happened, largely during the colonial period. Such relocations show us that TFPs and the GLTP more specifically are strikingly similar to

68

An Uncomfortable Fit? Transfrontier Parks as MegaProjects

1235

Fig. 68.6 Preparing release of the rhinoceros in Mozambique a few kilometers beyond the border fence. (Photo taken by John Gaalaas, 2004)

the megaprojects that directly preceded them (e.g., Mozambican villagization and the Massingir Dam), that were folded into them (i.e., the existing national parks), and that surround them (e.g., the Kariba and Cahora Bassa dams).13 Each of these, as part of radically altering the earth’s surface, has demanded the relocation of, at a minimum, several thousand people. This in fact links up TFPs and other large scale conservation projects not only to other regional megaprojects but megaprojects more broadly given their propensity for inducing displacement part of larger landscape transformations (Gellert & Lynch, 2003). Landscapes are also transformed by the cross-border aspects of TFPs and TFCAs. The GLTP, for instance, requires the removal of large sections of the apartheid-era international border fence to allow animals to move more freely through these newly opened spaces, to re-establish animal migration routes, and in the case of the Limpopo National Park, to restock wildlife.14 At the same time, other barriers are erected within their limits, including new border control

1236

E. Lunstrum

Fig. 68.7 Released rhinoceros in Mozambique. (Photo taken by John Gaalaas, 2004)

posts. These are designed to channel the movement of tourists and to halt the movement of illicit activities ranging from poaching and the trafficking of stolen goods to undocumented labor migration, all of which are relatively common in the region (GLTP, 2009; Peddle, Braack, Petermann, & Sandwith, 2004; c.f., Marshall, 2007). The Mozambican and South African governments in fact chose to build the new Giriyondo border patrol gate on the international border in the middle of the GLTP along a newly built transportation artery, both of which further reshape the landscape.15 In regard to the latter, while trees and other vegetation were razed to make space for the road, the road itself has enabled significantly more traffic in and through the GLTP, making it easier for tourists coming from South Africa to reach the Limpopo National Park (LNP) as well as the Mozambican coast just east of the park. Hence, it is not just the road itself that yields a spatial transformation, but also the movement the road facilitates. Again, these examples problematize the assumption that TFPs and TFCAs are spaces that are somehow “untouched,” and hence they situate these conservation spaces more securely into the sphere of megaprojects as landscape-transforming projects.16 Finally, and not insignificantly, TFPs share with other megaprojects their role as vehicles of nation-state formation, which ties back to the public character of megaprojects and uneasily relates to their status as modern spaces. Contemporary nation-states and their economies have at a fundamental level been built via large scale transportation initiatives, electricity-generating projects, and irrigation schemes. As public projects, they also enable the consolidation of state power, as state actors at various levels of government control these spaces (often in “partnership” with others) and hence determine who can benefit from these projects

68

An Uncomfortable Fit? Transfrontier Parks as MegaProjects

1237

and enter the spaces they occupy. Megaprojects, moreover, are suffused with symbolic capital also important to nation-state formation. As impressively large and often technologically sophisticated projects, they are effectively public monuments around which a shared sense of national pride and identity can gel and around which citizens and other nation-states alike can recognize the triumphs and modernity of the nation-states behind these projects. We see such symbolism displayed through megaprojects throughout the world, including monumental urban projects in China (Smith, 2008) and the United Arab Emirates, villagization in Tanzania and Mozambique (Lunstrum, 2007, forthcominga; Scott, 1998), high speed transportation in South Africa (Van der Westhuizen, 2007), and large scale dams in the United States, Mozambique, China, and India (Isaacman & Sneddon, 2000; McCully, 2001), the latter of which Prime Minister Nehru once celebrated as the country’s temples of modernity. At one level, TFPs clearly share in these qualities. They generate capital that fills state coffers and promotes national (and regional) economic development, and they enable the consolidation of state power in determining who can enter these spaces and for what purposes (Lunstrum, 2007). On a more symbolic register, their sheer size demonstrates the power of states capable of such large feats (even if they are backed by donors), while, as national parks, they are national monuments which in theory generate a sense of national pride and belonging. As such, TFPs fit into a long line of megaprojects promoted by subSaharan African governments that, as mentioned in the paper’s opening, attempt to move beyond colonial legacies of dependency and exploitation and display to citizens and the world the power of the states behind these projects. Once more, however, TFPs seem at some level incompatible with other megaprojects, especially in regard to their ability to display or realize the modernity of the states enabling them. As we saw earlier, as spaces of “wilderness” TFPs appear as, and indeed are routinely sold as, spaces that “time forgot” or “has never contained” or that are, in a word, a-modern. Such assumptions stand in the way of seeing how TFPs also symbolize and embody state modernity. While I can only be suggestive at this point, “modern” states are increasingly those that not only promote capitalist economic development and good relations with their neighbors, but that also engage in conservation measures to protect natural resources as “national treasures” and as part of the “global ecological commons.” Commitments toward conservation, often (but by no means exclusively) in the form of protected areas, are seen as key to realizing sustainable economic development and hence effecting “modern,” “developed” nation-states with corresponding economies. In fact, this is a vision shared by some of the region’s most influential institutions, including the World Bank (2005) and the Southern African Development Community (SADC, 2005). Hence, ironically, modern states are those that protect natural resources and promote conservation by protecting, indeed creating, seemingly a-modern spaces of “wilderness.” In this sense, TFPs, like other megaprojects, play an important role in symbolizing and attempting to secure the modernity of the nation-state. Although they do so in a rather ambiguous and I would argue deeply problematic way: they reproduce ideas that Sub-Saharan Africa, to the extent that it is equated with its “wilderness” landscapes, is itself a-modern.

1238

E. Lunstrum

68.3 Conclusion Sub-Saharan Africa has seen its fair share of megaprojects, and commitments to such projects do not seem to be waning. Without denying the “mega” status of contemporary large scale development projects such as Congo’s Inga hydroelectric scheme and further plans to dam the mighty Zambezi River, the most massive of these projects at least in terms of size are the continent’s TFPs. I have argued that TFPs are themselves megaprojects, both on relatively straightforward and less obvious registers. Amounting to much more than a definitional exercise, approaching and theorizing TFPs as megaprojects expands our understanding of both. Focusing on the more straightforward ways in which TFPs fulfill the defining criteria of megaprojects sheds light on the functional and historically contingent reasons these are so large, the links between project size and the involvement of state institutions and the private sector, and how conscribed understandings of “publicness” shape access to public megaprojects including TFPs. TFPs, however, also seem deeply at odds with megaprojects, especially given the ways in which notions of environment and “nature” shape understandings of both. The roots of the tension are twofold. Megaprojects are understood by many of their critics as inherently environmentally destructive and hence antithetical to conservation. Second, and more problematically, TFPs are often understood as spaces of “wilderness” that are as “pristine” and “untouched” as they are a-modern. TFPs consequently appear to be fundamentally incompatible with megaprojects which, if nothing else, radically transform the earth’s surface. Yet such spaces of “wilderness” are actively created through human labor and ingenuity that profoundly alter the landscape and that subsequently position these projects well within the terrain of megaprojects. TFPs, like other megaprojects, are quite simply heavily engineered spaces. Similarly, assumptions that TFPs are a-modern spaces of “wilderness” ironically mask the extent to which they help realize state modernity. TFPs are thus not only the latest trend in global conservation, but also the latest type of megaproject reshaping Sub-Saharan African environments, landscapes, and, it is hoped by their advocates, economies and states.

Notes 1. Although Geisler (2003: 74–76) does not offer a comprehensive answer as to why conservation areas are “close relatives” of megaprojects, he asks compelling questions meant to provoke discussion regarding the ways in which the two are related. 2. In the conservation literature, while “TFCA” has been relatively precisely defined, “TFP” has not. Furthermore, the term “peace park” is often used interchangeably with both. But if we understand TFPs as I do here, as parks that span international borders or meet one another at (mostly) unfenced international borders to create large expanses of (mostly) uninterrupted wildlife habitat, then many of the national parks within TFCAs are indeed TFPs. 3. Promoters of TFPs and TFCAs, including government offices and NGOs, have made good use of websites to celebrate the various virtues of these projects including those listed above. See for example, the official website of the GLTP (GLTP, 2009) and the South African Peace Parks Foundation as the most influential organization promoting TFCAs (Peace Parks Foundation, 2009b).

68

An Uncomfortable Fit? Transfrontier Parks as MegaProjects

1239

4. The GLTP is the central feature of the Great Limpopo Transfrontier Conservation Area, a 100,000 km2 (38,610 mi2 ) TFCA that includes a number of national parks and protected areas as well as mixed-use zones (see Fig. 68.1). 5. To resist the temptation to be overly deterministic, the Mozambican government certainly could have chosen different spatial limits for the Limpopo National Park. 6. Although they are quite expensive to develop and maintain, costing tens of millions of dollars, the full cost of each individual TFP is extremely difficult to calculate given that funds are coming from a variety of sources and are being channeled into multiple government ministries and departments as well as various NGOs all operating at different scales. 7. The Limpopo National Park is, in fact, funded almost entirely by foreign donors. 8. For a discussion of the significance of this legislation for the creation of the Limpopo National Park, see Lunstrum (2008). 9. This observation is based on preliminary research I conducted in the Massingir District in May–June 2008 funded by York University’s Faculty of Arts. 10. The other 20,000 residents technically living inside the Limpopo National Park (LNP) will be allowed to stay, as they are located in the park’s “support zone,” which is a buffer zone located on the park’s periphery (Spierenburg & Milgroom, 2008). At present, relocation is focusing on Macavene, a community of 691 people located seven kms from the LNP’s entrance near the Massingir Dam. The relocation of Macavene is significant not only because the village will be the first relocated due to the park but also because it is being used as a pilot resettlement exercise to help determine how best to resettle the other villages along the Shingwedzi River within the LNP. Of the 128 families that compromise Macavene, 110 will relocate near Banga Village where they will build a new village called Macavene Novo (literally “New Macavene”); the remaining eighteen families will relocate into Tihovene/Massingir Village, which is the largest village in the Massingir District and where the District Administration is located. While Banga is approximately twenty kilometers (12.4 mi) by road from Macavene, Tihovene is about half this distance; hence, the relocation is a relatively short distance. Both Banga and Tihovene are located just beyond the border of the LNP, which leaves open the possibility that residents of Macavene may be able to benefit, for example, from employment tied to the park. For more information on the relocation, see the Macavene resettlement plan (Republic of Mozambique, Ministry of Tourism, 2008). 11. Although there is surprisingly little information on how and why animals were actually killed, drawing on interviews with survivors (in 2004–2005 and 2008) and various documents, animals were killed for food and to prevent the opposition from getting food and killed as they stepped on land mines placed during the war. The killing was made all the more efficient by the large number or weapons flowing through the area and the complete breakdown of wildlife management both tied to the war (GLTP, 2009; Vines, 1998, 1991). Furthermore, there is evidence that military activities actually took place inside Kruger National Park, as apartheid South Africa worked to destabilize Mozambique (apartheid South Africa was the main backer of the Mozambican rebel organization named Renamo, which was fighting to bring down the post-independence Mozambican government ruled by the political party Frelimo). Evidence suggests that Renamo and South African Defence Force (SADF) troops routinely moved through Kruger to get to and from Mozambique to launch attacks, that the SADF moved supplies for Renamo through Kruger, and that the SADF tested chemical weapons and launched attacks against Frelimo from within the park, including chemical attacks (Bunn, 2006; Ellis, 1994; Hatton, Couto, & Oglethorpe, 2001; Netherlands Institute for Southern Africa, 1997; Vines, 1991). For more information on the war, see Vines (1991), Lunstrum (2007), and Lunstrum (forthcomingb). As mentioned above, the park administration has argued that the safety and well-being of communities is the most important reason for relocation. While my sense is that this is accurate, the fact that the language of “wilderness” and the creation of “wilderness zones” infuse official park planning documents and promotional literature suggests an underlying rationale for relocation is precisely to create a site of “wilderness” devoid of human settlement

1240

12.

13.

14. 15. 16.

E. Lunstrum that would be attractive to tourists. Such a rationale is found explicitly in a study of relocation commissioned by the Ministry of Tourism (Weissleder & Sparla, 2002; also see Spierenburg & Milgroom, 2008). As animal populations cross the international border and as they move within the various parks, they are monitored in part by means of GPS (Global Positioning System) technologies, which are important technologies in creating conservation landscapes and in their ongoing maintenance. On the Kariba and Cahora Bassa Dams and their related underlying spatial transformations, including dislocation, see Hughes (2006); Isaacman (2005); and Isaacman and Sneddon (2000). The Kgalagadi Transfrontier Park is different in this respect, as there were no border fences between the national conservation areas and hence no fences to remove (Ramutsindela, 2004). For a discussion of what motivated this decision, see Peddle et al. (2004). Conservation areas that are smaller than TFPs but still quite large, such as conservation corridors, can demand similar spatial transformations (see, for example, Goldman, 2009), and hence they too can arguably be seen as megaprojects on similar grounds.

References Altshuler, A. A., & Luberoff, D. (2003). Mega-projects: The changing politics of urban public investment. Washington, DC: Brookings Institution Press. Anon. (2004). Interview with head of a prominent Mozambican environmental non-governmental organization. Maputo. Brenner, N. (2004). New state spaces: Urban governance and the rescaling of statehood. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bunn, D. (2006). The museum outdoors: Heritage, cattle, and permeable borders in the southwestern Kruger National Park. In I. Karp, C. Kratz, L. Szwaja, & T. Ybarra-Frausto (Eds.), Museum frictions: Public cultures/global transformations (pp. 357–381). Durham: Duke University Press. Butler, R. A., & Laurance, W. F. (2008). New strategies for conserving tropical forests. Trends in Ecology and Evolution, 23(9), 469–472. Carruthers, J. (1995). The Kruger National Park: A social and political history. Pietermaritzburg: University of Natal Press. Cronon, W. (1995). The trouble with wilderness; or, getting back to the wrong nature. In W. Cronon (Ed.), Uncommon ground: Toward reinventing nature (pp. 69–90). New York: W.W. Norton & Co. Dressler, W., & Büscher, B. (2008). Market triumphalism and the CBNRM ‘crises’ at the South African section of the Great Limpopo Transfrontier Park. Geoforum, 39(1), 452–465. Ellis, S. (1994). Of elephants and men – politics and nature conservation in South Africa. Journal of Southern Africa Studies, 20(1), 53–69. Fennell, D., & Ebert, K. (2004). Tourism and the precautionary principle. Journal of Sustainable Tourism, 12(6), 461–479. Flyvbjerg, B. (2005). Machiavellian megaprojects. Antipode, 37(1), 18–22. Flyvbjerg, B., Bruzelius, N., & Rothengatter, W. (2003). Megaprojects and risk: An anatomy of ambition. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Frick, K. (2008). The cost of the technological sublime: Daring ingenuity and the new San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge. In H. Priemus, B. Flyvbjerg, & B. V. Wee (Eds.), Decisionmaking on mega-projects (pp. 239–262). Cheltenham, UK: Edward Elgar. Geisler, C. (2003). A new kind of trouble: evictions in Eden. International Social Science Journal, 55(1), 69–78. Gellert, P., & Lynch, B. (2003). Mega-projects as displacements. International Social Science Journal, 55(1), 15–25.

68

An Uncomfortable Fit? Transfrontier Parks as MegaProjects

1241

GLTFCA-AHEAD. (2008). As the fences come down: Emerging concerns in transfrontier conservation areas. New York: The Wildlife Conservation Society and GLTFCA-AHEAD. GLTP. (2009). Great Limpopo Transfrontier Park [official website]. Retrieved April 15, 2009, from http://www.greatlimpopopark.com/ Goldman, M. (2009). Constructing connectivity: Conservation corridors and conservation politics in East African rangelands. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 99(2), 335–359. Guzman, H., Cipriani, R., & Jackson, J. (2008). Historical decline in coral reef growth after the Panama Canal. Ambio, 37(5), 342–346. Hatton, J., Couto, M., & Oglethorpe, J. (2001). Biodiversity and war: A case study of Mozambique. Washington, DC: Biodiversity Support Program. Hughes, D. M. (2006). Whites and water: How Euro-Africans made nature at Kariba Dam. Journal of Southern African Studies, 32(4), 823–838. Isaacman, A. (2005). Displaced people, displaced energy, and displaced memories: The case of Cahora Bassa, 1970–2004. International Journal of African Historical Studies, 38(2), 201–238. Isaacman, A., & Sneddon, C. (2000). Toward a social and environmental history of the building of Cahora Bassa Dam. Journal of Southern African Studies, 26(4), 597–632. Karaman, O. (2008). Urban pulse: (Re)making space for globalization in Istanbul. Urban Geography, 29(6), 518–525. Koppenjan, J. (2008). Public–private partnership and mega-projects. In H. Priemus, B. Flyvbjerg, & B. V. Wee (Eds.), Decision-making on mega-projects (pp. 189–213). Cheltenham, UK: Edward Elgar. Kruger2Canyons. (2006). Seven hundred families to be relocated. Retrieved December 4, 2008, from http://www.kruger2canyons.com/news/labels/gonarezhou.html Lange, K. (2008). Desperate measure: In overcrowded parks, managers may have to resort to shooting elephants to save ecosystems. National Geographic Magazine, 214(3–September), 64–69. Lansing, P., & De Vries, P. (2007). Sustainable tourism: ethical alternative or marketing ploy? Journal of Business Ethics, 72(1), 77–85. Lunstrum, E. (In press). State rationality, development, and the making of state territory: From colonial extraction to post-colonial conservation. In K. Oslund, N. Brimnes, C. Folke Ax, & N. Thode Jensen (Eds.), Cultivating the colony: Colonial states and their environmental legacies. Athens, OH: Ohio University Press. Lunstrum, E. (2009). Terror, territory, and deterritorialization: Landscapes of terror and the unmaking of state power in the Mozambican “civil war”. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 99(5), 884–892. Lunstrum, E. (2007). The Making and un-making of sovereign territory: From colonial extraction to postcolonial conservation in Mozambique’s Massingir region (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation). University of Minnesota, Minneapolis. Department of Geography. Lunstrum, E. (2008). Mozambique, neoliberal land reform, and the Limpopo National Park. Geographical Review, 98(3), 339–355. Majoor, S. (2008). Progressive planning ideals in a neo-liberal context, the case of Orestad Copenhagen. International Planning Studies, 13(2), 101–117. Marshall, L. (2007, 25 November). Transfrontier park poachers nabbed. Sunday Independent. http://www.sundayindependent.co.za/ McCully, P. (2001). Silenced rivers: The ecology and politics of large dams. London: Zed Books. Ministério do Turismo. (2005). Parque Nacional do Limpopo: Estrutura do processo da concessão. Maputo: Ministério do Turismo, República de Moçambique. Netherlands Institute for Southern Africa. (1997). The chemical warfare case – the Truth Commission files: Questions about the involvement of the South African apartheid regime and its secret services in external operations like hit squads, chemical and biological warfare. Amsterdam: Netherlands Institute for Southern Africa.

1242

E. Lunstrum

Neumann, R. (1998). Imposing wilderness: Struggles over livelihood and nature preservation in Africa. Berkeley: University of California Press. Peace Parks Foundation. (2009a). Great Limpopo Transfrontier Park wildlife translocation programme. Retrieved May 15, 2009, from http://peaceparks.org.dedi12.cpt1.host-h.net/Projects_ 1030000000_5_40_0_0_40_Great+Limpopo+Wildlife+translocation+programme.htm Peace Parks Foundation. (2009b). Peace Parks Foundation [official website]. Retrieved April 15, 2009, from http://www.peaceparks.org/ Peddle, D., Braack, L., Petermann, T., & Sandwith, T. (2004). Security issues in the planning and management of transboundary conservation areas. Berlin: InWEnt. Ramutsindela, M. (2004). Glocalisation and nature conservation strategies in 21st-century southern Africa. Tijdschrift voor Economische en Sociale Geografie, 95(1), 61–72. Ramutsindela, M. (2002). The perfect way to ending a painful past? Makuleke land deal in South Africa. Geoforum, 33(1), 15–24. Republic of Mozambique Ministry of Tourism. (2008). Mozambique – Transfrontier conservation areas and tourism development project: resettlement plan (Vol. 2 of 2). Resettlement action plan for Macavene village (draft). Maputo: Republic of Mozambique, Ministry of Tourism. SADC. (2005). Southern African Development Community (SADC): Regional biodiversity strategy. Gaborone, Botswana: SADC Secretariat. Sandwith, T., Shine, C., Hamilton, L., & Sheppard, D. (2001). Transboundary protected areas for peace and co-operation. Gland, Switzerland: IUCN. Scholes, R., & Mennell, K (Eds.). (2007). Assessment of South African elephant management. Johannesburg: Witwatersrand University Press. Scott, J. (1998). Seeing like a state: How certain schemes to improve the human condition have failed. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Smith, C. (2008). Monumentality in urban design: The case of China. Eurasian Geography and Economics, 49(3), 263–279. Spierenburg, M., & Milgroom, J. (2008). Induced volition: resettlement from the Limpopo National Park, Mozambique. Journal of Contemporary African Studies, 26(4), 435–448. Transfrontier Trails do Limpopo. (2008). Transfrontier Trails do Limpopo. Retrieved December 4, 2008, from http://www.dolimpopo.com/ Van der Westhuizen, J. (2007). Glitz, glamour and the Gautrain: mega-projects as political symbols. Politiko, 34(3), 333–351. Van Schalkwyk, M. (2008). Speech by Minister of Environmental Affairs and Tourism, Marthinus Van Schalkwyk, at the TFCA investment conference, Sandton Sun Hotel, Johannesburg, 21 October 2008. Retrieved April 15, 2009, from http://www.info.gov.za/ speeches/2008/08102110451003.htm Vines, A. (1998). Disarmament in Mozambique. Journal of Southern African Studies, 24(1), 191–205. Vines, A. (1991). Renamo: Terrorism in Mozambique. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Watts, M. (2001). Petro-violence: Community, extraction, and the political ecology of a mythic commodity. In N. L. Peluso & M. Watts (Eds.), Violent environments (pp. 189–212). Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Weissleder, H., & Sparla, S. (2002). Mozambique: development of the communities of the LNP: Shingwedzi River Basin (Final Report). Maputo: GFA/Terra Systems, KfW, and DNAC, Ministério do Turismo, República de Moçambique. Wolmer, W. (2003). Transboundary conservation: The politics of ecological integrity in the Great Limpopo Transfrontier Park. Journal of Southern African Studies, 29(1), 261–278. World Bank. (2005). Mozambique transfrontier conservation areas and tourism development project: environmental and social management framework, Vol. 1 of 2 (No. E1160, Vol. 1). Washington, DC: World Bank.

Chapter 69

Dams, Casinos and Concessions: Chinese Megaprojects in Laos and Cambodia Chris Lyttleton and Pál Nyíri

Development is the only hard truth. —Deng Xiaoping

These days in Southeast Asia, if you find that you are traveling faster than your Lonely Planet guide says you should be, it usually has something to do with China. Here as in Africa, China has emerged as the new source of funding and execution of infrastructural megaprojects, dams, roads, railways, some in cooperation with global financial institutions, others, which these are no longer willing or able to support, on its own. China says it is providing no-strings help, but Western aid donors have largely reacted to this with suspicion or hostility, accusing China of engaging in a resource grab, fostering corruption, and disregarding the interests of the poor. China’s megaprojects have dramatic consequences for local populations as, like the great colonial railways, they set in motion all sorts of investors, traders and adventurers. In Laos and Cambodia, connected to China by historic migration links and new Chinese-built roads, a variety of meso- and miniprojects thrive on the tailwinds of the megaprojects (Fig. 69.1). In both countries, China has become one of the largest sources of investment and aid.1 Focusing on a dam in Cambodia and two real estate/casino projects in Laos, this chapter asks how the emerging Chinese “concessions,” viz., areas designated for Chinese-funded investment and/or development aid projects and run by Chinese management, are transforming livelihoods and forms of governance. We thus look not so much at ways in which the physical environment is engineered but at how orchestrated land management under the guise of international development inevitably implies forms of social engineering that structure emerging social and economic relationships. As such, although the data we report largely comes from 2008 and early 2009, the processes we describe are ongoing.

C. Lyttleton (B) Department of Anthropology, Macquarie University, Sydney, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_69,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1243

1244

C. Lyttleton and P. Nyíri

Fig. 69.1 The Mekong region with Chinese development projects discussed in the chapter

69.1 Dams In August 2008 we visited Cambodia’s most talked-about megaproject. The Kamchay hydropower station, scheduled for completion in 2010 with a capacity of 180 megawatt, is being built by Sinohydro, China’s largest, state-owned hydropower engineering company, under a BOT (build – operate – transfer) agreement as part of a $600 million aid package announced by China in 2006. This was the same amount as pledged by OECD donor countries in the same year.2 (This setup means that Sinohydro will operate the station for 40 years and sell electricity to the state electricity company, Electricité du Cambodge [EdC], at a pre-agreed rate. After that date it will hand the station over to EdC.) Costing $280 million, Kamchay is regarded as the largest investment in Cambodia to date, although MOUs (Memoranda of Understanding) have been signed for larger sums, both in the hydropower sector and outside it, most with Chinese companies. As of August 2008 the largest investment approved by the Council for the Development of Cambodia, with fixed assets declared to be worth $3.8 billion, is a beach tourism project by a Chinese

69

Chinese Megaprojects in Laos and Cambodia

1245

company. With this project China is poised to regain its leading position among foreign investors in the country in 2008. Kamchay is only the first of a series of hydropower stations planned to ameliorate Cambodia’s woefully inadequate supply of electricity and to earn foreign currency. Five of the seven dams known to be under construction or under study are being developed by Chinese corporations while the two in the northeast are being constructed by Vietnamese companies (Brewer, 2008; Middleton, 2008;). While Chinese companies are major dam builders throughout Indochina and Burma (in 2007 they were reportedly constructing around 50 large dams worldwide) in Laos they share the playing field more evenly with companies from Thailand, Vietnam and Malaysia, as well as France, Norway, and Japan (International Rivers, 2008)3 (Fig. 69.2). Kamchay lies at the edge of the Bokor National Park, upstream from a modest local tourist spot, Teuk Chuu Falls. An environmental impact assessment (EIA) for the project was carried out in the 1990s by three Canadian companies, but the Canadian International Development Agency, faced with criticism by environmental NGOs, withdrew its funding for a feasibility study. In 2002 a Japanese organization completed a feasibility study, and in 2006, Sinohydro commissioned another EIA, but neither has been made public. It is not known whether Sinohydro followed its recommendations. Nonetheless, Cambodia’s National Assembly, dominated by

Fig. 69.2 Map of dams built with the involvement of Chinese companies and banks, 2008. (Reproduced with permission from Nicole Brewer, The New Great Walls: a Guide to China’s Overseas Dam Industry. Berkeley: International Rivers. Online: http://internationalrivers.org/ en/china/chinas-global-role/made-china-damming-worlds-rivers-map According to International Rivers, the number of projects has doubled by 2009)

1246

C. Lyttleton and P. Nyíri

the ruling People’s Party, voted to guarantee Sinohydro financial recompense if the project faced difficulties (Middleton, 2008; Sam Rith, n.d.). Environmental NGOs, strong in Cambodia and the beneficiaries of a substantial part of Western aid, are concerned with Kamchay’s impact on the national park, 2,000 ha (5000 acres) of which will be flooded, as well as on local livelihoods. They say that bamboo harvesting, a major source of livelihood, will be affected by loss of access and rising levels of soil salinity. Plans for compensation have not been disclosed, and wages offered for construction work, about US$ 2 a day, are below those earned from bamboo harvesting (Middleton, 2008; Sam Rith n.d.). In any case, 80% of the workers on the construction are said to be from China, even though Sinohydro had initially announced that 90% would be Khmer (Middleton, 2008: 56). None of the NGO reports report first-hand on conditions on the construction sites and their authors say that they have not been allowed to visit the premises or to talk to Chinese workers. Cambodia’s largest existing power station, rebuilt by a Chinese company in 2002, has a capacity of 12 megawatts, one-fifteenth of Kamchay’s. While environmental activists acknowledge the pressing need for electricity generation – currently less than 30% of Cambodians have access to it, and much of that is imported – most of them oppose dams. Moreover, they believe the way Chinese-financed projects are carried out contrasts unfavorably with those funded by Japanese or World Bank aid. The executive director of a well-known environmental NGO, CEPA, says the Japanese, who have built two microhydropower stations to supply electricity to locals, “fully respect law and policy and local people,” so when there is a complaint they stop and negotiate until the issue is resolved. Western countries have funded no dams and are “very strict about aid.” The World Bank, for example, has suspended projects to investigate allegations of corruption. By contrast, the Chinese “don’t think about the impact; they only know how to corrupt.” It is not clear where their aid goes and that makes “it is easy to be corrupted.” Like Japan in the 1970s, China, where logging has been banned since the late 1990s, paper milling has been restricted, and the hydropower industry faces growing challenges by an increasingly assertive environmental lobby (Mertha, 2008). It is often accused of exporting the environmental costs of its development (for example, Kurlantzick, 2007: 163–164). (As Mertha notes, the growing transparency in China is likely to accelerate rather than slow down this tendency: the fact that Sinohydro has been repeatedly cited by the Chinese government for unsafe practices may make it only more enthusiastic to pursue projects overseas.) In addition, some environmentalists charge that Kamchay’s high building costs make the project economically unviable, as its electricity will be more expensive than that imported from Vietnam (Middleton, 2008: 48).

69.1.1 “Basically Controlled by Us” Anyone who has met Mr. Wang, a manager for Datang Group working on the Stung Atay hydropower project in southwestern Cambodia, will be hard put not to accept such charges at face value. Datang is a subcontractor to the China Yunnan

69

Chinese Megaprojects in Laos and Cambodia

1247

Corporation for International Techno-Economic Cooperation (CYC), a state-owned enterprise under the Yunnan Province government (Middleton, 2008: 40–41), which has agreed to build the dam under a BOT agreement. Datang is also a subcontractor to Yunnan Southeast-Asia Economy and Technology Investment Industrial Co. Ltd., which is building a high voltage transmission line to Phnom Penh and Battambang under a different BOT agreement. Yunnan Southeast-Asia is an unknown entity that may have been set up by CYC to circumvent a law that prohibits ownership of a power station and an associated transmission line by the same company (Middleton, 2008: 26). Mr. Wang is particularly proud that Datang managed this feat – according to him, as the first Chinese company anywhere in the world to do so: “No one can believe we actually got this. They say, how can a country farm out their electricity supply to a private foreign company?” Electricity production in Cambodia, he says, is now “basically controlled by us [China]. What if I don’t give you electricity? Think about when Russia stopped gas to the Ukraine.” The feasibility study for the Atay dam was prepared by a Japanese consultancy (Middleton, 2008: 25), “but,” Mr. Wang gleefully says, “we grabbed it” (women qiangzou le) because the relations between the two governments are so good and because their private relations with Cambodian government officials have been so close. Officials at the Japanese embassy say that Japan judges hydropower megaprojects in Cambodia to be unviable and supports alternative ways of generating electricity. Also the costs at which Japanese companies could undertake such projects are uncompetitive compared to Chinese contractors. In addition, Japan may not want to deal with environmental protests. (“It’s so ecological [tai shengtai le] over there! Two international organizations protested to Hun Sen that our project will spoil the environment!” Mr. Wang says proudly, as if proving just how nice it is at the site as he invites me to visit.) In contrast, Datang obtained a symbolic one million yuan (around US$ 140 thousand) as a sign of support fom the Chinese government’s Development and Reform Commission, which had to approve the project, as well as a low-interest loan from China Development Bank, covering 70% of the total cost of the project. (This has been reported as US$ 370 million [Middleton, 2008: 25–26], but according to Mr. Wang it is US$ 460 million. In either case, it is higher than the cost of the Kamchay dam.) After a chat with Mr. Wang, it comes as a surprise that both the Dutch owner of the newest hotel in Kampot, the provincial capital near which Kamchay is located, and her Khmer waitress very nearly rave about the “top guys” from the site, who, they say, used to dine at the hotel every weekend. So impressed was the owner, a woman in her thirties who normally caters to relatively upscale Western travelers, with their conversations that she completely changed her previously negative image of Chinese people (which she blames on CNN). She even tried to put an end to the rumor that they were using prison labor. The waitress, too, found Mr. Zhang [a pseudonym], the project’s general manager, “very friendly,” and she thinks the dam they are building is “very good.” “I miss them!” she says, and we promise to convey her greetings. We take a motorcycle taxi up to the worksite. The Chinese worker who stands guard with a Cambodian soldier waves us in when we mention Mr. Zhang, although

1248

C. Lyttleton and P. Nyíri

foreigners are not allowed to enter. Once on the site, we walk around unencumbered. When we ask some young Chinese-Cambodian translators for the general manager’s office, we are shown straight in. Though it is a Sunday, Mr. Zhang is in his office, as is the rest of the Chinese staff. From the office, we can see a basketball court and the red-roofed brick cottages of the managers. The man at the head of Cambodia’s largest foreign investment project is softspoken, bespectacled and stocky, dressed in a polo shirt and jeans, with an air of quiet authority. Baffled by our excuse of passing on regards from the hotel, he nonetheless offers his phone number, and the next day, we have lunch in Kampot. He says there are over 200 Chinese and more than 600 Khmers working on the project. He would not mind having more Chinese workers, as they are more reliable, but it would be too expensive. Local workers get US$ 150 a month, including overtime, for working ten hours, five days a week. Although this wage is very high by the standards of physical labor in Cambodia, Mr. Zhang says he has trouble keeping his Khmer workers. Why? “Because they’re lazy,” he says. “The Khmers don’t think about making more money; what they think about is stealing.” Once the dormitory for the local workers has been constructed, it will be “easier to manage” them. Then they will not be allowed to go outside, except once a week. In return, they will get meals and showers. There are no unions at Kamchay, but there have been several strikes – two in 2008 – instigated by disgruntled former workers. In one instance, three Khmer workers organized a strike, demanding that they be reinstated, and blocked the road to the site, preventing other workers from accessing it. What made Zhang even angrier was that the local labor department head asked him to reinstate workers he had dismissed for assaulting a Chinese supervisor who they felt had treated one of them rudely. The head stated that he had the right to punish them for the beating, but not to terminate them. Zhang refused, saying he will not tolerate bloodletting by anyone on his site, whether Khmer or Chinese. Then the three workers snuck back to the site at night and stole parts of an excavator. (Others saw them and reported.) Yet the police refused to arrest them, saying that while the investigation of the alleged wrongful dismissal was going on, they could not start a new one. Mr. Zhang’s conclusion from this incident is that local authorities do not support their project. Just the week before our conversation, the police failed to arrest a Cambodian ex-worker who beat up a Chinese worker in Kampot. This time, the company did not wait for the authorities: they sent six Chinese men to the ex-worker’s house with the instruction “not to be too polite.” After several visits, the man moved out of town. For Zhang, the point is simple: he is here to provide China’s help to Cambodia, and he is frustrated that local authorities are not helping him get his job done. He freely admits that he is executing foreign policy priorities: though the BOT contract is for 40 years, “we might give it to them earlier; it all depends on the relations between the two countries,” which “are not for us to discuss.” Cambodia, along with Laos, depends on aid for its basic infrastructure projects, and is, along with Laos, its largest per capita recipient in Asia. Until the last few years, this aid came principally from the West and Japan, but “traditional donors” now find it hard to keep up with

69

Chinese Megaprojects in Laos and Cambodia

1249

China as well as other emerging donors such as Kuwait, which pledged $546 million to Cambodia in 2008, most of it for a dam (Chun, 2009). Yet Mr. Zhang is not an unreflexive evangelist of “Chinese-style development.” He admits that his Chinese workers see the two-story colonial houses on the Kampot riverfront, where we are having lunch, as a sign of poverty. He also adds, plausibly, that the local inhabitants would not hesitate exchanging them for a glass-and-tile building of the kind one sees in Chinese county towns. But he personally likes these houses. Cambodia, he says, is not like China, where houses are always pulled down and new ones erected, so that people always want to move to a new one, so that construction companies and construction material companies are kept in business and provide employment. He implies that this is necessary for development, and it is Cambodia’s failure as a state not to follow this model; but the statement is tinged with regret.

69.2 Casinos Unlike Kamchay, the Dork Ngiew Kham (Golden Kapok Flower) tourist development project in the Lao part of the Golden Triangle has attracted little attention, either from Lao state-controlled media or international organizations. The project, begun by Myanmar Macao Lundun Co. on 827 ha (2,044 acres) of leased land in 2007, will entail an initial investment of close to US$ 90 million. In January 2009 it was a hive of construction hastening to meet the scheduled opening of the casino/hotel complex in April. Land has been carefully graded down to the heaving banks of the Mekong, and one easily imagines the sloping lawns and gentle promenades designed to compete with the hotel strip on the Thai side of the river and a nearby Burmese casino, carving a slice from the huge tourist market of the Golden Triangle resort area. The zone will have its own border point and rules of entry so tourists might come with no visa or legal status to enter Laos itself. An international airport, golf and entertainment facilities are planned, and agro-industrial investment, linked to training facilities for Lao workers, has also been promised. To accommodate all that, negotiations are underway for additional 200 riverside ha (494 acres) to be included in the 50-year renewable lease. If consummated, the expanded site will subsume five villages and an atoll in the Mekong currently popular with tourists on the Thai side who want to set foot in Laos. In the future, visitors can indeed set foot in Laos: except as the locals succinctly note, this is no longer Laos, it is China. In a soon-to-be relocated Tai-Lue village, locals make no bones of their dissatisfaction with the Lao decision to utilize Chinese money as the path to local area development: they shout abuse at Chinese laborers (who cannot understand what they say, but cannot mistake the tone) who come to buy everyday supplies (even as vendors seem happy to sell to them). Other villages will not be moved. They will be the ethnic drawcards: already pilot beauty contests of local ethnic women are being organized as the first concrete acknowledgement that this development is the undeniable and non-negotiable future they face.

1250

C. Lyttleton and P. Nyíri

While discussions over further land annexation take place at the central government level, local provincial and district level authorities have little say or jurisdiction over what happens within this sequestered zone. Although the original agreement, like at Kamchay, was to employ 90% Lao labor, the reality is quite different. The local authorities have little idea how many foreign workers there are, or where they come from (estimates range from 200 to 500 on-site at any given time). They have been denied access to this information by Chinese site managers; in the past none of the workers were registered with the Lao labor office. Following the area’s recent designation as a special economic zone (SEZ) the issue has been somewhat resolved. The investors have more flexibility in hiring arrangements and are no longer expected to register employees with the Lao Government, short of some notification of actual numbers. They come and go from Burma and China receiving company work permits that allow them to remain in the leasehold area. As for Lao workers, those that were hired soon found they could not sustain the 12-hour shifts the Chinese overseers insisted upon. Storekeepers in neighbouring villages who furnish the migrants with food and supplies have always known precisely where the laborers came from: Burma and China. Although local authorities might not control what goes on within the site, they do enforce what happens on its periphery. Residents of the village to be relocated have had no success protesting to the central government in Vientiane. Local drink shops have been summarily closed to prevent violence between Chinese laborers and locals after one Lao man was stabbed by a Chinese in a dispute over social pleasantries. A virtual buffer of non-engagement has been established by the local administration around the site. Language difficulties add to this. But of course, it is only partially effective. As we sit in the local store in the soon-to-be evicted village a constant stream of Chinese and Burmese men come seeking Coke, iced tea, phone cards and cookies. A Thai man of Chinese background, hired for his language capacity, is one of only 3–4 Thai employees on the site. His job is to ferry Chinese and Burmese workers back and forth to different sites. He says his monthly pay, about US$ 300, is more than he would get in Thailand. To augment his income, he has brought young Chinese women to work in the food store with him. They (and other Chinese and Burmese women in neighbouring food shops) make up for the shortfall in services while the nearby Lao bars with sex workers remained (temporarily) closed. Local Lao eagerly await future opportunities to service this looming hub of economic gravity in an area that, apart from proximity to drug corridors and the visible opulence of the hotels across the river, has remained largely removed from all sparks of economic growth firing other parts of Laos and the region. They anticipate that they too can share in the dreams of economic growth prompted by ambitious economic integration programs playing their part in neighboring districts (Lyttleton, 2008). But local authorities are wary of repeating the experience of Golden Boten City at the Lao-China border point of what is known as the Northern Economic Corridor. This recently completed Chinese-run casino project is regarded as a hotbed of drugs, crime and prostitution. Already local gossip highlights imminent security threats: seven murders are said to have taken place on the Dork Ngiew

69

Chinese Megaprojects in Laos and Cambodia

1251

Fig. 69.3 A page from Golden Boten City’s brochure for investors. (Source: Paul T. Cohen)

Kham construction site, and gruesome stories of bodies tossed in to the river are commonplace as a means to signal the violence associated with Chinese intrusion.

69.2.1 “The Most Internationally Modernized City” It is not hard to see how the locals (if not the central government) might view the rapid rise of the 1,600-ha (4,000-acre) Golden Boten City “special zone” (Chinese tequ), opened in 2007 by the Chinese investment company Fu-Khing, as a salutary lesson in engagement with Chinese leaseholds. The developer’s brochure for investors (Fig. 69.3) asserts that: Golden Boten City [as] a golden place hiding in the luxuriant jungles, just like Peter Pan’s city of never falling down, just like mysterious treasure island. . ., tempts the deepest desire in each tourist’s mind. As a golden port, her convenience, tolerance, prosperity and elegance will conquer every person who arrives at here. Traffic convenience will endow her with advantaged tourism, and Laos’s attractive natural landscape together with advantage of Boten will draw in numbers of international tourists. At the same time, the foreign living habits and their anxiety for Lao culture will bring infinite business chances.

Much is made of the exotic appeal of local Lao culture: Cities of exoticism, Theme Parks, Store of folk culture and custom, Characteristic food and beverage, Featured carnivals, Folk villages, Tourism souvenirs, Development and management of scenic spots are listed as the means to attract foreign patronage. The casino is not mentioned. The Lao tourism office still plays to this dream: An advertisement on the back cover of the inaugural (1/2008) issue of the Luang Namtha Provincial Tourism Magazine describes Golden Boten City, as the “most internationally modernized city in [L]ao.” Next to the new China-Thailand highway and on the site of the former village of Boten, whose inhabitants had been resettled farther away, its central feature is a hotel-casino complex, with a cluster of shops, small eating houses, staff dormitories, and apartments surrounding it. A conference center, a golf course, and villas are planned, and the developer’s brochure implores potential investors to:

1252

C. Lyttleton and P. Nyíri

Fig. 69.4 Shops at Golden Boten City. (Source: Pál Nyíri) believe that thousands of people will gather here in a beautiful morning or an autumn evening. They [will] live and develop here with various occupations and identities, to form a huge community, and a modern society.

While it is true that there is little in Laos that runs 24 hours a day as does the casino, the current state of Golden Boten belies the vision of a cosmopolitan tropical paradise expressed in this passage and the accompanying images (Fig. 69.4). The prominent presence of sex shops and prostitutes, combined with the warren of dirty alleys lined with ramshackle shops selling underwear and tobacco, and the dominance among tourists of middle aged men in cheap suits reminds one of a tourist destination in late-1990s in southern China or of director Jia Zhangke’s film noir, not of today’s übercool neighborhoods built by international architects for the wealthy of Shanghai and Hangzhou. As two men from the northern Chinese city of Tangshan who run a stall selling oilcakes tell us, the proprietor of Golden Boten moved here from Burma, a few hundred miles west, where he ran a gambling hall in one of the Chinese-owned casinos along the border, after business declined following the Chinese government’s restrictions on its citizens travelling to these casinos. Like there, the clientele here is far from being international. Apart from an increasing (but still small) number of Thai and even fewer Lao tourists stopping by on their way to China, virtually everything and everyone in the place is Chinese, from the growing number of employees and small business owners (3000 in early 2009) to the currency (only yuan are accepted), from electric sockets (electricity is also supplied from China) to beer. That this is a duty-free zone does not explain why nearly all shops are Chinese. Surprisingly, considering the popularity of ethnic exoticism and eroticism in Chinese tourism (see, for example, Nyíri, 2006a),

69

Chinese Megaprojects in Laos and Cambodia

1253

no ethnic souvenirs or foods are available and no ethnic dance performances are held, although Luang Namtha Province is known for its diversity. Instead, a large entertainment venue (termed a “transvestitarium” [Ch. renyaoguan] by local shopkeepers) was constructed to host drag shows featuring Thai transgenders whose performances have already prominently featured at casinos on the Burma side of the Chinese border. As it turned out, the transvestite shows had limited appeal and were soon replaced by a KTV and ‘performance bar’ called Quancigun (Global village!). Overall, it appears that the environment simply feels too foreign for small Lao entrepreneurs, unfamiliar with Chinese business practices, to move in, and that both proprietors and visitors see the place as a kind of liminal Chinese space where forbidden pleasures are openly available (neither gambling nor prostitution are legal in mainland China, though both are widely practiced) rather than a foreign destination. When we ask a local Lao driver whether Golden Boten was China or Laos, he says in fluent Chinese: “Sure it’s China! China rented it.” The fact that the zone has been leased by its Chinese proprietors for thirty years, with the option of renewing the lease twice, is reinforced by the guards who march around in military formations in uniforms resembling those of Chinese police, emblazoned with “Special Zone Security.” Lao casino staff tell us that in the past, bodies of Chinese murder victims as well as Chinese citizens accused of the crime have been whisked quietly back over the border. In concession to Lao demands, Lao police also maintain an inconspicuous presence, but they seem to have little authority in cases involving Chinese staff or tourists. Local employees are a diminishing presence. Golden Boten opened amidst claims of preferential hiring of local Lao to make up the 900 required staff. Dealers’ wages are high by Lao and even Chinese standards, 1,200 yuan (roughly US$ 200) by the end of 2008 for a six-day work week, plus room, board and an additional 310 yuan (US$ 52) if one chooses to work seven days. Yet the number of Lao employees has dropped from nearly 300 to a little over 100. New Lao dealers are hired only if they can speak Chinese. Lao workers occupy only one floor of one dormitory: the bottom one, and they have indicated a range of difficulties: an unfamiliar work environment, abuse from Chinese overseers, perceived discrimination in the food hall where they feel they receive smaller proportions of food than the Chinese and so forth. By early 2009 the hotel still operates at nearly full capacity and while several of the casino’s gambling rooms have been closed further hotels, dormitories and gambling halls are under construction. Todate, Golden Boten has not reached anything like the halcyon days of the owner’s previous casino on the China-Burma border where, until it closed in 2004, hundreds of tour buses would arrive each day to unload many thousand avid gamblers and sex tourists. One assumes the leasehold arrangements and euphemistic advertising of widespread social development (sporting, education, conference facilities) rather than singling out gambling are a strategy to solidify its presence for the long term. Just as the dams are BOT (build – operate – transfer), so too these Meccas of capitalist hedonism are intended to transfer back to Lao sovereignty. This reasoning has been the justification for seeing these as legitimate development strategies ushering in the tourist and trade dollar that

1254

C. Lyttleton and P. Nyíri

Fig. 69.5 Namtha Grand Hotel, Luang Namtha, under construction, in 2009. (Source: Pál Nyìri)

can be subsequently turned to national advantage. And just as criticism addresses the depreciated conditions of dams after forty years’ usage (silting reduces their production capacity enormously), so too one wonders what will be left of these pleasure palaces at the time of transfer. The rotting building shells left on the ChinaBurma border where other casinos have closed are one reminder of the fleeting footprints left by fleeing speculative capital. In Luang Namtha, an hour to Boten’s south, workers from China’s Sichuan Province are building the Namtha Grand Hotel (Fig. 69.5). One of the largest buildings in the province, the hotel is rumored to be financed by Golden Boten’s owner and will open in 2009. By the time of the opening, one of the largest Western development agencies in the province, Germany’s GTZ, will have moved out of its long-envied compound another hour west of Luang Namtha, in Muang Sing (in their own version of BOT bequeathing it to local authorities). Its remaining employees will move into what used to be the garage. The years when GTZ was the main actor in northern Laos’ development are over. It has partially privatized operations, and its focus is shifting from the health care and “alternative development” initiatives of the past decade to assistance to local rubber growers in contract negotiations, marketing and “dialogue” with Chinese investors who have come to dominate agriculture in Northern Laos through a combination of long term land lease and purchasing contracts. These raise concerns over control of land and the market risks of a monoculture (Cohen, 2009; Lyttleton Cohen, Rattanavong, Tongkhamhan, & Sisaengrat, 2004; Shi, 2008).

69

Chinese Megaprojects in Laos and Cambodia

1255

69.3 Concessions The dam and the casinos are very different kinds of places. The former is classified as a development project, benefits from state-to-state aid, is being built by a large state corporation, and has unclear prospects of profitability. The latter are private entertainment complexes clearly driven by profit. The former draws Khmer day laborers, the latter Chinese day trippers. But, apart, of course, from the fact that funds for all have come from China, they share two commonalities. First, the architects of all three projects justify them using the same narrative of helping a friendly neighboring country modernize. Second, both projects involve the removal of large chunks of land from the national territory and, to a degree, from under the sovereignty of the nation-state. Within the confines of both the Kamchay dam site and the casino leaseholds, the laws, the coercive apparatus and the basic symbols of Laos and Cambodia (flags, uniforms, language, currency) have only limited reach. To some degree, the operators and dwellers of these concessions enjoy extraterritoriality: a concept that seemed to have gone out of use in the postcolonial era, but deserves to be granted a new lease on life as a particular form, both physical and social, of “engineering the earth.” Extraterritoriality was central to China’s experience of Western colonialism. Based on treaty stipulations, China was forced to surrender degrees of sovereign power: control of customs and security in treaty ports, legal jurisdiction over non-nationals, foreign concessions, privileged treatment of foreign business and missionary activity (see, for example, Wang, 2003). For China’s political leaders, foreign concessions in port cities and the Japanese-controlled puppet state of Manchukuo were at once a burning humiliation and a lesson in industrialization, urban planning, and public administration (cf. Duara, 2009). This lesson has not been forgotten. China’s post-1978 development crucially relied on the Special Economic Zones (SEZs), a form of “internal concession” within which foreign investors, in exchange for helping develop the nation, were given greater economic and social freedom than elsewhere. These zones have subsequently lost significance, but the same description applies to the current Special Administrative Regions of Hong Kong and Macau. One can discern a remarkably similar silhouette of extraterritoriality shadowing the emergence of Chinese concessions in the borderlands and beyond. In 2006 a Chinese-Cambodian joint venture obtained a licence to build and operate a 11 km2 (2,500 acre) Special Economic Zone near Sihanoukville, Cambodia’s main port, where oil exploration is currently under way (Xing, 2008: 145). The ethnic Chinese elites of three of the four “Special Regions” in northern Burma (Kokang, Mong La, and the Shan State No. 2 Special Region), which have negotiated autonomy with the ruling junta after decades of armed insurrection, are products of a different historical development, going back to earlier waves of migration from China (including those of Kuomintang soldiers and Red Guards). But they fit neatly into the tequ logic: today, they benefit from renewed inflows of migration and investment and, like Golden Boten, use Chinese currency and the Chinese language, and are connected to China’s telephone network and power grid (in more than one sense) (Haitang Shequ n.d., 51nb.com, 2009). Also in Burma,

1256

C. Lyttleton and P. Nyíri

a one million acre (4,000 km2 ) agricultural concession along the Chinese border in Kachin State is being planned (Guo, 2007: 60). Farther afield, the first Chineserun Economic and Trade Cooperation Zone in Africa opened in Zambia in 2007 (Alden, Large, & Soares de Oliveira, 2008: 15), and four further zones are planned. In 2008 a group of Chinese investors in Uganda reportedly signed a 99-year lease for the development of a 518-ha (1280 acre) Lake Victoria East Africa Free Trade Zone with its own legislative structures; it plans to attract 500,000 Chinese settlers (World Chinese Federation, 2008). A plan to establish a Special Economic Zone in North Korea headed by a Chinese-born Dutch tycoon in 2002 ended when he was arrested by Chinese police for commercial crimes (Kahn, 2003). The current leaseholds in Laos and Cambodia are not of the same order of imposition as the treaty ports in China, “where the overlap between the law of power (gunboats) and the power of law (extraterritoriality) was palpable” (Scully, 1995). But there are notable similarities. Trade rights are clearly privileged, legal jurisdiction vague and de facto security is maintained by Chinese forces, while the external perimeter is sometimes protected by the local army (whose senior officers are accused of having business interests in various Chinese concessions). In addition, there are also other less readily acknowledged comparisons that signal these concessions as a contemporary version of “soft extraterritoriality.” Scully writes that despite dreams of Western trade and investment opening up the Chinese commodity market in the early 20th century, it was in fact the management and employment of prostitution by Western entrepreneurs that had a greater impact within the informal economy of the Chinese treaty ports, in particular Shanghai. The brisk trade conducted by American sex workers in Shanghai and by their male compatriots who profited from brothels and gambling casinos reveals the existence of two, competing, China markets; one “legitimate” (at least under the unequal treaties forced upon China), a potential outlet for America’s production glut if Chinese could be remade into conspicuous consumers; the other deeply corrupt, overtly predatory, transnational, transracial, conducted without regard to a “national interest.” The latter market offered a wider range of illicit goods than consumers might find in ordinary boomtowns because it was located on the borderlands of empire, where Chinese authorities were pre-empted from exercising control over their own territory and where the policing capabilities of the pre-empting great powers were overextended and problematic. (Scully, 1995: 64)

It is tempting to consider the current condition of Golden Boten City as replicating this description, albeit played out with different stakeholders. Despite the detailed publicity promotion of free-trade enclaves that aim to benefit the region, the very prominent presence of gambling and commodified sex implies a different evolution of market expansion, with markedly different outcomes for locals caught in the backwash of this form of “development” than at Kamchay. One way or another, concessions, including control of leased land and what goes on in its bounds, are part and parcel of contemporary development-induced trade and investment. China’s concessions are only a few among many “zones of exception” (Agamben 2005), which range from free trade zones to Guantánamo Bay. In recent years, the concession model has come to dominate the Cambodian economy to such an extent that

69

Chinese Megaprojects in Laos and Cambodia

1257

one book about the country bears the title The Concessionary Kingdom (Bayart, 2004). At the end of 2006, concessions covered nearly 15% of Cambodia’s arable land (according to one report, only about one-fifth of these belonged to companies owned by Chinese nationals) and some 150,000 ha (420,000 acres) in Laos (Schuettler, 2008; United Nations, 2007). In 2008 the Kuwaiti government proposed to lease land in Cambodia to grow rice on an area of undisclosed size (100,000 ha, or 250,000 acres, has been mentioned), but understood to be larger than any existing concessions; it has also made overtures to Laos. Cambodia is also said to have been approached by Qatar for a 300,000 ha (750,000 acre) concession; Qatar also wants to lease 100,000 ha (247,100 acres) in the Philippines (AFP, 2009). Korean companies have obtained agricultural and real-estate land concessions in both Laos and Cambodia.

69.3.1 The People’s Concession, Inc.? Concessions have never entirely disappeared from the world map. In postcolonial times, they survived as extractive enclaves run by oil companies or mining giants, which have continued to exercise state-like coercive and sometimes welfare functions of the state in the extractive enclaves under their control. But today, the concession model has expanded to cover all sorts of purposes. In Madagascar, for instance, the largest investment to date is a 6,000 ha (15,000 ha) mining concession by Rio Tinto, which the company describes as “a model for further projects which are likely to follow in Africa and the developing world” (Rio Tinto. . .). Rio Tinto supports the World Wildlife Fund’s work in Madagascar, which aims to convert 10 million acres (40,000 km2 ) of land into conservation areas (WWF). The two projects have very different aims, but both involve the displacement of people and the implementation of new governance regimes as powerful non-state actors (Rio Tinto and WWF) devise strategies to mitigate the effects of displacement and undertake social responsibility commitments. The most ambitious project in Madagascar is a plan by Daewoo, supported by the Korean government, to lease 1.3 million ha (3.25 million acres) of land – half the size of Belgium – for food crop production. The project, which partly triggered the 2009 coup that removed the president who had negotiated it, is now on hold, but it is indicative of a new trend in which corporate ventures are linked to strategic decisions by cash-rich, land-poor states that scout the world for concessions to ensure their food security. This development is noteworthy because scholars like Aihwa Ong (2006) have described “zones of exception,” in which rules are suspended, as especially characteristic of contemporary neoliberal globalization. Yet a number of the new concessions, including many by Chinese companies (such as Kamchay), notably do not follow a neoliberal model, to the extent that they prominently feature state subsidies and reflect a strategic logic that is quite different from the simple pursuit of profit. Indeed, in some ways Chinese infrastructural investments in Cambodia and Laos can be seen as the continuation of the campaign to speed up the development of China’s western provinces since 2000 and has similarly attracted migrants

1258

C. Lyttleton and P. Nyíri

from the Chinese heartland (Nyíri, 2006b). Tim Oakes (2006) has pointed out that even as the Chinese government lauded free-market competition as a panacea of development, that campaign has been characterized by a preponderance of central state funding and limited regard for the economic viability of infrastructural megaprojects. This view suggested that it was designed to entrench local authorities’ dependence on the central government in potentially restive areas. A similar logic may hold true for projects like Kamchay in Southeast Asia or Africa, where there seems to be an unspoken expectation on both sides that, regardless of the economics, the Chinese government is likely to cancel the debts involved as long as overall political and economic relations develop in its favor. Rather than checking the spread of concessions, then, the current “post-neoliberal moment” – frustration with both the financial prescriptions of neoliberal economics and the individualempowerment approach to development – may actually speed it up. A master plan for the economic development of northern Laos, prepared by Chinese specialists on behalf of the Yunnan Province Reform and Development Commission and presented to the Lao government at the end of 2008, envisages setting up new free trade zones along the country’s borders and developing tourism concessions, operated and controlled by contractors (Northern Laos, 2008). The two casinos described above provide foundational examples for this strategy. The concessionary model of development is by no means uniquely Chinese, not even in its state-supported form. But there is an assertiveness and enthusiasm to the promotion of concessions as engines of modernization for the countries they are established in (but whose jurisdiction they are partly removed from) that is peculiar to Chinese projects, perhaps, as we have suggested above, for historical reasons. As Liu Jianjun, a former official from the city of Baoding, near Peking, said in defense of his efforts to promote the settlement of Baoding farmers on leased land in Africa: In the past, some countries called foreigners in their country coloni(ali)sts. Now they want to open up and tolerate differences, giving you great deals . . . and we still debate about whether we should go or not, whether it is right or wrong. Isn’t this too outmoded? (Zhu Bao, 2008)4

In the Chinese discourse, concessions are seen as “model units” that, by disseminating their advanced practices (economic and technological as well as values and behavior), will pull up the rest of the country they are inserted in. The way the legal constructions of the concessions are described, for example, the 99-year concession in Uganda, bear a similarity to Western concessions in Chinese history (notably Hong Kong) that is likely to be intentional rather than uncanny: to Chinese readers, it may well conjure up a vision of a future replete with skyscrapers and horserace tracks. In this discourse, dams and casinos are described in very much the same language of development, in which the goals of poverty eradication, school building and opium replacement (a scheme under which Chinese companies investing in Laos can receive state subsidies) can be unproblematically and seamlessly connected to offshore oil or gambling. This view both justifies and reflects the migration chains that Chinese megaprojects effectively create. They attract large numbers of entrepreneurial and labor migrants who first act as employees, suppliers of various

69

Chinese Megaprojects in Laos and Cambodia

1259

goods and services, and later create their own smaller scale projects, which tend to target the Chinese market and, in such cases as real estate development and tourism, in turn trigger further flows of people from China. Even without direct economic or social links between state-supported megaprojects and small scale individual migration, the former cement close relations between government officials and an atmosphere of encouragement for Chinese investment which, propagated via the Chinese-language media, facilitate the latter. The sense of an accessible and poorly regulated frontier attracts all sorts of adventurers, from itinerant fortunetellers to well heeled Hong Kong entrepreneurs. Such individuals are certainly not doing the Chinese state’s bidding, but they are part of a loose nexus, which includes, at the top end, Chinese government officials and executives of state companies as well as local dignitaries and tycoons, and is held together by innumerable banquets, embassy functions and media.

69.4 Consequences What sort of governance Chinese concessions promote is no easy question. Western donors have been transparently funding “governance” programs since the mid1990s, and IMF-style structural adjustment has been transforming governmental management in numerous countries for even longer. Insofar as Western-based programs use conditionality as the key to leveraging changes in national investment, trade and socioeconomic structures, much of their development aid entails forms of template-driven social engineering. No overt conditions are attached to Chinese capital, but this does not mean that social engineering is not present. Chinese funding becomes “tied” in more diffuse ways, through subsequent networks of business and trade opportunity that emerge simultaneously with official aid but frequently rely on the interpersonal. This has specific implications. Different modes of capital transfer trigger different forms of social empathy. Although injections of Chinese capital are not aimed at achieving measurable targets such as GDP, mortality or literacy indicators, they are linked to a more diffuse sense of “improvement” by example that private entrepreneurs share with state managers (Nyíri, 2006b). In line with much Western commentary on the subject, a Cambodian journalist wrote that “China’s capitalist development model” was one where corrupt officials frequently lay claim to land that under the communist system was owned by the state. . . . Land grabs have contributed heavily to the growing rural unrest in China, and now Chinese investors in cahoots with unscrupulous Cambodian officials threaten to unleash a similar restive phenomenon that could undermine Cambodia’s transition toward a market economy, some analysts say. (Yin Soeum, 2006)

While violent confrontations between local workers or residents and Chinese project teams of the type that have occurred in Africa are rare, there have been widely publicized standoffs between villagers and workers for two ChineseCambodian joint ventures that have been granted large agricultural concessions

1260

C. Lyttleton and P. Nyíri

(NGO Forum, n.d.). A Hong Kong entrepreneur who is a contractor for a flood control project in Prey Veng Province and an irrigation project in Battambang Province, both financed by a low interest loan from Eximbank, China’s policy bank, casually tells us that the projects may require the resettlement of 300,000–400,000 people, but this is for the government to worry about. The feasibility studies, prepared by an engineering company affiliated with a university in China, make no mention of it. At the same time, a report prepared for Oxfam found that peasants whose houses or land were affected by the Chinese-built and –funded section of National Road 7 were “extremely pleased” with the compensation they received and the government was expected to grant landless families “social land concessions” along the road (Coughlan, 2008: 17–18). It is likely that private companies that act as subcontractors to aid projects or as independent developers, whether Chinese or otherwise, will pay less attention to resettlement than state companies as they are under less scrutiny on both the Chinese and the Cambodian side. While Cambodia has relatively strict labor laws adopted under Western tutelage, some of the employers, not only from China, see them as an obstacle to growth, and insistence on them a sign of obstinacy and lack of political vision. A former editor of Cambodia Sin Chiew Jit Poh, a Chinese newspaper, who had come to Cambodia from Shanghai, told us that strikes occurred because “workers did not understand that it did them no good. If somebody egged them on they just followed.” Managers, mostly ethnic Chinese from Taiwan, Malaysia, or China, “had not prepared themselves to deal with people whose quality was lower than in their own societies,” and who could not take too much work (jieshou nengli di) or cope with hardship (bu neng chiku). The Chinese could endure hardship and use their brains, while Cambodians lacked these qualities. They wanted to make the most of what they have at the moment (xiang yong jin yong). But gradually, the workers saw that strikes did them no good, and learned that “if I have my US$ 40 a month I can still buy a necklace, I can still give my family a couple thousand riel; if the factory closes I won’t even have this.” Before, because they were very simple, they had not understood this; but under the guidance of Chinese owners, managers and shift supervisors, they were becoming more productive individuals, better suited to the iron logic of market competition. In some versions of this oft-repeated account, which echoes comments by early 20th century American manufacturers like Henry Ford about immigrant workers needing to learn capitalist discipline, this constructive role of Chinese managers is contrasted to what is seen as the irresponsible agitation of Western-backed NGOs that talk to workers about labor conditions in Sweden at a time when the country should be using the advantage of low labor costs to attract investment (Xing, 2008: 158–160). Clearly, Mr. Zhang considers himself a fair employer, but he has no patience for labor disputes when facing what he sees as clear-cut guilt. There are some signs that the lower standards set by Chinese projects are triggering a “race to the bottom.” In Laos, the World Bank reportedly agreed to provide a loan for the Nam Theun 2 Dam despite environmental concerns after China announced that it was ready to provide funding if the World Bank did not (Kurlantzick, 2007: 172). In 2007 the OECD revised the Common Approaches that

69

Chinese Megaprojects in Laos and Cambodia

1261

set environmental guidelines for export credit agencies, so that they “may now decide to ‘support a project which does not meet the international standards’ ” as long as they justify it (Bosshard, 2007). On the other hand, Cheng Siwei, Vice-Chairman of the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress, has recently “said that ‘irresponsible practices’ had prevented Chinese companies from expanding . . . overseas” (Bosshard, 2007). Showing that China is sensitive to the negative turn its image has taken in Africa, Chairman Hu Jintao, visiting Namibia in 2007, expressed his “hope” that Chinese-invested companies would “actively embrace social responsibility” (Di-yi Caijing Shibao, 2007). In 2009 a task force headed by the Ministry of Environmental Protection began developing a set of social and environmental guidelines for Chinese companies engaged in overseas projects (Global Environmental Institute, 2009). It is likely, however, that these will differ from the Western understanding of the term. For example, the State Assets Committee defines social responsibility as “an action taken by central enterprises for implementing the concept of scientific development” (Brewer, 2008: 33). So far, “peripheral packages” that accompany concessions have not included explicit commitments to social impact mitigation. Instead of provisions aimed to counter recognized negative externalities, typically required in large projects with Western funding, in the villages close to Dork Ngiew Kham casino site, beauty contests to practice, refine and advertise forms of exotic appeal are so far the most concrete adjustments to the intended tourist influx. But, at the same time, among the plethora of entrepreneurs and adventurers attracted by the concessions, there is room for some “social entrepreneurs” who can help expand locals’ “capacity to aspire” (Appadurai, 2004) in unexpected ways. The opening of the bilingual, private Lao-Chinese Friendship Primary School in Luang Namtha, catering principally to Lao children, is no doubt linked to the rise of Chinese investment in the area, but its teachers, from China, see themselves as providing a public service to local families by offering an education that is, here as in Cambodia, widely seen as a way out of poverty (even if it is as a dealer at Boten).5 Some children, the teachers say, are too poor to pay the 200–300 yuan (US$ 35–50) yearly fee and study free of charge. The claim of the East Africa Free Trade Zone’s creators that the zone will serve as a base for universities and a 300,000-strong (!) China Africa Volunteer Corps (World Chinese Federation, 2008) may be pure fantasy, but it responds to a government policy that encourages such projects. The appearance of young Chinese volunteers overseas, made possible by expanding middle-class lifestyles, is a reality, and negotiations are reportedly on the way to set up a branch of a Chinese university in Phnom Penh to teach accounting. While certain types of concessional agreements, especially in Africa, have included school and hospital construction (such as the 32 hospitals included in a mining contract with Congo-Kinshasa), for the time being, the spread of small, private Chinese clinics run by migrants, including at Golden Boten City, is a far more significant development. Although they are expensive by local standards and the credentials of their doctors are hard to verify, they are locally seen as superior to existing health care options. One possible outcome of new social responsibility guidelines is that we may see an expansion of education and health projects. The Chinese master plan for

1262

C. Lyttleton and P. Nyíri

Northern Laos, for instance, calls for the setting up of vocational schools and “special trainings to the rural poor labors, one person from each household” (Northern Laos, 2008: 90). Moreover, the authors of the plan have reportedly suggested that western NGOs continue running projects for the most marginalized populations in the region. It may be that Chinese concessions, like their historical predecessors, will simultaneously become enclaves of vice and order, harsh exploitation and skills transmission, new epidemics and professional health care, cosmopolitanism and racism. The forms of governance and sociality that they give rise to these will need careful study. But these new-old polities of “graduated sovereignty” (Ong, 2006) already appear to meet an aspiration that is perhaps shared by large numbers of officials and ordinary people: the desire to believe in the possibility of progress. What China and the Chinese are offering, in their own version of conditionality, is the affirmation and attainability of progress through hard work, in the social evolutionist language of northern European colonizers: The mentalities of most people are still at the starting stage of agricultural economic development, which is unsuitable for development of market economy and economic globalization. Their awareness of development, competition, openness and self-reliance and hard working still need to be improved. (Northern Laos, 2008: 15)

Nowadays, such language is associated with neoliberalism; yet it is better seen as an older language of self-improvement, one that the West has, perhaps temporarily, abandoned, and with good reason. But it continues to resonate in China, and it appears to have purchase for the middling poor in other countries. The ability of Chinese investors to insert themselves in local systems of patronage is often construed as endorsement of such systems. It is true that the Chinese government and its agents thrive on “marketing the privileged space between command and competitive economies” (Jensen, 2007: 308) which they are used to from home. Yet opportunism does not necessarily constitute support. The manager of a Chinese state enterprise in Cambodia found peasant opposition to agricultural concessions quite natural, as, he said, they were being forced off their land. A private investor from China who took part in the conversation added that this was because Cambodian laws were “messy” and local officials greedy, as they used to be in China (but, according to him, no longer were). For these two, then, lack of transparency and the inability of the peasants to defend themselves offered an opportunity to be taken advantage of, but it was also a sign of underdevelopment that had to be overcome in both. And it is one that significantly China already had overcome, so it might show Cambodia the way. Chinese migrants approach Africans and Cambodians with the image of their own neighbors at the outset of market reforms thirty years ago, viz., poor people desperate to shake off poverty and finally enjoy some material comforts, rather than the current Western image of noble “indigenous people” who want to eat their fill, sure, but for whom preserving their way of life is integral to a dignified livelihood. The Chinese view is neither necessarily more accurate nor less condescending than the Western one (for it is usually understood that Africans and Cambodians will never

69

Chinese Megaprojects in Laos and Cambodia

1263

be as good as Chinese at lifting themselves into prosperity), but it offers a different and sometimes helpful kind of empathy. Acknowledgments Nyíri’s research for this article was carried out while on a fellowship at the Asia Research Institute, National University of Singapore. Lyttleton’s research for this chapter is part of a larger project on the health impact of mobility in the Upper Mekong funded by AusAID and Macquarie University. We thank Lina Chancel, Adelie Carrier, Atsushi Murata, Ding Hao, Song Yu, Aamir Arain, Yun Heng, Móna Laczó, Carl Middleton, Sumie Arima, Joost Foppes, James Chamberlain, Charles Alton, Grant Evans, Bong Munsayaphom, Manichan Keoviriyavong and Sun Lei.

Notes 1. In Cambodia, China was the largest investor in 2004–2005, but fell behind Korea in 2006– 2007. In Laos, it was a close second behind Thailand in overall investment between 2001 and 2008. China’s pledged aid to Cambodia for 2007–2009 is second only to Japan’s, while in Laos it contributed slightly more than 10% of international aid in 2007. (Official data from the Council for the Development of Cambodia, 18 August 2008; United Nations Development Programme, Phnom Penh, 20 August 2008; Ministry of Planning, Vientiane, 15 December 2008). 2. It is not clear whether this sum includes only concessional grants and loans or also commercial loans and investment by state companies. 3. As of May 2008, Chinese companies were reported to be building at least 97 large dams in 39 different countries (Brewer, 2008: 6). 4. Translation by Zhang Juan. According to Liu, by 2007, 7,000 Chinese peasants had settled in 28 farming concessions (“Baoding villages”) in 17 African countries (see Zhang, 2009). 5. In Cambodia graduates of Chinese-language high schools, who find jobs as clerks, accountants, or translators in the garment industry are dominated by ethnic Chinese owners and technicians and accountants from China (Mengin, 2007).

References AFP. (2009) Global trends driving ‘land grab’ in poor nations: Activists, 3 January. Agamben, G. (2005). State of exception. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Alden, C., Large, D., & Soares de Oliveira, R. (Eds.). (2008). China returns to Africa: A rising power and a continent embrace. New York: Columbia University Press. Appadurai, A. (2004). The capacity to aspire: Culture and the terms of recognition. In V. Rao & M. Walton (Eds.), Culture and public action (pp. 59–84). Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Bayart, J.- P. (Ed.). (2004). Le Royaume concessionnaire. Libéralisation économique et violence politique au Cambodge. Paris: FASOPO. Bosshard, P. (2007). China’s role in financing African infrastructures. Berkeley: International Rivers Network. Brewer, N. (2008). The new Great Walls. A guide to China’s overseas dam industry. Berkeley: International Rivers Network. Chun Sophal. (2009). $350m dam planned for Kampong Thom. Phnom Penh Post, 30 January. Cohen, P. T. (2009). The post-opium scenario and rubber in northern Laos: Alternative Western and Chinese models of development. International Journal of Drug Policy, 20 (5), 424–430. Coughlan, M. (2008). China’s poverty footprint in Cambodia. Retrieved October 10, 2008, from http://www.oxfam.org.hk/public/contents/88401 Di-Yi Caijing Shibao. (2007). Hu Jintao: Zhu Fei Zhong zi qiye yao zhudong chengdan shehui zeren (Chinese-invested companies in Africa should actively embrace social responsibility), 13 February.

1264

C. Lyttleton and P. Nyíri

Duara, P. (2009). The Global and Regional in China’s Nation-Formation. London and New York: Routledge. Global Environmental Institute. (2009). Environmental conduct of China’s companies overseas will be regulated. 18 March. Retrieved 15 September, 2009 from www.geichina.org/index.php?controller=News&action=View&nid=74 Guo, X. (2007). Towards resolution: China in the Myanmar Issue. Silk Road Paper, Johns Hopkins University and Uppsala University. Haitang Shequ. (n.d.), “Chan Bang di-yi, di-er, di-si tequ mingyishang Miandian, shijishang duli de san ge Hanren zhengquan” (The First, Second, and Fourth Special Zones in Shan State: nominally Burmese, in reality independent Chinese polities). Retrieved April 4, 2009, from http://bbs.leshan.cn/read.php?tid=45858 International Rivers Network. (2008). Power surge: The impacts of rapid dam development in Laos. Berkeley CA. Jensen, L. M. (2007). Afterword: China, the United States, and the fragile planet. In L. M. Jensen & T. B. Weston (Eds.), China’s transformations: The stories beyond the headlines. (pp. 303–320). Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Kahn, J. (2003). China sentences flower tycoon to 18 years for fraud and bribery. New York Times, 15 July. Kurlantzick, J. (2007). Charm offensive: How China’s soft power is transforming the world. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Lyttleton, C. (2008). Build it and they will come: Lessons for mitigating exploitation, HIV and other diseases along new economic corridors. Manila: Asian Development Bank. Lyttleton, C., Cohen, P., Rattanavong, H., Tongkhamhan, B. and Sisaengrat, S. (2004). Watermelons, bars and trucks: Dangerous intersections in northwestern Laos. Bangkok: Rockefeller Foundation. Mengin, F. (2007). La présence chinoise au Cambodge: Contribution à une économie politique violente, rentière et inégalitaire. Les études de CERI, no. 133. Paris: Centre d’études et de recherches internationales, Sciences Po. Mertha, A. C. (2008). China’s water warriors. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press. Middleton, C. (2008). Cambodia’s hydropower development and China’s involvement. Berkeley and Phnom Penh: International Rivers and The Rivers Coalition in Cambodia. Northern Laos Industrial Economic Development and Cooperation Planning Preparation Group. (2008). 2008–2020: Planning for Industrial Economic Development and Cooperation in Northern Part of Lao People’s Democratic Republic. Nyíri, P. (2006a). Scenic spots. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Nyíri, P. (2006b). The yellow man’s burden: Chinese migrants on a civilizing mission. The China Journal, 56, 83–106. Oakes, T. (2006). Welcome to paradise! A Sino-U.S. joint venture project. In L. M. Jensen & T. B. Weston (Eds.), China’s transformations: The stories beyond the headlines. (pp. 240–264). Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Ong, A. (2006). Neoliberalism as exception. Mutations in citizenship and sovereignty. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press. Rio Tinto. (n.d.). Retrieved April 4, 2009, from http://www.riotintomadagascar.com/overview/index. html Sam Rith. (n.d.). Chinarevives megadam dreams in Cambodia. Newsmekong. org. Retrieved August 25, 2008, from http://www.newsmekong.org/china_revives_dreams_of_megadam_ in_cambodia Schuettler, D. (2008). Laos faces thorny land issues in Asia’s orchard. Reuters, 9 April. Scully, E. P. (1995). Taking the low road to Sino-American relations: Open Door Expansionists and the two China Markets. Journal of American History, 82(1), 62–83. Shi, W. (2008). Rubber boom in Luang Namtha: A transnational perspective. Vientiane: GTZ. The NGO Forum on Cambodia. (n.d.). Fast-wood Plantations, Economic Concessions and Local Livelihoods in Cambodia. Phnom Penh.

69

Chinese Megaprojects in Laos and Cambodia

1265

United Nations Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights. (2007). Land concessions for economic purposes in Cambodia: A human rights perspective. Phnom Penh. Wang, L. L. (2003). Race, class, citizenship and extraterritoriality. In D. Nakanishi & J. Lai (Eds.), Asian American politics (pp. 281–296). New York: Rowman and Littlefield. World Chinese Federation Africa Branch (Shijie Huaren Lianhezonghui Feizhou Fenhui) and Lake Victoria East Africa Free Trade Zone Management Committee. (2008). Xuanze Dongfei mianshuiqu, guowai chuangye zhan hongtu (Choose the East African duty free zone: great prospects for enterprises overseas), 1 September. Retrieved April 4, 2009, from http://www.baodingcun.org/web/ProductShow.asp?id=348 WWF (World Wildlife Fund). (2009). Retrieved April 4, 2009, from http://www.worldwildlife.org/ what/wherewework/madagascar/projects.html Xing Heping. (2008). Hong Sen Shidai (The Era of Hun Sen). Phnom Penh: Lucky Star. Yin Soeum. (2006). Cambodia feels China’s hard edge. Asia Times, 8 December. Zhang Juan. (2009). Is Baoding Cun a hoax? Or a ‘cultural phenomenon’? MqVU, 5 February. Retrieved April 5, 2009, from http://mqvu.wordpress.com/2009/02/05/baodingvillage/ Zhu Bao. (2008). Yingling ‘yang chadui’ jiedu ‘Baodingcun’ (Welcoming “secondment at overseas production brigades”, understanding “Baoding villages”), Weiquan Shibao, 7 December. Retrieved December 28, 2008, from http://www.baodingcun.org/web/ProductShow. asp?id=262 51nb.com. (2009). “Miandian Chan Bang Di-yi Tequ Guogan Luntan” (Shan State No. 1 Special Region Kokang Forum). Retrieved April 4, 2004, from http://www.51nb.com/forum/ viewthread.php?tid=785531

Chapter 70

Engineering Paradise: Marketing the Dominican Republic’s Last Frontier Joseph L. Scarpaci, Korine N. Kolivras, and William Galloway

Mass tourism development projects transform rural landscapes in profound ways. They alter how local populations historically use the land and sea, typically by shifting them away from subsistence agriculture and fishing, to low-end wages in tourist resorts and ancillary services. Development promises claim that new jobs will provide unskilled employment opportunities for local residents. However, residents often wind up living in un-serviced shantytowns. Even though some high-paying jobs become available, they are usually assigned to well-educated nationals from provincial or capital cities or even to foreigners. For low-skilled tourist workers, it is debatable whether or not living conditions and quality of life are actually improved by this form of economic development. A series of social problems appear, leaving governments to address how they will handle an inequitable distribution of wealth. This paper analyzes the most ambitious mass tourism complex undertaken in the Caribbean in the new millennium. Cap Cana, a joint venture between Dominican and international backers including the Wall Street tycoon Donald Trump, represents a new blend of hybrid branding and life-style representation in its promotion of second-home and vacation destinations. We begin by framing mass tourism issues in the tropics and subtropics and then turn to a history of the eastern portion of the Dominican Republic. The case study of Cap Cana reveals a unique blend of branding of recreational spaces that promotes a life-style approach to high-end tourism that resonates with the kind of place-promotion found in gated communities in the developed North Atlantic countries.

70.1 The Context of Exclusive Tourism in the Tropics Coastal zones are sensitive transition areas where land meets sea, and can be considered among the most productive habitats with coastal wetlands, reefs, and tidal flats, and use of the land in and along the coastal zone can affect this dynamic J.L. Scarpaci (B) Independent Scholar, Blacksburg, VA 24060, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_70,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1267

1268

J.L. Scarpaci et al.

ecosystem (Clark, 1996). A major impact of coastal tourism is related to water quality as and beaches have been found to have elevated levels of coliform in some areas. Infrastructure construction, including building hotels and shopping centers, and dredging marinas specifically, disrupts the important coastal transition zone along a beach, and may have a greater impact than non-tourism related land uses. For example, Clark (1996: 16) reports, “in some countries, harbors and marinas built primarily for recreational use by small boats may disturb more of the coastal zone than commercial and industrial uses.” Concern has been raised that Cap Cana’s large marina will affect groundwater quality over a large area of the eastern end of the island, and may result in saltwater intrusion into the aquifer. A seemingly less noxious practice than marina dredging, the removal of sea grass by resorts, has led to environmental repercussions in Mauritius (Daby, 2003). It is believed that tourists may find the grasses unsightly or that they may harbor disease-causing organisms, but their removal can have far reaching impacts on water turbidity and marine fauna. Without planning regulations in place, such as requiring an environmental impact assessment, such practices can, in the long run, upset delicate ecosystems and damage beaches – a main attraction for tourists. Not only has mass tourism development in the Caribbean had a direct and immediate impact on the local environment, but uncontrolled coastal development without coordinated planning efforts or enforcement of existing regulations has made coastal areas in the region more vulnerable to the impacts of climate variability and change, such as hurricanes and sea level rise (Lewsey, Cid, & Kruse, 2004). One alternative to mass tourism that appears to be gaining momentum involves ratcheting tourist developments down to the local scale. As with development in the Caribbean, mass tourism developments in Brazil have not, in many cases, achieved the expected benefits to local populations. Negative social and environmental impacts (Brennan 2004) have been felt in communities, so that a move toward more local scale community-based tourist development is advocated in spite of the dominance of mass tourism in government policies (Bartholo, Delamaro, & Bursztyn, 2008). Mass tourism in the Caribbean region usually entails the formation of enclaves. Cancun, on Mexico’s Caribbean coast, provides an excellent example of the way that tourist facilities can be truly separate, culturally, socially, and economically, from local communities. After its initial development in the 1970s as an exclusive resort for the wealthy, Cancun, referred to by locals as “Gringolandia,” has transformed into an “overbuilt mass tourism destination” (Torres & Momsen, 2005: 315) with far reaching social and environmental impacts. The resort was intentionally planned to separate tourist space from the areas resided in by locals, leading to obvious inequities as upscale hotels are visible from the poorly constructed shantytowns that house the resort workers. Those workers are rarely, if ever, able to use the beach along a developed coastline (Torres & Momsen, 2005). Coastal development in the Dominican Republic has followed a similar trend as local residents have been removed from their traditional fishing communities (Juanillo) to make way for mass tourism developments such as Cap Cana. Workers residing in shantytowns, typically with little to no government services,

70

Marketing the Dominican Republic’s Last Frontier

1269

cross the divide into the resort to provide unskilled labor to resorts in the areas of housekeeping, landscaping, and construction. As with Cancún, visitors to the eastern Dominican Republic rarely venture off resort property and have little idea of the shantytowns bordering their resort. Unlike resort development in the Dominican Republic, Cancún has a natural barrier to separate local populations from resorts given that tourist development has taken place on an island. For a megaresort such as Cap Cana that does not have a natural barrier, high walls and security guards are used to separate local and tourist spaces, and “protect” tourists from local populations and the visual blight of shantytowns, which exist only because of the presence of the resorts. While the focus here is on mass tourism in the developing world, particularly the Caribbean, mass tourism projects in developed countries are also more frequently viewed as unsustainable. For example, Spain’s Balearic Islands entered a period of stagnation in the early 1990s as beaches and natural resources deteriorated and local investment was non-existent, among other problems (Aguilo, Alegre, & Sard, 2005).

70.2 The Pioneers of Eastern Dominican Republic Tourism In 1969, Theodore W. Kheel, a New York attorney who had been appointed by Presidents Kennedy and Johnson as a mediator to resolve labor and civil rights conflicts, along with a group of other American investors, purchased approximately 15,000 acres (6,070 ha) of land on the east coast of the Dominican Republic. The property was mostly undeveloped jungle and contained approximately 10 km (6.2 mi) of oceanfront with numerous white sand beaches. Joining the American investors was a group of local businessmen led by entrepreneur and hotelier Frank R. Raineiri. There was no road access to the area, and the local economy was primarily based on agriculture and fishing. At the time the area was called “Cap en Guano” (literally “covered in bird droppings”), and marine charts identified the place as “Punta Borrachón” (literally “drunk’s point”). Shortly after the property was purchased, the name was changed to “Punta Cana,” after a local species of palm tree. Managed by Raineiri and Kheel, the Compañía de Desarrollo Turístico Residencial e Industrial S.A. (today known as Grupo Puntacana) began development of the property with the opening of the Punta Cana Club in 1971. This small resort had 10 two-room villas, a clubhouse, housing for employees, a small generator plant, and a basic aircraft landing strip. At full capacity the Punta Cana Club could accommodate only 40 guests, but it demonstrated that the area had potential as a tourist destination. Grupo Puntacana sought an internationally-known hotel chain to locate a resort in Punta Cana, and, in 1979, Club Med (Club Mediterrané of Paris, France) opened the first large hotel in the area with 350 guest rooms on a portion of Grupo Puntacana’s land near the site of the Punta Cana Club (Leavenworth 2002). Even after the Dominican government constructed the first access road to connect Punta Cana with the country’s highway network, tourists had to travel at least four hours to and from the nearest airport located in Santo Domingo. Principally for this

1270

J.L. Scarpaci et al.

reason, Grupo Puntacana began the development of the Punta Cana International Airport. After a lengthy governmental approval process, construction was started in 1982 and the first international flight landed on the new 5,000-ft (1,524 m) runway in 1984. Approximately 3,000 passengers arrived in Punta Cana via the new airport during that first year of operation. The runway was later lengthened to allow non-stop flights from Europe and the U.S. During peak season, the Punta Cana International Airport, which currently accommodates 250 flights per week (mostly from Europe and North America), serves over three million passengers annually. Punta Cana has become the most highly visited and fastest growing Caribbean tourist destination, and the Punta Cana International Airport has been a significant factor in the explosive growth of the region’s tourist industry. Although “Punta Cana” technically refers only to Grupo Puntacana’s original 15,000 acre (6,070 ha) land tract, the entire coastal resort area of La Altagracia Province in the eastern Dominican Republic is served by the airport. This runs along the coastline; it is approximately 60 km (37.2 mi) from Juanillo, the site of the new Cap Cana development south of the original Punta Cana resort, and north and west to Bávaro and then west to Macao and Uvero Alto); this area now goes by the name “Punta Cana.” In 1995, there were only 3,000 hotel rooms in the Punta Cana area and Grupo Puntacana’s Puntacana Resort and Club was the largest. By October 2002, there were 18,300 hotel rooms in the Punta Cana area (Leavenworth 2002); many of the newly built resorts had far surpassed the Puntacana Resort and Club in size. According to the Punta Cana/Bávaro Hotel Association (Asociación de Hoteles y Proyectos Turísticos de la Zona Este), the area currently has approximately 25,000 hotel rooms in 50 resorts. By comparison, the development of the Cancún resort area on Mexico’s Yucatan peninsula, with its 131 km (81.3 mi) of coastline, also began in the early 1970s. However, unlike Punta Cana, which has been developed almost entirely by private investors, the Cancún resort was initiated by significant government investment. As a result, Cancún’s tourist zone was initially planned in a more comprehensive way. Its most significant period of growth occurred about a decade-and-a-half earlier than in Punta Cana. Cancún’s international airport was opened in 1974, and its 8,500-ft (2,591 m) runway was able to accommodate wide-cabin aircraft. By 1976, Cancún had 1,500 hotel rooms. According to the Cancún Hotel Association (Asociación de Hoteles de Cancún), the Cancún tourist zone currently has about 25,000 hotel rooms in 100 hotels. The growth of tourism in the Punta Cana area brought a flood of migrants from other parts of the Dominican Republic seeking employment in the booming construction industry or in service positions in the expanding resorts. Many of these migrants settled on undeveloped land owned by the resorts. While only 3–4 families of farmers and fishermen lived on the property when Kheel and Raineiri purchased the land in 1969, by 1993 a squatter settlement west of the airport, named “Verón,” had grown to about 80 houses. Prior to the 2000 presidential election, many additional squatters came to Punta Cana. Some of the families living closest to the extended airport runway had to be relocated, and Grupo Puntacana decided to resettle the squatters on a portion of the original land tract, pledging to give the residents who resettled there full title to the land. They also built a small

70

Marketing the Dominican Republic’s Last Frontier

1271

community of new houses with electricity and indoor plumbing to compensate the relocated residents. Although some squatters resisted Grupo Puntacana’s offer, all of the residents eventually agreed to the resettlement (Leavenworth 2002). Immigration to the area continued, and, by 2005 the growing population of Verón was estimated at between 6,000 and 8,000. Other squatter settlements have appeared in the region. Because of inadequate infrastructure in these communities, especially the lack of routine garbage collection and the absence of any sewage treatment system, negative environmental impacts, including contamination of well fields, from which the resorts obtain potable water, and damage to sensitive coastal marine ecosystems, are feared. The local association of hoteliers has pledged to invest in a new potable water distribution system, bringing fresh water from many miles inland via a system of aqueducts. But the realization of such a large project will require many years. Verón and surrounding communities have been the beneficiaries of a number of smaller community improvement projects initiated by Grupo Puntacana, including the construction of a new high school, the Ann and Ted Kheel Polytechnic School. Grupo Puntacana, headed by Kheel and Raineiri, along with investors Julio Iglesias and Oscar de la Renta, owns and operates the Punta Cana International Airport, the busiest airport in the Dominican Republic and said to be the world’s first privately owned international airport. The airport terminal, designed by Oscar Imbert, a Dominican architect who focuses on the design of sustainable buildings for tropical climates, does not employ air-conditioning in most of its public spaces, instead taking advantage of natural ventilation strategies based on preindustrial historical precedents, including native Arawak/Taino Indian models. The design of the airport terminal supports Kheel and Raineiri’s vision for the area, viz., to create a resort community that respects the natural environment of Punta Cana while offering visitors a world class vacation experience. In addition to the airport, Grupo Puntacana operates the low-density, 432-room Puntacana Resort and Club, with a marina and an 18-hole golf course designed by P. B. Dye, the luxury residential real estate development of Corrales, and a shopping center and a residential community for Puntacana workers, with schools for their children. The firm’s corporate literature promotes environmental stewardship. Grupo Puntacana’s electrical power generating plant serves the local area, and the resort employs state-of-the-art sewage treatment systems. To avoid depleting fresh groundwater, the wastewater treatment facility provides reclaimed water for irrigation of the golf course and landscaping around the resort. Grupo Puntcana’s approach to managing a resort is consistent with Ted Kheel’s longstanding commitment to sustainable growth, as evinced in the efforts of organizations such as Earthpledge (earthpledge.org), which he founded and the Puntacana Ecological Foundation (puntacana.org). Ironically, despite its commitment to ecologically responsible development, Grupo Puntacana’s success in establishing the Punta Cana International Airport has enabled the rapid and uncontrolled expansion of tourism in the region. It is unfortunate that only a few of the other resorts in the area share Grupo Puntacana’s vision of sustainable tourism development. It is fair to say that, prior to the construction of Cap Cana, shantytown development, inadequate water supplies, groundwater contamination, and coral reef

1272

J.L. Scarpaci et al.

destruction were already evident. Cap Cana’s growth, to which we turn, has emerged in the midst of these many environmentally and socially unsustainable loose ends.

70.3 Cap Cana History South of the Punta Cana-Bávaro strip of hotels and resorts remained the large strip of white sandy beaches whose development was impeded only by the fishing village of Juanillo (Fig. 70.1). Over a period of decades, small, often anonymous buyers were purchasing segments of what was to become Cap Cana until a significant amount of beachfront, inland, and cliff property was held. After years of courting the fishing village comprised of several dozen families, the residents of this community, Juanillo, accepted a buy-out for the property and agreed to be relocated (at no charge to them) to a new community (Nuevo Juanillo) about 1.6 mi (2.57 km) inland. Although the exact figure of the relocation project was not disclosed, this final obstacle in Cap Cana’s development plans was overcome. Cap Cana represents a US$1.5 billion investment, apart from the US$2 billion contribution by Donald Trump at Cap Cana. It entails the development 120,000 km2 (46,332 mi2 ), an area that is 30% larger than the four theme parks that comprise Disney World outside Orlando, Florida; it is twice the size of the island of Manhattan. The principal financier and development in Cap Cana was the Dominican construction magnate Ricardo Hazoury. Most of his assets were in residential and commercial real estate and, like Mexico’s Carlos Slim and the D.R.’s own Frank Raineiri, was a second generation immigrant to Latin America. Hazoury and Donald Trump forged a US $15 billion investment over 12–15 years to develop 35 million m2 (376 million ft2 ) of built structures in an area of 135 million m2

Fig. 70.1 Location map of Cap Cana

70

Marketing the Dominican Republic’s Last Frontier

1273

(1.452 million ft2 ). The key feature of this joint venture was the Trump Farallón Estates at Cap Cana (Solares del Farallón Trump en Cap Cana), consisting of 68 lots, 6,000 m2 (64.56 ft2 ) each. In just four hours in a single day in May 2007, Trump sold 95% of the lots in his sector of Cap Cana, called Trump Farallón (Trump Bluffs). Sales generated more than US$300 million U.S.D (Listín Diario, 2007) within a few days of opening. One point of controversy is how the much touted marina and vaporetto service received such quick approval from environmental authorities. Approximately 1,000 boat slips resulted from carving out the limestone bedrock. To what extent the salt water might intrude into the low lying fresh water table was a commonly heard question back in 2004. However, as of late 2008, there appeared to be no major incidence of well contamination; or at least nothing that can be attributed to Cap Cana’s marina. Like other new complexes, the ability to attract a well recognized brand in the leisure, hospitality, and travel industry would likely enhance Cap Cana’s efforts to tap into the lucrative Caribbean market. Physician-turned entrepreneur, Dr. Ricardo Hazoury, CEO, noted, “We are very satisfied by the extraordinary results obtained at this sales launch, it has been spectacular. This reflects, without a doubt, the trust buyers have in Cap Cana” (Associate Content, 2008). Hazoury told Golf News magazine that he was proud of the Dominican Republic and its position as a major destination for luxury real estate tourism development that could bring together well-known brands and foreign investment. “This is the future of our country,” boasted the CEO (Golf World.com, 2008, March 27, 2008). In a promotional spot he explains the logic behind Cap Cana’s massive engineering project: Today, real-estate is the safest [of all] investments. . .There is a fixed amount of money in the world seeking to get good results in real estate. If you compare [beach-front developments] with other investments, you’ll find that it assumes greater value daily because these settings are becoming increasingly scarce in the world. . .So the real-estate investor feels safe in this type of investment; investments in second homes, in places to relax, because historically, these have always increased in value. . . In Cap Cana, we have a marketing team and [coupled with] the natural beauty of the Dominican Republic, that also helps [generate investment]. Cap Cana’s relationship with Trump is symbiotic; we spent several years looking for the best developer and, definitely, Trump Group was at the top of the list. Unlike what a lot of people think, the Trump Group is easy to get along with. They are very accessible. Everyone thinks they are very close minded, very conservative. But they are all –the entire family—are very open and very generous. They are open to sit down and talk with you. They had no intention of investing in the Caribbean. . .They were familiar with the region. . .And in a matter of three or four months, we were able to do business with them. It was a setting in which we were able to negotiate. It was very transparent. . .They realized that the growth trends in the United States were based on the eastern part of the country. . .and that we would be good partners. There was good chemistry. (SkyscraperCity, 2008, our translation of video interview, http://www.skyscrapercity.com/showthread.php?t=519078, Accessed October 25, 2008)

Anticipating future trends in Caribbean tourism, Hazoury explains that the future of yachting is on the uprise and Cap Cana will be poised to address that demand. He also speculated on the opening up of Cuba to the North American traveler:

1274

J.L. Scarpaci et al.

The North American tourist that is now coming to Cancún or the Dominican Republic might be interested in Cuba. . .But in Cuba, there are only 30,000 rooms. So there will be a relocation [of those tourists wanting to go to Cuba]. It is not that tourism [in the Dominican Republic] will end [when the trade embargo and travel restrictions on Cuba are lifted by the United States]. I think the opening up of Cuba, in two or three years, will be good for the entire Caribbean. (SkyscraperCity, 2008, our translation of video interview, http://www.skyscrapercity.com/showthread.php?t=519078, Accessed October 25, 2008).

Journalist Edwin Guerra, who conducted the interview, notes that the entrepreneur reflects the vision of Walt Disney, but also the pioneering talents of Ricardo Hazoury’s father, Dr. Jorge A. Hazoury, who founded the National Diabetes Institute and the Iberoamerican University, decades earlier. According to Ricardo Hazoury, he and his family were initially interested in developing land along Samaná Bay because of its natural beauty and its proximity to the capital of Santo Domingo. However, local politicians objected to the project and eventually allowed a Spanish development group to take over a broad-scale master plan for tourism development along Samaná Bay, renown for whale watching and birthing along the north shore. Hazoury came to the eastern end of the island in early 2001, not as a tourist, but as an investor. He claims that residents of Juanillo, then a sleepy fishing village of a few dozen families, approached his company. They had the option of accepting a price for their properties or else being relocated into a new community – built from scratch – called Nuevo (New) Juanillo, 2.6 km (1.6 mi) inland. Regardless of the social and environmental impacts of the project, the planned growth of Cap Cana remains ambitious (Table 70.1).

Table 70.1 Investment types and spatial impact of Cap Cana Investment type Infrastructure Paved roads Aqueduct Electrical Utility plant Recreation Marina Golf course Beach Club Cap Cana Sanctuary and Spa Alta Bella Fishing Lodge Restaurants Residential Communities Villas Caletón Golden Bear Lodge Trump Farrallón Aguamarina Condominiums Punta Palmera Ribera Town Homes

Size 44 km 1.5 million gallon daily capacity 5 Mega-Watts with its own grid Up to 1,000 slips with about 100 in first phase Jack Nicklaus-designed 18-hole Punta Espada Golf Course Including 176 luxury suites Including 290 apartments 9 “world-class” restaurants such as David Crocket 16 units 98 condominiums 65 homes 125 units 185 units At least nine homes in early 2008

70

Marketing the Dominican Republic’s Last Frontier

1275

70.4 Trumping Nature: Cap Cana Farallón, Dominican Republic The announcement of Donald Trump’s partnership with the Hazoury family came at the finale of his first year syndicated television show, The Apprentice, with a viewership of 20 million households. Mr. Trump said: Before I make any decision, I want to show the jobs, the two jobs, that each, by the way, comes with a salary of $250,000. The first is overseeing the construction of a luxury resort complex in the Caribbean. Check this out. It is really beautiful. [cut away to video; enter camera following two bikini-clad women walking along a beach. Voice over as Donald Trump continues:] “Located in the Dominican Republic, Cap Cana is the Caribbean’s largest residential development project [scenes of construction, beach and aerial views of the complex]. At 47 square miles, Cap Cana is twice the size of Manhattan, and will soon boast the largest inland marina anywhere in the world. [shot of Trump Cap Cana sign]. And now I’m bringing the Trump brand to Cap Cana [more sunbathers on undisclosed beach, with woman rubbing suntan oil on a man], creating the ultimate luxury experience. It’s going to be amazing! [shot of motor boats racing offshore] Trump at Cap Cana will include a beach club [construction shot], a condominium hotel [completed hotel], private villas [thatch-roofed luxury houses], a world-class golf course [pans across Jack Nicklausdesigned golf course], and 68 private estates [flyover Trump’s 68 lots] with breath-taking views of the entire development as well as the Caribbean Sea [views of Mona Passage from the cliffs]. Although it is set against the backdrop of an ocean paradise, this project is a huge responsibility.” (The Apprentice, Final Episode, 2004; Data source for transcription: YouTube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OTEo2QyNvU8) Accessed June 1, 2008 and October 1, 2008)

The local media in the D.R. reported “The signing of this agreement with Donald J. Trump’s corporation signifies the ability [to make Cap Cana] ‘the Great Destiny of the World’ ” (El Diario). Readers contributing to a popular online discussion board frequently praised the idea that the great “Real estate magnate” (El magnate de real estate) had placed his mark of approval on the Cap Cana project. (Diario Digital 2008) (Fig. 70.2). Not all the news surrounding Cap Cana is positive even if resistance seems to be minimal. In February 2006, reporters who were covering the forced eviction of dozens of residents who had been living in Juanillo for decades were harassed by soldiers (COHRE, 2006; Reports covering. . ., 2006). Yolanda De León, a biologist who examines animal habitats in the Caribbean, also researched local residents in water-front communities. She reports: When we visited the housing project, known as Nuevo Juanillo, or ‘New Juanillo’, many residents expressed their unhappiness with their new situation. Fishers were kept from working because the community was placed about 2.6 km inland, and also custodians restricted their access to the shore. Transportation to and from the project was also a problem. The colmado [small grocer] owners had lost business from the beach tourists, especially locals that came on the weekends. Many homes were already vacated or had been rented to the new project’s staff, as there were few livelihood options there. Further, many residents were angry because their local cemetery had been bulldozed over and allegedly, only a handful of human remains were returned to their respective families (de León, 2007, 356).

1276

J.L. Scarpaci et al.

Fig. 70.2 Portion of Trump-Cap Cana billboard located along road that climbs up to resort

Elsewhere in the Caribbean, it appears that efforts against megaengineering projects receive more media attention. Mining efforts in western Jamaica have been challenged by the Environmental Law Alliance Worldwide because of threats to the region’s groundwater (ELAW, 2007). In 2006 reef defenders (Guana Cay Reef Association) sued a San Francisco development company that wanted to build a gated golf and yachting mega resort on land that Prime Minister Perry Christie had leased without the approval of local government (Castle, 2006). Comparable to Cap Cana’s limestone geology, one point of concern is that “[b]ecause of the island’s [porous limestone soil]. . .40 to 60 percent of the fertilizer spread on the golf course will drain right through it, feeding algae that can smother coral” (Castle, 2006). In Puerto Rico, the local chapter of the Sierra Club also filed suit in 2006 to stop the development of a 14,000 housing unit and 27-hole golf course proposed by the Four Seasons Resort, stating that the project would “destroy the pristine area by filling wetlands, channelizing rivers, and clearing coastal vegetation” (Sierra Club, 2006). While opposition to Cap Cana could hardly be called passive, with the Dominican Republic’s highly consumer-oriented society, and its approach to “freemarket” development strategies, we believe the power of branding contributes to this process. We turn to the power of branding in the section that follows.

70.5 Branding Synergism: Marriott Hotels and Resorts, Jack Nicklaus, the Ritz Carlton, and the Trump Brand Tourism and hotel sectors have come under increased competition and pressures in the new millennium. The Y2K scare was followed by the 9/11 attacks and the tourism industry was subsequently rocked by a series of oil price hikes that

70

Marketing the Dominican Republic’s Last Frontier

1277

dampened international travel. In response to the vicissitudes of the market, branding synergism is one way to energize the attraction of second home or travel destinations. As Starkov and Price (2007) note, “[p]roviding unique value proposition to the potential customer and differentiating your hotel product from what the competition is offering are much easier initiatives to implement.” The value proposition of the Trump, Nicklaus, and Ritz brands enhances each investor’s recognition. That appears to have increased revenue growth and shareholder value and had created considerable buzz in the up-scale second homes market. Cap Cana appears to offer a distinct value proposition combined with its product offering, service value, and price (Fig. 70.3). Moreover, Cap Cana appears to have placed itself outside of the common fracas that competes “on price and price alone, particularly in the service industry [which] is a last ditch effort. Nowhere is this more important than in the hospitality industry where pricing has become so competitive” (Starkov & Price, 2007). Cap Cana has carved out unique aspects and a value proposition that have mitigated the social and environmental implications of an astounding megaengineering endeavor. It signals that the most successful capitalist in the Dominican Republic (Hazoury) has been approved by one of the most famous business celebrities in the US (Trump). Such affirmation means that the new venture is both national in scope and international in approval. Moreover, the Jack Nicklaus designed course indicates that land barely suited for goat grazing, certainly not suited for small agricultural plots (conucos), now has a new value-added function.

70.6 The Marketing Mix of Engineering Paradise The Caribbean tourism industry felt the impact of the financial meltdown of late 2008 in ways marketers at Cap Cana could not have anticipated. One hotelier described the situation like this: “I’ve been in the business 38 years. I have seen the impact of the Gulf War. I have seen the recession of 80s. Certainly September 11. . . But nothing has been of a global nature, which makes the current financial situation we are in much more worrisome” (Coto, 2008). Ricardo Hazoury, Cap Cana CEO, used an oceanographic metaphor in his assessment of the global crisis. “Our project has been affected by the economic tsunami that has paralyzed the global financial markets.” The financial storm led to Cap Cana’s firing of 500 workers in October 2008 after Lehman Brothers collapsed and a US$250 million loan was canceled for Hazoury’s megaproject. Then, on November 25, 2008, a $100 million bridge loan that was set to mature on December 29, 2008, and a default by the private Cap Cana project to a previous bridge loan by Deutsche Bank and Morgan Stanley in mid-November, was waived (Cap Cana gets extension. . .2008; Cap Cana fights the clock). In early November 2008, Cap Cana dipped into their reserve fund to pay the monthly quota on the US$250 million bond issue that will be due in 2013. The ratings of Cap Cana were downgraded by both Fitch and Moody’s, from a CCC (substantial risk) to a Ca (highly speculative), and the company is being closely monitored for even more downgrades, which could be

1278

J.L. Scarpaci et al.

Fig. 70.3 Photographic collage of Cap Cana and Trump Farallón. Upper left, clockwise: The allure to the Dominican Republic, but especially Cap Cana, is the powdery beaches; earth-moving equipment has created, allegedly, the largest inland marina in the world, as well as a reconfigured shoreline and lagoons to accommodate the new golf courses; prospective buyers climb elevated decks on each lot to get a sense of the view and surrounding areas; access to the Trump bluffs was made possible (besides the helipad) by a four-lane highway with a manicured median strip. Road construction also exposed the cavernous bedrock, ideal for promoting a wine cellar that can be part of each of the 65 Trump Farallón sites

lowered to a D (default) rating. It is noteworthy that The Cap Cana bonds “are sold with a note of high risk of default, selling at high discount rates” (Cap Cana fights the clock). Consequently, the firm is negotiating with its creditors, which include a mutual fund as well as a group of five separate funds (Cap Cana fights the clock). Sources inside the company anticipated laying off a thousand or so more workers in late December 2008 and early 2009 unless such loans were ensured. By late 2008 hundreds of luxury villas such as the Punta Palmera Condominium in Cap Cana had no guests. Little sign of work was evident beyond Punta Palmera: the Caleton Club and Villas, The Golden Bear Lodge and Spa, Aquamarina Luxury Residences, and The Founders Condominiums were all idle. As one nervous investor reported on a financial blog within dr1.com – the largest English-language news source on the island: So, if you are living in a house that you own inside of CapCana [sic] and the place goes bankrupt, what does that mean? Could you be kicked out of your home? If you stayed would the rest of the place be left to fall apart? (dr1.com)

70

Marketing the Dominican Republic’s Last Frontier

1279

Fig. 70.4 Marketing mix of Cap Cana, Punta Cana Hotel & Resorts, and all-inclusive resorts

It is doubtful that the image of a semi-constructed sprawling work site, twice the size of Manhattan, idle and rusting in the Caribbean, is what the promoters had in mind. Elsewhere in the Caribbean, the Ritz-Carlton Molasses in the Caicos dismissed 60 Chinese workers while 800 workers in the extensive Atlantis resort in the Bahamas were laid off because of low occupancy rates (Coto, 2008). Despite these regional woes, Cap Cana has situated itself in a distinct market segment among its eastern Dominican Republic competitors. A marketing-mix analysis conceptualizes Cap Cana’s position among the four P’s (price, product, promotion, and placement) in the following ways. The mostly all-inclusive resorts at Bávaro are rather low on price, but promote a widely available sun-and-surf setting. Its product is simply not that unique (Fig. 70.4). Its neighbor and principal rival, Punta Cana, is not an all-inclusive resort, and promotes itself as an environmental steward in the region. Its construction footprint is smaller than the Bávaro resorts, and its product is more unique than theirs. Not surprisingly, it is pricier as well. Cap Cana, on the other hand, segments itself from its neighbors by price and a unique setting that promotes a much larger area, smaller construction footprint, and unique branding synergism that its competitors cannot match (see Fig. 70.4). Seen comparatively, therefore, their engineering of paradise has been more expansive in geographic scope, but more select in carving out a unique product mix.

70.7 Conclusions By early 2009 it was apparent that CEO Hazoury was planning to outsource a number of functions to weather this financial setback. The few tenants on the various projects throughout Cap Cana can stay and enjoy basic services because “Cap Cana runs more like a city than a private development. It generates its own power and water” (Coto, 2008). Workers, however, who have migrated to the eastern end of the island, will not be able to weather the storm. Hopes of securing a bridge loan scheduled for late 2008 by the now defunct Lehman Brothers vanished when the once solid investor filed for bankruptcy. Buyers not seeking due diligence on the financial health of the project may be seduced by the tropical setting (Fig. 70.5).

1280

J.L. Scarpaci et al.

Fig. 70.5 Welcome center atop Trump Farallón, with view of Cap Cana and ocean

It is probably too early to determine if the powerful branding synergism proposed by Cap Cana will unfold as planned. Cap Cana’s engineering of paradise, fraught with the usual problems of promoting a unique lifestyle for the elite, once again exposed the vulnerability of tourism in island economies. Expected media attention on whether it can survive the global financial downfall will no doubt overshadow the social and environmental results that the project portends. For now, Cap Cana’s dream of an engineered paradise will have to wait in purgatory. Acknowledgement The authors wish to acknowledge the American Geographical Society’s Bowman Expedition program Contract #GS-23F-0147L/W91QF4-06-F-0103 for partial support of this research.

References Aguilo, E., Alegre, J., & Sard, M. (2005). The persistence of the sun and sand tourism model. Tourism Management, 26, 219–231. Asociación de Hoteles de Cancún. Retrieved September 3, 2008, from http://www.ahqr.com.mx Asociación de Hoteles y Proyectos Turísticos de la Zona Este. Retrieved September 3, 2008, from http://www.puntacanabavarohotels.com Associated Content. (2008). Donald Trump. Retrieved October 2, 2008, from http://www. associatedcontent.com/article/266407/donald_j_trump_at_cap_cana_sells_more.html?cat=8 Bartholo, R., Delamaro, M., & Bursztyn, I. (2008). Tourism for whom? Different paths to development and alternative experiments in Brazil. Latin American Perspectives, 160, 35(3), 103–119. Brennan, D. (2004). Women work, men sponge, and everyone gossips: Macho men and stigmatized/ing women in a sex tourist town. Anthropological Quarterly, 77, 705–733. Cap Cana fights the clock. DiarioLibre.com. Retrieved December 1, 2008, from http://www. diariolibre.com/noticias_det.php?id=178326

70

Marketing the Dominican Republic’s Last Frontier

1281

Cap Cana gets extension on $100 M bridge loan. Associated Press, 11.25.08, 07:51 AM EST. Retrieved December 1, 2008, from http://www.forbes.com/feeds/ap/2008/ 11/25/ap5739402.html Castle, T. (2006). Reef defenders in Bahamas sue over mega-report. Chronicle Foreign Service, San Francisco Chronicle, February 13. Retrieved July 18, 2008, from http://sfgate.com/cgigin/article.cgi?f=c/a/2006/02/13/MNG88h7E5U1.dtl Coto, D. (2008). Crisis in paradise: Metldown leaves ghost resorts. Associated Press Wire Report, published in the Ronaoke Times, November 30. Clark, J. R. (1996). Coastal zone management handbook. Boca Raton, FL: CRC Press. COHRE (Centre on Housing Rights and Evictions). (2006). Global survey on forced evictions: 2003–2006. Geneva: COHRE. Daby, D. (2003). Effects of seagrass bed removal for tourism purposes in a Mauritian bay. Environmental Pollution, 125(3), 313–324. De León, Y. (2007, February). The impact of tourism on rural livelihoods in the Dominican Republic’s coastal areas. Journal of Developing Studies, 43, 340–359. Diario Digital. (2008). Accessed July 23, 2008. Dr1.com. Daily News. http://dr1.com, 26 April, 31 July, and 1 August, 2000. Dr1.com.Daily News, Cap Cana Problems forum. Retrieved from http://dr1.com/forums/ real-estate/80251-cap-cana-problems-8.html Retrieved December 1, 2008, from http:// diariodigital.com.do/?module=displaystory&story_id=13506&format=html History of Cancun. Retrieved September 3, 2008, from http://www.cancun.bz/cancun_info/ cancun_history.php Golf World.com (2008). 27 March 2008. Retrieved October 15, 2008, from http://www. worldgolf.com/newswire/browse/13284-Donald-J--Trump-unveils-next-phase-of-Trump-atCap-Cana-project Leavenworth, S. M. (2002). Environmental protection versus economic development: The case of Punta Cana. Institute for Virtual Enterprise, City University of New York (mimeo). Lewsey, C., Cid, G., & Kruse, E. (2004, September). Assessing climate change impacts on coastal infrastructure in the Eastern Caribbean. Marine Policy, 28(5), 393–409. Listín Diario. Inversión: Donald Trump alaba clima dominicano para los negocios. Retrieved October 1, 2008, from http://www.stp.gov.do/noticias/noticia_inv_21052007.htm PUNTACANA Resort and Club. Retrieved September 3, 2008, from http://www.puntacana.com ‘Reporters covering eviction in Cap Cana subjected to aggression from soldiers’, Dominican Today, (15 February 2006). Retrieved from http://www.dominicantoday.com/app/article. aspx?id=10403 Sierra Club. (2006). Sierra Club Lawsuits: Puerto Rico chapter challenges new four seasons resort. Retrieved October 12, 2008, from http://www.sierraclub.org Starkov, M., & Price, J. (2007). Building a De-Commoditization Strategy in Hospitality. HolidayNet News, February 7. Retrieved October 7, 2008, from http://www.hospitalitynet.org/ news/4030233.search?query=hotel+brand+recognition The Apprentice, Final Episode. (2004). Retrieved June 1, 2008, and October 1, 2008, from http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OTEo2QyNvU8 Torres, R. M., & Momsen, J. D. (2005). Gringolandia: The construction of a new tourist space in Mexico. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 95, 314–335.

Chapter 71

Perfecting and Recreating Nature on the Upper Mississippi River John O. Anfinson

Megaengineering projects conjure up images of the Hoover Dam, between Arizona and Nevada, or the Three Gorges Dam in China. It is easy to imagine these projects. You can look at a picture and understand what they are and get a sense of their scale. They were built in a single place over a relatively short time. The upper Mississippi River navigation system defies this simple image. Stepping back and looking at the whole of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers work to make the upper Mississippi River navigable, it appears as one massive, if disjointed, earth engineering project. That project covered 678 mi (1091.14 km) of the Mississippi River, from the head of navigation in Minneapolis, Minnesota, to St. Louis, Missouri. Adding the short-lived Headwaters project, it affected 1,168 mi (1879.71 km) of the Mississippi’s 2,350 (3187.96 km). From the earliest surveys to the completion of Lock and Dam No. 27, that project spanned 135 years, and the Corps is still adapting it. As of 1964 the Corps could claim that it had transformed the entire upper Mississippi into a safe and reliable highway. Historically, there have been three principal ages or eras of the upper Mississippi River. The first was the Natural River, which existed up to about 1878. During this time, natural processes largely determined the river’s depth, speed, width, and seasonal pulse. The second was the Constricted River, which lasted from 1878 to the 1930s. Over these decades, the Corps tried to narrow and deepen the river by closing off its side channels and narrowing its width. The third age, the Locked and Dammed River, began in the 1930s and continues today. The upper river is now a more a series of lakes than a free flowing river. The upper Mississippi is headed towards a fourth era and a fourth river. The shape and character of that river has yet to be determined. The locks and dams have dramatically altered the upper river’s physical and ecological character in ways the engineers and society did not anticipate or think would matter. Today, many biologists fear that the upper Mississippi will collapse ecologically, unless the river is re-engineered or de-engineered. But Congress has directed the Corps to create a J.O. Anfinson (B) Mississippi National River and Recreation Area, National Park Service, St. Paul, MN 55101, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_71,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1283

1284

J.O. Anfinson

river that is a successful commercial channel and a sustainable ecosystem. To make it both may require the most complex and expensive engineering project yet and yield a river seemingly more natural, but in fact more engineered than ever. Some people define the upper Mississippi River as the reach from the mouth of the Ohio River, at Cairo, Illinois, to the river’s source at Lake Itasca, Minnesota. For the purpose of navigation improvements, the Corps historically defined the river from the head of navigation at St. Paul, and later Minneapolis, to St. Louis as the upper Mississippi. This is the upper river examined here.

71.1 The Natural River 71.1.1 Character and Function The natural upper Mississippi was vastly different from the river today. Many elements defined the natural river’s physical and ecological character. The river’s width and depth, its islands and floodplain, and its sandbars and rapids stood among the most important, but the river’s pulse, the river’s annual cycle of rising and falling, defined them all. The pulse determined the river’s depth and width, and in doing so, the number of islands, sandbars, and the size of its floodplain. The upper Mississippi generally rose with the snow melt and spring rains and fell in the late summer and fall. Not infrequently, it might rise again in the autumn. Before farmers plowed up the prairies and lumber barons cut down the region’s forests, water bled off the land slowly and steadily, making the river’s rise and fall much more gradual than it is today. At low water, hundreds of sandbars emerged from the river’s bottom, extended out from the shores, or lay just below the surface. Sandbars posed the most persistent and frequent problem for navigation and played a critical role in the river’s ecosystem. At low water, no continuous navigation channel existed. The deepest channel might flow along one bank for a short reach, stop, and then pick up again in the middle or along the opposite bank. Between these reaches, sandbars divided the channel. As the 1820 expedition under Michigan Territorial governor Lewis Cass headed down the Mississippi, one member wrote that from St. Anthony Falls to Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin, they found “sand bars without number, which extending in every direction from the shores very much impeded our progress; and indeed we were fortunate if we did not strike 15–20 of them in a day” (Williams, 1992: 494). They were traveling in birch bark canoes, which lay only inches deep in the water. The average low water depth over the sandbars from St. Paul to Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin, was 16–20 in (40.6–50.8 cm). From Prairie du Chien to the mouth of the Illinois River (about 40 river mi (64.37 km) above St. Louis), it was 2 feet (0.61 m). Like the weakest link in a chain, they could separate one end of the river from the other for boats that ran too deep in the water. Sometimes vast mussel beds occupied these bars. In the mid 1890s, mussel hunters discovered a mussel bed near New Boston, Illinois, that ran for one and one-half miles (2.41 km) and spread up to 300 yards (274.32 m) wide (Anfinson, 2003: 17).

71

Perfecting and Recreating Nature on the Upper Mississippi River

1285

At the high end of the Mississippi River’s pulse, water spread into its many floodplains, filling backwater lakes and sloughs and covering low lying prairies with nutrient rich sediments. Corps engineer Charles Durham contended that “These low lands are the richest in the world. . . . Many of the deposits,” he insisted, “compare favorably with those of the Nile” (Durham, 1912: 21). During the spring rise or flood, some fish species entered the river’s backwaters to spawn. As the water receded, the adult fish returned to the river. Fingerlings, numbering in the hundreds of millions, remained and became stranded in backwater lakes and pools. For herons and kingfishers and for many other birds, mammals, and reptiles, these backwater pools became all-you-can-eat restaurants. Historically, hundreds of islands divided the Mississippi, dispersing its water into countless side channels and backwaters. To early explorers and travelers on the river, every island meant more channels, detours and dead ends. In 1835 George Featherstonaugh, a geologist and adventurer, claimed only mosquitoes outnumbered the islands in the Mississippi River (1970: V. 1, 220). Islands provided habitat for immense numbers for wildlife. On 28 April 1806 American explorer Zebulon Pike stopped at some islands in Illinois. They held a rookery of the once innumerable and now extinct Passenger Pigeon. In 15 minutes, Pike’s men clubbed 298 birds. Pike (Coues 1987) remarked that “the most fervid imagination cannot conceive their numbers. Their noise in the woods was like the continued roaring of the wind” (p. 212). Today, the Mississippi River flyway draws about 40% North America’s waterfowl and 60% of its bird species. Until the Virginia’s successful voyages in 1823, skeptics doubted whether steamboats could pass over the Des Moines and Rock Island Rapids. And the 8.5-mi (13.68 km) rapids below St. Anthony Falls ensured that St. Paul, not Minneapolis, would become the head of navigation on the upper Mississippi during the nineteenth century. The three rapids totaled only 33.5 mi (53.91 km), but they would be some of the most difficult and expensive miles to make navigable on the entire river. The Des Moines Rapids extended 111/4 mi (18.11) upstream from present-day Keokuk, Iowa, which lies about 200 mi (321.87 km) above St. Louis. Here, the river had worn down the bedrock bottom down somewhat evenly over the previous 120,000 years. No definable navigation channel flowed through the rapids, making the whole cataract treacherous during low water. Boats that survived the Des Moines Rapids faced the cataract at Rock Island, roughly 110 mi (177.03 km) upriver. The Rock Island Rapids ran for 133/4 miles (22.13 km). Only 18,000–20,000 years old, the rapids still had sharp edges lying below the river’s shallow surface. The Rock Island Rapids, however, had navigable channels, but during low water less than 30 in (76.20 cm) of water filled the narrow channels and even less covered the rapid’s sharp outcroppings. Few steamboats that reached St. Paul dared continue up to Minneapolis. During highwater, the 8.5-mi (13.68) gorge below St. Anthony Falls became a raging torrent that no steamboat could ascend. During low water, limestone boulders littered the river bed and a dozen small islands pinched the already narrow river. In some places, a person might have waded across the river. The deep and narrow gorge also offered little room for a terminal or railroads access. If Minneapolis hoped to become the

1286

J.O. Anfinson

head of navigation and the economic bookend to New Orleans, boats would have to rise above the falls. Many of the river’s natural characteristics presented obstacles to navigation. To transform the upper Mississippi into a commercial highway, the Corps had to overcome them all. Their success or failure would determine whether the Midwest was landlocked or had access to the world (Anfinson, 2003: Chapters 1 and 2).

71.1.2 Navigating the Natural River In 1823 the Virginia became the first steamboat to paddle upstream from St. Louis to Fort Snelling (about 6.3 mi [10.14 km] above downtown St. Paul today). The Virginia announced a new era. Steamboats could transport people and goods more quickly and in greater numbers and quantities than canoes, flatboats or keelboats. Along with the Midwest’s population, steamboat traffic grew quickly after 1823, reaching its heydays in the 1850s. By 1857 St. Paul and other river cities had become bustling ports. That year, steamboats came and went over 1,000 times from St. Paul, almost 1,600 times from Davenport, Iowa, and nearly 3,500 times from St. Louis (Merrick, 1987: App. B.). Before 1866 Congress authorized no comprehensive navigation improvement program for the upper Mississippi. Not enough people lived in the region to justify or push for such a program. Congress did, however, authorize the Corps of Engineers to undertake navigation improvements at key trouble spots. By 1835 sandbars had begun forming immediately above and below St. Louis, forcing the main channel to the Illinois side and threatening to isolate St. Louis. The city’s residents persuaded Congress to authorize $15,000, in 1836, and another $35,000, in 1837, for the Corps to build a dike to deflect the bar away from their city (Tweet, 1984: 40–41, 43, 46). More than any other obstacles, the Des Moines and Rock Island rapids received the federal government’s attention before the Civil War. Initially, the Corps treated the Rock Island and Des Moines rapids together, conducting four surveys of the rapids before 1861. The first came in 1829 and the next in 1836. Robert E. Lee and Montgomery Meigs surveyed the rapids again in 1837. Under Lee’s direction, the Corps removed some 2,000 tons of rock from the Des Moines Rapids over the next two years, creating a channel 50 ft (15.2 m) wide and 4 ft (1.22 m) deep in the worst section (Tweet, 1984: 39–47). What progress the Corps made ended with the Economic Panic of 1837 and reluctance of the federal government to fund navigation improvements. Not until Congress passed the Western Rivers Improvement Act in 1852 did the Corps again receive money for the rapids. In 1853 the Corps again surveyed the rapids, and over the next three years began removing rock. Progress was slow, however, and the work had little impact. In 1857 the Corps suspended work again, as another economic crisis, which began in 1857 and then the Civil intervened. So, up to the Civil War, the Corps had removed rock from both rapids and had built a pier to keep the main channel flowing by St. Louis. Overall, however, these

71

Perfecting and Recreating Nature on the Upper Mississippi River

1287

local projects had little effect on the upper Mississippi’s physical and ecological character, and it remained a largely natural river.

71.1.3 4-Foot Channel As the Midwest’s population and agricultural production grew following the Civil War and as railroads began monopolizing bulk commodity transportation, Midwesterners increased their pressure on Congress to authorize more significant navigation improvements. Congress responded in 1866, authorizing the 4-ft (1.22 m) channel project. The 4 ft (1.22 m) depth was based on the low water year of 1864. Using this benchmark, the Corps was to establish a continuous channel, at least 4 ft (1.22 m) deep, even if the river got as low as it had in 1864. (Each subsequent project worked the same way. The 41/2 (1.37 m), 6 (1.83 m) and 9-ft (2.74 m) channel project depths are all based on the low water of 1864.) They planned to do so by removing snags (trees that had fallen in the river), clearing away trees that overhung the river where the deepest channel hugged the shoreline, removing sunken vessels, and dredging a channel through the sandbars. As snags and leaning trees threatened lives and property, the Corps quickly began removing them, with the new dredge and snagboats, the Montana and the Caffrey. Brevet Major General Gouverneur K. Warren, the first St. Paul District commander, who headed navigation improvements for much of the upper river, reported that during the 1869 season the Caffrey pulled out 235 snags and cut down 195 overhanging trees between St. Paul and Lake Pepin, a distance of 53 river mi (85.30 km). The Montana, working between Lake Pepin and the Rock Island Rapids, a reach of 270 river mi (434.52 km), wrestled out about 240 snags and cut back more than 400 overhanging trees. Together, the Montana and the Caffrey cut down almost 2,600 leaning trees in 1872, over 3,100 in 1876, and more than 6,300 in 1877. By the late 1870s, the Corps reported, few snags threatened steamboat traffic (Annual Report, 1867: 262; Annual Report, 1875: App. CC, p. 463; Annual Report, 1877: 527–528; Annual Report, 1885: 1664). Removing leaning trees, snags, and sunken vessels made the upper Mississippi safer. Sandbars, however, still determined when and where steamboats plied most of the river. So Warren began scraping down (rather than dredging out) the bars, which, he believed, would yield 8–12 in (20.30–30.48 cm) more clearance over the worst bars. For many steamboats, this meant the difference between gliding over a bar or grounding on it. After the 1868 season Warren optimistically reported that the dredges had secured a low water channel of 3 ft (0.91 m) (Annual Report, 1869: 237).

71.1.4 Rapids When Congress authorized the 4-foot navigation project in 1866, it also provided for work on the Rock Island and Des Moines rapids. After another survey, Brevet

1288

J.O. Anfinson

Major General James H. Wilson, the first commander of the Rock Island District, recommended that the Corps continue removing rock from the Rock Island Rapids. He urged building a canal paralleling the river for most of the Des Moines Rapids. Work began on the 7.6 mi-long (12.23-km) canal in 1867 and took a decade to complete. As of 1877 boats had the option to by-pass the canal during high water and run over the rapids, or take the canal. At low water, most pilots chose the canal (Tweet, 1980: 5–7; 1983: 49–50). Under the 4-foot (1.22 m) channel project, the Corps first began changing the river’s physical and ecological character. But overall, the Corps could not affect lasting or significant change in the river’s depth. Scraping was temporary, as the river could quickly rearrange the bars with a late season rise or with the next spring’s flood. The river continually eroded its banks, adding new snags and leaning trees. For these reasons, the upper Mississippi remained a mostly natural river under the 4-ft (1.22 m) channel project.

71.2 Channel Constriction 71.2.1 41/2-Foot Channel During the 1860s and 1870s Midwesterners, especially farmers, began arguing for more intensive navigation improvements. Railroads and increasing grain production spurred them. Railroads had begun dominating the shipping of bulk commodities in the Midwest and the nation after 1865. They charged such high prices that tens of thousands farmers joined to push for cheaper transportation. They quickly realized that a navigable Mississippi would offer the competition needed to drive rail rates down. Cities along the Mississippi added their voices to the call for navigation improvements, and in 1878, Congress authorized the 41/2-ft (1.37 m) channel project. While only 6 in (15.24 cm) more than the 4-ft channel, the new project would change the upper Mississippi River’s physical and ecological character more than any force since the glaciers. Under this project, the Corps was to engrave a permanent channel, at least 41/2-feet (1.37 m) deep, in the upper river’s shifting sand, gravel, and rock. To create the 41/2-ft (1.37 m) channel, the Corps started constricting the river with wing dams and closing dams, concentrating its flow into a single, narrow channel. Long, narrow piers of rock and woven brush mats, wing dams jabbed into the river from the shoreline or from the bank of an island. The Corps placed the dams in a series along one or both sides of the channel to reduce its width. By forcing the current into a single channel, wing dams made the river flow faster, so it could cut through sandbars and could carry more sediment. As water flowed around the ends of the wing dams and into the space between or behind them, the current slowed and the sediment dropped out, building up the river’s bank. Redirecting the river’s current away from one bank, however, could force it against the opposite bank and start eroding it. To prevent this, the Corps armored the river’s banks with willow mats and limestone where needed.

71

Perfecting and Recreating Nature on the Upper Mississippi River

1289

Channel constriction’s success depended upon the volume of water in the river. Without enough water, the wing dams could not scour the channel. To deliver more water to the main channel, the Corps built rock and brush closing dams. These dams ran from the shore to an island, from one island to another, or across the entrance to a backwater. The river flowed over them when high, but for most of the year, the closing dams directed water to the main channel. Despite extensive channel constriction under the 41/2-foot channel project, steamboat traffic on the upper Mississippi River declined. By 1880 most grain and passenger traffic had left the river. Two critical factors underlay the river’s failure for navigation. First, railroads completed their domination of the grain and passenger trades, and second, the Corps could not provide a reliably deep channel under the 41/2-ft (1.37 m) project. Far too often, the river fell so low the wing dams could not scour the channel. In part, the Corps was fighting the river’s natural pulse, but humans were also responsible. As more farmers settled in the region and as lumber millers cut the forests down, water ran off the land more quickly. This meant that the river might be higher earlier in the year but even lower in the fall. Agriculture and lumbering also increased the amount of sediment flowing into the upper Mississippi, making it more difficult to establish the 41/2-ft (1.37 m) channel. By the early 20th century, the river ceased to be a meaningful part of the Midwest’s transportation network (Anfinson, 2003: Chapters 3 and 4).

71.2.2 6-Foot Channel In 1902 railroad baron James J. Hill charged that the river was no longer worth improving for navigation. Railroads, he assured people, could handle all of the region’s traffic. (Upper Mississippi River Improvement Association nd: 4–5), but cities and business interests along the river feared a railroad monopoly and the death of river commerce. Hill helped trigger a new navigation improvement movement. Backers of the movement contended that a deeper channel, a 6-ft (1.83 m) channel, could compete against railroads. Responding to a national navigation improvement movement and to a railroad car shortage in 1906–1907 that pointed out the dangers of relying on one mode of bulk shipping, Congress authorized the 6-ft (1.83 m) channel in 1907. Under the 6-ft (1.83 m) channel project, the Corps extended and raised existing wing and closing dams and added new ones. By 1930, the Corps had ribbed the river between St. Louis and St. Paul with some 1800 wing dams and had closed most of its side channels (Anfinson, 2003: Chapters 4 and 5).

71.2.3 Headwaters No matter how much the Corps squeezed the river it often fell too low for navigation. Hoping to ensure a more reliable flow, Congress authorized the Corps to construct six dams near the Mississippi’s headwaters, in northern Minnesota. General Warren

1290

J.O. Anfinson

had recommended a system of 41 reservoirs for the St. Croix, Chippewa, Wisconsin and Mississippi River basins in 1870, but subsequent engineers reduced the number to six (Merritt, 1979: 71; 1984). Under the Headwaters project, the Corps built the Winnibigoshish dam in 1883–1884 and then completed dams at Leech Lake (1884), Pokegama Falls (1884), Pine River (1886), Sandy Lake (1895), and Gull Lake (1912). The dams comprised the first reservoir system built by the Corps in the country (Merritt, 1979: 68–74; Tweet, 1983: 54). In their 1895 Annual Report the Corps announced that releasing water from the Headwaters reservoirs successfully raised the water level in the Twin Cities by 12–18 in (30.48–45.72 cm). Twenty-seven river mi (43.45 km) downstream, at Hastings, Minnesota, the Corps recorded a rise of about 12 in (30.48 cm) and 15 mi farther down, at Red Wing, about 6 in (15.24). As some of the river’s worst sandbars lay between St. Paul and Hastings, the reservoirs promised to help navigation through this critical reach (Annual Report, 1895: 2103–2104).

71.2.4 Rapids Channel constriction and dredging helped improve navigation on much of the upper Mississippi River, but neither worked on the upper river’s three rapids. These would require entirely different approaches, especially as Congress authorized deeper projects. The year after the Corps completed the Des Moines Rapids Canal, Congress authorized the 41/2-ft (1.37 m) channel project and, in 1907, the 6-ft (1.83 m) channel project, making the canal obsolete, as it only provided a 5-ft (1.52 m) depth. Fortunately for the Corps and navigation on the upper river, a private company solved the problem at the Des Moines Rapids. Between 1910 and 1913 the Keokuk and Hamilton Power Company built a dam, lock and hydroelectric power station at Keokuk. When completed, the powerhouse was the largest in the world and the power line, which ran 144 mi (231.75 km) to St. Louis, the longest. The dam’s reservoir extended over 60 mi (96.56 km) upstream, flooding the canal and rapids (Hallwas, 2001). At the Rock Island Rapids, the Corps worked from 1867 until 1886 clearing over 87,000 tons of rock to establish a channel 4 ft (1.22 m) deep and 200 ft (60.96 m) wide for the whole rapids. Still, the rapids remained so difficult to navigate that the special rapids pilots continued working there, and 8 years before achieving the 4-ft (1.22 m) depth, Congress had approved the 41/2-ft (1.37 m) channel. When Congress authorized the 6-ft (1.83 m) channel in 1907, the rapids increasingly became a bottleneck to traffic. To eliminate the bottleneck, Congress authorized the Le Claire Canal and Lock in 1914, but World War I intervened, delaying construction. Work finally began in 1921, and the canal opened in November 1922. The canal let boats navigate around the upper 3.6 mi (5.79 km) of the rapids (Tweet, 1980: 6–12). By the late 1850s, St. Paul had established itself as the head of navigation on the Mississippi River, with over 1,000 steamboat dockings a year, bringing a flood of goods and settlers. The rapids below St. Anthony Falls, however, had isolated Minneapolis, and navigation boosters there had started discussing a lock and dam

71

Perfecting and Recreating Nature on the Upper Mississippi River

1291

for the gorge as early as 1852. In 1857 private interests proposed building a lock and dam in the gorge, but inter-city and intra-city conflicts, the Economic Panic of 1857 and the Civil War delayed their endeavor. While Congress authorized funding for the private project in 1868, nothing came of it. Finally in 1890 and 1891 the Corps removed boulders and rocks from the rapids, but Major Alexander Mackenzie, head of the Rock Island District, questioned the work. He believed that the steep grade and rapid current required locks and dams; any other efforts, he charged, wasted time and money (Annual Report, 1891: 2154; 1890: 2034). In 1893 the Corps’ Chief of Engineers apparently agreed and ordered Mackenzie to evaluate the technical and economic requirements for locks and dams. Mackenzie concluded that two locks and dams would bring navigation to just below St. Anthony Falls (Annual Report, 1894: 1682–1683). Accepting Mackenzie’s arguments and under continual pressure by navigation proponents in Minneapolis, Congress authorized Lock and Dam No. 2, in 1894, and Lock and Dam No. 1, in 1899. The Corps finished Lock and Dam No. 2 first, and on May 19, 1907, the Itura became the first steamboat to pass through the first lock and dam on the Mississippi River. Downstream about 2.6 mi (4.18 km) the Corps had begun Lock 1 and was ready to begin the dam. Few spectators watching the Itura at Lock and Dam No. 2 imagined that the Corps would abandon the new facility within five years (Anfinson, 1995). This first Lock and Dam No. 2, commonly known as the Meeker Island Lock and Dam, got caught between intense local battles and the emergence of hydroelectric power in America. When considering locks and dams for the gorge, the powerful Minneapolis flour millers did not object to improving navigation, but they did not want a competing water power source below their mills at St. Anthony Falls. They accomplished both goals. The Meeker Island Lock and Dam had a head of only 13.8 ft (4.21 m) and Lock and Dam 1 was to have a head of 13.3 ft (4.05 m). This meant neither dam justified hydropower, but they could bring navigation safely to Minneapolis (Anfinson, 1995). While local politics apparently determined why the Corps built two locks and dams, the fate of the Meeker Island Lock and Dam became tied to two national stories. Between 1894, when Congress authorized the Meeker Island project, and 1907, when the Corps completed it, hydroelectric power came of age in America. And about the turn of the century, long distance transmission of electricity became possible. Residents of both cities realized that they had missed a tremendous opportunity. They had one of the best untapped hydroelectric power sites on the Mississippi River (Anfinson, 1995). The National Conservation Movement, which swept across America during the early 20th century, also heightened the public’s awareness of their oversight. By 1900 Americans recognized that the frontier was gone and America’s natural resources limited. People began to realize that they would have to use the nation’s resources much more efficiently. So, despite the costs involved, Congress authorized a new project for the rapids below St. Anthony falls in 1910. In 1912 the Corps destroyed the top 5 ft (1.52 m) of the Meeker dam, took off the lock gates and walked away. The Corps raised Lock and Dam No. 1 from 13.3 ft (4.05 m) to nearly

1292

J.O. Anfinson

36 ft (10.97 m) to serve navigation and hydroelectric power, completing its part of the project in 1917 (Anfinson, 1995). Minneapolis could now claim to be the head of navigation on the Mississippi River, but it was an empty claim. Little traffic used the upper Mississippi River by 1917. No steamboats regularly made the trip between the Twin Cities and St. Louis. And, because channel constriction had failed between St. Paul and Hastings, there was little commerce to run the river above St. Paul.

71.2.5 A New Lock and Dam 2 By 1925 the 30-mi (48.28-km) reach between St. Paul to Hastings contained some 300 wing and closing dams. The Corps declared that it was “probably the most completely regulated stretch of river in the country” (U.S. Congress, House, Doc. No. 583: 14). But at the end of the 1925 season, the low water depth was only 3 feet (.91 m). Granted, the Corps did not dredge this reach in 1925. By dredging, the Corps insisted, it could have increased the depth to 4 ft (1.22 m), 2 ft (0.61 m) below the required 6-ft (1.83 m) channel. The Corps had not dredged the river because so little traffic used it. On the basis of its experience and growing demand for a navigable channel, the Corps recommended a lock and dam at Hastings (U.S. Congress, House, Doc. 58: 14–15, 23, 48; Anfinson, Forsberg, Madigan, & Nunnally, 2003: 107–108). Accepting the Corps’ arguments and lobbying by local boosters, Congress authorized Lock and Dam No. 2 at Hastings in the River and Harbor Act of January 27, 1927. (Remember, the Meeker Island Lock and Dam had originally been Lock and Dam No. 2. With this new project, the Corps changed the numbering system to move downstream, rather than upstream.) Although the St. Paul District did not complete Lock and Dam No. 2 until 30 November 1930, the S. S. Thorpe pushed the first barges through the Lock 2 on June 27 (Anfinson et al., 2003: 107–108). By 1930 the Corps had constricted the Mississippi River’s main channel from St. Paul to St. Louis. The Keokuk and Hamilton Power Company had flooded the Des Moines Rapids with its lock and dam. The Corps had chiseled out a continuous, if too shallow, channel through the Rock Island Rapids and had bypassed the upper most portion with the Le Claire Canal. Locks and Dams 1 and 2 provided a deep and reliable channel from Hastings to Minneapolis, if boats could only get to Hastings. The Corps still managed the Headwaters Reservoirs in northern Minnesota, but the two locks and dams had removed the need to release water from them. Every mile of the upper river had been altered, and yet commerce had left the river.

71.3 9-Foot Channel By the mid-1920s Midwesterners had reached a turning point. They could abandon navigation on the Mississippi or they could try to revive it. They knew that to give up meant conceding high rates to railroads and losing businesses to other regions.

71

Perfecting and Recreating Nature on the Upper Mississippi River

1293

Rather than accept this future, Midwesterners fought for a project that would allow the river to truly compete against railroads. This project would have to make the upper Mississippi River over again, throwing out the channel constriction strategy. Congress agreed, passing the 1930 River and Harbor bill with the 9-ft (2.74 m) channel project in it. The project called for 23 locks and dams between Red Wing, Minnesota, and Alton, Illinois (Anfinson, 2003: Chapters 8–11). The 9-ft (2.74 m) channel project addressed the fundamental flaw of channel constriction, which had depended upon the river’s natural flow. The Corps knew that damming the river was the only way to overcome this fact. Based on its studies of dams in Europe and the US, the Corps decided to build low-crest dams with moveable gates. High, fixed dams would have flooded the railroads, farmlands, sewer systems and buildings in or just above the floodplain. The dam contained a number of elements: earthen dikes, concrete spillways, and tainter and roller gates, although no two dams are exactly alike. The Corps built the locks to a standard 110 by 600 ft (33.53 m by 182.88 m) dimension. As the project progressed, the Corps responded to the local conditions and to the constantly evolving technology available. The locks and dams constructed during the 1930s had lifts that ranged from 5.5 to 16 ft (1.68 to 4.88 m), although most (19) had lifts of less than 12 (3.66 m) feet. The Corps built Locks and Dams 3 through 26 between 1931–1940, with the Keokuk and Hamilton Lock and Dam renamed Number 19. As of 1940 the final construction costs came to over $170 million. While not created as a New Deal project during the Great Depression, much of the funding put the unemployed to work (Anfinson, 2003: Chapter 11). The 9-ft (2.74 m) channel project continued to evolve after 1940. As towboats began pushing barges that could draw 9 ft (2.74 m) of water, a series of rock ledges, running for 17 mi (27.36 km) above St. Louis, threatened navigation. At very low water, only 5.5 ft (1.68 m) covered some ledges. Under the 41/2 (1.37 m) and 6-ft (1.83 m) channel projects, boats could run the main channel at most times, but with the 9-ft (12.72 m) channel, the chain of rocks threatened to impede navigation on the upper Mississippi. In response, Congress authorized the side canal in 1939, but President Franklin Roosevelt vetoed it. Finally in March 1945, Congress again approved the project, and this time President Roosevelt approved it (Whiteacre, 1992: 201; U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, St. Louis District). Locks and Dam 27 are two distinct projects. Between 1949 and 1953 the Corps built the 8.4-mi (13.52 km) long Chain of Rocks Canal and Locks parallel to the river. The canal’s two locks are located at the downstream end. Both are 110 ft (33.53 m) wide, but one is 600 ft (182.88 m) long and the other 1,200 ft (365.76 m). The longer lock allows the now standard 15-barge tow (three wide by five long) to pass through the lock without breaking apart. Unlike the other locks and dams, the Corps built Dam No. 27 to aid navigation at Lock No. 26. Authorized in 1958 and finished it in 1964, the submerged rock dam holds the river back enough to provide a minimum of 10.5 ft (3.20 m) of water over the downstream lock sill at Lock No. 26, ensuring that towboats and barges can float over it at low water. At the other end of the upper river, navigation advocates in Minneapolis watched the 9-ft (2.74 m) channel project under construction below and recognized that

1294

J.O. Anfinson

with two more locks and dams they could bring boats out of the gorge and over St. Anthony Falls. Above the falls, the river’s banks were not too high, and there was room for railroads lines and a barge terminal. Anxious to fulfill a dream held since the 1850s, Minneapolis pushed to have the 9-ft (2.74 m) channel project extended. On 26 August 1937 Congress granted their wish by authorizing the Lower St. Anthony Falls Lock and Dam and the Upper St. Anthony Falls Lock. World War II, complex engineering issues, and land acquisition delayed construction. Work started on the lower lock and dam during the summer of 1950, and the Corps opened it in 1956. It was useless, however, until the Corps finished the upper lock. The Corps did not need to build a dam at the falls. Lumber millers erected the first dam at St. Anthony Falls in 1848, and then flour millers and hydroelectric power companies expanded and raised the dam over the years. On 12 November 1949 the Corps broke ground for the upper lock and on 21 September 1963, the towboat Savage became the first to pass through the lock. Large boats can now move from the heart of Minneapolis to the Gulf of Mexico. Minneapolis had fulfilled a dream imagined over 110 years earlier. At 49.2 ft (15 m) this lock has the highest lift of any on the Mississippi River (Anfinson et al., 2003: 110–113). Twenty-nine lock and dam complexes have transformed the upper Mississippi River into a “stairway of water.” From St. Anthony Falls to the bottom of Lock and Dam No. 27, near St. Louis, the river steps down 410.5 ft (125.12 m). The reservoirs flooded over the wing dams and closing dams and rapids, and they permanently covered portions of the once seasonal floodplain that had not been isolated behind agricultural levees.

71.4 A New River Where all other navigation projects had failed, the 9-ft (2.74) channel has been a tremendous success. Traffic had all but died on the upper river by the 1920s. In 1980 towboats pushed just over 76 million tons on the upper river. Commerce declined during the mid-1980s, rose to more than 83 million tons by 2000, and slumped to 68,946 tons in 2005. Still, the project has far exceeded the dreams of its proponents. It has been so successful that in 2007 Congress authorized extending Locks 20 through 25 from 600 ft (182.9 m) to 1,200 ft (365.7 m). This will allow 15-barge tows to lock through as one unit and reduce the traffic jams that have been occurring at these locks during the height of the shipping season. The consequences of navigation improvements for the river’s ecosystem, however, have been overwhelmingly negative. The key problems, environmentalists argue, are the dams and reservoirs. The dams do not affect high water or flood levels. During high water, the Corps pulls up the gates, and the river runs free. As the river falls, the Corps lowers the gates, and the river cannot fall to its natural low water level. Historically, this rising and falling were part of a critical cycle. At low water the sediment in the shallows along the main channel and in the backwaters dried out and compacted. Important aquatic plants need the sediment to compact,

71

Perfecting and Recreating Nature on the Upper Mississippi River

1295

so they can germinate and become firmly rooted. Today, if plants can germinate, waves caused by wind and boats tear them up or stir up the sediment, clouding the water and blocking the sunlight, so photosynthesis cannot occur. Without the plants, migratory waterfowl, ducks, geese and tundra swans, that depend upon them can die of starvation or become too weak to reproduce, or have to find and compete for alternative routes. The islands that George Featherstonaugh thought ran a close second to mosquitoes are disappearing at the downstream end of each pool, adding to the sediment load and eliminating critical habitat. Some dams block fish migration, and, consequently, mussel migration. Where the reservoirs push up to the agricultural levees below Rock Island, there is little floodplain. Fish cannot swim into the backwaters to spawn, migratory waterfowl do not have places to land, feed, and nest. These are not the only effects, just some of the most critical (Anfinson, 2003a: xii–xiii). The upper Mississippi River has been evolving into something new since 1940. Up until 1986 the upper river’s ecosystem had been moving towards ecosystem collapse, and it may still be. But in the 1986 Water Resources Development Act (Sec. 1103), Congress declared the upper Mississippi a nationally significant commercial artery and a nationally significant ecosystem. Since then, the Corps, in partnership with other agencies and organizations, has been engineering the upper Mississippi in new ways, under the Environmental Management Program, hoping to restore some of the river’s ecosystem. It has been building islands, protecting others, regulating the flow to backwaters, notching old wing dams and closing dams, and lowering some of the reservoirs to mimic, on a small scale, the river’s natural pulse. Along with authorizing longer locks in 2007 (US Congress, 2007: Title VIII), Congress approved the most expensive ecosystem restoration project for the upper Mississippi River to date. The Corps will now undertake the most intensive effort yet to prove that through engineering it can make the upper Mississippi River both a sustainable ecosystem and a successful commercial navigation system.

References Anfinson, J. O. (1995, Summer). The secret history of the Mississippi’s earliest locks and dams. Minnesota History, 54(6), 254–267. Anfinson, J. O. (2003). The river we have wrought: A history of the Upper Mississippi. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Anfinson, J. O., Forsberg, D. M., Madigan, T., & Nunnally, P. (2003). River of history: a historic resources study of the Mississippi National River and Recreation Area. St. Paul, MN: U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and National Park Service. Coues, E. (1987). The expeditions of Zebulon Montgomery Pike. New York: Dover Publications. (Reprint ed. Originally published 1895, New York: F. P. Harper). Durham, C. W. (1912, January 3). Reclamation and conservation of the alluvial lands in the Upper Mississippi Valley, Now and Formerly Subject to Overflow. Engineering and Contracting, pp. 21–24. Featherstonaugh, G. W. (1970). A canoe voyage up the Minnay Sotor. Reprint ed. First published by Richard Bentley (1847), London, England, 2 Vols). St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society. Hallwas, J. E. (2001). Keokuk and the great dam, images of America Series. Chicago, IL: Arcadia Publishing.

1296

J.O. Anfinson

Merrick, G. B. (1987). Old times on the Upper Mississippi: The recollections of a steamboat pilot from 1854 to 1863. St. Paul, MN: Minnesota Historical Society Press. Merritt, R. H. (1979). Creativity, conflict and controversy: A history of the St. Paul District, U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office. Merritt, R. H. (1984). The Corps, the environment, and the Upper Mississippi River Basin. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office. Tweet, R. (1980) A history of navigation improvements on the Rock Island rapids: The background of locks and dam 15. Rock Island, IL: U.S. Army, Corps of Engineers, Rock Island District, April 1980. Tweet, R. (1983) History of transportation on the Upper Mississippi & Illinois Rivers. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office. Tweet, R. (1984). A history of the Rock Island District, U.S. Army Corps of Engineers 1866–1983. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office. Upper Mississippi River Improvement Association. Proceedings of the Upper Mississippi River Improvement Convention, 1902. Quincy, IL: Volk, Jones & McMein Co., Printers. (n.d.). U.S. Army, Corps of Engineers. Annual Reports of the Chief of Engineers. Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1867-Present. U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, St. Louis District, Navigation, Locks 27 (Chain of Rocks). Retrieved November 22, 2008, from http://www.mvs.usace.army.mil/navigation1/L27.html U.S. Congress, House. Doc. No. 583. Mississippi River from Minneapolis to Lake Pepin. Report from the Chief of Engineers on Preliminary Examination and Survey of Mississippi River from Minneapolis to Lake Pepin, with a View to Improvement by the Construction of Locks and Dams, 69th Cong., 2d sess. U.S. Congress. Water Resources Development Act of 1986. Public Law. 99–662. Sec. 1103. Enacted November 17, 1986. U.S. Congress. Water Resources Development Act of 2007 (WRDA 2007). Public Law 110–114. Title VIII. Enacted November 8, 2007. Whiteacre, C. (Ed.). (1992). Gateways to Commerce: The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers’ 9-Foot Channel Project on the Upper Mississippi River. Selections from the Division of Cultural Resources, National Park Service, Rocky Mountain Region, No. 2. National Park Service, Rocky Mountain Region, Denver, and United States Army Corps of Engineers. Williams, M. L. (Ed.). (1953, 1992). Schoolcraft’s narrative journal of travels. East Lansing, MI: Michigan State University Press. Appendix G. The Journal and Letters of Charles E. Trowbridge, Expedition of 1820.

Chapter 72

The Bluegrass of Kentucky: An Engineered Image of a Gracious Life Thomas J. Nieman and Zina R. Merkin

72.1 Introduction The Bluegrass region of Kentucky evokes a strong image, locally, nationally and even internationally; an image which conveys a bucolic yet stately beauty, verdant but manicured, bounteous and productive with clear evidence of ample leisure. This region appears historically to have been able to capture the imagination. People respond to what designers call a “sense of place” or identity, where elements of the landscape come together in a unique and specific suite that tells the viewer where he/she is in the world. The Bluegrass is a signature region, which while it comprises less than a fifth of the area of Kentucky, lends its name to the “Bluegrass State.” The beauty of this pastoral landscape belies the amount of effort, in economic and social capital, by which it has been created and its image maintained. This essay seeks to explore the engineering, broadly construed, of the Bluegrass as an amenity landscape, from its early colonization and exploitation to modern times. Initially extolled to settlers for its fertile and productive soil, the Bluegrass became known less for its general agriculture than for the breeding and racing of thoroughbred, standardbred and other horse breeds. This hybrid industry is as much a part of the entertainment or leisure sector as the agricultural one. The celebrity and excitement of racing attracted wealthy industrialists and financiers of the late 19th century who brought substantial capital to the Bluegrass, investing both in the lavish estates, which displayed their wealth and status, and the most modern and science-based facilities for the horses. The excitement of the races, the cachet of the champion horses and the opulence of the farms began to generate significant tourist traffic. Tourism development proceeded hand in hand with business recruitment and suburban expansion, until, by the 1970s, growth began to threaten the landscape with which the region was being promoted to both visitors and businesses.

T.J. Nieman (B) Landscape Architecture, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_72,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1297

1298

T.J. Nieman and Z.R. Merkin

The Bluegrass is an area under contention, where economic growth and restructuring are changing the landscape. The farmland which is the “factory floor”1 for the internationally famous thoroughbred industry is facing increasing development pressure. Many would argue that the beauty of the Bluegrass increases the value of the region for tourism and attracts the businesses and workers of the “creative class” (Florida, 2002) which are central to a post-industrial “knowledge economy.” They point out the substantial economic contributions equine operations and support services make locally and statewide, but there is also an imperative to recruit new industry. In the last decade, the influence of tobacco farming has waned and even while some have been calling for farmland preservation and local food production, home building has accelerated. “The Bluegrass” evokes images of smooth rolling green pastures surrounded by plank fences; narrow country lanes arched over by stately trees and lined with dry laid stone walls; black tobacco barns astride low ridges, and of course, spindly legged colts cavorting in the spring sunshine. But there are also brick “McMansions” on 5 or 10 acre (2.0–6.0 ha) lots carving up former farms, rows of vinyl sided suburban homes springing up at the edges of Lexington, Georgetown, Paris and other nearby regional communities, and street names memorializing race horses which had once lived and trained there (Fig. 72.1). On close inspection, there are many definitions of the region; physiographic, economic, political, social, and visual. The Bluegrass is not, after all, a natural pre-given category, but an image which has been created and reinforced over time, as the underlying landscape continues to change.

Versailles

Lexington

Roads named for

artifact event farm horse track

Fig. 72.1 Streets with equine themed names

72

The Bluegrass of Kentucky

1299

72.2 Background and History 72.2.1 Geology The Bluegrass was evident as a physiographically distinct place to the first whites who crossed the rugged Cumberland plateau and entered the center of what is now Kentucky, different in topography, soil and vegetation from the areas they had come through. The geology of Kentucky creates several regions (Fig. 72.2) that are a result of the warping of the ancient sea bed millions of years ago and the differential weathering of the various layers thus exposed. A layer of Ordovician aged limestone, pushed up in a formation called the Cincinnati Arch, generated the deep soil and gently rolling topography of the Inner Bluegrass region. The high phosphorous content of the parent rock makes this area very fertile. Various early accounts of central Kentucky mention timbered areas of Black Walnut, Black Cherry, Burr Oak and Honey Locust, as well as tree-studded savannahs, meadows and extensive canebrake thickets. “Where no cane grows there is abundance of wild-rye, clover, and buffalo grass, covering vast tracts of country, and affording excellent food for cattle” (Filson, 1784: 24). Surrounding the heart of the Bluegrass are rings of younger geologic layers. A band of shale and limestone layers, known as the Eden Shale, is less fertile and has eroded into steep hills. This, in turn, is surrounded by the limestone of the Outer Bluegrass (Watkins & O’Dell, 1994).

72.2.2 Which Bluegrass?

K S no Pl cio bs: at to Lo ea D w u iss er ec te d

th e of ills H

No

rm an Up land

gr as s Bl ue er

O ut

: bs

In

o Kn

ne rB lu eg r

as

s

O

ut er Bl ue gr

as

Bl

s

ue g

ra

ss

The landscape patterns of farms and fences identified as Bluegrass are not always coincident with its geologic underpinning, extending beyond it in some directions or stopping shy of the geologic edges in others (Wilson, 1941). This indicates that the Bluegrass is a cultural landscape, influenced by transportation routes, social

Fig. 72.2 Ecological regions of Kentucky. (Source: Woods et al., 2002)

1300

T.J. Nieman and Z.R. Merkin

connections, business opportunities and new technologies or fashions. Political and economic definitions are changing over time. Fayette and the surrounding six counties comprise the most taken-for-granted definition of the Bluegrass. The Lexington-Fayette Metropolitan Statistical Area (MSA) now consists of the merged city-county of Lexington-Fayette and five of the surrounding counties. Various interest groups define an expanded area according to their focus and frame of reference (Fig. 72.3), all using political (county) boundaries in so doing.

72.2.3 Frontier Days By the middle of the eighteenth century there was little unclaimed land in the original colonies on which new immigrants, former indentured servants or sons and daughters of the original colonists could settle. The British decreed in 1763 that no one could explore or settle west of the Appalachian mountains, ostensibly to avoid conflict with the Native Americans. But land-hungry colonists continued to venture west. Many were speculators, seeking fortunes through land claims. The Transylvania Company, formed in 1774 and headed by Judge Henderson from North Carolina, “purchased” an immense swath of land from the Indians at Sycamore Shoals, Tennessee, in 1775. They hired Daniel Boone to blaze a trail across the Cumberland Plateau and lead clients to their lands just south of the Kentucky River. This is the edge of what is now called the Bluegrass. Though the Virginia legislature later invalidated the sale and stripped the company of title, the reports and letters of these speculators and early settlers, perhaps exaggerating the bounty of the land, created much enthusiasm for settlement. Virginia granted and sold large tracts after the Revolutionary War, feeding a steady stream of settlers to the county of Kentucky. Some were homesteaders who received title after proof of “improvement” of the land but many were relatively wealthy planters and merchants, from Virginia, North Carolina, Maryland and Pennsylvania. Tales of the fertile region lured plantation owners who had exhausted the Piedmont soils, or their sons seeking their own estates in the west. This was an elite who not only brought with them the hope of developing new landed estates, but a manner and style with aristocratic ambitions.

72.2.4 Early Development Lexington was established in 1779 as a stockade near the headwaters of the middle fork of Elkhorn Creek, on a site with numerous fresh water springs. Its proximity to several frontier trails helped it quickly grow into a major trade center, supported by surrounding farmland. Hemp, cattle, horses, tobacco and corn were all part of the agricultural mix. Gentlemen farmers had arrived with interests in stock breeding and sporting pursuits, which manifested in the passion for horse racing. By 1805 the Kentucky Gazette was publishing a special spring supplement on stud horses (Clark & Spelman, 1942). The “Kentucky Association” was organized in Lexington in July 1826, “to improve the breed of horses by encouraging the sports of the turf”

72

The Bluegrass of Kentucky

Fig. 72.3 Regions defined by various organizations

1301

1302

T.J. Nieman and Z.R. Merkin

(George Washington Ranck, 1872). The first race meet was held in October of that year, and its first fair for the exhibition of stock was held in September of 1833 (“First fair,” 1833). Local breeders developed lines of thoroughbred horses, short horn and Alderney cattle, Cotswald sheep, and other stock they had brought with them from Maryland and Virginia plantations. Many imported animals directly from England, along with an English landscape aesthetic which was displayed on the rural estates.

72.2.5 The 19th Century Though Bluegrass horses, mules, cattle and hogs on the hoof were easily exported, and whiskey justified its cost of transport, the first steamboat to travel upriver from New Orleans to Louisville in 1815 led to that city overtaking Lexington as a trade center. Lexington’s economy therefore turned its focus to education, law and leisure pursuits, or by one account was “forced into a dignified, social, literary, and political center. . .” (Kerr, Connelley, & Coulter, 1922: 740). Transylvania University included Medical, Law and Divinity schools and a College of Arts and Sciences by 1818. A lunatic asylum was chartered in 1816. What became the University of Kentucky was founded in 1865. Medicine and education are still mainstays of Lexington’s economy. During the mid-nineteenth century Lexington continued to develop a diverse economy, with a strong agricultural base supporting local manufacturers, services, retail and an active financial sector. Horse and general stock farms remained important in the landscape, despite turnover in ownership especially during financial crises. One of the most influential estate owners, Robert A. Alexander, of Woodburn Farm in Woodford County, was born in Kentucky but inherited his fortune from a wealthy Scottish uncle. He studied at Cambridge and toured European farms and estates, learning then-current principles of animal husbandry, soil management, forestry and general agricultural practice. He is credited with setting a new standard for record-keeping and business practices, systematically breeding cattle, sheep, thoroughbreds and standardbreds (Domer, 2005; Raitz & O’Malley, 2007). Lexington business leaders aggressively pursued the development of roads and railways. Turnpikes were financed through “subscription,” with investors to be repaid by toll revenue. Based on technology developed by Scotsman John Macadam around 1820, road builders compacted broken rock in layers, and shaped road beds to shed water, assuring the roads would handle heavy wagons and be usable in all seasons. Between 1827 and 1837, Kentucky invested in 27 long-distance turnpike roads, 21 of which were in the greater Bluegrass Region (Raitz & O’Malley, 2007), a measure of the centrality and influence of the area. The first railroad in operation west of the Alleghenies, connecting Lexington to the capitol, Frankfort, was completed in 1835. Interrupted by delays from various financial market failures, railroads connected Lexington to river ports at Louisville by 1851 and Cincinnati by 1854. The Civil War slowed growth, but railroad development was strong by the 1880s and through the turn of the century,

72

The Bluegrass of Kentucky

1303

connecting many of the towns in the region. In March of 1890, the Lexington Leader boasted, “Fifty-two trains a day! Does that look bad for a city of thirty thousand?” Investments by “eastern capitalists” toward the turn of the century helped extend lines into the highlands of Eastern Kentucky, enabling the wealth of the developing coal and timber industries to flow through Lexington and the Bluegrass. The railroads took an active part in promoting the Bluegrass not only as a place to do business, but as a tourist destination. Mansions of the typical ante-bellum style. . .and modern palaces, built in most cases by wealthy gentlemen from the East, seem to nearly alternate. . .If the visitor follows. . . the beaten paths of travel he will be sure to visit this noble little city so rich in historic treasures and so simply yet exquisitely adorned by both man and nature. . .. Nor. . . can he help noting how the divisions between the wooded hillside and the bluegrass pasture, the hemp field and the little park with its private “practice track,” are marked by stone fences here and there prettily clad in the green robe of the wild ivy. (Hughes, Ousley and Louisville and Nashville Railroad Company. Passenger Dept., 1901: 30–31)

72.2.6 The New Landed Gentry As the country recovered from the Civil War, a new wave of outside investment came to the region. Wealthy capitalists invested in farms in the Bluegrass as well as in railroads and coal lands. A turn of the century map shows over 500 cattle and horse farms in the greater Bluegrass area (Birds eye view of the principal breeding farms of the Blue Grass Region of Kentucky, U.S.A., 1900) (Fig. 72.4). L.V. Harkness of Standard Oil, financier August Belmont, James B. Haggin, owner of gold mines and cattle ranches, Captain Sam S. Brown and many others established fine estates in the Bluegrass during the decades spanning the turn of the century. For these men the farms were both business and pleasure, reflecting their wealth, business acumen and position in international society. New owners made massive investments in both the functional facilities for breeding and training horses, and the gracious appointments of house, grounds and guest quarters. Haggin built a million dollar marble mansion called “Green Hills” for his bride and a gossip article noted that “Mr. and Mrs. J. B. Haggin are spending the summer at Bar Harbor, reveling no doubt in a brief reprieve from architect, artists, [and] landscape gardeners. . .” (Lexington Leader 14 July, 1901: 6). David M. Look of New York City bought James R. Keene’s Castleton farm in 1912, planning to build a “forty-room mansion there with stables and grounds to correspond,” as well as a private country club for guests. He employed expert foresters to have “the trees on Castleton Farm trimmed and properly cultured” (Lexington Leader 2 June, 1913: 1). It is the landscape of this era which has come to represent the Bluegrass, when wealthy owners invested in gracious estates for their personal enjoyment which also supported the racing industry. Even through the present, capital acquired outside the region continues to come in waves to the Bluegrass. Some owners have lived here but many have their principal residence elsewhere and just visit periodically, usually during the racing seasons. Henryk de Kwiakowski, airplane magnate, rescued fabled Calumet at its bankruptcy

Fig. 72.4 Bird’s eye view of the principal breeding farms of the bluegrass region of Kentucky, 1900

1304 T.J. Nieman and Z.R. Merkin

72

The Bluegrass of Kentucky

1305

sale in 1992. The royal family of Dubai now owns several thousand acres in the Bluegrass. Others include the late T. A. Ryan of RyanAir, the Beck family of the South African coal industry, Saudi Prince Khalid Abdullah, and William Farish, III, a Texan with energy interests. There always appear to be wealthy people who enjoy the glamour and excitement of horses, willing to invest in the Bluegrass.

72.3 Icons of the Bluegrass Landscape The Bluegrass region is symbolized by elements which have somehow captured the world’s imagination. The Bluegrass image is of a rural though sophisticated landscape, which bespeaks wealth and leisure. Certain details of materials and style, in fences, buildings and grounds, are associated with this image, while other materials and styles seen throughout the region, perhaps more frequently, are not taken as emblematic. The iconic elements are not as prevalent or as typical as one might think; their power as symbols comes from their association with an image of bounty and graciousness which has been reinforced in the American psyche since the New World was first sold to immigrants and investors as an Eden on earth. A section in the aforementioned L & N railroad brochure, entitled “Bluegrass Region, Rightly Entitled To The Credit Of Being A Garden Spot,” described the Bluegrass as a “a land which it seemed as though the Creator had made first as the habitation of man . . . where life is lived for true living’s sake” (Hughes et al., 1901: 32). What are the elements which conjure up the mythos of the Bluegrass? Of course there are the horses; the thoroughbred, standardbred, saddlebred and many other breeds, although it is the thoroughbred which gets the majority of the publicity. Along with the horse is its habitat – its pastures, paddocks and barns. The rolling, grassy hills, studded with mature trees, create a park-like atmosphere reminiscent of the English landscape tradition. The plank fences, stretching across the rolling topography or enclosing paddocks with curved corners, are pictured again and again in travel brochures whereas the barbed and woven wire fences edging cattle pastures are rarely pictured, even though cattle farms are more numerous than horse farms in the region.2 The horse barns associated with the Bluegrass have been designed both for their specific functions, whether as stallion barns, foaling barns, breeding sheds, etc., and for their aesthetic appeal and ability to convey the identity of particular breeding or racing establishments. Much like banks communicate wealth with marble and mahogany in the lobby, so, too, barns to be visited by potential buyers of horses or of breeding services may be more richly detailed than many homes (Fig. 72.5). The distinctive cupolas topping the barns are just decorative, now, but originally became significant to barn design as part of ventilation and moisture control systems meant to protect valuable horses from fungal and other ailments. Current day barns are engineered, functional structures that maintain important symbolic value as well. The dry stone wall or fence is another element associated with the Bluegrass, seen on horse farms and along country roads. These fences might contain stones pulled from the fields, or dug up in 19th century road building projects or specifically

1306

T.J. Nieman and Z.R. Merkin

Fig. 72.5 Manchester farm. (T.J. Nieman photo)

quarried for the purpose. Irish stone masons and laborers who emigrated to the United States throughout the 19th century largely are responsible for the form and technique of what we see today (Fig. 72.6). The ragged profile of the top row of stones, stacked on edge, is supposed to discourage horses from attempting to leap over the walls. The durability of the walls meant low maintenance costs. As local turnpikes were built and improved during the 19th century, builders often realigned the routes of the original rude trails, changing the boundaries of farmers’ fields and

Fig. 72.6 Stone fence along Pisgah Pike, Woodford County. (T.J. Nieman photo)

72

The Bluegrass of Kentucky

1307

requiring new fencing to comply with the law and to protect the crops. In addition, because the turnpikes were toll roads, sturdy fences were needed to keep travelers from cutting across the fields to avoid the toll houses (Raitz & O’Malley, 2007). According to a survey conducted by Mather and Hart (1954) on a north-south transect from Cleveland almost to Atlanta, plank fences were seen with greater frequency in the Inner Bluegrass than any other segment, and rock fences seen nowhere else. With the advent of mechanized farm equipment, in many parts of the country fields were consolidated and fences removed to take advantage of the scale of production which mechanization made possible. The rolling Bluegrass terrain, however, did not lend itself to extensive fields, and the emphasis on livestock meant that more rock fences survived than in many places. Wood fences need a lot of maintenance, and the introduction of mass-produced galvanized wire fencing in the late 1800s meant that thousands of miles of various kinds of wood fences were replaced across the country by barbed wire and wire mesh fencing. Mather and Hart (1954) note that “the gentleman-farmer’s” plank fences are expensive and ornamental, but also functional where pure-bred cattle or horses are present. Wire fences are difficult for the animals to see, and broken wires or ragged ends could cause injury to the expensive stock. The graceful curves of the plank fences also have a practical purpose, to keep spirited thoroughbreds from crashing into corners by turning them gradually. Double rows of fence keep stallions away from each other, and, along public roads, keep people away from the horses. Aesthetically, the white boards stand out nicely against the lush pastures, but black fences have become more common because they are less costly and require less maintenance. Both white and black board fences have become part of the Bluegrass image (Fig. 72.7), even though, as Mather and Hart commented, tobacco and mixed

Fig. 72.7 Plank fencing on Rice Road, Fayette County. (T.J. Nieman photo)

1308

T.J. Nieman and Z.R. Merkin

livestock operations, smaller and with less showy fencing, were “more important, both numerically and areally” than the horse farm estates (1954: 221). The fences enclose paddocks and pastures. The lush green pastures, carefully groomed and studded with mature trees which provide shade for the horses, also are integral to the Bluegrass image. The mature trees are so important to the desired effect of gracious tradition that owners building new facilities often will plant large trees at great expense to give the illusion that the farm has a long and stately heritage. The pastures are intensively managed, despite a naturalistic appearance, and have more in common visually with the English Landscape tradition of grand estate parks than with the often messy landscape of small general purpose farms, or the industrial character of large corporate farms. A drive in the country in the Bluegrass is a much different experience than a drive in the country in Iowa. Middle class urban residents of the Bluegrass, and the tourism industry, have benefited from this “borrowed” park land up until now.

72.4 The Threat to the Bluegrass Landscape The post World War II development trajectory of the region began to shift from a strongly agricultural to a more diversified economy, accelerated by efforts of the Lexington Industrial Development Foundation (LIF). Created in the early nineteen fifties, the LIF worked to bring light industry to the area and retain local workers who had developed new skills in wartime factories (McCann, 1998). IBM, which arrived in 1956, became both a major employer and an active corporate citizen. Among the many manufacturers which came in the 1950s and early 1960s were Trane, Dixie Cup, Mengel, Standard Products, Square D and GE Lamp. This economic recruitment effort converged with work on the Interstate Highway system, spurred by the Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1956. Interstates 75 and 64, completed in the early 1970s, intersect in the northeast quadrant of Fayette County, slicing through the Bluegrass to connect Lexington with major cities in four directions. Lexington business organization Commerce Lexington boasts that Lexington is “within a day’s drive of 70% of all U.S. markets” (Commerce Lexington 2008). As the area became better connected to other regions, and employment opportunities increased, so, too, did housing demand. Like many small cities across the country, Lexington experienced a post-war building boom. Fayette County’s population grew dramatically between 1940 and 1980 (Table 72.1). Another burst of growth was initiated when Toyota Motor Manufacturing Corporation built an automobile plant in Scott County. The first car rolled off the assembly line in 1988. More than forty domestic and Japanese owned suppliers had located in Kentucky by 1989 and in 2008 there were approximately 90 plants in the state supporting Toyota, many in the Bluegrass counties (Mitchell, 2008). Growth in employment fueled demand for homes and it is interesting to compare the growth rates of Fayette and the surrounding counties over the years. In 1958 Lexington implemented the Urban Service Area, delineating locations in

72

The Bluegrass of Kentucky

1309

Table 72.1 Growth rates of bluegrass counties

County

1930– 1940 (%)

Bourbon −0.7 Clark 2.0 Fayette 15.1 Jessamine −2.1 Madison 3.3 Scott −0.6 Woodford 7.9

1940– 1950 (%)

1950– 1960 (%)

1960– 1970 (%)

1970– 1980 (%)

1980– 1990 (%)

1990– 2000 (%)

−1.0 5.1 27.7 2.3 9.2 5.8 −5.4

2.4 11.5 30.9 9.4 7.4 1.6 6.3

1.6 14.3 32.2 27.9 27.6 16.7 21.2

5.0 17.6 17.1 50.0 24.9 21.5 23.2

−0.9 4.1 10.4 16.7 7.8 9.4 12.2

0.6 12.4 15.6 28.0 23.2 38.5 16.3

Source: Derived from Kentucky State Data Center county population tables

which utilities and services, particularly sanitary sewer lines and treatment, could be “developed logically and economically”(Segoe and Associates, 1958). Suburban development had outstripped the sanitary sewer system and septic systems were proving inadequate, especially in the karst topography of the region. Presented as a public health issue, as well as a matter of efficiency and fiscal responsibility, the Urban Service Area confined development to these areas close to the existing urban core, reducing development pressure on rural agricultural lands for many years. As noted in a rural land planning document, the Urban Service Area created a sharp line between the suburban and rural landscapes in Fayette County, illustrated in Fig. 72.8 (Lexington Fayette Urban County Government, 1999).

Fig. 72.8 Effect of urban service boundary. (Source: LFUCG Rural Service Area Land Management Plan, 1999; Photo by James R. Rebmann)

1310

T.J. Nieman and Z.R. Merkin

The Urban Service Area has both expanded and contracted over the years, and has been the subject of many intense political struggles, especially in the late 1990s. Wealthy landowners have always had a great deal of influence over Fayette County development policies, but the expansion of the industrial and business economies created a new set of middle class interests and a sometimes competing set of development goals (McCann, 1998). The equine industry is a major economic sector in the Bluegrass, but gross domestic product numbers for the Lexington-Fayette MSA show that among private industries, manufacturing, real estate, construction and retail trade all contribute significantly more than agriculture or tourism (Table 72.2). While summary economic figures may be somewhat misleading – given the range of support industries related to horses (Table 72.3), many may be categorized as professional services, retail, finance and insurance or real estate – farm owners and horse breeders started to feel threatened by the shifting economic structure of the region. And, as growth management policies in Fayette County raised land values and limited development options, development pressure increased in the surrounding counties, creating new constituencies for a regional farmland protection movement. Table 72.2 Gross domestic product by metropolitan area, 2005 and 2006 (millions of current dollars) Industry code

Industry

2005

2006

1 2 3 4 5 11 12 35 50 55 71 72 73 74 78

All industry totala Private industriesa Agriculture, forestry, fishing, and hunting Crop and animal production (Farms) Forestry, fishing, and related activities Construction Manufacturing Retail trade Finance and insurance Real estate and rental and leasing Arts, entertainment, and recreation Performing arts, museums, related activities Amusement, gambling, and recreation Accommodation and food services Government

20,007 17,371 (D) 422 (D) 957 3,643 1,408 775 2,643 176 116 60 575 2,636

21,238 18,420 (D) 590 (D) 932 3,845 1.439 819 2,786 (D) 112 (D) 607 2.818

Source: Bureau of Economic Analysis, U.S. Department of Commerce a Includes industries not listed in this table (D) not shown in order to avoid the disclosure of confidential information; estimates are included in higher level totals. Updated September 2008

72.5 Preservation In the early 1970s alongside articles about new subdivisions on famous horse farms, articles about farmland preservation began to appear in the local newspaper, consistent with concerns across the country. Beyond just housing demand, farmland in general and equine operations in particular have been affected both

72

The Bluegrass of Kentucky

1311

Table 72.3 Selected equine related businesses in the Bluegrass Business type

Estimated number

Breeding, bloodstock and pedigree services Equine art and photography Equine database Equine education Equine feed and veterinary supplies Equine Insurance Equine related publications Equine research facilities or hospitals Equine transport Expert witness Farriers Fencing and building contractors Horse farm tours Lawyers specializing in equine law Lobbying organization Real estate agencies specializing in horse properties Rescue organizations Retail specialty stores with equine themed merchandise Tack stores Veterinarians specializing in horses

100 8 1 9 14 4 14 10 13 1 30 10 14 8 1 12 9 5 35 175+

negatively and positively by a complex mix of economic and policy provisions. These include a 1976 Kentucky State Supreme Court decision to tax agricultural land on the basis of its agricultural value rather than sales of comparable parcels for development; changes to and phasing out of the Tobacco Price Support program; changes in subdivision regulations and zoning policies; and water quality protection programs. There are now state, local and non-profit programs to purchase development rights or accept conservation easements for agricultural land, limiting future development. Local organizations which sprang up in the wake of uncertainty and conflict over the changing rural landscape include the Land and Nature Trust of the Bluegrass (1975, dissolved 2002), Lexington-Frankfort Scenic Corridor (1988), Bluegrass Tomorrow (1989), The Bluegrass Conservancy (1995), Save Our Irreplaceable Land (1998), and the Fayette Alliance (2006), in addition to the quasi-governmental boards charged with administering the Purchase of Development Rights (2001) and Purchase of Agricultural Conservation Easement programs (2004) in Fayette County and the State of Kentucky respectively. The boards of all these organizations include prominent breeders, executives of the race tracks and officers of other equine organizations. The Kentucky Equine Education Project (KEEP), founded in 2004, has been active in promoting such programs as the Kentucky Horse Breeders Incentive Fund. Kentucky breeders receive awards based on the performance of Kentucky bred horses in important races, all funded through the sales taxes from stud fees. This program was developed after other states’ incentive programs began

1312

T.J. Nieman and Z.R. Merkin

to lure both breeding and racing away from Kentucky. The Bluegrass landscape as defined by the horse farms has required a continued “re-engineering” to maintain itself.

72.5.1 Preservation or Re-creation? An on-going conflict in the last third of the 20th century was the proposal to widen the Paris Pike. This narrow but beautiful country route fronted many well-known horse farms, connecting Lexington to the town of Paris, county seat of neighboring Bourbon County. Road widening initially proposed in 1966 to improve safety was immediately rejected by adjacent property owners. In 1975 the Thoroughbred Breeders Association of Kentucky was urging the state to hire a specialist to “reduce the impact of the $10 million Paris Pike widening on the surrounding countryside” (“Paris Pike,” 1975) A citizen lawsuit led by Land and Nature Trust of the Bluegrass won an injunction in 1979 based on the state’s failure to consider impacts on the corridor’s historic and scenic resources. After fatal accidents in the 1980s, the project was revived. In 1990 Bluegrass Tomorrow gathered constituents representing the various interests to negotiate a solution to the conflict, and in 1992 Lexington Mayor Scotty Baesler convened a committee which came up with this statement of purpose in 1993: Creating a well designed, scenic and enhanced parkway that is both safe and beautiful, sensitive to preserving the best of which currently exists, to the maximum extent possible, and that once constructed, the road shall be permanently protected from development pressure so as to maintain the truly unique scenic and agricultural character of the area for the long term benefit of adjacent landowners, area residents and tourists. (Paris Pike Committee Report, 1993 in Cahal, 2008)

Design work began in 1994, with landscape architects Jones and Jones conducting interviews and focus groups with adjacent landowners and historic preservation experts to identify important historic and cultural features to be retained. They documented sight lines, vistas, tree canopy, and other design elements residents felt were important to recreate the scenic quality for which the old road was known. There was a mandate to preserve mature trees, historic dry-laid stone walls and estate entrances, and minimize disturbance of the land. Where historic walls and entrances could not be preserved, they were rebuilt, and at least one tree was replanted for every one removed. Completed in 2003, the Paris Pike was highly praised, but cost almost twice as much per mile as typical four-lane road construction during that time period. The engineering itself was not unusual; what was novel was the priority accorded to a participatory approach, and to both visual and social design elements. A much-cited example of “context-sensitive design,” this project mobilized tremendous resources of time and money to protect or recreate historic and scenic features to perpetuate a particular image of the Bluegrass landscape.

72

The Bluegrass of Kentucky

1313

72.5.2 A Working Horse Farm and Educational Theme Park Another project to protect and profit from the Bluegrass landscape is the Kentucky Horse Park. In 1972 then governor Wendell Ford announced the purchase of part of Walnut Hall Stud Farm on the Ironworks Pike, once owned by Standard Oil tycoon L.V. Harkness, for a state park “devoted to the Kentucky horse industry” (Lexington Leader 26 September, 1972: 1). A combination of museum and event venue, the park would include exhibits about racing and breeding history, offer interaction with many different breeds, showcase retired champions, have pony and trail rides, and provide facilities for equine sporting events. Promoted as “a working horse farm and educational theme park dedicated to man’s relationship with the horse,”(Kentucky Horse Park, 2008) the park opened in 1978, and for many years struggled to fulfill expectations for tourism revenue. Located along the I-75 corridor, the park was expected to intercept travelers who would otherwise pass through the Bluegrass, but initial projections of visitorship proved overly optimistic. Offices were built for equine oriented organizations, many recruited to Kentucky with tax incentives, and more than 30 such groups now lease space at the park in the National Horse Center complex. Facilities’ development and operations have been subsidized both by the state and private fundraising throughout the park’s existence. However, the Kentucky Department of Travel released figures for 2003 stating the park had an economic impact of $163.7 million. High-profile exhibits at the International Museum of the Horse, “Imperial China” and “All the Queen’s Horses,” were responsible for 192,000 and 175,000 visitors respectively, in 2000 and 2003 (“Horse Park at a gallop in 25th year,” 2003). The other major generators for visits are the various horse sporting events, most notably the Rolex Kentucky Three-Day Event, held each April. Total attendance in 2008 topped 100,000 visitors. This international competition is the only four star event in the United States, and is one of only seven at that level world-wide. The park hosts everything from local events and practices to high-level championships, in sports including polo, rodeo, dressage, steeplechase and cross-country, as well as specialty breed shows. In 2010 the park will host the first ever World Equestrian Games (WEG) held outside Europe. Local officials hope that this will result in an enhanced reputation as a center for equine sports, leading to increased tourism revenue. The state is investing heavily in new facilities for the WEG, including a permanent climate-controlled, 6,000 seat Indoor Arena, and 7,500 seat Outdoor Stadium, both already being reserved for other events, and a number of temporary structures and seating areas. Its claims to the contrary, the Horse Park is a theme park and not a working farm. The layout of roads, visitor center and museum space make that clear. As a sporting venue, the Kentucky Horse Park serves the tourism economy with its facilities for regional, national and international equine events, drawing in competitors and support staff who require hotels and meals, and spend money sightseeing and shopping. The web page invites people to a farm tour, during which people can “. . .visit with Thoroughbred celebrities at some of the most beautiful horse farms in the world. . .. tour[ing] the grounds of historic estates of the

1314

T.J. Nieman and Z.R. Merkin

Bluegrass Region as well as shiny-new, multi-million dollar farms of international movers and shakers” (Kentucky Horse Park, 2008). Some popular farms open to public tours include Lane’s End (http://www.lanesend.com), Three Chimneys (http://www.threechimneys.com), Gainesway (http://www.gainesway.com), and Darby Dan (http://www.darbydan.com).

72.6 The Bluegrass Brand In the Bluegrass region one cannot escape the pervasive influence of the horse, from the signs declaring Lexington as “The Horse Capital of the World” and advertising the World Equestrian Games, to horse-themed merchandise in stores, to the names of Turfland Mall and Hamburg Place, to the short-lived Thoroughblades hockey team. Horses and the landscape which supports them are central to the identity of the area, and the way it is presented to visitors.

72.6.1 Tourism in the Bluegrass Tourism has been an element of economic development in the Bluegrass since the 19th century. Travelogues praised the beauty and fertility of the Bluegrass region as early land speculators sought to bring in settlers. Merchants promoted the area to trading partners and new customers. Stock breeders and farm managers traveled to the Bluegrass to purchase animals or brought their animals there for breeding. With a purpose to produce champion horses, business travel was not far removed from pleasure travel. Races brought breeders, trainers and spectators from all over the country, and racing seasons have always been full of grand social occasions. With the development of the railroad network, travel increased greatly, and promotion of the Bluegrass as a tourist destination intensified. The Chamber of Commerce of Lexington commissioned “The Guide to Lexington” in 1883 which described the advantages of Lexington and vicinity for the visitor and also for the entrepreneur. No American city of its age can more justly claim the attention of the tourist than Lexington. It is rich in historic associations, is a complete epitome of Old Kentucky life and manners, and is surrounded by all the attractions of a region which, for pastoral beauty and fertility, is unsurpassed upon the face of the globe. . ..The location of Lexington in the very centre of population makes it therefore practically certain that manufactures from this city will always command the widest markets with the least carriage. . .. (George W. Ranck, 1883)

A bicyclists’ road map of the region was published in 1899. An ad for the Dewhurst Motor Car Company urged readers to “. . . Rent an Automobile. . .It’s a delightful way to entertain your guests. No better roads are found in America and no prettier stock farms or scenery could be desired” (Lexington Leader 23 May 1907: 10). In 1910 Lexington was the first lunch stop on the Glidden automobile endurance tour, and Lexington became a popular stop for automobile clubs

72

The Bluegrass of Kentucky

1315

in Kentucky and surrounding states. In 1931 during the week of the Kentucky Derby, the Lexington Garden Club held a “pilgrimage” to the “notable estates of the Bluegrass” which drew interest from surrounding states. This fundraiser has continued in some form through the present day. In 1940 in the third annual State Garden Club tour, local volunteers welcomed visitors to such famous farms as Elmendorf, Hamburg Place, Meadow Crest, Greentree, Idle Hour, Mt. Brilliant, Spindletop, Airdrie and Woodburn House (“State Garden Club sponsors annual tour,” 1940). The current day “Open Horse Farm Tour” is run by the Suburban Woman’s Club, and is still quite popular. The Lexington Convention and Visitors Bureau (LCVB) promotes a broad mix of activities, historic sites, tours, events, restaurants and shopping, both in Lexington and the surrounding counties; many are related to horses. It maintains a list of farms open for public tours, as well as tour operators, and its web pages are replete with visual references to horses and rural and equine landscapes. In the self-guided “Bluegrass Country Driving Tour,” (LCVB 2008) the attractions are laid out in three loops, arbitrarily named Regal Traditions, Parks and Paddocks and Horses, History and Hunt Country. Each loop includes horse farms, other equine sites, historic churches, parks, and landscape features. The schematic map is filled with Bluegrass symbols; horses, fences, barns, clusters of trees on a broad, green background (Fig. 72.9). For each town there is the same list of things

Fig. 72.9 Bluegrass country driving tour map clipping and LCVB web page header

1316

T.J. Nieman and Z.R. Merkin

to do – Dining, Historic and Shopping. This works against a sense of uniqueness for the region, yet reinforces the map’s purpose, to entice the tourist into the landscape to spend money. But as more of the landscape is filled with generic residential and commercial development, the imperative to remind people about the special Bluegrass landscape grows stronger. Concurrent with farmland conversion to other uses, visual and textual references to farms and rural topics have become more prevalent. Subdivisions retained the names of the farms they replaced, or named streets after horses, racetracks or related artifacts. Architectural details associated with horse farms or iconic elements of the Bluegrass are seen in commercial areas, for instance, the green roofs and cupolas at Lexington Green mall, built in 1985–1986 at the intersection of New Circle and Nicholasville Road. Both the Festival Market building downtown (1985–1986) (Fig. 72.10) and University of Kentucky’s Young Library (1995–1997) recall the form of Red Mile Harness Track’s Floral Hall.

Fig. 72.10 Festival market building, downtown Lexington. (T.J. Nieman photo)

72.6.2 Hamburg Place Hamburg Place is a famous thoroughbred farm established in 1898, split in half by the routing of Interstate 75. In 1996, 100 acres were developed into the huge retail center Hamburg Pavilion and other large parcels have become residential subdivisions and office developments. In 2005 a horse cemetery containing the remains of the first Triple Crown winner, Sir Barton, as well as over a dozen other thoroughbreds, was relocated to make room for a Wal-Mart. Sir Barton Way is a main collector road, and most of the other streets are named for horses including Pink Pigeon, Alysheba, Star Shoot, Plaudit and Paul Jones. The architecture is a jumble

72

The Bluegrass of Kentucky

1317

Fig. 72.11 Architectural details at Hamburg Pavilion. (T.J. Nieman photo)

of standard strip mall types, built out by several different developers, but details are stuck here and there to recall the equine theme (Fig. 72.11).

72.6.3 Thoroughbred Park In 1989 Lexington’s Triangle Foundation, a group of prominent area business leaders, many of whom have deep roots in the horse industry, proposed a park to be built on Main Street at the eastern edge of downtown. Thoroughbred Park was completed in 1992. The designers’ stated intention was to reflect “a very few simple elements in the Kentucky landscape. . . in this park. . .so that anyone who comes to this town can capture the essence of what this region and this great American tradition is all about” (Lexington Herald-Leader 28 October 1989). In a recent blog post at Saratoga.com, a writer described the park while exhorting the city of Saratoga Springs, NY to do something similar. I recently spent several months in Lexington, Kentucky (that other horse place), and drove past Thoroughbred Park every day. It’s nice, it’s downtown—and it proclaims, for all the world to see—that Lexington is the horse capital of the world. . .. (Altieri, 2008)

Thoroughbred Park’s main feature is a series of seven life-sized sculptures of racing horses, with famous and recognizable jockeys astride them. Thoroughbred Park is designed with the primary focus at the corner of Main Street and Midland Ave., and is a strong visual presence as visitors drive into downtown Lexington from points east and south. It could be called a three-dimensional billboard for the horse industry (Fig. 72.12). It is not well suited to active uses, or picnics, nor is it well

1318

T.J. Nieman and Z.R. Merkin

Fig. 72.12 Thoroughbred park. (T.J. Nieman photo)

connected to the retail streetscape, serving mostly as a backdrop as tourists stop briefly to take photos. Extra earth was brought in to build a large, grassed hill on the relatively flat site, creating a pastoral background for the racers as seen from Main Street. This hill also conveniently hides the adjacent low income neighborhood from view, so that the desired image is conveyed without distraction.

72.6.4 Bluegrass Airport Bluegrass Airport was originally built in 1940, on 523 acres (212 ha) of farmland along Versailles Road, opposite Keeneland Racetrack and close to famous Calumet Farm. It has expanded several times, and tried for many years to acquire land from adjacent farms to build a second, longer runway to meet specifications for modern planes. In 2005 the airport, stymied by resistance from farm owners and neighborhoods, received an exception from the FAA allowing them to build a safety zone on the existing runway shorter than required. A large retaining wall had to be built to create a level area for this extension. A mural, painted to minimize the impact of the massive wall, is a farm scene, with horses grazing in a paddock enclosed by the classic white 4-board fence (Fig. 72.13). A horse barn and an antebellum mansion are in the background. Life sized statues of mares and foals were placed in front. Low stone walls, though not the traditional style of dry laid stone, block views of an access road. With Keeneland across the street, and several active horse farms nearby, it is curious that the theme of the mural was an equine landscape and not related to planes or transportation.

72

The Bluegrass of Kentucky

1319

Fig. 72.13 Bluegrass airport. (T.J. Nieman photo)

72.6.5 The Fayette County Detention Center Fayette County Jail was badly overcrowded, and the state required the county to build a new jail in 1998. They chose a site on Old Frankfort Pike, at the edge of the rural area, not far from some significant horse farms. The facility was built into the hillside, with most of it hidden from the road. Only the main entrance and offices are visible, in a wing which has the design features of a horse barn, with stone facing and cupolas (Fig. 72.14). In front is a broad green lawn, surrounded by a black plank fence. Stone walls bracket the road. Except for announcing the Fayette County Detention Center, they could be mistaken for a horse farm entry gate. The jail is camouflaged to blend into the surrounding landscape, and not disrupt the image of the Bluegrass which city officials would like to perpetuate.

72.7 Conclusion Specialized livestock were originally part of full agricultural operations in the Bluegrass, albeit often belonging to wealthy farmers. Over time many Bluegrass farms specialized in breeding racing and show horses, with the majority of their acreage devoted to this use. Racing, showing, hunting, jumping, competing or even riding for pleasure are all leisure activities, although producing these activities is serious business with high capital requirements. The landscape which has come to represent the Bluegrass is a combination of influences, including changing agricultural technologies, the science of breeding, and transportation developments. It

1320

T.J. Nieman and Z.R. Merkin

Fig. 72.14 Lexington-Fayette county detention center. (Z. Merkin photo)

also is largely the result of wealthy industrialists and financiers, many from outside Kentucky, investing money made in other pursuits in the challenging business and hobby of breeding and racing horses. The landscapes supporting the horses were designed to be both functional and beautiful, creating a park-like environment for the pleasure of the owners and to project an image of wealth, grace and success to potential purchasers of the expensive animals. These landscapes are picturesque, and are an attraction for tourists, who come to gaze at the opulence and beauty as well as watch races and competitions. The local economy increasingly relies on the tourist dollars which are generated by the equine industry. Local residents benefit from the greenspace surrounding the towns as a sort of privately owned park land, and economic development interests tout this amenity in recruiting new business to the area; Commerce Lexington features Lexington’s rank in a variety of lists, many of which are based on “quality of life” factors (“Commerce Lexington,” 2009). So far, infusions of outside capital have enabled the establishment of new horse farms and the continuation and improvement of traditional ones, even as some operations have failed in economic downturns, but the persistent pressure of housing and commercial demand has led to the loss of significant amounts of farmland. Though the rural landscape which is disappearing also includes cattle and mixed crop farms, small settlements and rural service businesses, the symbols which civic leaders and developers have reproduced and enlarged, are those of the landscape of the horse farms. Significant expense has gone into reproducing this vision of the Bluegrass, such as the Paris Pike project. Serious social and economic engineering, through tax laws, planning and zoning restrictions and government and

72

The Bluegrass of Kentucky

1321

private mechanisms to transfer development rights, is being employed to prolong the viability of the equine industry and thus its landscape. However, the proliferation of signifiers of the horse industry throughout the region is an indication that the industry itself is losing ground, and we may be left with only the theme park version of the Bluegrass. Arguments for the preservation of the Kentucky Bluegrass landscape call upon the aesthetic in pursuit of the economic, and vice versa, but as the landscape evolves in response to social and economic forces, the rural landscape of the region is being replaced by urban land uses clad in the symbols of what once was.

Notes 1. The phrase “factory floor” is taken from a presentation on the LFUCG Purchase of Development Rights program (King, 2008). 2. Many farms have both cattle and “blooded horses” and so are double counted, but the ratio of farms which sell cattle to farms which sell horses ranged in 2002 from .44 and .91 in Fayette and Woodford Counties respectively, to 2.79 and 3.28 in Madison and Lincoln respectively. (U.S. Department of Agriculture 2009a, 2009b)

References Altieri, M. E. (2008). Thoroughbred Sculpture Park: The next step in promoting Saratoga. Opinion. Retrieved 11/26/2008, from http://www.saratoga.com/today/2008/11/opinion-thoroughbredsculpture-park-the-next-step-in-promoting-saratoga.html Birds eye view of the principal breeding farms of the Blue Grass Region of Kentucky, U.S.A (Cartographer). (1900). [1 view]. Cahal, S. (2008). American Byways: Paris Pike. Retrieved 11/12/2008, 2008, from http://www. americanbyways.com/index.php?catid=16 Clark, T. D., & Spelman, J. A. (1942). The Kentucky. New York: Farrar & Rinehart. Commerce Lexington. (2008). Lexington, Kentucky economic digest. Lexington, KY: The Greater Lexington Chamber of Commerce, Inc. Commerce Lexington. (2009). Bluegrass rankings. Retrieved January 20, 2009, from http://www. locateinlexington.com/media/docs/TopDownloads/Bluegrass_Rankings.pdf Domer, D. (2005). Inventing the Horse Farm. Kentucky Humanities (October 2005), 3–12. Filson, J. (1784). The discovery, settlement and present state of Kentucke: And an essay towards the topography, and natural history of that important country. Adams, James, 1724?–1792, printer. First fair. (1833, 09/19/1833). Lexington Observer and Reporter. Florida, R. L. (2002). The rise of the creative class: And how it’s transforming work, leisure, community and everyday life. New York: Basic Books. Hughes, R. E., Ousley, C. C., & Louisville and Nashville Railroad Company. Passenger Dept. (1901). Kentucky the beautiful. Chicago, IL: Corbitt Railway Printing Co. Kentucky Horse Park. (2008). Retrieved 11/28/2008, from http://www.kyhorsepark.com Kerr, C., Connelley, W. E., & Coulter, E. M. (1922). History of Kentucky (Vol. II). Chicago, and New York: American Historical Society. King, C. (2008). Purchase of development rights program. Lexington, KY: LFUCG. Lexington Convention and Visitors Bureau (Cartographer). (2008). Bluegrass Country Driving Tour.

1322

T.J. Nieman and Z.R. Merkin

Lexington Fayette Urban County Government. (1999). Rural service area land management plan: Our rural heritage in the next century. Retrieved. from http://www.lexingtonky.gov/ index.aspx?page=606 Lexington Herald-Leader. (2003). 2 September. “Horse Park at a gallop in 25th year.” Lexington Leader. (1901). 14 July. Lexington Leader. (1907). 23 May. Lexington Leader. (1931). 2 June. Lexington Leader. (1972). 26 September. Mather, E. C., & Hart, J. F. (1954). Fences and farms. Geographical Review, 44(2), 201–223. McCann, E. (1998). Planning future: the restructuring of space, economy, and institutions in Lexington, Kentucky. Lexington, KY: University of Kentucky, Department of Geography. Mitchell, V. (2008). Kentucky’s other horsepower. Keeneland Magazine, 55–61. Omernik, J. M. (1987). Ecoregions of the conterminous United States (map supplement): Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 77, 118–125, scale 1:7,500,000. Paris Pike. (1975, 08/28/1975). Lexington Leader, pp. 40, c. 41–42. Raitz, K., & O’Malley, N. (2007). Local-scale turnpike roads in nineteenth-century Kentucky. Journal of Historical Geography, 33(1), 1–23. Ranck, G. W. (1872). History of Lexington, Kentucky; Its early annals and recent progress, including biographical sketches and personal reminiscences of the pioneer settlers, notices of prominent citizens. Cincinnati, OH: R. Clarke. Ranck, G. W. (1883). Guide to Lexington Kentucky with notices historical and descriptive of places and objects of interest, and a summary of the advantages and resources of the city and vicinity. Lexington, KY: Transylvania Printing and Publishing Company. Segoe and Associates, L. (1958). Master Plan Supplement (consulting report). Lexington, KY: The City-County Planning and Zoning Commission of Lexington and Fayette County Kentucky. State Garden Club sponsors annual tour. (1940, 5/19/1940). Lexington Herald-Leader. U.S. Department of Agriculture, N. A. S. S. (2009a). Table 11. Cattle and Calves – Inventory and Sales: 2007 and 2002. U.S. Department of Agriculture, N. A. S. S. (2009b). Table 15. Horses and Ponies – Inventory and Number Sold: 2007 and 2002. U.S. Environmental Protection Agency. (2002). Level III ecoregions of the continental United States (revision of Omernik, 1987). Corvallis, OR: USEPA–National Health and Environmental Effects Research Laboratory, Map M-1, various scales. Watkins, J. F., & O’Dell, G. (1994). Kentucky’s physical regions and the Inner Bluegrass. In R. Ulack, K. B. Raitz, & H. L. Hopper (Eds.), Lexington and Kentucky’s Inner Bluegrass region. Indiana, PA: National Council for Geographic Education. Wilson, L. S. (1941). Land Use Patterns of the Inner Bluegrass. Economic Geography, 17(3), 287–296. Woods, A. J., Omernik, J. M., Martin, W. H., Pond, G. J., Andrews, W. M., Call, S. M, et. al. (2002). Ecoregions of Kentucky. Reston, VA: U.S. Geological Survey (map scale 1:1,000,000. The level III and IV ecoregion shapefile was originally compiled at a scale of 1:250,000 and depicts revisions and subdivisions of earlier level III ecoregions that were originally compiled at a smaller scale (USEPA 2002; Omernik 1987).

Chapter 73

Constructing Thoroughbred Breeding Landscapes: Manufactured Idylls in the Upper Hunter Region of Australia Phil McManus, Glenn Albrecht, and Raewyn Graham

73.1 Introduction Driving north from Sydney through the Upper Hunter region, past the open cut coal mines only partly hidden behind berms and saplings, one enters a flat landscape of remnant dairy farms and the occasional thoroughbred stud. If this was the extent of the thoroughbred industry, one would wonder why the largest town in the Upper Hunter Shire, Scone, is indisputably the “horse capital of Australia”. North of Scone more thoroughbred studs (otherwise known as thoroughbred farms) face the highway or are concealed behind the hills. Everybody notices Emirates Park because it spans the entire distance between the small towns of Blandford and Murrurundi, on both sides of the highway (Fig. 73.1). There are, however, many other major studs hidden along smaller roads, such that there are approximately 65 studs in the region, from which over 70% – of Australia’s thoroughbred foals are conceived, and which includes all of the top sires and broodmare bands in the country (NSW Department of State and Regional Development, 2008). These thoroughbred breeding farms are a significant part of the regional economy, major users of water and a crucial source of cultural identity for the town of Scone and the Upper Hunter region (see McManus, 2008a, 2008b). The farms vary in ownership, from international operations such as Coolmore (Ireland), Emirates Park (Dubai), Darley (Dubai) and formerly Vinery (American – Tom Simon) to large Australian enterprises (Arrowfield, Widden) and small, local operations that may be expensive boutique studs or less well-off concerns. The larger international studs are primarily responsible for the importing of shuttle-stallions, that is, stallions that serve mares in both the northern and southern hemisphere during the different breeding seasons. These shuttle-stallions arrive from Europe (including the UK and Ireland), Japan and the U.S., stand at stud in Australia for a season, and then return to their base in the northern hemisphere. It is an aspect of the international thoroughbred breeding and racing industry that is not highly visible compared with P. McManus (B) School of Geosciences, University of Sydney, Sydney, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_73,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1323

1324

P. McManus et al.

Fig. 73.1 Location of horsefarms in Upper Hunter region. (Cartography by Dick Gilbreath)

international racehorses competing in prestige events throughout the world, but it is often more lucrative over the long-term. While the farms vary considerably in ownership, size and niche in the thoroughbred breeding industry, it is notable that there is a concentration in the field of equine architecture, which is the industry that is primarily responsible for planning and designing the equine landscapes. In Australia there are two main equine architecture practices that service the industry; Ladd-Hudson Architects, based in the suburb of Rozelle in the inner-west of Sydney, and Timothy Court and Company, based southwest of Sydney. The former practice designed projects such as Northwood Park for Darley Australia, Brooklyn Lodge in the Upper Hunter, and major work at the historic Vinery stud in the Upper Hunter. The latter practice designed facilities such as the Hunter Valley Equine Research Centre in Scone, parts of the Newmarket auction complex in Sydney, and the 2008 Olympic facilities for equestrian events in Hong Kong. The concentration of equine architectural work means that a few firms, and key individuals, are largely responsible for the design of equine landscapes in places such as the Upper Hunter. In this chapter we explore the engineering of landscapes on the various thoroughbred studs, and the ways that the notion of “landscape” is incorporated into planning mechanisms and is designed to maintain local and regional attributes, amenity and to reduce conflicts. Before beginning this discussion of landscaping and its importance to thoroughbred breeding operations, it is useful to remember the sage advice

73

Constructing Thoroughbred Breeding Landscapes

1325

of John Hislop (1992: 1) who noted that “the land and water-supply must be suitable to producing good racehorses” and “the land on which horses are raised is a far, far more important factor than is appreciated generally”. Hislop (1992: 2) continued, “the most dangerous move is to choose a property on account of the beauty of the house or the surrounding countryside, regardless of the suitability of the land to the purpose.” The discussion about thoroughbred farms in this chapter is made with these thoughts of Hislop’s in mind. The chapter begins by briefly discussing the concept of landscape and by identifying four concepts of landscape from the vast literature on this subject that appear to be most relevant to thoroughbred breeding in the Upper Hunter. These four notions of landscape are; rural idyll, landscapes of conspicuous consumption, brandscapes and landscapes of work. We apply these four concepts to the landscape of thoroughbred studs in the Upper Hunter region, before exploring the use of landscape as a planning instrument in an attempt to reduce conflicts between competing land uses at the local and regional scales. The chapter concludes that landscapes at the scale of the individual stud, and in terms of local/regional conflicts between different land uses, cannot be de-linked from the political-economy of the stud and the region. The engineering of thoroughbred landscapes is inherently an economic, social and environmental process with economic, social and environmental impacts that enhance or constrain future activities.

73.2 The Concept of Landscape The concept of landscape has generated much debate in geographical and related literature over many years. Kenneth Olwig (1993) provides an etymology of the term “landscape”, and how the word has been used in different countries to refer variously to a “natural environment” outside of human engagement, as scenery, and as a cultural landscape. The latter notion of cultural landscape was often understood as being after human settlement, and generally narrowed to the time period of European colonization of “wilderness” in North America, or “the bush” in Australia. This concept of landscape has been undermined by environmental historians such as William Cronon (1983, 1991, 1996) and Carolyn Merchant (1989) whose work demonstrates that Indigenous people were present and their actions influenced the composition of flora and fauna in an area. Contemporary engineering of landscapes is usually different from changes made by Indigenous people in the intent, the scale of change, and the impacts, but importantly Indigenous people were modifying their environments and it was only perceived as being “undisturbed” when viewed through “western” eyes. Recent work by Winchester et al. (2003) focuses on the cultural landscape, moving away from notions of nature and environment to explore the impact of films, religious beliefs and understandings of the body as landscapes. The idea of landscape has also been linked with scale, such that the concept of the landscape scale is often used to prioritize particular approaches vis-à-vis other scales such as the local

1326

P. McManus et al.

or national scale. Paul Selman (2006) focuses on the landscape scale, a concept used in natural resource management to, among other things, avoid fragmentation caused by local decision-making and a focus on individual species or projects, and to avoid the constraints of administrative boundaries that do not equate with ecological systems and physical landforms. The concept of landscape is also important in urban planning and architecture, where settlements and buildings are planned and designed to relate to the landscape in particular ways. This notion of landscape is often more local than the more regionally oriented notion of landscape found in the work of conservation biologists and others using the term. Arising from these changing and often conflicting ideas of landscape are four notions of landscape that will be used to structure this chapter. These landscape concepts are; rural idyll, landscapes of conspicuous consumption, brandscape and landscapes of work. These concepts may be present simultaneously and landscaping devices may serve multiple purposes such as improving safety for the horses and promoting a message of cleanliness and care, while also displaying wealth, tradition and status. It is also crucial to note that landscape is not just the physical phenomenon, it is the perception of physical phenomena that results in various interpretations being present simultaneously. Yi Fu Tuan (1974) noted this reasoning in his book Topophilia. This concept has been extended by Albrecht et al. (2007) in the notion of solastalgia, where landscapes of resource extraction and employment prospects for some people are understood as landscapes of irreversible environmental damage by other people, usually residents of an impacted area. Donald Meinig (1979) identified ten “ideologies” of landscape, and noted the potential for others. Many of these ideologies identified by Meinig (including landscape as pristine nature, landscape as biological systems, landscape as resources and wealth) are understood to be present in the spaces created and inhabited by the Upper Hunter thoroughbred breeding industry.

73.3 Four Landscapes of the Upper Hunter Thoroughbred Breeding Industry 73.3.1 Rural Idyll The rural idyll has long been associated with ideas of pastoral wealth, anti-urbanism and a search for a time and place where life seemed better in the sense of it being more controllable and less turbulent (Boyle & Halfacree, 1998; Cloke & Little, 1997; Mingay, 1989). This notion of landscape infuses poetry and art, as well as urban critiques of the city and the solutions to integrate urban and rural lifestyles in various planning visions (see McManus, 2005). The rural idyll has been critiqued by contributors to Cloke and Little (1997) and Boyle and Halfacree (1998) because it conceals poverty, is racially discriminatory in that it is focused on whiteness to the point where this category itself is not interrogated (see Shaw, 2007), and that it does not recognize the marginality of some rural lives.

73

Constructing Thoroughbred Breeding Landscapes

1327

Despite these critiques, rural landscapes that appear natural, but well managed by humans according to shared understandings of what is good management, have widespread appeal. In Australia, although Indigenous people were seen and did work to achieve good environmental management in many areas that kept the undergrowth clear for hunting, this was not recognized and valued by nonIndigenous settlers. Instead, as in thoroughbred breeding landscapes such as the Kentucky Bluegrass, the understanding of a well managed landscape emanated from an English tradition of landscaping, which, although being an “acquired taste” (Murray-Wooley & Raitz, 1992: 106) was related both to the ancestry of the gentlemen farmers and their travels to England (Raitz & VanDommelen, 1990). Travelling is not simply a physical or historical feature of thoroughbred breeding landscapes. Raitz (1987: 6) noted the transfer of thoroughbred breeding imagery from the Bluegrass to other parts of Kentucky, such that it has “come to convey a pastoral image for the entire state”. The rural idyll is a simplification of complexity. As Egoz and Bowring (2004: 60) noted in relation to farming in New Zealand, there is “a complex interplay between the appearance of the farm, its perception by others, the type of farming practiced, and the world views and values of the farmers”. Despite this recognition of complexity, it can be said that the rural idyll applies today in the Upper Hunter, and in other thoroughbred breeding locations. This is because the needs of breeders throughout the world are very similar. Although local climate, topography and culture ensure some differences between regions, the imperative of producing and protecting highly valuable animals to be sold at auction, raced and/or used for breeding more highly valuable animals, creates similar landscapes of black wooden fences with no corners, wire or other obstacles which may injure or kill a horse. The thoroughbred breeding farm is perpetuated by success (whether producing horses that win races, sell for high prices at auctions, or enable significant taxation benefits to accrue) and this goal requires a significant degree of functional standardization. The influence of functionality begins with the choice of region. The Bluegrass forms approximately 16% of Kentucky, yet the state is known as The Bluegrass State (Raitz, 1990). As noted by Conley (2002) in his explanation of the concentration of horse farms in the Bluegrass region of Kentucky and the reason for the geographical limits of thoroughbred breeding in that state; Gentle hills are ideal for expensive horses. But drive about thirty miles from downtown Lexington in any direction . . . the hills are steeper, the pasture is poorer, and the footing is far too dangerous for the tender, twistable ankles of the Thoroughbred. (Conley, 2002: 26–27)

Functionality shapes the landscaping needs, but this then acts as a signifier of other values, such as competency and care – a message that is generally standardized throughout the thoroughbred breeding world. These messages are particularly important in thoroughbred breeding because unlike many other rural properties, the clients do visit the farm, stay in the accommodation and tour the facilities. This was noted by one interviewee who is associated with thoroughbred breeding and racing in Kentucky;

1328

P. McManus et al.

If you want to tell what kind of a farmer a man is, first then what catches your eye is his fences. If his fences are bad then he’s not that, you know, that good of a farmer, you know. You can drive by farms and you see a nice, immaculate, well kept farm then that’s a good farm. – Kentucky Interviewee 2

The notion of a rural idyll and its relationship to function is therefore important and is evident in the following quotes from thoroughbred breeders (TB) and people associated with the industry. Generally horse breeding is clean, green and environmentally friendly, while coal mining is nearly the reverse – they use massive amounts of water and they’re dusty and dirty. They leave a big scar on the landscape. Thoroughbred farms are basically boutique botanical garden type properties. (TB9) This farm in previous years has been very heavily stocked. There’s been a certain amount of pasture degradation. That’s something we have seriously looked at in the last five years, just trying to re-establish pastures . . . a lot of the other farms . . . particularly if they are ex-dairy they’re very flat with not a tree in sight because they rotationally grow Lucerne and the farmers knocked down all the trees because they didn’t want to drive around trees. (TB2)

These quotes highlight some of the other major activities in the Upper Hunter Region (see also McManus, 2008b). These activities include coal mining (which is often in conflict with thoroughbred breeding over issues such as water, dust, employment and landscape amenity value), viticulture (which is mostly based closer to Sydney in the Lower Hunter Region), and dairy farming, which is retreating from this region and in the Australian context is becoming more concentrated in the southern state of Victoria and on the south coast of New South Wales. The image of a bucolic rural idyll is, however, created not just by the well maintained black fences but also by green grass in a dry climate and by the absence of threats to the horses (Fig. 73.2). The construction of such a landscape requires the extensive use of water, which may be in short supply in the Upper Hunter in times of drought and with the impacts of climate change (see McManus, 2008a). Some studs have taken this issue more seriously than others, and have attempted to design facilities and operations to have minimal detrimental impact on the environment, and given the past history of (over)use of the land, have planned to encourage environmental restoration on parts of their thoroughbred farm. This is consistent with what Egoz and Bowring (2004) note in relation to farming landscapes in New Zealand; Although we tend to accept the rural farming landscapes as ordinary cultural landscapes that have evolved through time, these landscapes have to be, in fact, carefully designed. By design we mean the intended articulation of space and materials to create a landscape that answers functional needs. (Egoz & Bowring, 2004: 66)

In summary, good landscape design and maintenance is intended to convey the message that the stud is organized and caring, and that the care shown in the landscaping is transferred into care for the horses. Landscape is therefore symbolic of caring for animals and for an owner’s investment.

73

Constructing Thoroughbred Breeding Landscapes

1329

Fig. 73.2 Thoroughbreds in a paddock of irrigated, green grass in summer

73.3.2 Landscapes of Conspicuous Consumption The thoroughbred breeding and racing industry is reliant upon attracting new investors on a regular basis. While this has recently extended to overseas locations, for example the yearlings produced in the Upper Hunter may be exported to South Africa, Hong Kong, Japan, and other locations throughout the world, it is also reliant upon people coming into the industry in Australia by buying studs and/or horses for racing. Why do people invest in thoroughbred racing, particularly when it is widely known that many people do not make money by doing so, and many lose money? In this sense, thoroughbred breeding is a luxury leisure activity, and some of the leading thoroughbred breeders in the world have identified the major competitor industries as being yachts and sports cars. Thoroughbred breeding and racing offers status as “the sport of kings” and attracts people who have made their money in other industries. In this regard, Kentucky and the Upper Hunter are similar in that money enters the industry and the region after being generated in other activities, ranging from stock broking to coal mining and chicken farming. These activities are often based outside of the region, as seen with Nathan Tinkler who, since early 2007, has invested heavily in the development of Patinack Farm in the Upper Hunter region of New South Wales using money acquired from selling his stake in Macarthur Coal, which operates primarily in the north-east state of Queensland. In order to project this image of status, and perhaps to show off their new wealth and to attract clientele with similar expectations of what a thoroughbred stud should look like, thoroughbred studs are landscaped in order to attract investment.

1330

P. McManus et al.

Fig. 73.3 Ornate main entrance to Patinack farm

In Kentucky this landscaping ranges from Calumet Farm’s white fences, the traditional barns of Lane’s End through to the lake, mansion and the stars on the gate of WinStar Farm. In the Upper Hunter, it includes the lawns and statue at Arrowfield, the green grass and the steep roof lines at Darley and the gates of Patinack Farm (Fig. 73.3). Many of these thoroughbred farms employ similar architecture and entrance statements to the vineyards in the lower Hunter Valley around Pokolbin and Broke-Fordwich. The main difference between the vineyards and the thoroughbred studs is the gate – the thoroughbred farms are increasingly conscious of security issues and the gates are large, solid, attractive and locked. They generally include inter-com arrangements, but unlike some of the largest horse farms in Kentucky, do not usually employ a security person on the main gate itself. The need to relate to clients has an impact on landscaping. This is recognized by some of the thoroughbred breeders; We could do this without the black fences for a lot less money, but that’s the emotive image people are looking for. (TB2) Paddocks are irrigated because it looks good (Arrrowfield manager, Rob Wallace, quoted in Munro, 2006: 17)

The need to appeal to clients makes the thoroughbred breeding farm different from agricultural spaces that are not client focused. The thoroughbred farm is similar to wineries in their landscaping for clients, but differs in relation to security, hence the electronically controlled gates. This is, in itself, a sign that some people are excluded and those who make it inside these gates are special to the farm operators. This is another part of the emotive image, or what is also known as an “experience economy.”

73

Constructing Thoroughbred Breeding Landscapes

1331

73.3.3 Brandscapes The thoroughbred breeding and racing industries are experience economies. Participants become involved in these industries despite the evidence that few of them will make money from this involvement and many will lose money. It is unlikely that they will act similarly with regard to other investments such as the ownership of shares or property. Participants become involved for a number of reasons, including a genuine interest in horses, the thrill of beating other business people, the status that thoroughbred racing offers the owners, and the desirable connections that can be made with other people involved in the industry (Cain, 2004). The fact that a horse is visible and tangible, as well as being a set of data stored in various breeding, accounting and veterinary databases, is another consideration that could influence potential participants to become involved in this industry despite the evidence that many participants do not gain financially from their involvement. Part of this involvement includes being associated with a particular brand. Klingmann (2007) demonstrated that architecture is not simply about buildings, but about providing an experience considered desirable. It is not a landscape, but a brandscape. Branding is no longer a symbol of production, but the sign value that helps, in the case of thoroughbred breeders, to generate profits above the functional value of the horse (which in the case of thoroughbred breeding is very challenging to determine because the primary marketing, the yearling auction market, is about selling the potential of a young animal). As Klingmann (2007: 56) noted, “brand products are no longer bundles of functional characteristics but a means of providing a customer with a certain identity.” To varying extents, the thoroughbred breeding farm both creates and reflects this identity. While the farm is landscaped to reduce the risk of injury or illness to a valuable commodity (for example, fencing without corners, the vertical posts on the outside of the paddock, fields rolled smooth to avoid small gullies and potholes), in places such as the Bluegrass Region of Kentucky the buildings, landscaping, entrance gates and color scheme are all designed to reinforce a particular brand. This branding is consistent with the website, and with advertising in thoroughbred journals and other publications where the thoroughbred farm advertises. The major studs extend this branding to the sponsorship of horse races and to hospitality tents at thoroughbred auctions. Anecdotal evidence suggests that the use of landscape features as branding is somewhat limited in the Upper Hunter region. It often involves the use of color for a barn roof, but unlike some of the farms in Kentucky (see Clapp, 1992) does not usually extend to the microlevel landscaping of the farm. Where there has been evidence of branding is in the use of vegetation. Darley is the name of His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum’s global breeding operation. Darley Australia, the Australian arm of this operation with properties in both New South Wales and Victoria, has planted eucalypt trees to give their properties a distinctive Australian feel that is not present in their Kentucky, French, Irish, English and Japanese establishments. The use of color is often about enhancing the image of the horse, and is therefore based on matching the dominant colors of thoroughbreds, which are usually bay, brown, black or chestnut. Darley’s new facility at Northwood Park in

1332

P. McManus et al.

northeast Victoria is an example of making the color range Australian (Darley do not promote their identity as a regional organization based on Australian states, but each facility in different thoroughbred regions contributes to the identity of Darley in Australia). The color scheme was described in the submission by Ladd Hudson Architects (2008) as; The inherent palettes of the Australian bush are used in the tonal range of chalky sandstone, with grey washed roofs and hardwood sliding doors combined with dulled edged metal framing.

73.3.4 Landscapes of Work Given the use of landscaping to create a rural idyll, and an environment that may be interpreted as a playground for the rich, it is easy to overlook the importance of work in both establishing and maintaining these landscapes, as well as being the primary activity that takes place within the landscape. The creation of smooth paddocks without obstacles, the drainage of land prone to flooding, and the thousands of kilometers of fencing evident in the Upper Hunter thoroughbred breeding landscape, involves the labor of architects and landscape designers, fence builders, gardeners and other professional and laboring occupations. The laborers are often invisible when the showcase events are held at various horse farms. On tours, stallion parades and other open day events, the landscaping is designed to appear finished. While not originally directed towards thoroughbred breeding, the observations of Richard White (1996) about work and nature are particularly pertinent to thoroughbred breeding, which relies on a discourse of nature to perpetuate breeding practices that exclude artificial insemination and other reproductive methods. White (1996: 173) wrote; We seek the purity of our absence, but everywhere we find our own fingerprints. It is ultimately our own bodies and our labor that blur the boundaries between the artificial and the natural.

In the activity of thoroughbred breeding, labor involves many gendered roles relating to the handling of stallions through to the birth of a foal. There are glamorous occupations such as the staff that meet and greet important clients, and there are occupations such as guiding the stallion’s penis into the mare’s vagina. The management of highly valuable animals in environments that are often far removed from the historical environments in which these animals have emerged is very intensive. Despite the use of technology in the form of labor-saving devices, labor is still important in creating, maintaining and working within the landscape. This is apparent when viewing the publicly available development applications submitted to the Upper Hunter Shire Council – the applications submitted by thoroughbred farms often include “workers accommodation.” The workers in the Upper Hunter differ from those in other major thoroughbred regions around the world. Unlike parts of the U.S., in the Upper Hunter there is not a reliance on cheap illegal labor. Unlike Newmarket in England, where breeding and

73

Constructing Thoroughbred Breeding Landscapes

1333

racing co-exist and there is a large demand for stable-hands and riders for horses in training, in the Upper Hunter the focus is primarily (but not exclusively) on breeding thoroughbreds. The focus of the racing industry is the major cities, particularly Sydney, where the training of many racehorses occurs. In the Upper Hunter, the labor force varies. It includes both men and women, involves workers from Ireland, New Zealand, India and Middle-Eastern countries. The landscaping of thoroughbred farms to include worker accommodation is partly in response to labor shortages in the industry, which some industry participants blame on the coal mines because they can afford to pay higher wares. The thoroughbred breeding industry has concentrated on career paths (through various schemes) and amenity, partly as a way to retain labor in the face of competition from other industries. This includes education and training, including the development of a Technical and Further Education (TAFE) program in equine studies at Scone in the Upper Hunter Region. Other Australian states offer various education programs for people working in the equine industry, although the prestigious occupations such as veterinarians tend to be educated in the older universities in the Australian capital cities, such as The University of Sydney and the University of Melbourne. In NSW, Charles Sturt University in the regional city of Wagga Wagga (southwestern NSW) also offers a veterinary degree.

73.4 Other Uses of the Landscape in the Upper Hunter Region Before concluding this chapter about the landscaping of thoroughbred farms, it is important to note other uses of landscaping in the Upper Hunter region because these applications of landscape have an impact on thoroughbred breeding. Two key points are worth noting. First, the main town in the region is Scone, which is branded as “the horse capital of Australia.” While this branding is obvious in the bunting in the town’s main street, and in the names of hotels, the presence of a statue and the labeling of toilets as “colts” and “fillies” (Figs. 73.4 and 73.5), the town centre does not exude a rural village feel that encourages strolling and enjoying the ambience of an area like Cambridge (New Zealand), Midway (Kentucky) or Saratoga (upstate New York). The main highway through the town connecting Sydney and Brisbane, and the railway crossings where long coal trains cause major traffic congestion for a town of this size, highlight the other activities that influence the regional economy. These activities can also be seen in the landscape, where horses graze in paddocks beneath the hightension power-lines that convey electricity from coal fired power stations at Bayswater and Liddell in the Upper Hunter into the National Electricity Grid and to towns and industries outside the region. Coal mining causes major conflicts with the thoroughbred breeding industry and the viticulture industry (Upper Hunter Thoroughbred Breeders Association, Thoroughbred Breeders Australia Ltd. & Aushorse, 2007). This is evident in current debates about coal mining, where roadside billboards promote the horse industry as a “clean and green” activity; particularly around the issue of water, as

1334 Fig. 73.4 Bunting in the center of Scone promoting the town as the horse capital of Australia

Fig. 73.5 Male and female toilets near the tourist information center in Scone

P. McManus et al.

73

Constructing Thoroughbred Breeding Landscapes

1335

Fig. 73.6 Billboard linking horse riding and water quality issues in the Upper Hunter region

Fig. 73.7 Billboard showing coal mining to be a dusty activity that destroys vegetation and the rural landscape

opposed to coal mining. Figure 73.6 shows horses being ridden in a small river, the suggestion being that the water quality is high and that horses are associated with clean activities, unlike the coal mining shown in Fig. 73.7.

1336

P. McManus et al.

The debate was also evident in the attempt in the mid-1990s to prevent Bengalla coal mine from proceeding (see McManus, 2008b). A crucial part of the conflict was the role of landscape integrity, and the fact that the proposed coal mine would have intruded in the landscape. This was not permitted in the local government (Shire of Muswellbrook) Local Environment Plan, but following a successful appeal by a wine producer (Rosemount Estate) to the Land and Environment Court, in 1996 the state government of New South Wales passed new legislation that permitted the coal mine to be developed. Bengalla opened in 1999 and is part of the Hunter Valley Coal Chain that makes the port of Newcastle the world’s largest coal export port by volume. The ongoing expansion of the port has implications for the landscape of the Upper Hunter, because until the world economic downturn in late 2008 it was the capacity of the port and rail system that was the limiting factor in the export of coal, and therefore was delaying more mining ventures from proceeding in the Upper Hunter region.

73.5 Conclusion The notion of landscape, although not necessarily rigorously interrogated within the industry, is vital to the thoroughbred breeding industry in the Upper Hunter. This chapter has discussed the notion of landscape, and then drawn on four concepts of landscape that the authors have found relevant to an understanding of thoroughbred breeding in this region. The four concepts are; rural idyll, conspicuous consumption, brandscapes and landscapes of work. We perceive them to be present to varying degrees, often simultaneously and sometimes as a secondary consideration to the purpose of breeding future racehorses. The thoroughbred breeding landscapes of the Upper Hunter share many similarities to other thoroughbred breeding regions throughout the world, mainly because the needs are similar in different places; the safety and health of horses and people, the client based industry where visits to the premises are expected and the need to communicate an image of care and professionalism. Many thoroughbred breeders from the Upper Hunter have visited international breeding establishments in Kentucky, Newmarket (England), Hokkaido (Japan), Ireland and New Zealand to learn about landscaping, amongst other considerations. Where there are differences in the landscaping between the Upper Hunter and other thoroughbred breeding regions in the world, this is often related to climate (particularly rainfall, temperature and sunlight). Where there are differences in landscaping between other client based industries such as viticulture, this is usually to do with security issues and the need to ensure safety around animals. Thoroughbred breeding landscapes are similar to other agricultural landscapes in many ways, but they are also unique creations based largely on the breeders’ perceptions of the functional requirements in the industry, and the availability of financial resources to construct and maintain those landscapes. By studying thoroughbred breeding landscapes we can learn about a particular form of landscape, and about the concept of landscape more generally.

73

Constructing Thoroughbred Breeding Landscapes

1337

In the thoroughbred breeding industry, the nexus of political-economy and landscaping of thoroughbred breeding farms is somewhat fluid. John Hislop (1992: 142) observed that “while an untidy, ill-kept stud is an eye-sore, it should be remembered that it is good, well-farmed pasture, judicious choice of mares, selective mating, correct management and feeding that produces winners, not paint and flower-beds.” In a client-driven industry, particularly at the top-end of the sector, it is often the combination of good farming, breeding, animal care, branding/advertising and paint and flower-beds that makes a successful farm. Acknowledgements Thanks to Paul Smith, John Ladd-Hudson, Bob Collingridge, Jennifer Barrett, Stan Brunn and to the numerous interviewees for their assistance, without which this chapter would not have been possible in its present form. Any errors or misinterpretations are the responsibility of the authors.

References Albrecht, G., Sartore, G.-M., Connor, L., Higginbotham, N., Freeman, S., Kelly, B., et al. (2007). Solastalgia: The distress caused by environmental change. Australasian Psychiatry, 15(S1), S95–S98. Boyle, P. & Halfacree, K. (Eds.). (1998). Migration into rural areas: Theories and issues. Chichester: Wiley. Cain, G. (2004). The home run horse: Inside America’s billion-dollar racehorse industry and the high-stakes dreams that fuel it. New York: Daily Racing Form Press. Clapp, W. (1992). Horse farms and horse tales of the Bluegrass. Nicholasville, KY: Sunshine. Cloke, P., & Little, J. (Eds.). (1997) Contested countryside cultures: Otherness, marginalisation, and rurality. London: Routledge. Conley, K. (2002). $tud: Adventures in breeding. New York: Bloomsbury. Cronon, W. (1983). Changes in the land: Indians, colonists and the ecology of New England. New York: Hill and Wang. Cronon, W. (1991). Nature’s metropolis: Chicago and the Great West. New York: W.W. Norton. Cronon, W. (1996). The trouble with wilderness; Or, getting back to the wrong nature. In W. Cronon (Ed.), Uncommon ground: Rethinking the human place in nature (pp. 69–90). New York: W.W. Norton. Egoz, S., & Bowring, J. (2004). Beyond the romantic and naïve: The search for a complex ecological aesthetic design language for landscape architecture in New Zealand. Landscape Research, 29(1), 57–73. Hislop J. (1992). Breeding for racing (revised ed.). London: The Kingswood Press. Klingmann, A. (2007) Brandscapes: Architecture in the experience economy. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Ladd Hudson Architects. (2008). ‘Northwood Park’ Stud Farm. Submission to the Australian Institute of Architects. Architecture Gallery. Retrieved March 2, 2009, from http://www.archi tecture.com.au/awards_search?option=showaward&entryno=2008038715. Updated 2008 McManus, P. (2005). Vortex cities to sustainable cities: Australia’s urban challenge. Sydney: UNSW Press. McManus, P. (2008a). Their grass is greener but ours is sweeter – Thoroughbred breeding and water management in the Upper Hunter region of New South Wales, Australia. Geoforum, 39(3), 1296–1307. McManus, P. (2008b). Mines, wines and thoroughbreds: Towards regional sustainability in the Upper Hunter, Australia. Regional Studies, 42(9), 1275–1290. Meinig, D. (1979) The beholding eye: Ten versions of the same scene. In D. Meinig (Ed.), The interpretation of ordinary landscapes: Geographical essays (pp. 33–48). New York: Oxford University Press.

1338

P. McManus et al.

Merchant, C. (1989). Ecological revolutions: Nature, gender and science in New England. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press. Mingay, G. E. (Ed.). (1989). The rural idyll. London: Routledge. Munro, C. (2006) Farmers forced to quit as investors buy water. The Sun-Herald, 7, 16–17. Murray-Wooley, C., & Raitz, K. (1992). Rock fences of the Bluegrass. Lexington, KY: The University Press of Kentucky. NSW Department of State and Regional Development. (2008). Hunter means Business: Investment Prospectus 2008. Sydney, NSW: NSW Department of State and Regional Development. Olwig, K. R. (1993). Sexual cosmology: Nation and landscape at the conceptual interstices of nature and culture; Or, what does landscape really mean? In B. Bender (Ed.), Landscape: Politics and perspectives (pp. 307–343). Providence, RI: Berg. Raitz, K. B. (1987). Kentucky Bluegrass: The state’s gentrified farm country is idyllic to visitors and residents alike. Focus, 37(3), 6–11. Raitz, K., & VanDommelen, D. (1990). Creating the landscape symbol vocabulary for a regional image: The case of the Kentucky Bluegrass. Landscape Journal, 9(2), 109–121. Selman, P. (2006). Planning at the landscape scale. New York: Routledge. Shaw, W. (2007). Cities of whiteness. Maldon: Blackwell. Tuan, Y. F. (1974). Topophilia: A study of environmental perception, attitudes, and values. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Upper Hunter Thoroughbred Breeders Association, Thoroughbred Breeders Australia Ltd. & Aushorse (2007). The Upper Hunter thoroughbred horse industry: Jeopardised by coal mining. New South Wales: Upper Hunter Thoroughbred Breeders Association, Thoroughbred Breeders Australia Ltd. and Aushorse. White, R. (1996). Are you an environmentalist or do you work for a living? Work and Nature. In W. Cronon (Ed.), Uncommon ground: Rethinking the human place in nature (pp. 171–185). New York: W.W. Norton and Co. Winchester, H., Kong, L., & Dunn, K. (2003). Landscapes: Ways of imagining the world. Harlow: Pearson Education.

Websites of Major Thoroughbred Farms Arrowfield (http://www.arrowfield.com.au/) emphasizes the marketing strategy (now being “the year of the outcross”) that best promotes its stallions. The website is comprehensive, and includes material on the farm’s location in “the Segenhoe Valley, a highly fertile pocket of land in the Upper Hunter Valley, renowned for its production of class racehorses and surrounded by leading agistment farms.” The website emphasizes the advantages of the region and the engineering of vegetation, for example: “The Pages River traverses centrally through the irrigated property. Well drained undulating hill country complements the rich alluvial flats pastured with a mix of high production grasses in order to provide the perfect balance of nutritional requirements for raising thoroughbreds to maximum potential.” (Accessed 12 May 2009) Coolmore (http://www.coolmore.com/): This website is entered via the promotion of stallions. The website tells a story about the history of Coolmore in Ireland, with links to champion sires, top trainers, and so on. The website also emphasizes Coolmore’s operations on three continents – in Ireland, America and Australia. Each country has a sub-section of the website. The Australian

73

Constructing Thoroughbred Breeding Landscapes

1339

portion includes the following comment about Coolmore’s operations in the Upper Hunter; “We choose our land in Australia just as carefully as we do everywhere else. And we found the best of it in the Hunter Valley. We also found that it contained its own vineyard, and one day we might just bottle our own. In the meantime, we’re producing winners.” (Accessed 12 May 2009) Darley (http://www.darley.com.au/homepage/AUS) is branded in blue (the racing colours of the Godolphin stable which is the prestige racing arm of Darley). The website is about the Australian arm of a global operation, and it emphasizes stallions, horse sales and racing results. There are links to other Darley websites – Darley’s Flying Start program for people wanting to work in the thoroughbred industry and Darley Kids, which is an interactive website for children to “learn all about us and the exciting world of racehorses”. (Accessed 12 May 2009) Emirates Park (http://www.emiratespark.com.au/main.htm): Branded in blue and red, this website concentrates on marketing the stallions standing at the farm. Other information such as the history of the farm and the owner, His Excellency Nasser Lootah, a Dubai-based businessman is available, but the initial access is through stallion services and this is the emphasis of the site. The website is smaller than those of many other leading thoroughbred studs and there is little information about the farm(s) apart from location and history. (Accessed 12 May 2009) Widden (http://www.widden.com/): This is a comprehensive website, with information on stallions, mating analysis, the history of the farm and its physical setting. Widden emphasizes its history “as the oldest thoroughbred stud in the world owned and run continuously by one family, the Thompsons” and its geography as being “located on 8,000 acres of spectacular country in the Widden Valley surrounded by the World Heritage Listed Wollombi National Park, the farm features rich alluvial creek flats sheltered by magnificent sandstone cliffs with spacious paddocks and ample room for horses to be happy.” (Accessed 12 May 2009).

Part IX

Reconstructing and Restoring Nature

Chapter 74

The Earth Restoration Project: An Overview Jeffrey Gritzner, Georgia Milan, and Leonard Berry

74.1 Background The Amsterdam Declaration on Global Change (2001), drafted by the International Geosphere-Biosphere Program, the International Human Dimensions Program on Global Environmental Change, the World Climate Research Program, and the international biodiversity program DIVERSITAS, reaffirms that The Earth System behaves as a single, self-regulating system comprised of physical, chemical, biological and human components. The interactions and feedbacks between the component parts are complex and exhibit multi-scale temporal and spatial variability. . . . Human activities are significantly influencing Earth’s environment in many ways in addition to greenhouse gas emissions and climate change. Anthropogenic changes to Earth’s land surface, oceans, coasts and atmosphere and to biological diversity, the water cycle and biogeochemical cycles are clearly identifiable beyond natural variability. . . . Global change cannot be understood in terms of a simple cause-effect paradigm. Human-driven changes cause multiple effects that cascade through the Earth System in complex ways. . . . Surprises abound. . . . Earth System dynamics are characterised by critical thresholds and abrupt changes. Human activities could inadvertently trigger such changes with severe consequences for Earth’s environment and inhabitants. . . . The nature of changes now occurring simultaneously in the Earth System, their magnitudes and rates of change are unprecedented.

The Declaration suggests that “an ethical framework for global stewardship and strategies for Earth System management are urgently needed.” The Earth Restoration Project is a response to this need. Although the impacts of human activity upon the natural environment are well documented, the spatial and quantitative dimensions of change are less well understood. Several publications, such as the World Atlas of Desertification (Middleton & Thomas, 1997), do an excellent job of illustrating change during the relatively recent past, but few document the extensive change that has taken place on the scale of centuries or millennia. Fewer publications still assess the functional implications and consequences of the changes that have taken place in the Earth System. In some J. Gritzner (B) Department of Geography, University of Montana, Missoula, MT 59812, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_74,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1343

1344

J. Gritzner et al.

instances, a comfortable inertia is broken as thresholds are breached and change occurs abruptly. This is typically the pattern, for example, in climate change (Calvin, 1998; National Research Council, 2002), when forcing factors, such as changing albedo and carbon abundance, or change in orbital variation; change in solar output or the transparency of outer space; change in Earth’s atmosphere owing to volcanic activity; change in the chemistry of the atmosphere, change of oceanic temperature, chemistry, or circulation; or change in land surfaces alter bio-geophysical feedback processes and establish a new equilibrium. On a more modest time scale, there is a clear relationship between devegetation and the increased incidence of floods, rockfalls, débris avalanches, mudflows, earthflows, and other hazards. For example, widespread deforestation in Asia has resulted in an increase in the number of disastrous floods from a handful during the decade of the 1940s to more than 350 during the decade of the 1990s (Hassan, Scholes, & Neville, 2005). The extent and functional implications of the changes that have taken place are obviously substantial. Writing in 1864, Marsh noted that “the earth is fast becoming an unfit home for its noblest inhabitant. . .” and that increasing human improvidence “. . .would reduce it to such a condition of impoverished productiveness, of shattered surface, of climatic excess, as to threaten the depravation, barbarism and perhaps even extinction of the species.” This bleak assessment has acquired mounting urgency with the passage of time. It is evident that the structural integrity of the Earth System has been compromised by human activity; that the scale of the change that has taken place is inadequately appreciated; that the change has adversely affected critically important life-sustaining processes; and that there are no coordinated programs in environmental rehabilitation that address the issue on a scale commensurate with the change that has taken place (Gritzner, 1990). The neglect is understandable. In the historical past, descriptions of environmental degradation were viewed almost anecdotally. Theology had long provided reassurance of a divine governance; governance that evolved, through technological advance, into the view held by the Stoics that humans were charged with the management of nature in partnership with higher powers – or, through further technological innovation, were capable of creating “another Nature” (Cicero, 1951). While growing mastery was occasionally expressed in stewardship (Ray, 1759), it is perhaps noteworthy that Seneca associated advances in the arts, sciences, and applied technology with moral decline; with the substitution of ingenuity for wisdom. Alarm regarding cumulative environmental degradation has been further muted by the principle of abundance as described in Plato’s Timaeus (1952), and later combined with the Aristotelian concept of continuity (Glacken, 1967) – a precursor of the principle of uniformitarianism in Western science. Further, it is important to realize that many of the most significant changes occurred in the distant past (Roberts, 1998; Thomas, 1956). Environmental change often occurs gradually, with local populations adapting as change takes place. Finally, practical necessity encourages affected populations to address immediate needs. Hence, symptoms or effects are typically addressed without adequate consideration of causation. For example, as noted above, the relationship between deforestation and flood frequency is well established, yet relatively little attention is

74

The Earth Restoration Project: An Overview

1345

given to environmental rehabilitation in degraded watersheds. On a larger scale, the devegetation and altered hydrology of the world’s drylands has resulted in elevated surface temperatures and disrupted bio-geophysical processes. Owing to complex interactions within global climatic systems, the impact has been enormous (Charney, 1975). Yet, relatively little is done to restore dryland vegetation or better manage water resources. In addition to being historically informed, the implementation of restoration projects should be reconciled with ecosystem function; be sensitive to human need; differentiate between areas in which restoration is occurring, or could occur, through natural processes and those requiring intervention; and be carefully monitored in order to gauge success and identify areas of continuing need. However, we agree with the thrust of C. Caulfield’s observation that two of the most important truths regarding restoration “are that more research is needed to establish the facts; and that it will be impossible to wait for the facts before acting” (New Scientist, 1982). Adaptive management is the modern answer to this dilemma. As noted, the proposed restoration project focuses initially upon the world’s drylands, mountains (Funnell & Parish, 2001), and upper-basin watersheds (DeVoto, 1946, 1952), largely complementing the many projects focusing upon areas of greater biological potential, such as the billion-tree campaigns of the United Nations Environment Program and The Nature Conservancy (Downie, 2008). The approach being taken differs somewhat from those of existing efforts. While it draws upon mosaics and the patch-corridor-matrix model (Forman, 1997), for example, it more holistically incorporates considerations of culture, food production, resource exploitation, and the urban environment as a complex, interactive system. With expanding desiccation, the drylands alone total some 6.1 billion ha (15 billion acres), or 47.2% of the Earth’s land surface (Middleton & Thomas, 1997). It is estimated that approximately 2.4 billion people currently reside in highly water-stressed areas (Oki & Kanae, 2006). The fact that the world’s drylands were better watered and more heavily vegetated in the relatively recent past is well documented; the environmental and human consequences of devegetation in these neglected regions are obvious; the technologies and organizational requirements for the rehabilitation of these “wasteland” regions are known and tested; and the environmental and human benefits that would be derived from rehabilitation are considerable.

74.2 Scale in Restoration Small scale restoration of wetlands, watersheds, and rangelands is well established, but given the areal extent and severity of environmental degradation, complexities of land tenure, economic constraints, and other considerations, is large-scale restoration possible? A growing number of projects indicate that it is. For example: “Some 400,000 ha of sand in the Maowusu Desert in Shaanxi Province have been brought under control thanks to organized grass and tree planting. Four forest belts with a length of 1,500 km (932 mi) are now growing, which stops the flowing sand and improves the ecological environment. Forest-grass coverage has increased

1346

J. Gritzner et al.

from 0.9 to 25% in Yulin, and the city is now witnessing desertification in reverse. Sandstorm frequency has fallen from 30 days a year in the 1970s to less than 10 in recent years” (Ma Lie, 2005). Elsewhere, the All-China Youth Federation’s Mother River Protection Operation has resulted in 1035 local projects revegetating some 220,000 ha (543,620 acres) (ACYF, n.d.). Many of the Chinese project descriptions note a dramatic increase in birds and other forms of wildlife associated with habitat restoration (cf. Noss & Cooperrider, 1994). “Each year in Australia, aerial seeding regenerates 8,000–12,000 ha (19,768–29,652 acres) of cutover mountain eucalypt forests. The process is well established and faces little risk of failure” (Hillis & Brown, 1978). Furthermore, Australian efforts in range improvement have rehabilitated vast areas. It is estimated that India possesses some 175 million ha (432 million acres) of severely degraded wasteland. In its Banthra Project, the National Botanical Research Institute successfully re-established an extensive, mature ecosystem on barren alkaline (usar) soils in less than twenty years. It is the intention of the institute to translate this well-documented effort into a “macro-level success” (Khoshoo, 1987). On the Arabian Peninsula, the establishment of only 6,200 indigenous trees and shrubs in the 10 mi2 (25.9 km2 ) Dubai Desert Conservation Reserve has been accompanied by the return of the Arabian oryx and a surprisingly broad range of other desert plants and animals (Mueller, 2004). In the mountains of North Africa, a single campaign resulted in the reafforestation of 350,000 ha (864,500 acres) (Boudy, 1952). In Macedonia, 6 million trees were planted in a single day as part of a mass reafforestation drive. Among the volunteers were more than 1,000 soldiers who planted 200,000 seedlings (The Guardian Weekly, 2008). During its first phase (1977–1997), Kenya’s Green Belt Movement established 6,000 centers for seedling production, and mobilized more than 100,000 rural women who, in turn, mobilized their communities to plant trees – resulting in the addition of more than 30 million trees to privately held land in Kenya. Attention is now focused on public lands. The movement has emphasized the benefits derived from conservation and biological diversity, as well as the rôle of vegetation in carbon sequestration (Boukhari, 1999). In the American South, “almost 1.2 million ha (2.96 million acres) have been successfully sown with pines since the mid-1950s” – primarily by air, although hand seeders and tractor-drawn row seeders were also used (National Research Council, 1981). A Dixie National Forest (Utah) range-reseeding project yielded “. . .40,000 acres [16,188 ha] where in only four years an exhausted land has been brought back almost to maximum productivity, erosion has been halted, soil anchored in place, the stock business stabilized” (DeVoto, 1952) Similarly dramatic improvements have been documented in the Sacramento River corridor. Riparian forests once covered 324,000 ha (800,000 acres) along the Sacramento River. Only approximately 2% remained by 1990. Large scale efforts in restoration involving some twenty species of trees, shrubs, and herbaceous plants have resulted in an explosive increase in songbirds and other forms of wildlife (Martin, 2006). The preceding are only a small sample of the many projects that are restoring landscapes – both through direct intervention and measures taken to facilitate natural regeneration. These and similar undertakings would obviously inform the more prescriptive and comprehensive effort proposed.

74

The Earth Restoration Project: An Overview

1347

74.3 Range of Benefit The proposed project has the potential to heal millennia of inadvertent environmental degradation and provide a broad range of benefits to Earth and its inhabitants. It is of potential importance in restoring a measure of stability to global climatic and hydrological systems. For example, carbon-dioxide abundance would be an asset in large scale revegetation, and significant quantities of carbon would be sequestered in the process. It is estimated that the addition of 465 million ha (1,149 million acres) of forest, roughly the combined area of Argentina, Chile, and Bolivia, would be adequate to sequester global emissions at their current level of 2.9 billion tons (Williams, 2003). The regulation of carbon dioxide in terrestrial ecosystems would also reduce acidification in marine ecosystems (Kolbert, 2006). Sea water is naturally alkaline, with a pH ranging from 7.8 to 8.5. Adding carbonic acid to the water reduces the pH, thus affecting the many marine organisms dependent upon the availability of calcium carbonate – the principal building block of shells. Hence, the chemical transformation of marine environments is increasingly disrupting critically important food chains – food chains that, among other things, support the world’s fisheries. In addition to carbon-dioxide sequestration, the projected reduction of terrestrial surface temperatures through re-vegetation could buffer the anticipated increases of many global-warming scenarios, as demonstrated by the Sacramento Urban Forest Ecosystem Study. The project is also of potential importance in restoring ground-water régimes and associated complexity in soil ecology; increasing biological diversity, speciation (Science, 2006), heterogeneity, and productivity; curbing species extinction (Quammen, 1996); reducing the frequency and intensity of natural disasters (Hassan et al., 2005); better anticipating hazards, such as earthquakes, through observed change in animal behavior (Ikeya, 2004); conserving cultural diversity (Williams, 2003); and providing important environmental services (Daily, 1997), particularly for marginalized societies residing in regions of severe environmental degradation. While “services” are typically defined in terms of food, fodder, fuel, fiber, and building material, the proposed project is also concerned with issues of water supply; pollination (Vansell & Griggs, 1952); more adaptive crops and regionally integrated cropping systems; the economic contributions of minor forest products (Falconer, 1990); food quality (Kingsolver, Kingsolver, & Hopp, 2007); social integrity (Knox & Marston, 2004); issues of health and disease (Garrett, 1995); medicinal plants (Duke, 1997); biomimicry (Benyus, 1997); aesthetic and psychological considerations (Ortstein & Ehrlich, 1989); conflict resolution (Le Billon, 2005); the spiritual contributions of environmental systems (Glacken, 1967); trees as cultural symbols (Nabhan, 2004); and recreation. Considerable importance would be attached to water and to linkages between environmental rehabilitation and food production (Newman, 1990). An understanding of water deficits, surpluses, and the resulting environmental disequilibria is basic to project design and implementation (Pearce, 2004). Additional attention would be devoted to increasing public awareness of the nature and consequences of environmental change, as well as assistance in integrating environmental stewardship into school curricula as appropriate.

1348

J. Gritzner et al.

74.4 Project Implementation While approaches to implementation would vary in response to the differing assets and constraints of each region, the methodology would remain relatively constant: 1. The environmental history of each project area would be assessed. The analysis would be highly structured, and cover a period adequate to determine the biological potential of the area, community composition, and cause-effect relationships in change. Such analysis would typically cover a period of two thousand years – a period of relative climatic stability, but could vary considerably. More general consideration would be given to earlier impacts upon environmental systems, for example, selective hunting and gathering, the use of fire in landscape management, and the impacts of animal domestication. The historical analysis would provide the framework for intervention, as well as guidance for the specific measures to be taken. 2. Within this framework, an assessment would be made of existing resource distribution, and the structure and dynamics of environmental systems, permitting exploitation of the inherent energy of systems (for example, prevailing wind, watercourses, gravity, and animal movement) for germ-plasm dispersal. 3. This assessment would be complemented by analysis of the distribution and characteristics of locally initiated, non-governmental, bilateral, and multilateral rehabilitation projects already underway within the target area. 4. The nature and distribution of operative social units, considerations of locally accepted authority, the demands and impacts of livelihood systems, and assessments of need would then be considered. Particular attention would be given to indigenous knowledge and adaptation, as they are linked directly to ecosystem content and function. It is within this relationship that societies are able to pursue environmental rehabilitation with confidence and energy. It is also important that local populations be the principal agents and beneficiaries of rehabilitation efforts, as it is their responsibility to manage the change that takes place. 5. In instances in which indigenous societies require assistance to implement or expand interventions, or where gaps exist beyond the effective reach of communities, supplemental sources of information, labor, equipment, and technology will be sought. While this list and approach may seem daunting, information and resources are generally available and can readily be mobilized. Relevant information regarding global change can be obtained through initiatives such as the Earth System Science Partnership (DIVERSITAS, the International Geosphere-Biosphere Program, the International Human Dimensions Program on Global Environmental Change, and the World Climate Research Program), as well as through agencies of the United Nations, the international program of the U.S. Department of Agriculture, and similar programs with monitoring components. Information regarding successful grassroots initiatives might be drawn from groups with broad and varied experience, such as the Society for Ecological

74

The Earth Restoration Project: An Overview

1349

Restoration International. Supplemental labor might be provided by groups ranging from organized gap-year students to military establishments. In instances in which project demands exceed available equipment for implementation, rangeimprovement equipment and techniques, including the aerial-seeding capabilities of the U.S. Forest Service and the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organization (Australia), might find relevance. The germ plasm necessary to restore historically documented biological diversity could be acquired through sources such as the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew; and, for the restoration of soil ecology, the UNESCO Microbial Resources Network. A broad range of organizations are available to be called upon to address specific challenges, including units of the International Council of Scientific Unions; as well as an array of universities, international research centers, academies of science, bilateral technical organizations, multilateral agencies, and other organizations in the public and private sectors. The broad units of implementation would to be existing supranational bodies with active programs of environmental management. They could be as extensive as the Organization of American States, the Arab League, the Commonwealth of Independent States, or the Organization of African Unity – or more focused organizations within these bodies, such as the Comité Permanent Inter-Etats de Lutte contre la Sécheresse au Sahel (CILSS). Such units would permit the diffusion of useful information and experience over relatively large areas. Within these units, it would be important to have an independent body capable of coordinating a program of prescriptive, large scale environmental rehabilitation, such as the regional offices of the International Union for Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources (IUCN). Beneath this political umbrella and mechanism for coordination, strategies for rehabilitation are, to the extent possible, best undertaken by stakeholders at the local level. In the West African Sahel, for example, implementation would initially be in the hands of groups as varied as the Islamic Muridiyya Order; grassroots organizations, including women’s groups, the Naam Movement, and Se Servir de la Saison Sèche en Savane et au Sahel (6-S); ethnic groups; and the sultanates of the Chadian Sahel. Financial resources in excess of locally generated support is important and might be acquired from the many foundations with explicit commitments to environmental rehabilitation; national governments; bilateral organizations; multilateral organizations; and revenue derived from carbon, biological diversity, and water markets. Overall, it has been estimated that restoration of the Earth System would “require additional expenditures of $93 billion per year” (Brown, 2006: 162). In addition to project implementation within regions, it would be important to exchange useful information among similar bioclimatic zones. For example, the subtropical desert regions (BWh) around the world have much to offer each other in terms of coping strategies and insights (National Academy of Sciences, 1974). The use of sand-filled reservoirs in Namibia, Botswana, and Australia are relevant to the West African Sahel; the water-harvesting techniques developed by the Nabataeans of the Negev in the fourth century B.C. have wide application throughout the drylands of the world; and crops adapted to aridity, such as Australian channel millet,

1350

J. Gritzner et al.

Pima-Papago sixty-day maize, and tepary beans can be transferred among desert regions to help “drought proof” the food supply.

74.5 Mandate The need for large-scale environmental rehabilitation is clear; the potential benefits are well documented; the resources are available; and the objective is achievable. The alternative is to proceed into a transitional period of abrupt environmental change with uncertain consequences. We may simply agree with The Amsterdam Declaration on Global Change that surprises will abound, and that “the nature of changes now occurring simultaneously in the Earth System, [as well as] their magnitudes and rates of change are unprecedented.” We know, along with E.O. Wilson, that failure to respond effectively may result in the loss of most of life, environmental security, and what it means to be human (Wilson, 2001). The urgency is apparent; the choice is ours.

References All-China Youth Federation. (n.d.). Mother river protection project. Beijing: All-China Youth Federation. Benyus, J. M. (1997). Biomimicry: Innovation inspired by nature. New York: Perennial, HarperCollins. Boudy, P. (1952). Guide du forestier en Afrique du nord. Paris: La Maison Rustique. Boukhari, S. (1999). Forests: A hot deal for a cooler world. The Unesco Courier, December, 10–13. Brown, L. R. (2006). Plan B 2.0: Rescuing a planet under stress and a civilization in trouble. New York: W.W. Norton. Calvin, W. H. (1998). The great climate flip-flop. The Atlantic Monthly, January, 47–64. Charney, J. G. (1975). Dynamics of deserts and drought in the Sahel. Quarterly Journal of the Royal Meteorological Society, 101(428), 193–202. Cicero, M. T. (1951). De natura Deorum (H. Rackham, Trans. from the Latin). Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Daily, G. C. (Ed.). (1997). Nature’s services: Societal dependence on natural ecosystems. Washington, DC: Island Press. DeVoto, B. (1946). The West. Harper’s Magazine, December, 45–48. DeVoto, B. (1952). Flood in the desert. Harper’s Magazine, August, 58–61. Downie, A. (2008). Growth potential. Nature Conservancy, Summer, 56–64. Duke, J. (1997). The green pharmacy. Emmaus, PA: Rodale Press. Falconer, J. (1990). The major significance of ‘minor’ forest products: The local use and value of forests in the West African humid forest zone. Rome: Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations. Forman, R. T. T. (1997). Land mosaics: The ecology of landscapes and regions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Funnell, D., & Parish, R. (2001). Mountain environments and communities. London: Routledge. Garrett, L. (1995). The coming plague: Newly emerging diseases in a world out of balance. New York: Penguin Books. Glacken, C. J. (1967). Traces on the Rhodian shore: Nature and culture in western thought from ancient times to the end of the eighteenth century. Berkeley: University of California Press. Gritzner, J. A. (1990). Comparative assessment of strategic frameworks for natural resources management. New York: United Nations Sudano-Sahelian Office.

74

The Earth Restoration Project: An Overview

1351

Hassan, R., Scholes, R., & Neville, A. (2005). Ecosystems and human well-being: Current state and trends. Millennium Ecosystem Assessment. Washington, DC: Island Press. Hillis, W. E., & Brown, A. G. (Eds.). (1978). Eucalypts for wood production. Adelaide, SA: Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organization, Australia. Ikeya, M. (2004). Earthquakes and animals: From folk legends to science. Hackensack, NJ: World Scientific. Khoshoo, T. N. (Ed.). (1987). Ecodevelopment of alkaline land: Banthra—A case study. Lucknow: National Botanical Research Institute. Kingsolver, B., Kingsolver, C., & Hopp, S. L. (2007). Animal, vegetable, miracle: A year of food life. New York: HarperCollins. Knox, P. L., & Marston, S. A. (2004). Human geography (3d ed.). Upper Saddle River, NJ: Pearson Education. Kolbert, E. (2006). The darkening sea: What carbon emissions are doing to the ocean. The New Yorker, November 20. Le Billon P. (2005). The geography of “resource wars.” In C. Flint (Ed.), The geography of war and peace (pp. 217–241). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lie, M. (2005). Northern Shaanxi climbs out of the sand: Combined effort to plant trees finally pays off as deserts recede. China Daily, 31 August 2005. Lucretius. (1951). The nature of the Universe (R. E. Latham, Trans. from the Latin). Penguin Classics. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Marsh, G. P. (1864). Man and nature; or, physical geography as modified by human action. New York: Charles Scribner. Martin, G. (2006). Along the Sacramento, songbirds flourish again. San Francisco Chronicle, November 27. Middleton, N., & Thomas, D. (Eds.). (1997). World atlas of desertification (2d ed.). London: Arnold for the United Nations Environment Programme. Mueller, T. (2004). Luxury and conservation at Dubai’s desert haven. National Geographic News, November 19. Nabhan, G. P. (2004). Why some like it hot: Food, genes, and cultural diversity. Washington, DC: Island Press. National Academy of Sciences. (1974). More water for arid lands: Promising technologies and research opportunities. Washington, DC: National Academy of Sciences. National Research Council. (1981). Sowing forests from the air. Washington, DC: The National Academy Press. National Research Council. (2002). Abrupt climate change: Inevitable surprises. Washington, DC: The National Academy Press. Newman, L. F. (Ed.). (1990). Hunger in history: Food shortage, poverty and deprivation. Oxford, UK: Basil Blackwell. New Scientist. (1982). Where have all the trees gone? 96: 251. Noss, R. F., & Cooperrider, A. Y. (1994). Saving nature’s legacy: Protecting and restoring biodiversity. Washington, DC: Island Press. Oki, T., & Kanae, S. (2006). Global hydrological cycles and world water resources. Science, 313(25 August 2006), 1068–1072. Ortstein, R., & Ehrlich, P. (1989). New world new mind. Cambridge, MA: Malor Books. Pearce, F. (2004). Keepers of the spring: Reclaiming our water in an age of globalization. Washington, DC: Island Press. Plato. (1952). Timaeus, Critias, Cleitophon, Manexenus, Epistles (R. G. Bury, Trans. from the Greek). Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Quammen, D. (1996). The song of the Dodo: Island biogeography in an age of extinction. New York: Scribner. Ray, J. (1759). The wisdom of God manifested in the works of the creation (12th ed.). London: John Rivington, John Ward, & Joseph Richardson. Roberts, N. (1998). The Holocene: An environmental history (2nd ed.). Oxford: Blackwell Publishers..

1352

J. Gritzner et al.

Science (2006). Breakthrough of the year: Down the biodiversity road. 314 (December 22), 1853. The Amsterdam declaration on global change. (2001). International Geosphere-Biosphere Programme, the International Human Dimensions Programme on Global Environmental Change, the World Climate Research Programme, & DIVERSITAS. The Guardian Weekly (November 28, 2008). Thomas, W. L., Jr. (1956). Man’s role in changing the face of the earth. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. Vansell, G. H., & Griggs, W. H. (1952). Honey bees as agents of pollination. Insects, The Yearbook of Agriculture. Washington, DC: United States Department of Agriculture. Williams, M. (2003). Deforesting the Earth: From prehistory to global crisis. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Wilson, E. O. (2001). The future of life. Washington, DC: National Council for Science and the Environment.

Chapter 75

Huge Yields of Green Belts? Mega and Micro Plantation Forestry Cases from Indonesia, Ghana and Zimbabwe Tapani Tyynelä

75.1 Forest Plantations for Protection and Production Forests cover almost 4 billion ha (15 million mi2 ), or 30% of the earth’s area and the estimated net annual change in forest area worldwide in the period (2000–2005) is estimated at 7.9 million ha (30,500 mi2 ) per year. Deforestation, mainly conversion of forests to agricultural land, continues at an alarmingly high rate especially in Africa and South America. At the same time, forests and trees are being planted for many purposes and at increasing rates. Forest plantations make up an estimated 3.8% of total forest area. The area of forest plantations has increased by about 2.8 million ha (10,800 mi2 ) per year between 2000 and 2005. Productive forest plantations (primarily for wood and fibre) account 78% and protective forest plantations (for conservation of soil and water) 22% (FAO, 2005). In the developed countries, forests are currently expanding, mainly as a result of afforestation and reforestation. In contrast, however, it is deforestation and the processes of forest degradation that are still expanding in developing countries, and especially those in the tropical zone. Large scale development of industrial forest plantations with fast-growing trees, especially on degraded lands, is regarded as likely to be essential in tropical forestry in the 21st century (Sayer, Vanclay, & Byron, 1997). There is also a global trend towards greater reliance on plantations as a source of industrial wood (FAO, 2001a). Forest plantations can supply large volumes of wood of uniform quality in a short period and, as has been claimed, may reduce the pressure on the remaining natural forests (Evans, 1992; Sayer et al., 1997). The growth and yield of exotic tree species, such as eucalyptus outside Australia, can be spectacular outside their natural range (Hillis & Brown, 1984). Popular exotic tree species are generally also very adaptable and have a wide range of utility, from sawn wood and processed wood products to a high calorific value fuelwood; they also have a variety of environmental and ornamental uses (Poore & Fries, 1985). Several economical and environmental factors encourage the planting of trees, such as increasing productivity or reducing erosion. The social benefits gained from T. Tyynelä (B) Finnish Forest Research Institute, Kannus, Finland e-mail: [email protected] S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_75,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1353

1354

T. Tyynelä

these efforts by local people include the creation of employment, the development of an infrastructure in remote areas, the use of land which has no agricultural value, and the integration of forest plantations with other land-uses (Evans, 1992; Niskanen & Saastamoinen, 1996). Despite the benefits already mentioned, plantation forestry in several tropical countries has been widely criticized for its alleged negative social and environmental impacts (Carrere, 1999; Kerski, 1995). The criticized negative environmental effects include a reduction in the biodiversity and long-term productivity (Evans, 1992). The Eucalyptus spp. have been also criticized for causing a variety of short- to long-term ills, including poisoning the soil, draining nutrients, failing to prevent soil erosion, repelling wildlife, and yielding no fodder or green manure (Kumar, 1991; Poore & Fries, 1985). Globally associated with the expansion of pulp capacity is a huge increase in the area of industrial tree plantations, especially in South America, Asia and Southern Africa. Massive plantation schemes are planned in many countries in the world. National governments aim to establish 5.8 million ha (22400 mi2 ) of industrial tree plantations in China, 5 million ha (19,300 mi2 ) in Vietnam, and 5 million ha in Indonesia (19,300 mi2 ), the(latter with the backing of the World Bank. In Laos, the Asian Development Bank has set a target of 500,000 ha (1,930 mi2 ) of plantations by 2015. In Southern Africa Mozambique has plans to establish up to 7 million ha (27,000 mi2 ) of plantations. In South America Brazil is currently the world leader in new pulp capacity; it already has large productive plantations. The rate of establishing plantations in Uruguay peaked in 1997 at almost 60,000 ha (230 mi2 ) a year and is currently about 10,000 ha (40 mi2 ) a year (Pulp Mill Watch, 2009). Concerns have risen about the impact of eucalyptus plantations on local residents and the environment and, in particular, land use questions. For example, the Finnish paper manufacturer Stora Enso had serious problems with landless farmers in Brazil in 2007 (YLE, 2007) and also in China in April 2009 (HS, 2009) because the company’s eucalyptus plantations have reserved large areas which are also suitable for agriculture. In summary, it is rather uncertain what the social and environmental impacts of tropical forest plantations are, especially on deforested areas. In this chapater the cases from Indonesia, Zimbabwe and Ghana are selected to provide additional information particularly on the impacts of forest plantations on peoples’ livelihood.

75.2 Case from Indonesia: Industrial Forest Plantations in West Kalimantan In Indonesia the forest resources comprise about 112 million ha (432,000 mi2 ) of land, of which 29 million ha (112,000 mi2 ) are reserved for protection forest, 19 million ha (74,000 mi2 ) for conservation forest and 64 million ha (247,000 mi2 ) for production forest (Kartodihardjo, 1999). Indonesia has the second largest area of rainforest in the world after Brazil. It also has the seventh highest above-ground woody biomass in the world and is among the ten leading countries with the highest net loss of forest areas between 1990 and 2000 (FAO, 2001a).

75

Huge Yields of Green Belts?

1355

Forest plantations are expected to be a major source of wood supply for forestbased industries in the next 10–20 years in Indonesia (Otsamo, 2001). Studies of the socioeconomic effects of plantation projects in Kalimantan, Indonesia have pointed out several social problems that may have arisen as a result of the forest plantation project. These include loss of agricultural land, the disappearance of traditional lifestyles, inequalities in job opportunities connected with the forest plantations, and even fighting between the villagers that was provoked by different attitudes towards the project (Lounela & Topatimasang, 2000). Gönner (2000) suggests that it is questionable whether economic development projects, as practiced by the government and by private companies, are actually improving the livelihoods of the aboriginal Dayak communities in rural Kalimantan, since the projects were meant to replace the traditional livelihood systems rather than to supplement them (Fig. 75.1). The Indonesian case study area is located in the districts of Sanggau and Sintang in West Kalimantan (Indonesian Borneo), between 0◦ 00 – 0◦ 40 S and 110◦ 30 – 111◦ 30 E at an altitude of 50–100 m (164–328 ft) above sea level (Fig. 75.2). The long term average annual rainfall in the area is 3,518 mm (138 in), but it is characterized by a distinct areal and annual variation. The soils are mainly deeply weathered heavy soils with low levels of organic matter. The population in the study area consists mainly of various indigenous Dayak groups, but Malay groups also make up a considerable proportion of the population. Traditional patterns of land use in the study area are characterized by the cultivation of upland rice in the swidden cycle, the production of tree crops for cash and consumption, and the harvesting of some products from primary forests (Potess, 1995).

Fig. 75.1 Indonesia. The rotation period for industrial tree plantations in Indonesia is only seven years. Fast growing trees, mainly Acacia mangium and Eucalyptus species, are planted for pulp and paper production

1356

T. Tyynelä

Fig. 75.2 The Indonesian case study area is located in the Sanggau and Sintang districts, West Kalimantan, Indonesia

Since 1996 an Indonesian-Finnish joint venture, PT Finnantara Intiga, has planted some 23,000 ha (56,833 acres) of fast-growing trees, mainly Acacia mangium Wild for industrial purposes in the area. There are 190 village sites with an estimated total population of 50,000 within the proposed gross plantation area of 300,000 ha (741,300 acres). Because all of the suitable areas for forest plantations (especially grasslands and secondary vegetation areas) are usually claimed by the local people, the land acquisition process for plantations has to be planned with care in close cooperation with the people (Potess, 1995). The company aims at securing the social sustainability of the scheme by providing cash incentives, an improved infrastructure (e.g., roads and bridges), clonal rubber plantations, work opportunities, and a share of the forest plantation for the community. In our survey study the villagers volunteered a total of 92 negative and 108 positive comments expressing their opinions of the plantation scheme, and also made 86 suggestions about ways in which cooperation with the company could be improved (Tyynelä, Otsamo, & Otsamo, 2002). The most common negative comment was that the company did not employ enough people. At the same time, the employment provided by the company was also the most common positive comment. Opinions also differed about the company’s land use policy. While some people acknowledged the use of unproductive land, others complained about the declining area of agricultural land. Facilities supported by the company were appreciated, but their provision was too frequently delayed. The land use model and the social approach of the company were mentioned in the majority of the comments. Forest plantations did not provide a balanced range of benefits for all of the households. Connections with village headmen and the company leaders were among the most important reasons why households had varying chances of obtaining job opportunities in the plantations. In both case study villages, the wealthy households shared the best job opportunities amongst themselves because they had

75

Huge Yields of Green Belts?

1357

higher education, better skills, greater self-confidence and more resources for swift changes in their livelihood strategy than poor households had. The forest company, which paid 1.21 US$day–1 for workers (the exchange rate was 1 US$=10000 Rupiah during the period of the study), was also the biggest employer in the area. However, the forest plantations provided job opportunities for villagers mainly in the first year of the rotation, while between the fourth and the sixth year there were no operational activities at all. The company has paid for villagers 6 US$/ha (2.4 US$/acre) as land rent for a 45-year period. In addition, after carrying out the logging the company will pay royalties for the wood harvested. The royalties amount to a value of 10% of the total harvest, which would be 15 US$/ha (6.1 US$/acre) if the harvested volume is 200 m3 /ha (112,000 gallons/acre). Species diversity measurements in Indonesia were done in 10 land use types and 5 plant form classes. Total number of plant species was highest in natural forest (8.5 sp/m2 ) followed by forest garden (8.1), rubber garden (8.0), secondary vegetation forest (6.8), and clonal rubber (6.7). It was lowest in Imperata grassland (2.7) followed by Acacia mangium plantations (4.1), wetland rice fields (4.4), pepper fields (5.3) and swidden fields (6.1). There were statistically significant differences between the land-use types for the total number of plant species (p = 0.001 confirmed by Mann-Whitney s U-test). The total number of species in the Imperata grasslands differed significantly from all other land use forms (p = 0.008). There were also significant differences between the plots in the forest plantations on Acacia mangium sites and those in all of the other tree-based land use systems (p < 0.05). The total number of woody (trees and shrubs) species was highest in the natural forests, forest gardens and rubber gardens (Tyynelä, Otsamo, & Otsamo, 2003).

75.3 Case from Zimbabwe: Small Eucalyptus Plantations Seen as Green Belts Zimbabwe is a landlocked country in the subtropical Southern Africa that also includes Angola, Malawi, Mozambique, Namibia, Tanzania and Zambia. Zimbabwe was among the ten countries in the world with the highest net loss of forest area between 1990 and 2000. It is currently moderately forested, with around 22% forest cover and an additional 44% of other wooded land. There are about 119,000 ha (294,049 acres) of commercial forest plantations and 18,000 ha (44,478 acres) of non-commercial forest plantations, while the current annual establishment of new plantations has been estimated at 2,200 ha (5,400 acres) (FAO, 2001b). At the beginning of the 1990s there were some negative attitudes in rural Zimbabwe against the eucalyptus, for example, popular beliefs that associate eucalyptus with high water consumption, a bad effect on land and neighbouring crops, and an unpleasant “smell” associated with spirits (Virtanen, 1991). However, later, in the 1990s, important changes occurred, most notably more extensive plantings and higher levels of commercialisation of eucalyptus plantations (Remme, Campbell, Chikandiwa, & Nobane, 1997). Price and Campbell (1997) found that

1358

T. Tyynelä

some 90% of the rural households owned at least one exotic tree, and that status attributed to wealth bore no relationship to tree holdings. Eucalyptus plantations have been mainly established to provide wood as a construction material and poles for a number of purposes, while fuel wood is a less important product of the plantations. However, more recently eucalyptus plantations have been established not only to satisfy the increasing demand for wood, but also to earn a profit for the landowners. According to Mandondo (1997), for people in Zimbabwe tree planting is an emotional and ethical investment that provides them with, for example, reverence, confidence and security enhancement (Fig. 75.3). The case study area was situated in a heavily deforested area where the villagers themselves had established small Eucalyptus camaldulensis woodlots. The approximate center of the Murewa District in Northeast Zimbabwe is at Latitude 17◦ 35 S and Longitude 31◦ 45 E. The mean monthly temperature varies during the year between 18◦ and 23◦ C (64–73◦ F), and the mean annual rainfall is between 890 and 930 mm (35–36 in) (Brinn, 1987). The study area lies between 900 and 1400 m (980–1,530 yards) above sea level and the land was mainly used for the dryland cropping of maize and cattle grazing. Much of the original vegetation which was classified as Brachystegia-Julbenardia miombo woodland on granite (Timberlake, Nobanda, & Mapaure, 1993) has been cleared, and the soil has been cultivated. “Miombo” is colloquial term used to describe those central, southern and eastern African woodlands dominated by the genera Brachystegia, Julbenardia and/or Isoberlinia, three closely related genera from the legume family (Fabaceae, subfamily Caesalpiniooideae) (White, 1983). In the study area members of all social classes had already established eucalyptus woodlots already in the 1980s. Of the 62 Eucalyptus camaldulensis woodlot owners,

Fig. 75.3 Zimbabwe. Small-scale eucalyptus woodlots owned by the local farmers are common in Southern Africa. Photo is from Mukuwisi woodland near Zimbabwe’s capital city Harare

75

Huge Yields of Green Belts?

1359

25 were classified as poor farmers, 23 as middle-class farmers, and 14 as wellto-do farmers. The wealthier farmers had established significantly larger woodlots than the poorer ones. The mean areas of the woodlots and their standard errors were 0.024 (0.005) ha (0.06 acres, s.e. 0.01) for poor farmers, 0.129 (0.03) ha (0.32 acres, s.e. 0.07) for middle-class farmers, and 0.281 (0.084) ha (0.69 acres, s.e. 0.21) for well-to-do farmers. The differences in the mean sizes for the Eucalyptus camaldulensis woodlots in the different farmer categories were found to be highly significant (Kruskal-Wallis test value of p < 0.001) (Tyynelä, 2001a). The private woodlot owners in the study area in Zimbabwe normally used about 30% of the trees harvested themselves and sold 70% (Table 75.1). The farmers used eucalyptus trees for roofing and fencing poles, which were the two most important functions for the poles (Fig. 75.4). Wood from the trees was also used in the construction of cattle kraals, goat pens, and fowl runs. In addition, the eucalyptus leaves placed in boiling water were used as a medicine for influenza. In many cases the woodlots were used as grazing areas. The schools that had established woodlots needed an ample amount of eucalyptus wood for construction purposes: bathrooms; fencing poles for gardens and around the school; teachers’ fowl runs; poles for clothes drying lines; and poles for goal posts for soccer, netball, and volleyball. Some schools were earning considerable amounts of money selling trees to the villagers. Low prices had, however, been promised to those villagers whose children had labored in the woodlots. The schools generally wanted to set a good example for the local people by planting and through proper management of the trees (Tyynelä, 2001a).

Table 75.1 Benefits of Eucalyptus camaldulensis woodlots under different ownership categories in Mukarakate, North-Eastern Zimbabwe (Tyynelä, 2001a) Benefits obtained

Private owners

Poles

70% sold, the remainder A lot of money may be Specified amounts used mainly as earned from sales, annually available multi-purpose school use is also free to members, building materials. important. sometimes also sold. Mostly for personal Small amounts can be Specified amounts annually available consumption. collected free of charge by the families free to members, can of students. also be sold. Commonly used as Can be collected after Available for all medicine for flu. permission is granted. members, for others by permission. Often used as a grazing Not allowed. Members use old area for part of the woodlots for cattle year. and goats. Can be used as an Demonstration and Large woodlot areas are investment for the provides experience seen aesthetically as a future. to students and “green belt.” community.

Firewood

Medicinal leaves

Grazing

Other benefits

Schools

Co-operatives

1360

T. Tyynelä

Fig. 75.4 Zimbabwe. When the woodlots are used as grazing areas trees can often suffer from damages made by grazing animals and especially goats. In this case the coppice stems may be in safe place high above the ground

There were significantly more tree species in the miombo woodlands than in the Eucalyptus camaldulensis woodlots. The tree species diversity indices have indicated higher species diversity for the miombo woodlands than for the eucalyptus woodlots in northeastern Zimbabwe. There are, however, no statistically significant differences between the eucalyptus woodlot plots and miombo woodland plots in terms of their grass cover percentages, the number of grass species, or the number of herbs. There were also more trees per hectare on the miombo woodlands than on the eucalyptus woodlots. The mean basal areas for the woodlands and woodlots were not, however, significantly different, since the heights and diameters of trees were greater on the eucalyptus woodlots, which thus compensated for the lower density (Tyynelä, 2001b).

75.4 Case from Ghana: Agroforestry Planting in the Modified Taungya System Ghana has a diverse and rich resource base, and as such, has one of the highest GDP per capita in Africa. Traditional land uses in this western Africa country include small and large scale farming, forestry, wood fuel, cattle grazing, tree plantations of exotic and indigenous species (cocoa, rubber, timber), and game/park reserves.

75

Huge Yields of Green Belts?

1361

Most of Ghana’s 238,500 km2 (91.379 mi2 ) is savannah (56%) or closed forest (35%). All the vegetation types in Ghana, except for those comprising the savannah, are considered tropical forests and play very important role in supporting the livelihood of 21 million Ghanaians, particularly, those in the rural communities. However, the combined effect of over-exploitation of forest resources, unsustainable farming practices, bush fire and mining activities have significantly reduced the forest area and degraded nearly 32% of the reserved forest and over 70% of forests outside reserves (Ministry, 1996). The current deforestation rate in Ghana causes huge social, economic and environmental problems. Because of the heavy dependency on biomass, rural populations are obliged to overuse their forest resources and agricultural residue. Current agricultural practices, including pastoral farming and the cutting of biomass are among the fundamental causes of major environmental problems. Ghana lost 1.9 million ha (4.7 million acres) or 26% of its forest cover in the last 15 years. The most recent study of Africa’s vegetation changes, estimated 3% per year deforestation rate for Ghana (IUCN, 2006). Continued forest loss threatens the existence of such indigenous tree species and associated biodiversity through habitat loss and the potential lack of gene flow as a result of fragmentation (Novick et al., 2003) and these also increase the processes of soil erosion affecting agricultural productivity on which the livelihoods of rural people depend (Abeney & Owusu, 1999). Sustaining the populations of the species and the value of the forest is a matter of increasing concern for not only Ghana but the entire West Africa regions. For long time Ghanaian farmers have not been used to benefitting from tree planting at all. The Ghana Timber Resource Management Amendment Act 617 of 2002, for example, does not allow farmers to harvest timber even from their farmlands (Kalame, Nkem, Idinoba, & Kanninen, 2009). They are not adequately compensated for the damages caused to their crops when timber companies who have timber exploitation permits are harvesting timber (Nketiah, Ameyaw, & Owusu, 2005). This practice motivated farmers to destroy young naturally regenerating trees on their farmlands and discouraged them from planting trees. Most of the natural regeneration efforts by the government failed due to ill planning, uncoordinated efforts, a lack of resources, and a lack of incentives for farmers similar to the situation in Burkina Faso (Kalame et al., 2009). Community-based forest rehabilitation and landscape restoration programs through the development of plantation and agroforestry systems using indigenous tree species is something new in Ghana (Ministry, 1994). In the past exotic tree species such as teak and Cedrela dominated the tree planting activities so that many of the indigenous tropical tree species were ignored and not deliberately incorporated into plantation or farming systems. As a result, there is very little or almost no literature or solid scientific data on the indigenous tree species in Ghana to guide their utilization and management in different land-use systems. The taungya system was originally developed in colonial British India in the late 1800s. In taungya, plantation forest is established on government owned land by the local farmers. The government provides seedlings and tools as well as instructions and training. It started in Ghana in the 1960s, and much of the plantation

1362

T. Tyynelä

establishment was planned through this system in those reserves that had poor stocking (FAO/UNEP, 1981). Under the traditional taungya arrangements, Ghanaian farmers had no rights to benefits accruing from the planted trees (Milton, 1994) and no decision making role in any aspect of forest management (Birikorang, Okai, Asens o-Okyere, Afrane, & Robinson, 2001). The Government of Ghana has now launched a new plantation development scheme due to weaknesses in the old system. That is called the modified taungya system (MTS) in which farmers are given parcels of degraded forest reserves to produce food crops and to help establish and maintain timber trees. The International Tropical Timber Organization (ITTO) in cooperation with the Forest Research Institute of Ghana (FORIG) started a project on the rehabilitation of degraded forest lands through local community collaboration at 2001. It aimed at collaborative forest rehabilitation through the promotion of tree plantation development within and outside forest reserves. Twelve popular 12 indigenous and one exotic tree species were planted in a modified taungya system (MTS). The mixture of 13 priority tree species was determined in consultation with local farmers. Farmers were given land to grow annual agricultural crops along with forestry species during the early years of plantation establishment. Annual food crops such as cocoyam, plantain and vegetables were interplanted with tree species. After three years the cultivation of crops was normally stopped because of shade from the growing trees. The project achieved overwhelming support from the chiefs and the people. Local communities’ perceptions of this project benefits are shown in Fig. 75.5. A total of 250 ha (618 acres) of forest plantations had been established in degraded forest areas through the MTS using a mixture of 13 different tree species (Blay et al., 2007). Species diversity measurements from the MTS system are not yet published. However, Damnyag (2009) has preliminary findings in an unpublished paper.

Fig. 75.5 Local communities’ perceptions of tree plantation project benefits in Ghana (modified from Blay et al., 2007)

75

Huge Yields of Green Belts?

1363

Fig. 75.6 Degraded forests (left) have smaller amount of trees and tree species than forest gardens (right) which include some planted trees. The photos are from dry semi deciduous area in Dormaa, Ghana Table 75.2 Number of trees and tree species are compared in different forest types in Begoro (moist semi deciduous area) and Dormaa (dry semi deciduous area) in Ghana Site, forest type

Number of trees/hectare

Number of tree species/hectare

Begoro, natural forest Dormaa, natural forest Begoro, forest garden Dormaa, forest garden Begoro, degraded forest Dormaa, degraded forest

230 277 277 211 81 141

34 18 20 14 21 18

Modified from the unpublished manuscript of Damnyag (2009).

According to him there are generally more timber trees and species in the natural forests than degraded and forest gardens which include some planted forests (Fig. 75.6, Table 75.2). The results imply that forest benefits and tree species diversity are the highest in natural forests. However, forest gardens in the MTS seem to have more trees than degraded forests. Some valuable timber species like African mahogany were found in forest gardens but not in the other forest types. The average density of many important timber species is generally low in degraded forests. For example, African mahogany, is sometimes less than one commercial tree per 10 ha (24.7 acres) in the primary forests (Lamprecht 1989); it may even face extinction in the near future (Alder 1989).

75.5 Discussion and Conclusions The objective of this study was to analyze how forest plantations impact on villagers’ livelihoods in situations where the amount and importance of natural forests have been reduced in cases from Indonesia, Zimbabwe and Ghana. In Indonesia

1364

T. Tyynelä

the results show that it is possible to include even large scale industrial forest plantations in village livelihoods without completely altering the traditional livelihood structure. The positive economic effects of forest plantations for the villagers have also been clear. This is an interesting result since in most cases large-scale plantation projects have been opposed on the basis of these arguments. The results show that in Zimbabwe the villagers’ established eucalyptus woodlots have provided important basic needs that complement other products obtainable from the remaining natural miombo woodland. However, although woodlots provided useful materials such as poles and building materials for their owners’ own use, they have, nevertheless, provided only a very narrow range of the needs of the majority of farmers; Mukamuri (1995) makes the same point. In Ghana the Forestry Commission was earlier the only owner of plantations established through taungya system; it received benefits from tree crops. As a result, farmers tended to neglect the tree crops and to abuse the system. In addition to these reasons, the rapid depletion and degradation of the forest resources has led to reintroduction of the modified taungya system (Blay et al., 2007). This MTS is expected to lead to increased revenue and other benefits to farmers and landowning communities. These are in line with the objectives of the 2001 Ghana Poverty Reduction Strategy. It seems that access to fertile land through MTS was the most important benefit in tree planting project according to local people. In the pilot areas the project managers documented a visible reduction in new farm clearings within and outside the forest reserves in 2004 compared to 2001 (Blay et al., 2007). In all three countries, forest plantations have smaller three species diversities than the natural forests, but when established on degraded areas, such as the grasslands in Indonesia or grazing areas in Zimbabwe, they cannot be accused of reducing species diversity. Also preliminary results from Ghana showed that forest gardens in the modified taungya system have more trees than degraded forest and included valuable timber species. In Indonesia, the number of plant species was lower in Acacia mangium plantations than in any other land use type except on Imperata grasslands. The findings might suggest that if it is planted to any other land use type it would result in a decrease in the number of species. However, when exotic plantations replace non-forest communities they will create a forest environment which may be a good thing; although this is unlikely to favor the species that are characteristic of non-forest communities. According to Poore and Fries (1985), plantations of exotics will be poorer in terms of species richness and contain different species from those found originally in the natural forest which they have replaced. In conclusion, the scale of the plantations has meant that forest plantations have generally had a range of different social impacts in the three case countries (Table 75.3). In Zimbabwe, all ownership types have the resources necessary to improve the management of woodlots, while in Indonesia and Ghana this has not been a problem since management has been undertaken by the forest company or research institute. This finding has also meant that farmers in Indonesia and Ghana had become more dependent on the company or other donors, whereas in Zimbabwe there have been fewer risks to take and less dependence on the forest plantations.

Provide crops and tree seedlings for selling Crops at the beginning, NWFP later Offer jobs at establishment and harvest time

Cash

Donor funded schemes may + develop feeder roads and bridges

Tree gardens increase species diversity

Reclaiming degraded lands seen as + benefit and expected share from sale of trees

Infrastructure

Environment

Security

+

0

0

–

+

+++

+

Seen also as investments for future + and as grazing areas for cattle

Bigger woodlots seen as “green belt”

Minor impacts, important for some owners Provide building material, poles and firewood for owners Minor impacts, although some extra labour is needed at establishment Normally established in private fields or gardens, might reduce communal grazing areas Minor risks as trees are used locally and woodlot management is done by the owners themselves None

Eucalyptus woodlots in Zimbabwe

++

0

+++

Forest plantation scheme develops ++ infrastructure, e.g., roads and bridges Reforesting grasslands might have + positive effects on species diversity Land-use model and incentives + might also increase incomes and rice yields

Reduce agricultural areas, but --/+ using grasslands may increase productivity Potentially high risks if changes in -the company’s policy occur

The most important employer in the plantation scheme area

Important cash earnings from job opportunities and royalties None

Industrial forest plantations in Indonesia

+++ highly positive, ++ positive, + some positive impacts, 0 no impact, – some negative impacts, -- negative, --- highly negative

+

Risk of wild fire incursion in tree – plantation in dry semi deciduous zones

Risks

+++

Access to land seen as the most important benefit

+

++

+

Land-use

Employment

Products for own use

Modified taungya system in Ghana

Impacts on

Table 75.3 Three different forest plantation types and their main social impacts. Cases from modified taungya system in Ghana, small-scale eucalyptus woodlots in Mukarakate, Zimbabwe, and large scale industrial forest plantations in West Kalimantan, Indonesia

75 Huge Yields of Green Belts? 1365

1366

T. Tyynelä

Despite their positive economic effects, forest plantations reduce the areas that can be used for other types of livelihood, particularly in Indonesia. The present findings support the point made, for example, by the Australian Centre for International Agricultural Research (ACIAR, 1992) that the social and ecological effects of planting exotic trees in small woodlots may be very different from those produced by extensive plantations. Forest plantation can also be part of agroforestry system leading to valuable forest garden with many indigenous timber trees as in the case of Ghana. Therefore, one should be cautious and not make generalizations without specifying the scale and the context of the forest plantations. Acknowledgements I wish to thank Ms. Ria Meyrita (Indonesia), Dr. Matti Nummelin (Zimbabwe) and Mr. Lawrence Damnyag (Ghana) from offering photos. Mr. Damnyag also kindly gave me permission to use results from his unpublished manuscript for this paper and also provided constructive comments concerning the modified taungya system in Ghana.

References Abeney, E., & Owusu, J. (Eds.). (1999). Workshop for media personnel on forestry and wildlife reporting proceedings. Accra: Institute of Renewable Natural Resources. ACIAR. (1992). Eucalyptus: Curse or cure? Canberra: Australian Centre for International Agricultural Research. Alder, D. (1989). Natural forest increment, growth and yield. In: J. L. G. Wong (Ed.), Ghana forest inventory project seminar proceedings (pp. 47–52). Accra: Overseas Development Agency, Forestry Department. Birikorang, G., Okai, R., Asens o-Okyere, K., Afrane, S., & Robinson, G. (2001). Ghana wood industry and log export ban study. London: Department of International Development (DFID). Final Report. Forestry Commission. Blay, D., Appiah, M., Damnyag, L., Dwomoh, F., Luukkanen, O., & Pappinen, A. (2007). Involving local farmers in rehabilitation of degraded tropical forests: Some lessons from Ghana. Environment, Development and Sustainability, 10, 503–518. Brinn, P. J. (1987). Communal land physical resource inventory. Harare, Zimbabwe: Murewa District, Chemistry and Soil Research Institute. Report No. A54. Carrere, R. (1999). Plantations campaign. Ten replies to ten lies. Montevideo, Uruguay: World Rainforest Movement. Briefing Paper. Plantations Campaign. Damnyag, L. (2009). Cost of forest degradation and benefits of restoring degraded forest lands to local and national economies of Ghana. Unpublished manuscript, University of Joensuu, Joensuu, Finland. Evans, J. (1992). Plantation forestry in the tropics. New York: Oxford University Press. FAO. (2001a). State of the world’s forests. Rome: FAO. Forest Department. FAO. (2001b). Zimbabwe country profile. Rome: FAO. Forest Department. FAO. (2005). Global forest resources assessment 2005. Rome: Forest Department. Paper 147. Progress towards sustainable forest management. Ghana. Ministry of Lands and Forestry. (1994). Forest and Wildlife policy. Accra: Ministry of Lands and Forestry. Ghana. Ministry of Lands and Forestry. (1996). Forestry Development Master Plan. Accra: Ministry of Lands and Forestry. Gönner, C. (2000). Resource management in a Dayak Benuaq Village: Strategies, Dynamics and Prospects. A Case Study from East Kalimantan Indonesia. Eschborn. Troppenökologisches Begleitprogram. Hillis, W. E., & Brown, A. G. (1984). Eucalypts for wood production. Canberra: Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organization.

75

Huge Yields of Green Belts?

1367

HS. (2009). Stora Enson maakiistat Kiinassa nostattavat syytteitä väkivallasta. (In English: Stora Enso’s land conflicts and violence in China). Helsinki: The Sanoma Group. Retrieved April 27, 2009, from http://www.hs.fi/ulkomaat/artikkeli/Stora+Enson+maakiistat+ Kiinassa+nostattavat+syytteit%C3%A4+v%C3%A4kivallasta/1135245458808 IUCN. (2006). Forest landscape restoration to meet Ghana’s deforestation Challenges, IUCN. Retrieved March 20, 2006, from http://www.IUCN.org/en/news/archive/2006/ newfebruary06.htm Kalame, F., Nkem, J., Idinoba, M., & Kanninen, M. (2009). Matching national forest policies and management practices for climate change adaptation in Burkina Faso and Ghana. Mitigation and Adaptation Strategies for Global Change, 14(2), 135-151. Kartodihardjo, H. (1999). Hambatan struktural pembaharuan kebijakan pembangunan kehutanan di Indonesia (Structural Obstacles for Reform of Forest Development Policy in Indonesia). Bogor: Pustaka LATIN. Kerski, A. (1995). Pulp, paper and power – How an industry reshapes its social environment. The Ecologist, 25, 142–149. Kumar, V. (1991). Eucalyptus in the forestry scene of India. In A. Schönau (Ed.), Proceedings of the IUFRO Symposium on intensive forestry: The role of Eucalyptus (pp. 1105–1116). Pretoria: South African Institute of Forestry. Lamprecht, H. (1989). Silviculture in the tropics. Tropical forest ecosystem and their tree speciespossibilities and methods for their long-term utilisation. Eschborn: Deutsche Gesellschaft für Technische Zusammenarabeit (GTZ). Lounela, A., & Topatimasang, R. (2000). Paikallisyhteisöjen oikeudet luonnonvaroihin Indonesiassa. (The local communities and natural resources in Indonesia). Helsinki: Vihreä Sivistvsliitto. Mandondo, A. (1997). Trees and spaces as emotion and norm laden components of local ecosystems in Nyamaropa, Zimbabwe. Agriculture and Human Values, 14, 353–372. Milton, R. (1994). Some issues and observations arising from District Taungya studies for use in discussion for development of FP4 – Forest Reserve Rehabilitation. Accra: Forestry Commission. Mukamuri, B. (1995). Making sense of social forestry. Tampere: University of Tampere. Niskanen, A., & Saastamoinen, O. (1996). Tree plantations in the Philippines and Thailand. Economic, social and environmental evaluation. Tokyo: United Nations University. World Institute. Nketiah, K., Ameyaw, J., & Owusu, B. (2005). Equity in forest benefit sharing: Stakeholders’ views. Ghana: Tropenbos International. Novick, R., Dick W., Lemes, M., Navarro, C., Caccone, A., & Bermingjam, E. (2003). Genetic structure of Mesoamerican population of Big-leaf mahogany (Swietenia macrophylla) inferred from macrsatellite analysis. Molecular Ecology, 12, 2885–2893. Otsamo, A. (2001). Forest plantations on Imperata grasslands in Indonesia –Establishment, silviculture and utilization potential. Helsinki: University of Helsinki. Poore, M. E. D., & Fries, C. (1985). The ecological effects of eucalyptus. Rome: Food and Agricultural Organization. FAO Forestry Paper 59. Potess, F. (1995). Report on socioeconomic survey of communities living within the proposed Sanggau Timber Estate (197 pp). Sanggua: Enso Forest Development Oy Ltd. Price, L., & Campbell, B. (1997). Household tree holdings: A case study in Mutoko communal area, Zimbabwe. Agroforestry Systems, 39, 205–210. Pulp Mill Watch. (2009). Pulp projects by country. Sassenberg: Urgewalde. V. Retrieved April 27, 2009, from http://www.pulpmillwatch.org/4eac8217012e5527982c29f6f57a6ae4/countries/ Remme, H., Campbell, B., Chikandiwa, F., & Nobane, N. (1997). An overview of forestry activities and extension in the communal lands of Zimbabwe. Harare: University of Zimbabwe. Sayer, J. A., Vanclay, J. K., & Byron, N. (1997). Technologies for sustainable forest management: Challenges for the 21st century. Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe: Commonwealth Forestry Congress. CIFOR Occasional Paper No. 12.

1368

T. Tyynelä

Timberlake, J. R., Nobanda, N., & Mapaure, I. (1993). Vegetation survey of the communal lands – North and East Zimbabwe. Kirkia, 14, 171–270. Tyynelä, T. (2001a). Social benefits of natural woodlands and Eucalyptus woodlots in Mukarakate, North Eastern Zimbabwe. Forest, Trees and Livelihoods, 11, 29–45. Tyynelä, T. (2001b). Species diversity in Eucalyptus camaldulensis woodlots and miombo woodland in Northeastern Zimbabwe. New Forests, 22, 239–257. Tyynelä, T., Otsamo, R., & Otsamo, A. (2002). Changes and alternatives in farmers’ livelihood planning in an industrial forest plantation area in West Kalimantan, Indonesia. Forest, Trees and Livelihoods, 12, 257–281. Tyynelä, T., Otsamo R., & Otsamo, A. (2003). Indigenous livelihood systems in industrial tree-plantation areas in West Kalimantan, Indonesia: Economics and plant-species richness. Agroforestry Systems, 57, 87–100. Virtanen, P. (1991). Management of natural resources in Zimbabwe. Tampere: University of Tampere, Unit of Peace Research and Development Studies. White, F. (1983). The vegetation of Africa. Natural Resources Research 20. Paris: UNESCO. YLE. (2007). Farm Workers in Brazil Protest at Stora Enso Plantations. Helsinki: The Finnish Broadcasting Company YLE. Retrieved April 27, 2009, from http://www.yle.fi/uutiset/ news/2007/03/farm_workers_in_brazil_protest_at_stora_enso_plantations_230503.html

Chapter 76

Historic Land Use and Social Policy Affecting Large-Scale Changes in Forest Cover in the Midwest United States Mikaela Schmitt-Harsh, Sean P. Sweeney, and Tom P. Evans

76.1 Introduction Changes in land use/cover have dramatic implications for a variety of critical ecosystem functions such as carbon sequestration and habitat provision, which may impact human livelihoods (Foley et al., 2005). While some changes in land cover are driven by biophysical processes, many contemporary land-use/cover change events are strongly influenced by human actions. Often a result of multiple actors and structures combining in complex synergistic ways, land-use/cover changes are dynamic across spatial, temporal, and hierarchical scales (Geoghegan et al., 1998). Given this complexity, it is important to examine the driving forces of land-use/cover change, such as economic, cultural, institutional, and technological forces. However, because land-use/cover systems do not always respond in predictable ways to these driving forces, it is equally important to examine the historical contexts from which the system has evolved or adapted. If the system is path dependent, its current state and trajectory of change depend on its history, not solely on current values of driving forces (Geoghegan et al., 1998). Path dependence plays a critical role in land-use systems with regard to both social and biophysical dynamics (Brown, Page, Riolo, Zellner, & Rand, 2005), as many of the land-use patterns we see today are products of a long lineage of historical processes. Most land-cover change trajectories are not easily predictable, and a particular challenge is to understand how path dependence and initial conditions help determine future land-cover change trajectories. Previous research has explored the roles of initial conditions and path dependence in land-use modeling (Atkinson & Oleson, 1996; Balmann, 2001; Brown et al., 2005; Wilson, 2000). The foundation of this modeling research is the general concept that historical actions constrain future possible actions. For example, a wide literature documents the impact of road construction on land clearing (Chomitz & Gray, 1996) and urban expansion (Arthur 1988) resulting in what can be considered local-level, irreversible trajectories of M. Schmitt-Harsh (B) School of Public and Environmental Affairs, Center for the Study of Institutions, Population, and Environmental Change, Indiana University, Bloomington, IN 47405, USA e-mail: [email protected] S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_76,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1369

1370

M. Schmitt-Harsh et al.

land development and forest-cover loss. With few exceptions, once a natural landscape has transitioned to urban land uses, the probability that it will later revert back to a vegetated state is low. Similarly, the creation of dams and reservoirs result in the displacement of settled populations and the loss of what is often high fertility floodplain territory. While these events are often carried out under the auspices of economic development, a multitude of long-term ecological, cultural, and social ramifications are associated with the large-scale transitions (Patz et al., 2004). Examining historical processes and path dependence enables greater understanding of the social and environmental dynamics associated with forest-cover change trajectories. Many anthropomorphic land-cover changes are the result of two distinct drivers: major policy prescriptions designed to result in a specific land-cover change outcome, and local-level actions of a large number of mostly autonomous actors. We consider land-use/cover change processes as a product of different types of social engineering, or large-scale attempts to serve economic, social, environmental, or political goals. While land-use/cover changes themselves may be a form of physical engineering, we focus here on the social engineering that influences landuse/cover transformations. We see policy makers as top-down actors who design a particular program (e.g. acquisition of land by federal government) to achieve a specific land-use/cover objective. Alternatively, local-level decision makers who manage individual partitions of a landscape are bottom-up actors. These local-level actors may have different objectives for the overall land-cover composition of their landholdings. Heterogeneity of land suitability can lead to complex land-cover outcomes as farmers learn which portions of their parcels are suitable for long-term production. Likewise, the decision-making processes of farmers vary from actor to actor; some maximize short-term production while others consider long-term impacts of their actions, such as soil conservation for future generations. As such, to understand the processes driving these types of large-scale land-cover changes it is helpful to examine the large-scale policy prescriptions and the local-level actions that in aggregate produce large-scale outcomes. Large-scale changes in land cover are not exclusively the result of top-down management but often the product of an aggregation of local-level actions. For example, the massive deforestation seen in the Brazilian Amazon is the result of land being cleared by a multitude of individual households migrating from other areas. In this case, a government program facilitates this type of event, but the activities of many individual actors are ultimately responsible for the widespread loss of forest cover. Although both top-down and bottom-up actors are important decision makers in designing land management solutions with diverse implications for land cover, the scale of our analysis in this chapter prohibits us from closely examining local-level actions that have directly influenced land-use/cover change trajectories. This chapter looks at engineering by examining top-down policy prescriptions that have influenced land-use/cover change in the United States. We examine how conservation initiatives incorporated as components of major social policy prescriptions, such as the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC), the Soil Bank Program, and the Conservation Reserve Program (CRP), have influenced forest-cover change. Our

76

Historic Land Use and Social Policy

1371

objective is to examine how socially engineered policy prescriptions have influenced physical engineering, that is, reforestation. We draw on examples from work in the Midwest United States to supplement our discussion of these programs. With explicit focus on identifying path-dependent relationships between policy makers, local actors, and the environment, we identify historic land-use processes and national policies that have significantly influenced forest trajectories in the United States.

76.2 Settlement and Conversion of Forestland to Agriculture 76.2.1 Timber Extraction and Deforestation (1790–1850) Forest-cover changes in the first half of the 19th century were largely the result of European-American colonization and the subsequent social and economic changes that accompanied settlement. Settlers advanced from the Northeast westward, felling or girdling trees with simple iron hand tools, setting fire to kill understory species, and clearing forests for agriculture (Parker, 1997). Both Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin fervently supported the value of agriculture, believing that economic growth would be greatest served through clearing farmland rather than forest preservation. Although it was thought that farming could turn to profit with hard work and a rudimentary knowledge of husbandry, many fields lost productivity after a few years, resulting in further agricultural expansion into adjacent forested areas. Many poor settlers perceived the protection of forests as an impediment and threat to their economic survival, resulting in rapid clearing of forests. While forest harvests and remaining cleared lands offered economic opportunities to many Americans, there was also growing recognition of the commercial value of timber in the early 19th century. Logging began as a seasonal activity that was pursued when farming and clearing fields were made difficult by the weather. Wood was a principal fuel for heating and approximately half of all trees cut for purposes other than land clearing were used for fuel (Cox, Maxwell, Thomas, & Malone, 1985). Commercial logging spread rapidly from the northeast United States to midwestern and southern states. In 1839, the Northeast accounted for over two-thirds of the total production of lumber with New York accounting for 30%, Maine 14%, Pennsylvania 9%, and the rest of New England 10% (Cox et al., 1985). By 1849, production expansion to other parts of the country led to a decline in total production of lumber in the Northeast to half the total. By 1859, the continuation of geographic shifts reduced the Northeast’s share to one-third. Technological advances paved the way for even greater diversity in how forest resources were utilized. Sophistication of saws and sawmills enabled the transformation of logs into lumber with greater efficiency, the application of steam engines to milling operations enhanced the crop of activities possible within the lumber industry, and the advancement of woodworking skills enabled the creation of wooden bridges, ships, and houses unparalleled in structure and architecture. Technology affected both the supply side (the ways trees were felled, milled, and

1372

M. Schmitt-Harsh et al.

transformed into wood products) and the demand side as per capita purchases of lumber increased by more than 400% from 1799 to 1859 (Cox et al., 1985). During this time of rapid westward expansion and technological advances, few Americans believed that the nation’s forests could be exhausted, despite the work and admonitions of André Michaux, François André Michaux, Amos Eaton, and others (Cox et al., 1985; Michaux, 1817). Finding that forests between 1802 and 1807 were declining, François André Michaux tried to alert Americans to the consequences of rapid tree destruction maintaining that the destruction would surely increase with population and without protection from the federal or state governments (Michaux, 1817). Unfortunately, bodies of legislation to protect forests grew slowly after much of the colonial legislation was discarded. What regulations were present were largely ignored because many Americans continued to believe that a resource as abundant as timber would not become scarce.

76.2.2 Transition from Deforestation to Reforestation (1850–1930) By 1850, lumber production ranked first among all manufacturing branches in the United States when measured in value added by manufacture, the most useful test of an industry’s contribution to the economy (Cox et al., 1985). In many mid-western states, land clearing continued unabated until the early 1900s, at which time areas marginal for agricultural production were gradually abandoned. In Indiana, agricultural clearing and timber extraction reduced forested land from 85% pre-settlement to approximately 6% (Evans, Donnelly, & Sweeney, 2009; Nelson, 1998). Ohio experienced a similar dramatic forest loss, from 90% to 18% (Kellog, 1909). There is some discrepancy in historical estimates, with an older report citing Indiana forest cover in the early 1900s of 18% (Kellog, 1909), but because contemporary data are more reliable, considerable reforestation in the 20th century has been documented, and current forest cover estimates equal approximately 17–20%, we find Nelson’s estimates to be most plausible. While other states in the eastern United States experienced precipitous declines in forest cover, none were more dramatic than in Indiana and Ohio (Fig. 76.1) (Evans et al., 2009). Between 1870 and 1910, forest utilization and perceptions/attitudes about forests changed, and the lumber industry went through its period of greatest growth, greatest production, and greatest destructiveness. Although wood was still in high demand for use in railroad building, construction of homes, log rafting, and urban and rural development, wood became less ubiquitous in American life as many commodities were made of glass, metal, or other substitutes. Gradually the commercialization of forests changed, largely due to technological advances, demand, and the realization that forests were finite. The accomplishments of those in the lumber industry – bigger mills, more jobs, new communities, larger shipments to domestic and foreign markets – were offset by the growing specter of a coming timber famine, of valueless cutover land reverting to government ownership, and of idle mills and idle workers. Not surprisingly, the expansion of lumbering preceded calls for the careful husbanding of forest

76

Historic Land Use and Social Policy

1373

Fig. 76.1 Percent forest-cover loss in the Eastern United States, pre-1800s to 1909. (Source: Evans et al., 2009; Data Source: U.S. Department of Agriculture)

resources, though when those calls did come, they were first sounded in the Lake states where the impact of major logging activities had first been experienced. The period following 1909 contrasted sharply with the one preceding it. Focus given to economic growth and production was replaced with reconciling public and private contending interests and their claims on the forest. Similarly, focus was shifted from the government regulatory approach of the Progressive Era to the development of cooperative approaches in which public and private sectors worked together. In essence, the public was awakened to the problems of logging and the need for comprehensive conservation. In 1911, the Weeks Law was passed by Congress. This law grew from a group of conservation-minded citizens and foresters who wanted regulations placed on logging practices and the application of sound forest management on public and private lands (Cox et al., 1985). The Weeks Law

1374

M. Schmitt-Harsh et al.

marked the beginning of extensive cooperation among the federal government, the states, and private industry in protecting forests from fire and other hazards. World War I and the years that followed were times of continuous adjustments for the lumber industry. During the war, high demand was placed on forests for the construction of wooden merchant vessels and wooden sailing ships. Immediately following the war, demand for lumber plummeted, mills closed, and the national price index for lumber fell by 50% from 1920 to 1921 (Cox et al., 1985). Production activities resumed in 1923; however, prices for lumber remained low, putting a damper on expansion as well as on efforts to modernize. To meet the challenge of diminishing timber stands and overproduction, a comprehensive fire-prevention program supported by the chief of the U.S. Forest Service (USFS), William B. Greeley, was established. The Clarke-McNary Act in 1924 expanded the federalstate-industry program of cooperative fire protection and authorized $2.5 million annually to finance it. The bill also authorized a federal-state system of nurseries to provide seedlings for reforestation, a study of forest taxation, a federal landacquisition program for navigable streams, and a forestry extension program (Cox et al., 1985). This bill represents a form of social engineering that influenced the physical engineering of the earth and, in combination with the expansion of forest research and other cooperative forestry programs, paved the way for a new era of consolidation, maturation, and development.

76.3 Forest Conservation Initiatives 76.3.1 Civilian Conservation Corps (1933–1942) 76.3.1.1 Origins, Legislation, Organizational Structure The decade from 1930 to 1940 was characterized by the stagnation of price levels, profit decline, diminished incomes (particularly farm), and high unemployment that exceeded 25% by 1933. Approximately 30% of those employed worked on a parttime basis (Aaron, Hofstadter, & Miller, 1967). Employment in forestry projects was considered one viable solution to address the unemployment problem and it evolved into one of the centerpiece programs of the Roosevelt administration’s New Deal. The concept of an organization that would put to work the unemployed through nature conservation projects was not uniquely Franklin Roosevelt’s, although he had actively advocated and implemented such as a New York state legislator as early as 1929 (Gibbs, 1933; Paige, 1985; Salmond, 1967). Concurrent with Roosevelt’s early efforts, states like California had established camps to employ individuals drawing relief on public works projects that included forestry. Likewise, the Society of American Foresters and the American Forestry Association promoted socially engineered programs to employ workers in a variety of conservation- and recreational-enhancement projects in national parks and state and national forests (Paige, 1985; Recknagel, 1932; Salmond, 1967). The Emergency Conservation Work (ECW), later renamed the CCC, was established as part of the New Deal and

76

Historic Land Use and Social Policy

1375

adopted aspects of existing and proposed programs to formulate a national program of unemployment relief through conservation projects. On 5 April 1933, one month after assuming office, President Roosevelt signed Executive Order 6101, entitled “Relief of Unemployment through the Performance of Useful Public Works,” appropriated $10 million to establish ECW, and appointed Robert Fechner as director. The executive order mandated the appointment of two representatives by each of the secretaries of Agriculture, Interior, Labor, and War to an ECW advisory council (the Veterans Administration, Office of Indian Affairs, and Department of Education were later participants). The advisory council discussed matters of policy and presented recommendations to the director, who was free to accept or reject them. However, on all matters pertaining to CCC policy, the ultimate authority resided with the president. Responsibilities for implementing aspects of the program related to recruitment, training, and project supervision were allocated among a number of government departments, or administrative agencies: Agriculture, Interior, Labor, and War. The Department of Labor was to initiate a nationwide recruiting program, the Department of Labor was to condition and transport enrollees to work camps, and the National Park Service (NPS) and USFS were to operate the camps and supervise the work assignments (Paige, 1985). Work projects in national forests were assigned to the USFS (state, forest, and private land work was later added to their responsibilities) and state and recreation park work to the NPS. Due to insufficient resources to both operate the camps and direct projects,1 the NPS and USFS were relieved of camp operations and the U.S. Army assumed the additional responsibility. At the request of the president, Congress granted an authorization for extension of the ECW and a doubling of its workforce enrollment via the Emergency Relief Appropriation Act of 1935. However, as early as 1936, the president was actively working on a plan to reduce the size of the ECW to make it a smaller, manageable, and permanent organization. In June 1937, legislation was passed and signed by the president that created the CCC (formal change of title from ECW). The agency was not made permanent but was extended for three years. An additional attempt was made in 1939 to establish the permanency of the CCC but it failed. The Reorganization Act of 1939 brought the CCC under the jurisdiction of the Federal Security Agency in July of that year. The focus on conservation projects and education that had been embraced at the outset of the ECW shifted to national defense with the start of conflict in Europe in 1939. Projects became primarily defense related, and military training replaced the earlier education programs, with many recruits diverted to defense work exclusively. Recruitment began to fall short by 1941 as potential enrollees migrated to higher-wage national defense employment. All CCC camps engaged in activities unrelated to wartime production or the protection of natural resources needed for war activities were terminated with the entry of the United States into World War II (Paige 1985). In May 1942, the president requested and was subsequently denied an appropriation from the House of Representatives Committee on Appropriations to continue 150 camps. On June 30, 1942, all CCC work programs were terminated. The Labor-Federal Security Administration Act

1376

M. Schmitt-Harsh et al.

appropriated $8 million to pay for the cost of terminating the program and stipulated the completion date at July 1, 1943. 76.3.1.2 Cooperative Role with the National Park Service Given the number of individuals expected to work in the nation’s parks and forests within the first year (Roosevelt’s goal was 250,000 youths by July 1, 1933), the NPS and USFS played an integral role in the administration and development of the CCC program. Although the expansion of responsibilities was demanding and brought greater involvement (and contention) with the Army, the spirit of the NPS and those taking part in the CCC program was pronounced. A letter from NPS Director Horace M. Albright to the NPS field people reflects this climate: While this program involves hard work placed on the shoulders of every one of us, a large responsibility and a great deal of hard work, it also permits us to play a very important part in one of the greatest schemes ever devised for the relief of our fellow citizens in this present crisis and the rehabilitation of many young men of the nation who have as yet had no opportunity for decent occupation and have been the subjects of unfortunate attitude toward their native land and conditions in general. We therefore have a wonderful opportunity to play a leading part in the development of a wholesome and patriotic mental attitude in this younger generation. (Wirth, 1980, p. 83)

During its first year, CCC work focused on forest improvement projects, construction and maintenance of fire breaks, forest fire suppression, campground and trail construction, road and trail building, survey work, tree disease control, insect control, and landscaping (Paige, 1985). These projects influenced the physical engineering of the earth and were undertaken in both national and state parks, with more rigid planning, inspections, and supervision given to projects within national parks and monuments. Prior to the CCC, the NPS had no formal ties with the state parks program, which was still in its infancy (only 19 states had a formal park system, although 45 states had initiated development plans). The NPS was granted rights to oversee the state park systems, and during the first enrollment period (June 1– September 30, 1933), 105 CCC camps were assigned to state park projects in 26 states (Wirth, 1980). Through assistance from NPS-employed technicians and CCC funds, recreational parks, wildlife conservation projects, and historical restoration programs were developed within state park systems. 76.3.1.3 Contribution to Forest Conservation and Reforestation During the existence of the CCC program (from April 1933 to June 1942) work was undertaken by the NPS on a total of 655 parks and related types of recreation areas: 71 national parks, 23 recreational demonstration areas, 8 TVA areas, 29 federal defense areas, 405 state parks, 42 county parks, 75 metropolitan parks, and 2 unclassified areas (Wirth, 1980). At the peak of its program in 1935, there were 590 camps in national and state parks. By 1942, there were only 89 camps, 70 of which were operated by the NPS on military reservations doing defense work (Paige, 1985; Wirth, 1980).

76

Historic Land Use and Social Policy

1377

While the activities and duties of the CCC were diverse, many were dedicated to the protection, improvement, or expansion of forests, which created immeasurable benefits to the national and state park systems. When the CCC was established in 1933, the greatest threat to the national parks was forest fires, due to insufficient fire-fighting personnel and insufficient funds to fully implement fire-protection programs within parks (Paige, 1985). The CCC program facilitated the development of fire trails and other forest fire-prevention facilities, and developed insect, disease, and erosion controls. The CCC provided a federal aid program, technical assistance, and administrative guidance for development and long-range planning of state park systems (Wirth, 1980). By the time the CCC was terminated in 1942, 711 state parks had been established (Paige, 1985). The CCC also provided the manpower and resources necessary to improve losses caused by forest fires, tree diseases, insects, rodent infestations, and soil erosion. Many other accomplishments resulted from the engineering of the CCC, such as construction of public-use facilities (sanitation and water systems), service roads, campgrounds, trails, housing for employees, and restoration of historic sites and buildings. These accomplishments still yield benefits today. An estimated 3 billion trees were planted during the CCC program, which together with the development and improvement in national and state park systems has had a lasting effect on the presence of forests nationally.

76.3.2 Soil Bank Program and Conservation Reserve Program Although the CCC succeeded in planting trees on both public and private lands over an area that exceeded 2.3 million acres (almost 931,000 ha), CCC activities cannot be given exclusive credit as the sole government-sponsored initiative that resulted in large scale reforestation. Subsequent government programs implemented projects that successfully reforested acreage that equaled, or exceeded, that accomplished by the CCC. The Soil Bank Program (1956–1961) was essentially an acreage reduction mechanism established during the Eisenhower Administration to (1) curtail farming of cropland, particularly land that was prone to erosion, to avoid a potential repeat of conditions that led to the Dust Bowl and (2) decrease crop surpluses and stabilize eroding per capita disposable income for farm families. The Soil Bank legislation provided farmers a fixed payment per acre for removing staple crops (corn, wheat, rice, cotton, peanut, and tobacco) from production and diverting the land to conservation uses for a term of no less than 3 years to a maximum of 10. Approximately 28.6 million acres (11.6 million ha) were enrolled in the program nationwide by 1960 (Daniels, 1988). Of that amount, 2.2 million acres (890,000 ha) were planted in trees primarily by an ownership group comprised of farmers and other private citizens, although the forest industry, the USFS, and other public entities contributed (Moulton & Hernandez, 2000). The majority of planting (87%) occurred in the southern states. A national study was conducted in 1992 of acreage that was planted in trees under the Soil Bank Program and found that only 7.5% had been converted back for agriculture or pasture purposes (Dangerfield, Newman, Moorhead, & Thompson, 1995).

1378

M. Schmitt-Harsh et al.

The Soil Bank Program terminated in 1961, but was followed by similar programs such as the Cropland Conservation Program in 1962 and the Cropland Adjustment Program in 1965. From a conservation perspective, the Soil Bank Program yielded significant benefits, but its success at addressing the pressing societal issues of the day were less so. No restrictions were stipulated on the amount of acreage enrolled in the program and, consequently, some counties suffered substantial economic loss as a consequence (Daniels 1988). Furthermore, susceptibility of erosion was less a consideration for farmers considering enrollment as was the land’s productive capacity. Consequently, marginally productive land was primarily enrolled and farmers invested enrollment imbursements in production acreage to increase yields, which exacerbated the surplus problem. The environmental conditions and plight of the farmers that compelled the Eisenhower Administration to introduce the Soil Bank Act reappeared in the 1970s and 1980s. High export demand for staple crops and low supply forced commodity prices higher in the 1970s. Farmers responded by planting marginal cropland and expanding production into pasture and rangelands. As the value of U.S. currency increased in the 1980s, farm incomes significantly decreased again. Faced with issues related to cropland erosion and diminished farm incomes, Congress responded with the passage of the Food Security Act (1985) and a Soil Bank successor program, the Conservation Reserve Program (CRP). The CRP differed from its predecessor in that it limited the annual payments to farmers as well as the amount of acreage eligible for enrollment per county and focused on cropland that was most susceptible to erosion (Daniels 1988). As of fiscal year 1998, the extent of tree planting and seeding under the CRP had exceeded those of predecessor programs. Over 2.6 million acres (1.1 million ha) had been planted or seeded, the majority of which (almost 90%) occurred on land under private ownership (forest industry comprised 41.7% and nonindustrial private property comprised 47.9%) (Moulton & Hernandez, 2000). Similar to what was observed with the Soil Bank Program, planting and seeding in the southern states accounted for approximately 79% of the total. The CRP is particularly important in mid-western states because of the relatively large proportion of marginal land for agriculture. The state of Indiana contributes approximately 280,000 acres to the approximate 33 million acres actively enrolled in CRP (as of 24 April 2009). An examination of cumulative enrollment in Indiana, from inception through 2007, revealed that peak enrollment occurred in the mid1990s. A significant decline was observed from the peak period to the end of the decade but enrollment has stabilized since then in the range of 275–325 thousand acres (data compiled by the Department of Agriculture Farm Service Agency) (Fig. 76.2). Net change in acreage enrollment in the interval from 1997 to 2007 remained modest for the majority of counties. The direction of change was split evenly among the counties; an increase in enrolled acreage was observed in half and a decrease in the remainder (Fig. 76.3). However, the largest net changes were found in counties that had experienced a decrease in CRP acreage, approximately 16% lost acreage in excess of 2% (net). Although the percentage of county area in CRP, for the range of land-use practices, has remained relatively low from the peak period

76

Historic Land Use and Social Policy

1379

Fig. 76.2 Cumulative enrollment in the conservation reserve program in Indiana, 1986–2007

Fig. 76.3 Enrollment in the conservation reserve program in 1997 and net change in enrollment over the next decade. (Data Source: U.S. Department of Agriculture, Farm Service Agency)

through 2007, it has been estimated that 18,700 acres (7,570 ha) of tree plantings in Indiana alone have been initiated through this program (Evans et al., 2009). The 2002 Farm Bill enacted or amended a number of mandatory conservation programs; however, the largest of these programs, the CRP, has not been subject to modified limitations since the passing of the bill.

1380

M. Schmitt-Harsh et al.

76.4 Land-Use Legacies and Future Implications The process of westward expansion and the absence of legislation to protect forest resources in the 18th and early 19th centuries had long-lasting effects. Fire and inefficient methods of harvesting had dramatic effects on forest health and rapid increases in the number of lumber industries quickly led to overexploitation of forests and a shift in human-environmental interactions. This migration of production from the Northeast to the Lake States, the South, and the West Coast resulted in a widespread loss of forest cover. Given the trend of economic growth and production, the years from 1910 to 1930 helped determine the future of America’s forests. Citizens and foresters actively engaged in promoting conservation efforts, and state conservation agencies, aided by the Weeks Law and the Clarke-McNary Act, developed increasingly effective fire-prevention systems, seedling nurseries, and educational programs. This 20-year period was critical to the consolidation, maturation, and development of cooperative federal-state-private forestry practices and provided a portion of the operational framework for national conservation, or social engineering, efforts that followed. Federal programs such as the CCC, Soil Bank, and CRP, implemented in response to deteriorating socioeconomic and/or environmental conditions, yielded significant conservation benefits in terms of forest protection, quality, and expansion. Some of these policy responses have had long-lasting effects, such as the creation of state and federal forests through implementation of the CCC. Others have had more temporary effects, given the focus on management practices and land use rather than land cover. Land-use management decisions affecting forests on private lands in particular, as well as the potential for reforestation on private lands, remain susceptible to fluid socioeconomic conditions and conservation enrollment opportunities. In the United States, both national and state governments have been important actors in encouraging conservation and reforestation, particularly in the 20th century. Through the development and implementation of conservation programs, and the purchasing of extensive lands that were abandoned from the 1930s to 1950s, the amount of forested area in the United States has increased in the last century. Public landholdings represent the largest contiguous patches of forests in many areas; however, a particular challenge to managers of state and federal forests is to promote increased contiguity to reduce the fragmentation that exists among many public landholdings. While this chapter has examined how social engineering in the form of largescale policy prescriptions influence land-use/cover changes and the activities of individual actors, greater focus on bottom-up actors as agents of change may improve our understanding of the dynamic and synergistic processes involved in forest-cover change. There is considerable complexity in local-level actions as many private landholdings are managed by a heterogeneous group of actors with diverse preferences and household contexts that result in varying approaches to land management (Evans & Kelley, 2004). For example, conversion of non-forested land to forest has been observed in recent decades on marginally productive farmland,

76

Historic Land Use and Social Policy

1381

pasture, and rangeland and the remainder holds the greatest potential for continued reforestation, particularly those unthreatened by urban encroachment (Evans, Green, & Carlson, 2001). However, global economic factors and the emergence of new opportunities such as biofuel-based agricultural production will continue to compete with the value of forest ecosystems. The shifting of fuel production to domestic agricultural sources may result in a tighter coupling between fuel supply and land use, which may have unforeseen environmental consequences. While some landowners will not modify their land-management practices in reaction to these changes, others will, and it is important to understand the institutional forces, and socioeconomic variables associated with land-use decision-making processes of private landholders. Net trajectories of land-cover change are the products of major policy prescriptions and local-level actions, thus requiring examination of the complex decision-making processes driving private and public actors at different management levels.

Note 1. Report by National Park Service Director Horace Albright to Field Officers, 13 April 1933.

References Aaron, D., Hofstadter, R., & Miller, W. (1967). The United States. The history of a republic (2d ed. rev.). Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Arthur, W. B. (1988). Urban systems and historical path dependence. In J. H. Ausubel & R. Herman (Eds.), Cities and their vital systems (pp. 85–97). Washington, DC: National Academies Press. Atkinson, G., & Oleson, T. (1996). Urban sprawl as a path dependent process. Journal of Economic Issues, 30, 609–615. Balmann, A. (2001). Modeling land use with multi-agent systems. Perspectives for the analysis of agricultural policies. In Microbehavior and macroresults. Proceedings of the tenth biennial conference of the International Institute of Fisheries Economics and Trade Presentations (CDROM; non-sequential page numbers). Corvallis, OR: Oregon State University. Retrieved on 5 April 2009, from http://oregonstate.edu/dept/IIFET/2000/papers/balmann.pdf. Brown, D. G., Page, S., Riolo, R., Zellner, M., & Rand, W. (2005). Path dependence and the validation of agent-based spatial models of land use. International Journal of Geographic Information Systems, 19(2), 153–174. Chomitz, K., & Gray, D. (1996). Roads, land use, and deforestation. A spatial model applied to Belize. The World Bank Economic Review, 10(3), 487–512. Cox, T. R., Maxwell, R. S., Thomas, P. D., & Malone, J. J. (1985). This well-wooded land. Americans and their forests from colonial times to the present. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Dangerfield, C. W., Jr., Newman, D. H., Moorhead, D. J., & Thompson, L. W. (1995). Land use when CRP payments end. What history tells us in Georgia. Washington, DC: National Resources Conservation Service, United States Department of Agriculture. Retrieved on 22 April 2009, from http://warnell.forestry.uga.edu/service/library/crp01/crp01.pdf. Daniels, T. L. (1988). America’s conservation reserve program. Rural planning or just another subsidy? Journal of Rural Studies, 4(4), 405–411. Evans, T. P., Donnelly, S., & Sweeney, S. P. (2009). Threats to the forest transition in the Midwest United States. In H. Nagendra, & J. Southworth (Eds.), Reforesting landscapes. Linking pattern and process. Dordrecht: Springer.

1382

M. Schmitt-Harsh et al.

Evans, T. P., Green, G. M., & Carlson, L. A. (2001). Multi-scale analysis of landcover composition and landscape management of public and private lands in Indiana. In A. Millington, S. Walsh, & P. Osborne (Eds.), GIS and remote sensing applications in biogeography and ecology (pp. 271– 287). Boston: Kluwer. Evans, T. P., & Kelley, H. (2004). Multi-scale analysis of a household level agent-based model of landcover change. Journal of Environmental Management, 72(1–2), 57–72. Foley J. A., DeFries, R., Asner, G. P., Barford, C., Bonan, G., Carpenter, S. R., et al. (2005). Global consequences of land use. Science, 309, 570–574. Geoghegan, J., Pritchard, L., Jr., Ogneva-Himmelberger, Y., Roy Chowdhury, R., Sanderson, S., & Turner II, B. L. (1998). “Socializing the pixel” and “pixelizing the social” in land-use and land-cover change. In D. Liverman, E. F. Moran, R. R. Rindfuss, & P. C. Stern (Eds.), People and pixels. Linking remote sensing and social science (pp. 51–69). Washington, DC: National Academies Press. Gibbs, J. (1933). Tree planting aids unemployed. American Forests, 39(4), 159–161. Kellog, R. S. (1909). The timber supply of the United States. Forest Resource Circular No. 166. Washington, DC: United States Department of Agriculture. Michaux, F. A. (1817). North American sylva. Paris: C. D’Hautel. Moulton, R. J., & Hernandez, G. (2000). Tree planting in the United States—1998. Tree Planters’ Notes, 49(2), 23–36. Retrieved on 7 April 2009, from http://www.srs.fs. usda.gov/pubs/ja/ja_moulton003.pdf. Nelson, J. (1998). Indiana’s forests: Past, present, and future. The Woodland Steward, 7(3). Retrieved on 22 April 2009, from http://www.inwoodlands.org Paige, J. C. (1985). The civilian conservation corps and the national park service, 1933–1942. An administrative history. Washington, DC: National Park Service, United States Department of the Interior. Retrieved on 5 April 2009, from http://www.nps. gov/history/history/online_books/ccc/index.htm. Parker, G. R. (1997). The wave of settlement. In M. T. Jackson (Ed.), The natural heritage of Indiana (pp. 369–381). Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Patz, J. A., Daszak, P., Tabor, G. M., Aguirre, A. A., Pearl, D., Epstein, J., et al. (2004). Unhealthy landscapes. Policy recommendations on land use change and infectious disease emergence. Environmental Health Perspectives, 112(10), 1092–1098. Recknagel, A. B. (1932). Woodland work for the unemployed. American Forests, 38 (September), 494. Salmond, J. A. (1967). The civilian conservation corps 1933–1942. A new deal case study. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Wilson, A. G. (2000). Complex spatial systems. The modelling foundations of urban and regional analysis. New York: Pearson. Wirth, C. L. (1980). Parks, politics, and the people. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press.

Chapter 77

The Historical Decrease of Soil Erosion in the Eastern United States – The Role of Geography and Engineering Stanley W. Trimble

77.1 Introduction Soil erosion has been a perennial problem in the eastern United States since European settlement and indeed was a crisis in many places during the l9th and early 20th centuries (Fig. 77.1). Why is this so? While there has been soil erosion during the last 2 or 3 millennia of western European history, it could rarely be described as extreme and seldom even serious (Fig. 77.2). Yet these western Europeans came to the eastern US, cultivated the soil, and erosion consequently became a real crisis in many places. The answer to this puzzle has many components. Cheap land is certainly one answer: that which is cheap is wasted. As Gray (1933) put it, southern planters perceived land as an expendable commodity and “bought land as they would a wagon – with the expectation of wearing it out”. Another explanation sometimes offered is that Americans were often illiterate and ignorant of soil conservation methods (Trimble, 1985). While this is true for many frontier farmers, some of the southern aristocracy were aware of soil erosion and were up on the latest methods (Hall, 1937, 1948). The problem was that these methods, mostly taken from Europe, did not work well in the eastern US (Meyer & Moldenhauer, 1985; Trimble, 1974, 2008). Related to this explanation but somewhat different was the existence of slavery and later tenancy (Trimble, 1974, 2008). In these cases there was a general ignorance augmented by the attitude “why preserve it if I don’t own it.” But there was also widespread tenancy in Western Europe without the attendant soil erosion. Another explanation which might be offered is that more clean-cultivated crops like corn (maize), tobacco and cotton were grown in the US. While this is true, especially for some areas, it is well to remember how widespread clean-cultivated crops like potatoes are in Europe. Moreover, areas in the US also often too had close-growing crops like small grains (wheat, barley, rye and oats) and even these

S.W. Trimble (B) Department of Geography, University of California, Los Angeles, CA 90024, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_77,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1383

1384

S.W. Trimble

Fig. 77.1 A severely eroded field typical of large areas on the Southern Piedmont and other areas of the eastern US in the 19th and early 20th centuries. (Source: Trimble, 1974, 2008)

Fig. 77.2 A field in Wilshire, UK, 1995. Despite the long and steep slopes, the fact that the furrows run up and down the slope, and the lack of any erosion control methods, there is no apparent erosion

areas sometimes suffered extreme erosion. Nevertheless, the long-term cultivation of clean-tilled crops like cotton and corn certainly contributed to the disastrous erosion in the east. If one accepts the erosive effects of cotton and corn as unity, then small grains would have a value of only about 0.4 or 40% as much (Trimble, 1974, 2008; Troeh, Hobbs, & Donohue, 1999).

77

The Historical Decrease of Soil Erosion in the Eastern United States

1385

77.2 The Role of Climate However, there is yet another variable that is quite overlooked, and that is climate. Western Europe has a Marine West Coast climate (Köppen: Cfb) while eastern North America has Humid Subtropical (Cfa) and Humid Continental (Dfa) More specifically, it is the intensity of rainfall, and the duration of these storms, that makes the difference. While the annual rainfall amounts in the UK and the eastern US are quite similar, the magnitude of any given return frequency is much greater for the more continental US than for the marine-influenced UK (Fig. 77.3). The essential question is how much the rainfall intensity exceeds the infiltration capacity of the soil. Infiltration capacities are given by the US Department of Agriculture for US soils by Hydrologic Groups with Group A being the most permeable and D soils being the least (Troeh et al., 1999). Such groupings are not available for Europe but there seems to be no reason that there would be much difference between there and the US. As is illustrated (Fig. 77.4), the problem is excess rainfall which flows off the surface as overland flow thus creating the risk for erosion. Thus, the average excess rate for the most permeable soils (Group A soils) for the 5-year storm for the Southern Piedmont is about seven times what it would be in lowland UK. Not only does this excess rainfall cause soil erosion, it

Fig. 77.3 Average annual precipitation compared to precipitation intensity, UK and eastern US. Note that while averages are similar, intensities are much greater in the US

1386

S.W. Trimble

Fig. 77.4 Infiltration capacities of soil vs. average rainfall rates, UK and eastern US. Note that excesses in the US are several times those in the UK

causes more severe flooding in small basins as the water rushes off the slopes and into the streams. Thus, control of erosion in the eastern U.S. must depend on some engineering/agronomic solutions.

77.3 Early Soil Conservation Practices The problem was that while many Americans desired to practice soil conservation, the available techniques were simply not adequate to control erosion in more intense rainfall of the eastern US. For example, contour plowing had been promoted since the time of Thomas Jefferson (Hall, 1937) but there are strong limitations for slope and rainfall intensity with this practice (Troeh et al., 1999). Since water is held in the contour rows, any breach of the rows allows a cascade of water to flow down the slope. So once the input of rainfall exceeds the infiltration capacity and the rows fill up, water overflows at some point and erosion starts, thus releasing the stored water in the rows, often starting a gully. Terracing was another practice advocated from the mid-19th century through the early 20th. However these terraces were poorly designed and executed and thus

77

The Historical Decrease of Soil Erosion in the Eastern United States

1387

tended to concentrate flow, often increasing soil erosion rather than decreasing it (Hall, 1948, Hendrickson, Barnett, Carrker, & Adams, 1963; Sauer, 1934). Again, the intensity of the rainfall was just too great for these terraces to handle. Another problem was that surveying instruments were inadequate and that land grading equipment was not available. Crop rotations had long been used in Europe but there the old three- field rotation was adequate to maintain soil infiltration capacities which would mitigate overland flow and soil erosion. As practiced in the Driftless Area, this consisted of one year cleaned-tilled crop, one year of small grains, and one year of grass (Trimble & Lund, 1982). But this rotation system was inadequate to curtail soil erosion in the US.

77.4 Improvements in Soil Conservation Practices The forgoing practices were known to be often ineffective in the US but there were no alternatives. As a result, some states began a program of experimental agricultural plot studies in the early 20th century and the USDA joined in 1929 (Meyer & Moldenhauer, 1985). These studies were to both increase productivity and to decrease erosion. Different crops were grown on various slopes and soils with different management practices as devised by agricultural engineers, and both erosion and productivity were measured. By the 1930s, some results of this experimental work were available in a form suitable for application to farms (Meyer & Moldenhauer, 1985). The megaengineering aspects of this are (1) the large extent of the experiments taking in varied climates and soils, and (2) the application to huge areas of agricultural land. To bring this new technology to farmers, a new federal agency, the USDA Soil Erosion Service, was formed in 1933. This agency, known after 1935 as the Soil Conservation Service, joined state agencies, land grant universities, and county farm agents in encouraging, teaching and often subsidizing farmers to use these new methods. This was often a difficult task because many farmers were reluctant to change their long-held methods. One effective way of convincing them was to implement soil conservation demonstration areas where it could be shown that the new conservation measures would work (Held & Clawson, 1965). The first of these, Coon Creek Wisconsin was begun in 1933 and was the brainchild of Aldo Leopold (Trimble, 1985).

77.5 Regional Examples of Accelerated: Soil Erosion and Recovery The history of soil erosion in two regions of the eastern US has been well documented. These regions are the Driftless Area (also known as the Upper Mississippi River Hill Country or Paleozoic Plateau) and the Southern Piedmont (see inset map on Fig. 77.4).

1388

S.W. Trimble

The Driftless Area. This was settled by western Europeans in the mid-19th century. It was an area of very good and mostly deep soils, some of which were Mollisols. The initial cash crop was usually wheat but that was soon replaced by corn (maize) (Johnson, 1976).The expansion of agriculture was rapid and had reached its maximum by 1900 (Trimble & Lund, 1982). Because the deep fertile soils had so much resilience, there was little erosion at first. But by the second decade of the 20th century, erosion became rampant with frequent flooding from the excess overland flow and so much sediment that roads, bridges, farms, and even villages were being buried. Most cultivated fields bore the scars of overland flow and erosion with rills and gullies visible, especially from the air (Fig. 77.5, top). By

Fig. 77.5 Before and after soil conservation engineering, Coon Creek, Wisconsin. Top: Early 1934. Note rectangular fields and gully systems extending into upland fields. Bottom: 1967. Note contour strip cropping. (Source: Trimble & Lund, 1982)

77

The Historical Decrease of Soil Erosion in the Eastern United States

1389

the early 1930s the region was in an erosion crisis with floodplains aggrading about 15 cm per year from the erosional debris. Organized conservation efforts in the Driftless Area by state and federal agencies began in late 1933. The newly developed techniques were brought to farmers in a very organized way. A survey considering crops, slopes and soils was made of each farm and a plan was devised. Because public subsidy of this problem was involved, farmers had to sign a contract to receive full benefits. The most commonly implemented new technique introduced was contour strip cropping. Mentioned earlier was the problem with contour plowing alone, but experimentation showed that adding contour strips of grass at intervals down the slope helped to curtail erosion because the grass allowed infiltration of overland flow and entrapment of soil particles. Reshaping the landscape of rectangular fields into contour strips was a spectacular and aesthetic change (Fig. 77.5). At first, many farmers rejected what they called “crazy quilt farming” But by 1975, over half the cropland in the area was in contour strips (Trimble & Lund, 1982). This proportion is compatible with good management because the areas not in strip contouring are generally on mild slopes. Another widespread improvement was in crop rotations. By experimentation, it was found that an additional 2 years of grass cover greatly improved soil structure, increasing infiltration capacity and the entrapment of transported soil particles. The old, ubiquitous 3-year rotation with just one year in grass cover was modified to have 3 or even 4 years with grass. By 1975, 97% of cropland had at least 3 years of grass in the rotation. Other soil conservation methods obtained from experiments were also used in the region, the most common being crop residue management whereby corn stalks or other organic material was ground up and spread across fields. An approximate index or surrogate to full implementation of the full array of new techniques is the proportion of farmers cooperating with the SCS. While by 1975 only 62% were cooperating fully (Trimble & Lund, 1982), most of the remainder cooperated to some degree. The result of these modern soil conservation measures was to greatly curtail soil erosion. While a highly imperfect model, use of the Universal Soil Erosion Equation suggests that the erosion rates of 1975 had been reduced to about one-fourth those of 1934 (Trimble & Lund, 1982). However, the measured rates of downstream sediment accumulation were only about 6% of the earlier rates (Trimble, 1999)! The disparity between erosion rates from the uplands and the sedimentation rates in valleys is explained by sediment entrained from tributaries and also from errors of estimation of erosion and measurement of sediment deposits. Perhaps the best criterion of soil erosion and stream sediment loads is biological rather than physical. The original dominant fish, brook trout, had, by the early 20th century, been mostly extirpated by the flooding and high sediment concentrations. By the late 20th century, they could not only live in regional streams, but they could also again reproduce there (Trimble & Crosson, 2000). By whatever measure, soil erosion in the Driftless Area is only a fraction of what it was in the early 20th century.

1390

S.W. Trimble

The Southern Piedmont (see inset map on Fig. 77.4). The region was settled starting about 1700 from east to west and the last land was taken up in west Georgia and eastern Alabama about 1840. Tobacco was important from the first, mostly in Virginia, and cotton was grown mainly from South Carolina westward. Although local relief is somewhat less than in the Driftless Area, rainfall is even more intense (see Fig. 77.4), and crop rotations of any kind were uncommon there. The net result was that erosion in both regions was on the same scale, although over a longer time scale for the Piedmont. The effect on streams was similar to the Driftless Area with burial of farms, roads, bridges, and mills. While many of same improvements in soil conservation techniques were implemented on the Southern Piedmont, strip cropping could not be used as effectively because most farmers had few cattle and therefore grew little grass. Thus, effective terracing became much more important. As already indicated, terracing as practiced early on the Piedmont may have augmented erosion. But again, during the period of experimentation, terrace design was greatly improved as was the machinery to build terraces to the required precision. Although covered in pasture grass, the general layout of these improved terraces can be seen in Fig. 77.6. But there is a component in the stabilization of the Piedmont landscape not seen in the Driftless Area and that is the reversion of cropland to forest and pasture. What is now a sea of forest (see Fig. 77.6) was a sea of row crops in the early 20th century. Why did this happen? One might point to the eroded soils of the Piedmont (see Fig. 77.1) which discouraged continuing cropping, especially those

Fig. 77.6 Former cropland, now reverted to forest, Southern Piedmont. The forested land is either too eroded for cultivation or is simply economically marginal to better cropland elsewhere in the US. Such reverted land is common and even dominant in many areas of the eastern US. (Source: Trimble, 1974, 2008)

77

The Historical Decrease of Soil Erosion in the Eastern United States

1391

Fig. 77.7 Productivity and efficiency of agricultural land use, 1947–1994. Note that land area declined about 10% but productivity increased almost 150%. (Source: Helms, 2003)

areas too gullied for use but the reason was economic as much as physical. As part of the aforementioned experimentation, new methods of cultivation, use of fertilizer and pesticides, and crop plant improvement allowed great increases of productivity and that improvement has continued. Since 1948 cropland in the US has declined slightly, but output has increased almost threefold (Helms, 2003, Fig. 77.7). The increased productivity has occurred on the best soils of the country so that marginal soils, like those on most of the Piedmont have gone out of production. Why grow corn in Georgia where one might get 50 bushels per acre when it can be grown in Iowa with yields of over 200 bushels per acre? Of course, there are environmental costs in maximizing productivity on the nation’s best non-irrigated soils, the most salient being the excessive use of fertilizer and resulting movement of these plant nutrients, especially nitrogen, into natural waters. The result is a degradation of ambient water quality. Perhaps the most egregious result is the large anoxic zone in the Gulf of Mexico caused by excessive use of nutrients in the Midwestern US. Excessive soil erosion can be a problem also but is overshadowed by the nutrient problem (National Research Council, 2008). Like the Piedmont, much of the present forest extending from Texas to Maine is old cropland which has reverted to forest and much of that has occurred over the past 70 or so years (McCleery, 1992). The effect of cropland reversion plus soil conservation measures on the remaining Piedmont cropland was to greatly reduce erosive land use and thus to reduce erosion to very low levels. The “sea of forest” shown in Fig. 77.6 is has significance far beyond reduction of soil erosion. First, it has been a huge carbon sink as the forest grows and as more carbon is incorporated into the soil. No exact values are available but North American forests contain about 170 billion tons of carbon (SOCCR, 2007). The second effect is that this reversion

1392

S.W. Trimble

of farmland to forest has greatly enhanced wildlife habitat, especially the return of once-scarce animals like deer and turkeys (McKibben, 1995). The third major effect is that the increased transpiration from expanding forests has decreased stream flow (Price 1998; Trimble, Weirich, & Hoag, 1987). The irony is that as reforestation increased water quality, it decreased quantity.

77.6 Engineering Advances in Soil Conservation Since the 1930s While the soil conservation measures of the 1930s were a great advance over the practices of the past, agricultural engineering improvements since that time are of the same order of magnitude. The ultimate technology at this point is the no-till method whereby the soil is not plowed but rather the seeds are drilled or inserted directly into the soil. During the previous crop harvest, all the crop residues (stalks and leaves) are mulched and left on the surface, protecting it from erosion during the next year. By using this method, farmers are now free to use their large machinery to cultivate very large fields with long, steep slopes. In addition to greatly reducing soil erosion, no-till causes increases of biological activity in the soil, sequestration, of organic carbon and decrease of bulk density, all resulting in increased infiltration capacity and decreased erosion. These improvements in soil condition can also improve crop yields by as much as 200% (Montgomery, 2008). By the mechanism of incorporating carbon into the soil, no-till methods also reduce atmospheric carbon dioxide and thus potentially reduce global warming. Implementation of no-till methods on a world scale, an unlikely scenario, is estimated to be capable of absorbing 90% of global carbon emissions over the next few decades. By 2004 no-till methods were used on about 25% of US farmland, but Canada had already converted one-third of its cropland to no-till by 1991 (Montgomery, 2008)

77.7 Conclusions Amelioration of the excessive historical soil erosion in the eastern US came only in the mid 20th century with new soil conservation techniques developed by agricultural engineers with widespread regional experimentation. Additionally, greatly enhanced productivity allowed US agriculture to use only the better soils allowing vast areas of poorer soils to revert to forest. Not only has soil erosion been reduced, but significant amounts of carbon have been sequestered, wildlife habitat has been improved, and we have much larger forest reserves. The downside of enhanced agriculture has been excessive use of nutrients with their movement into natural waters. Acknowledgement I wish to thank Douglas Helms for his careful and critical reading of the paper.

77

The Historical Decrease of Soil Erosion in the Eastern United States

1393

References Gray, L. C. (1933). History of Agriculture in the Southern United States to 1860 (2 Vols.). Washington, DC: Carnegie Institute. Hall, A. R. (1937). Early Erosion Control Practices in Virginia. USDA Miscellaneous Publication 256. Hall, A. R. (1948) Soil Erosion and Agriculture on the Southern Piedmont: A History. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Duke University. Held, B. R., & Clawson, R. M. (1965). Soil conservation in perspective. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Press. Helms, J. D. (2003). The evolution of conservation payments to farmers. In N. DeCuir, A. Sokolow, & J. Woled (Eds.), Compensating landowners for conserving agricultural land (pp. 123–132). Davis: University of California Community Studies Extension. Hendrickson, B. H., Barnett, A. P., Carrker, J. R., & Adams, W. E. (1963). Runoff and Erosion control studies on Cecil soils of the Southern Piedmont. USDA Technical Bulletin 1281. Johnson, H. B. (1976). Order upon the land. New York: Oxford University Press. McCleery, D. (1992). American forests: A history of resilience and recovery. Durham, NC: Forest History Society. McKibben, B. (1995). An explosion of green. Atlantic Monthly, 275, 61–83, April. Meyer, L. D., & Moldenhauer, W. C. (1985). Soil erosion by water: The research experience. In D. Helms & S. Flader (Eds.), The history of soil and water conservation (pp. 90–102). Washington, DC: The Agricultural History Society. Montgomery, D. R. (2008). Agriculture’s no-till revolution? Journal of Soil and Water Conservation, 63: 64A–65A. National Research Council. (2008). Mississippi river water quality and the clean water act. Washington, DC: National Academy of Sciences. Price, A. P. (1998). The effect of climate and land use on the hydrology of the upper Oconee River basin, Georgia. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of California, Los Angeles, CA. Sauer, C. O. (1934). The extension of geomorphic research to the Piedmont, memorandum to H.H. Bennett, dated 31 Dec 1934. Files of the Section of Climatic and Physiographic Research, erosion History, Record Group 114, Entry 336, Box 82-87. National Archives Building, Washington, DC. State of the Carbon Cycle Report (SOCCR). (2007). North American carbon budget and implications for the global carbon cycle. Chapter 11, North American Forests. Retrieved May 2008, from www.climatescience.gov/Library?sap/sap/2-2/finalreport/default.htm Trimble, S. W. (1974, 2008). Man-induced soil erosion on the Southern Piedmont. Ankeny, IA: Soil and Water Conservation Society Trimble, S. W. (1985). Perspectives on the history of soil erosion control in the eastern United States. Agricultural History, 59, 162–180. Trimble, S. W. (1999). Decreased rates of alluvial storage in the Coon Creek Basin, Wisconsin, 1975–93. Science, 285, 1244–1246. Trimble, S. W., & Crosson, P. (2000). U.S. soil erosion rates-myth and reality. Science, 289, 248–250. Trimble, S. W., & Lund, S. (1982). Soil conservation and the reduction of erosion and sedimentation in the Coon Creek basin, Wisconsin. USGS Professional Paper 1234. Trimble, S. W., Weirich, F. H., & Hoag, B. (1987). Reforestation and the reduction of water yield on the Southern Piedmont. Water Resources Research, 23, 425–437. Troeh, F. R., Hobbs, J. A., & Donohue, R. L. (1999). Soil and water conservation. Upper Saddle River NJ: Prentice Hall.

Chapter 78

Re-Making America: Soil Mechanics, Earth Moving, Highways, and Dams Peter J. Hugill

78.1 Introduction In 20th century America embarked on the most ambitious building projects in human history. The achievements of mechanical engineers and architects in such areas as bridge and skyscraper construction were remarkable, but they pale into insignificance by the side of road, airfield, subway, and dam construction. Yet our attention is grabbed and held by the dramatic bridges by which we cross our great rivers and the iconic skyscrapers that dominate the skylines of our great cities, not the taken-for-granted roads and airfields we travel on, the subways that move us around in our major cities, and the huge number of dams that restrain our rivers, and which, for the most part, we never see. In the late 1800s America was a far cry from today in terms of geographic mobility and control over environmental problems. Long distance travel was limited to coastal shipping and a network of railroads, built largely by private capital with a very clear eye to return, that had fixed the urban hierarchy of America (Meinig, 2004), but that had been built for a small elite to move rapidly between the major cities (Stilgoe, 1983). For most folk, individual mobility meant walking, and travel beyond distances one could walk was rare: some cities built electric streetcar networks that allowed better urban, if not individual mobility; a few had elevated local railroads, Boston had a very basic subway and New York was embarking on a much more extensive system (Hood, 1993; Warner, 1971). In the late 1800s the main environmental problem in America, with its extremes of rainfall, was flooding. High intensity rainfall episodes caused violent flooding in many river valleys. Since the best farmlands were often in such valleys floods could be immensely destructive of crops and property. Cities in river valleys suffered substantial loss of life in such floods. Two techniques were used in attempts to control such floods: levees and dams. Levees and dams were built on an empirical basis using human labor and techniques dating back to ancient Egyptian P.J. Hugill (B) Department of Geography and Bush School International Affairs Program, Texas A&M University, College Station, TX, 77843, USA e-mail: [email protected] S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_78,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1395

1396

P.J. Hugill

attempts to control the Nile. They failed frequently. The collapse of a privately constructed earthen dam outside Johnstown, Pennsylvania in 1889 caused one of the worst floods in American history, costing some $20 million in property damage (Barrows, 1948: 136) and the lives of 2,209 people (Schnitter, 1994: 161). The most spectacular floods were, however, rural and southern, afflicting the country’s great cotton-growing region. The greatest impact on public policy came from the great Mississippi flood of 1927 (Barry, 1997). This paper has three parts. First, I deal with the evolution of the American transportation infrastructure, roads in particular, and the introduction of the new science of soil mechanics to help build that infrastructure. Second, I examine the ever larger and more complex machinery needed to build that infrastructure cheaper and faster. Third, I focus on the application of that new machinery to levee and dam construction to control flooding. The work of Karl Terzaghi, the “father of soil mechanics,” summarized in From Theory to Practice in Soil Mechanics, is interwoven with all three parts (Terzaghi, 1960).

78.2 Building the American Transport Infrastructure 78.2.1 Roads The first device that allowed individual mobility beyond walking range, the “safety” bicycle, emerged in the late 1880s as an increasingly popular device for short-range individual mobility in urban areas with some level of paved roads. The “ordinary” bicycles of the 1860s on, with their huge front and tiny rear wheels, were sporting devices for athletic young men. “Safety” bicycles, with equal sized wheels and chain drive, could be ridden by almost anyone, and some began to take them out of the cities to “tour.” The League of American Wheelmen began to exert political pressure for better roads. Farmers’ Granges followed suit. Rural residents increasingly pressured the Post Office to provide Rural Free Delivery, which they refused to do without better roads. By the 1890s these pressures were intense: wealthy eastern states responded with “Goods Roads” programs designed to link suburbs to cities and allow some level of touring in such areas as the Green and White Mountains of Massachusetts and the Adirondacks of New York (Hugill, 1982). The new safety bicycles were robust enough to survive the poor roads of urban areas and the largely non-existent ones outside them. Few women ever rode an ordinary bicycle, but they could ride drop-frame safety bicycles safely and decorously (Hugill, 1993: 211), further increasing the political pressure for better roads as more women joined the labor force in such new white-collar jobs as typewriting and telephone switching. Bicycles sped up and down the levees to warn people of floods along the Mississippi River in the late 1890s (Marty Reuss, personal communication). Three adventurous Englishmen cycled around the world for the sheer fun of it and wrote a book about their experiences (Frazer, 1899). The demand for “Good Roads” skyrocketed with the adoption of the automobile. One state invested particularly heavily. New York’s $50 million “Good Roads” bond

78

Re-Making America

1397

issue of 1904 pre-dated all but the very earliest adoption of the automobile and was really about suburban bicyclists. The second $50 million bond issue of 1911 was about elite automobile commuting and touring. New York alone accounted for 37% of all county, township, and state road bonds issued nationwide through December 1912 (Hugill, 1982: 338–339). The political reality of support by bicyclists and rural folk meant roads were constructed primarily for horse and cart traffic. As automobiles entered the mix it became evident that water bound macadam roads built for some $10,000 a mile could not survive the torque of a motor driven wheel. Torque opened up the surface permitting water to move into the road’s foundation causing frost heave and other forms of damage. As much more powerful trucks were added to the vehicle mix using the new roads, disaster struck. When the rail network collapsed under the weight of traffic as America entered World War I trucks from Detroit (“Packards for Pershing”) were loaded with war goods and driven to the coast for shipment to Europe. Public Roads devoted its entire June 1918 issue to the resulting disaster. The New York State Highway Commissioner noted that some lengths of road upstate were so heavily damaged by a convoy of 30 seven ton trucks that fourteen miles of a bituminous macadam road built for $10,000 per mile would cost $32,000 per mile to repair (Duffey, 1918: 7). Experimental brick and concrete roads that stood up well to automobiles also collapsed disastrously under heavy trucks. Engineering knowledge of how roads should be built was almost non-existent in the early 1900s. Books like Shaler’s American Highways (1896) and Frost’s Art of Roadmaking (1910) began to appear. They looked back to such British engineers as Macadam and Telford, and to the Frenchman, Tresauget, with Macadam’s water bound graded gravel roads preferred. Shaler, a noted Harvard geologist, paid some attention to soils as the underpinning of roads, but without categorizing them. Frost, an engineer, merely specified that soil should be compacted before road construction began. Shaler’s work predates the emergence of the automobile; Frost paid little attention to it, relegating it to Appendix III, “Concerning the Wear of Roads by the Automobile,” though noting its impact was certain to increase. As interest in roads grew Congress in 1893 established the Office of Roads Inquiry (ORI) within the Department of Agriculture to research methods of road construction. ORI matured into the Bureau of Public Roads (BPR) after 1900. Research by these agencies was entirely empirical, but the experiences of World War I seemed to show the main problem was to create a road surface impermeable to water. Even so, the General Inspector of BPR stated that many failures were because “we never know even approximately the factor of safety in the bearing power of our sub-base or subgrade. The few studies made in this direction have little application to road conditions, because the moisture content of the soil and its grading or texture, which so strongly affect capillarity, have never been adequately considered ” (James, 1918: 32). However, the survival of a short length of very substantial concrete road in Detroit under heavy truck traffic in 1918 seemed to offer a solution, which BPR embraced. A second problem was cost. Between World Wars I and II the largest items of total tax expenditure in the US were projects depending on earth moving: roads

1398

P.J. Hugill

and flood control dams. In the locally funded “Good Roads” period before the Federal Highways Act of 1916, roads were paid for by state, county, and township bonds. Such bonds were concentrated in New York and a small number of north-eastern states: even so, the resulting networks were vestigial (Hugill, 1982). A Federal excise tax on gasoline solved the problems that bedeviled the locally funded “Good Roads” period by promising a substantial and increasing income as automobile usage rose. By 1922 each State had a State Highway Department and was beginning to plan a rational network of highways. But a new technical problem had emerged by the early 1920s. Although the new concrete highways generally held up well, BPR could not reliably predict the behavior of slabs built on different soil foundations, a major reason for failure being that “traditional designs failed to drain the soil under a road, especially in clay soils” (Seely, 1988: 146). At this point soil mechanics became important. As a boy Karl Terzaghi was fascinated by geography, exploration, and maps, but “became disenchanted with geography as a mere description of places” (Goodman, 1999: 6). During his education as a mechanical engineer at the University of Graz in Austria Terzaghi also took courses in geology. Disaffected with mechanical engineering he returned to Graz after national service for further work in geology and geomorphology and his first research publication was on marine terraces (Goodman, 1999: 20–21). Terzaghi’s first job was in dam construction. He realized quickly that the many dam failures of the period were caused by lack of knowledge about foundation behavior, not by poor construction. In 1910 he took a consultancy job resolving foundation settlement problems in a bank being built in St. Petersburg, Russia (de Boer, 2000: 201). Terzaghi’s first foray to America in 1912 was because he had become convinced that a “state of ignorance. . .prevailed in earthwork and foundation engineering. . .[and] he hoped to find the key that would open up a scientific approach to earthwork engineering by digesting the observational data accumulated in the files of the United States Reclamation Service. . . For two years Terzaghi went from dam site to dam site, digesting geological reports and trying to correlate them with construction experience. . .. At the end of 1913 he returned to Austria, disappointed and disheartened,” but still focused on two main problems, “the failure of dams. . .by piping and the gradual settlement of foundations on clay. . .” (Casagrande, 1960: 5–6). In 1916, following service with the Austro-Hungarian flying corps focused on airfield construction, a topic to which his student Casagrande would return in World War II (Turhollow, 1992: 210), Terzaghi was awarded a lectureship in “foundation and road construction in the Imperial Institute of Engineering in Constantinople” (de Boer, 2000: 201). As World War One ended he moved to Robert College, a small American university in Istanbul, and began serious empirical studies on clays to resolve foundation settlement issues. It was clear that earth-pressure theories in technical geology were inadequate and that he had to construct “a theory of strength for soils,” a task that “could only be solved by experiments” (quoted in de Boer, 2000: 202). Between 1923 and 1925 he did precisely that, publishing a major paper on the permeability of clay in 1923. His more complete theoretical statement on soil mechanics was first published as Erdbaumechanik auf Bodenphysikalischer

78

Re-Making America

1399

Grundlage (Terzaghi, 1925a) and then as a series of seven articles in the American journal Engineering News-Record (ENR), “Principles of Soil Mechanics,” between November 5 and December 31, 1925 (Terzaghi, 1925b). These publications established Terzaghi as the founder of a new branch of civil engineering. In the last of the seven articles in ENR Terzaghi noted that any classification of soils was difficult, but could, for engineering purposes, be reduced to “four underlying factors: (1) friction between the grain surfaces, including initial friction; (2) viscosity of the capillary water; (3) surface tension of the capillary water; and (4) the influence of the width of voids on the physical properties of the water itself” (Terzaghi ,1925b: 1064). He further laid out in ENR the necessary course of study for “earthwork and foundation engineering” as a major option within civil engineering, arguing that it needed to include “among others a more elaborate course in engineering geology and an elementary course in applied colloid chemistry” (Terzaghi, 1925b: 1067). In 1925 Terzaghi returned to America where he taught at M.I.T. through 1929, establishing “a pattern for teaching soil mechanics. . . [and training] a group of disciples. . .who spread the new ideas by practical applications, research, and teaching” (Casagrande, 1960: 6–7). Consulting was becoming central to Terzaghi’s career, the issue of road failures was becoming central to that consulting, and in 1926 he was invited by BPR to become “a permanent technical consultant to improve the soil physical test methods of the Bureau on the basis of the results of his own investigations and to reorganize the lab of the departments in Arlington, Virginia” (de Boer, 2005: 136). The September 1926 issue of Public Roads was devoted to “The Present Status of Subgrade Studies” (Public Roads 6: 137–162). Terzaghi’s first paper in Public Roads appeared in October 1926. Of the papers that followed, perhaps his most important was “Principles of Final Soil Classification” (Terzaghi, 1927a). It was, however, Terzaghi’s attitude to the complexity of highway engineering that set his work apart: “it is from the soil scientist’s point of view hardly possible to pass reliable judgment on anything concerning a soil without considering it in connection with geomorphological, climatological, and structural facts” (Terzaghi, 1927b: 89). Despite such successes in his consultancy, M.I.T. gave Terzaghi little academic recognition. Offered a Professorship at the Technische Hochschule in Vienna he returned there in 1929.

78.2.2 Subways Terzaghi came to subway construction late, becoming a major consultant to the city of Chicago as it started its first subway network in 1938. Early subways, such as the pioneering London system of the 1860s, used the “cut and cover” system. The surface was removed, a trench cut and lined, and the surface replaced. There was no need for soil mechanics. But as the urban infrastructure became more complex, sewers, water lines, gas, electricity, and telephone service also had to be buried below the city’s streets. New subway lines, such as the world’s first electrified underground line, the City and South London Railway of 1890, had to tunnel deep under both this new infrastructure and existing buildings, which could “settle.” Foundation

1400

P.J. Hugill

engineering began to become important. London’s new “tube” lines were greatly extended after 1900, requiring a tunneling shield and some sense of soil mechanics. By the late 1930s the elevated downtown Chicago transit system was seriously over-stretched by the city’s massive growth. In 1937 Chicago applied for monies newly made available by the Federal Government for subways as public works projects, and in 1938 construction began on a deep-tunneled system using London as a guide. Construction of the new lines immediately ran into serious trouble: downtown Chicago buildings settled as the tunnels began to cut through clay remnants of an old lake bed far softer and wetter than London clay. Terzaghi had left Europe for America in the summer of 1938 for the third and last time, landing eventually at Harvard. Apolitical like many engineers, he had consulted in the mid-1930s for the Nazi Party on such issues as autobahn construction and the foundations of the great Nazi party rally site at Nuremberg. After the Anschluss, however, he became aware of the destructive ideological influence of the Nazis on universities in Germany and Austria and the Nazis suspected him of being a Bolshevik because he had consulted in the Soviet Union, and his American wife was pressured by the Nazis to renounce her citizenship, which she refused to do. Once back in America Terzaghi was recruited heavily, if unsuccessfully in late 1938 at the Texas Morrill Act institution, the Texas Agricultural and Mechanical College (TAMC), now Texas A&M University, to establish a much-needed Department of Soil Mechanics to train the engineers needed to control the state’s wild rivers with earth dam technology. In December 1938 Terzaghi lectured at the Armour Institute of Technology in Chicago and was appointed as principal consultant to the Chicago subway. Terzaghi had by now spent some time consulting in Britain and knew London was no guide to Chicago. To reduce foundation settling he insisted that Chicago develop a laboratory of soil mechanics supervised by Casagrande’s student, Ralph Peck: with Terzaghi’s leadership the cost per foot of the Chicago subway was less than half what it was in London, in better clay. . .. It was a trail-blazing case history that provided an enormous impetus to the development of applied soil mechanics. (Goodman 1999: 185–196, quote from 196)

78.3 The Development of Earth-Moving Machinery Very little has been published on the development of earth-moving machinery. The earliest such machines commented on in the engineering literature were dredges to make the Mississippi more navigable (Maltby, 1905; Ockerson, 1898), although steam dredges had been deepening harbors for many years by then and Thompson and Dutra note their use in San Francisco harbor as early as the 1850s (1983: 28). The first textbooks for civil engineers that dealt with such machinery appeared in the early 1900s. McDaniel (1913: 299) claims that machinery had been increasingly substituted for human labor for some 25 years. For example, following a period in which Chinese laborers raised levees by shovel and wheelbarrow, serious experimentation began in the 1870s with steam dredges to raise much more substantial

78

Re-Making America

1401

levees in the Sacramento delta region, always a major region for agricultural technological innovation (Thompson & Dutra, 1983: 27). Reclaimed peat land here was fertile, profitable, and near the growing urban market of San Francisco. Machinery appeared later in canal construction, then reclamation work. Thompson notes that “a few steam dredges and ‘drag boats’ were introduced in the mid to late 1880s and 1890s to excavate main and tributary drainage channels” of the Illinois River near Chicago before being turned to reclamation drainage schemes in the Illinois Valley (Thompson, 2002: 79). Machinery came much later to the south, which had more plentiful, cheap, uneducated labor, than the west and north. The levee built by the Burleson County Levee District on the Brazos River in Texas in the very early 1900s was one of the largest civil engineering projects of its time, designed by the Civil Engineering Department at TAMC following the disastrous flood of 1899. It was intended to protect some 50,000 acres of prime cotton land with an eight foot high levee some 27 mi (43 km) in length at a cost of over $215,000 (Patzewitsch, 2007: 190–191). Since the contract precluded using local labor, the Memphis firm of Stansell and Roach brought a trainload of laborers, shovels, wheelbarrows, mules, plows, and scrapers, and an entire tent encampment to house them, technology hardly removed from Ancient Egypt. Notably, however, the pioneering collector of American folk songs, John A. Lomax, famous for his 1930s audio recordings of Mississippi River blues, wrote down the first recorded levee camp hollers and blues in 1910 from the Brazos River. Lomax was educated at the University of Texas and Harvard and started teaching English at TAMC in 1903 (Lomax, 1947; Patzewitsch, “personal communication”, 2007). A turn away from human labor was vital for really large scale earth moving to develop. The needs of road-building forced rapid technological development of such machinery in the early 1920s, then quickly gave way to the greater needs of flood control (Brown, 1931; Knappen, 1936a, 1936b; Larkin, 1933a, 1933b). Six key technologies that allowed much easier and faster preparation of large amounts of soil for roads and earth dams were the dump truck, the power shovel, the compactor, the caterpillar tractor, the grader, and the scraper. Trucks and dump trucks. Dump trucks are obvious motorized substitutes for wheelbarrows. Although trucks developed more slowly than automobiles, by World War I specialist manufacturers such as Mack had emerged, and the war demand saw mass production get underway. By war’s end the government had a huge number of trucks intended for Europe, but never shipped. It therefore donated a truck to every county in the country to encourage road construction (Hugill, 1982: 343). The dump truck, a hinged load bed on a regular truck, seemed a fairly simple innovation; it was vastly more efficient than wheelbarrows for moving large amounts of earth. It also seems to have appeared remarkably late, being first patented in 1920 (http://www.New Brunswick). Steam shovels, frontloaders, and backhoes. Just as dump trucks replaced humans with wheelbarrows, steam shovels and their modern descendants, frontloaders and backhoes, replaced humans with shovels. Huge steam shovels were first deployed for railroad cuts in the construction of the transcontinental railroad after 1865

1402

P.J. Hugill

and companies such as Bucyrus emerged (McDaniel, 1913: 43). The much more compact and useful frontloader/backhoe combination emerged in Britain in 1953. The Construction Equipment Industry Hall of Fame in 1993 included the inventor of the frontloader/backhoe combination, Joseph Cyril Bamford, who founded the JCB company, as the only non-American among its first inductees (Construction Equipment, March 15, 1993). Rollers, compactors, and vibratory compactors. Compacting material, whether soil below the road surface or the road surface itself, was quickly seen as important. Basic rollers used only their weight. Later compactors often have complex “feet” designed into the roller. Finally, modern compactors vibrate to give up to double the level of compaction, depending on soil characteristics (Wixom, 1975: 148). The caterpillar tractor. The caterpillar tractor developed in the early 1900s to pull plows in the soft, fertile soils of the Sacramento delta region. Two California companies, Best and Holt, replaced wheels with endless tracks. Such tractors proved their worth pulling artillery in the mud of Flanders in World War I and were the basis for the military tank (Hugill, 1993: 244). Best and Holt were early inductees into the Construction Equipment Industry Hall of Fame (Construction Engineering, 1 June 1996). The companies merged in 1925, taking the name Caterpillar. Many caterpillar tractors built for the war effort were never shipped to Europe and were donated to American counties (Hugill, 1982: 343). The addition of a scraper blade to a wheeled tractor created the first bulldozer in 1925, but scraper blades on caterpillar tractors made bulldozers successful. They were good at moving dirt, but not at the fine control of the finished surface allowed by graders and scrapers. The leaning-wheel grader and motor grader. The leaning-wheel grader, first developed in 1885, made road grading and ditching alongside roads much easier. Motor graders appeared in 1919 (Haddock, 1998: 78) and quickly became ubiquitous. Elevating graders allowed surplus soil to be lifted into a dump truck running alongside the grader (Wixom, 1975: 94–96, 104–105). Graders were the most important machine in mechanizing road construction in the 1920s. The scraper and motor scraper. In the late 1800s the scraper became indispensable to road construction on initially uneven surfaces. Graders and scrapers developed from dragging split logs to smooth roads, first by animals, then trucks or tractors. “Fresno” scrapers developed around Fresno, California, to build irrigation ditches. The American Society of Mechanical Engineers identifies the Fresno scraper as a landmark innovation (http://files.asme.org). Such scrapers not only removed soil but also filled in low spots. The first motor scrapers were developed by LeTourneau in Texas in 1923, but really rapid development occurred between 1932 and 1940 as the dam building boom got under way, with pioneering use of LeTourneau equipment at the Hansen Dam in California in 1938-39 (Haddock, 1998: 58–59, 63).

78.4 Damming America’s Rivers Although all the machinery developed for road building in the 1920s was vital to the successful construction of large numbers of earth dams starting in the 1930s,

78

Re-Making America

1403

the most important machines were the caterpillar bulldozer, the motor grader, and the motor scraper. Together with a better understanding of soil mechanics, these allowed the rapid movement of millions of cubic yards of earth and the final taming of America’s wild rivers. Construction of large dams was rare in America before 1900. The International Commission on Large Dams defines them as “those having a height of 15 m (49.2 ft) from the foundation” (http://www.adb.org). Between 1825 and 1899 only 134 large dams were built, although a large number of unrecorded small dams in the northeast provided waterpower for small factories in the Eotechnic phase of American industrial development (Hugill, 1993). From 1900 to 1909, 190 large dams were built; from 1910 to 1919, 328; and from 1920 to 1929, 403 (International Commission on Large Dams, 1973). Many of these were mixed use dams, after 1900 often built to supply small amounts of hydroelectric power as well as for flood control. The heroic age of earth dam construction, driven by the series of floods that stretched from the great Mississippi flood of 1927 (Coleman, 1931; Lane, 1934) to the great northeastern floods of 1936, began in the late 1930s. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers had substantial experience with dredges and initially believed hydraulic-fill construction would be a cheap and efficient way to build large earth dams. Suction dredges could remove large amounts of silt and sand quickly from the river valley and transfer it to the dam. The failure of the Fort Peck dam on the upper Missouri in 1938 brought this style of construction into question. Although subsequent analysis has shown multiple reasons for failure, Terzaghi argued at the time that the main cause was flow failure, the construction material losing all shear strength and flowing like a liquid (Billington & Jackson, 2006: 227). Few dams used hydraulic-fill technology after Fort Peck because “the improvement in earth excavating, hauling, and compaction equipment” (Middlebrooks, 1952) had by the late 1930s removed the cost advantages hydraulic-fill technology seemed to have in 1924 when the Fort Peck project was proposed and in 1932 when it was planned (Billington & Jackson, 2006: 209). The standard text on earth dams published after World War II noted there had been no “similar trouble during construction of compacted earth dams” with bulldozers and motor graders and scrapers (Sherard et al., 1963: 144). By the period 1927–1936 it had become obvious that damage from flooding was huge and the only solution was Federal Government intervention. Barrows lists seventeen major floods, most impacting urban areas, between 1903 and 1938, with an estimated total cost over $1.25 billion (Barrows, 1948: 104–139). These seventeen floods did not include those in the Mississippi basin, which accounted for a further $400 million between 1903 and the great flood of 1927 (Beman, 1928: 126). Some states were hit particularly hard. Texas suffered thirty major floods between 1903 and 1938 (Burnett, 2008: 300–302). Dying hurricanes stagnate over the Texas Hill Country, pumping huge amounts of water out of the Gulf of Mexico. Most Texas floods hit small towns and rural areas, but Dallas was badly flooded in 1908, San Antonio in 1913–1921, Austin in 1915–1935, Fort Worth in 1922, and Houston in 1935. One small town in the Texas Hill County, D’Hanis, was estimated by the San Antonio Express of 2 June 1935 to have suffered over one million dollars in damage after a rainfall event measured at 21.84 in in 3 h (Burnett, 2008: 67). Texas enjoys the dubious distinction of the highest official recorded 24 h rainfall in America at

1404

P.J. Hugill

Alvin, just south of Houston, with 43 in during tropical storm Claudette in 1979 (http://www.ncdc.noaa). Such intense rainfall events help explain the heavy concentration of dam building in Texas once Federal Government programs began, and the interest of TAMC in hiring Terzaghi and establishing a program in Soil Mechanics. Such national and regional problems also go a long way to explaining the reception given the second International Congress on Large Dams when it met in America in 1936. President Roosevelt, Secretary of State Cordell Hull, and Secretary of the Interior Harold Ickes all attended. Their addresses concerned mostly the hydropower aspects of the conference (Second Congress, 1938: 125–127, 136–138, 164–168). However, a major part of the Congress focused on an issue raised in 1933 at the First Congress, in Stockholm, “Calculation of the Stability of Earth Dams” (Second Congress, 1938: 50–51). Of the 68 papers presented in the research part of the Congress, 15 addressed this issue (Second Congress, 1938: 261–280). Despite the Depression, from 1930 to 1939, 443 new large dams were built, most earthen dams using the new science of soil mechanics. Despite the war the years 1940–1949 saw 329 new large dams. Thereafter, new construction of large dams exploded: 1950– 1959 saw 878; and 1960–1969, 2,049 (International Commission on Large Dams, 1973). Dam construction slowed at the end of the 1970s. More recently the Army Corps of Engineers and the Federal Emergency Management Agency have created the National Inventory of Dams, 74,921 in number in the continental United States, that “pose a significant downstream threat to human lives or property” (Graf, 1999: 1305–1306). Many of these are smaller than the large dams in the World Register data, but the National Inventory shows that “the greatest rate of increase was from the late 1950s to the late 1970s” and that there have been only “relatively minor increases in storage after 1980” (Graf, 1999: 1309). The 1927 Mississippi flood shifted public perception toward flood control in the Lower Mississippi Valley, but policy and legislation took time to catch up. A Democratic administration and renewed flooding helped. Just as surely as the 1928 legislation followed the Mississippi flood of 1927, the 1936 Flood Control Act followed the great northeastern floods of spring 1936. Flood control became a Federal Government responsibility. Before 1936 northeastern Democrats resisted such extension of Federal power, ridiculing the need for flood control in their own region that was proposed in river basin studies by the Army Corps of Engineers. But as the New York Times editorialized on March 22, 1936, “. . .. from New England to the Potomac scores of communities stand under water. . .We must think of drainage areas embracing the whole country.” As with the roads network, such vastly expensive flood control projects were dependent on government. The 1928 Act authorized expenditure of $325 million, $15 million more than the cost of the Panama Canal: the 1936 Act authorized a further $300 million, although expenditures as high as $800 million were considered (Arnold, 1988: 21, 77). Whereas the Army Corps of Engineers preferred levees and channel straightening in the Mississippi basin, the environmental conditions elsewhere in the country favored reservoir construction via damming (Arnold, 1988: 72). Third was the need for huge amounts of earth-moving machinery, which had

78

Re-Making America

1405

been developed and put into production because of the massive road construction projects that began in the 1920s. Finally came the need for an army of trained engineers. Despite considerable political pressure to build power dams, the ultimate focus of the 1936 legislation was almost entirely flood control (Arnold, 1988: 73).

78.5 Conclusion The career of Karl Terzhaghi interweaves with the development and application of soil mechanics in America and the parallel development of earth-moving machinery: for roads; for earthen flood control dams; and for subways. Terzhagi visited America three times. Before World War I he toured the reclamation projects of the West in an unsuccessful attempt to understand dam failures through foundation settling. Realizing that the problem was a totally inadequate understanding of soil mechanics, he began after World War One to experiment on the structure of clay soils. By 1925 his published work in German and English entitled him to the title “father of soil mechanics.” When he returned to America in 1925 he taught at M.I.T. through 1929, producing a small cadre of students who would spread his ideas and methods. In 1926 he was appointed as the principal consultant for the BPR on subsurface problems in road construction. Although the BPR had developed a strong empirical approach to road construction, road failure through inadequate understanding of soil mechanics was still a major problem until engineers began to understand Terzaghi’s publications. This new understanding then coupled with the transformation of road building in the 1920s by mechanization. American entrepreneurs developed or improved sophisticated earth-moving machinery, most particularly the caterpillar tractor, bulldozer, leaning-wheel grader, and scraper. This new machinery, further developed, then made it possible to build the vast network of earthen dams needed to control America’s wild rivers once it became clear, following the disastrous floods of 1928 and 1936, that existing levees and less heroic flood control measures were not working. When Terzaghi returned to America for the third and last time in 1938, despite his academic appointment at Harvard, his main focus was consulting. His successes at BPR in the 1920s and his professorship in Vienna had led him into consulting for the Nazis, in particular on the autobahns, and a reduction of interest in teaching. He turned down such American offers as that from TAMC which would have required him to teach, leaving that to the cadre of students spreading around America’s universities from his time at M.I.T., as well as those trained by students such as Casagrande at Harvard. For example, Casagrande was called in by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers at the outset of World War II to help determine how to best analyze soil structure under runways that had to support heavy bombers (Turhollow, 1992: 210). The most obvious direct achievement of this third period was his consultation on the Chicago subway, where he and Peck turned potential disaster into success. From this point on Terzaghi accepted only consultancies he considered challenging, although a significant percentage were on troubled dams both inside and outside America.

1406

P.J. Hugill

Acknowledgements I would like to thank Marty Reuss, formerly the historian of the Army Corps of Engineers, and Doug Sherman, of the Department of Geography at Texas A&M University, for their comments on an earlier version of this paper.

References Arnold, J. L. (1988). The evolution of the 1936 flood control act. Fort Belvoir, VA: Office of History, United States Army Corps of Engineers. Barrows, H. K. (1948). Floods: Their hydrology and control. New York: McGraw Hill. Barry, J. M. (1997). Rising tide. The great Mississippi flood of 1927 and how it changed America. New York: Simon & Schuster. Beman, L. T. (1928). Flood control. New York: H. H. Wilson. Billington, D. P., & Jackson, D. C. (2006). Big dams of the new deal era: A confluence of engineering and politics. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press. Boer, R. de (2000). Theory of porous media: Highlights in historical development and current state. New York: Springer Boer, R. de (2005). The engineer and the scandal: A piece of science history. New York: Springer. Brown, L. (1931). Flood control and channel maintenance on the lower Mississippi river. Civil Engineering, 1(9), 815–819. Burnett, J. (2008). Flash floods in Texas. College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press. Casagrande, A. (1960). Karl Terzaghi-his life and achievements. In K. Terzaghi (Ed.), From theory to practice in soil mechanics. Selections from the writings of Karl Terzaghi (pp. 3–25). New York: Wiley. Coleman, J. F. (1931). Mississippi river—A national flood problem. Civil Engineering, 1(5), 401–404. Duffey, E. (1918). New York advocates placing reasonable limit upon total load of motor trucks. Public Roads, 1(2), 4–7. Frazer, J. F. (1899). Round the world on a wheel. New York: Frederick Stokes. Frost, H. (1910). The art of roadmaking. New York: McGraw-Hill. Goodman, R. E. (1999). Karl Terzaghi: The engineer as artist. Reston, VA: American Society of Civil Engineers. Graf, W. L. (1999). Dam Nation: A geographic census of American dams and their large scale hydrologic impacts. Water Resources Research, 35(4), 1305–1311. Haddock, K. (1998). Giant earthmovers: An illustrated history. St. Paul, MN: MBI. Hood, C. (1993). 722 miles: The building of the subways and how they transformed New York. New York: Simon & Schuster. Hugill, P. J. (1982). Good Roads and the Automobile in the United States, 1880–1929. Geographical Review, 72(3), 327–349. Hugill, P. J. (1993). World trade since 1431: Geography, technology, and capitalism. Baltimore, MD: The Johns Hopkins University Press. James, E. W. (1918). Drainage increasingly vital with growth in heavy traffic. Public Roads, 1(3), 32–37. Knappen, T. T. (1936a). Development of earth-moving equipment. Civil Engineering, 6(3), 143–147. Knappen, T. T. (1936b). Soil mechanics and foundations division outlines scope of its activities. Civil Engineering, 6(12), 831. Lane, E. W. (1934). History of flood control on the Mississippi. Civil Engineering, 4(2), 63–67. Larkin, T. B. (1933a). Controlling floods along the Mississippi. Civil Engineering, 3(10), 560–564.

78

Re-Making America

1407

Larkin, T. B. (1933b). Machines aid in combating floods. Civil Engineering, 3(12), 653–656. Lomax, J. A. (1947). Adventures of a Ballad hunter. New York: Macmillan. Maltby, F. B. (1905). Hydraulic dredges on the Mississippi. Transactions of the American Society of Civil Engineers, 54 C, 391–478. McDaniel, A. B. (1913). Excavating machinery. New York: McGraw-Hill. Meinig, D. W. (2004). The shaping of America, Volume 4. Global America, 1915–2000. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Middlebrooks, T. A. (1952). Progress in earth-dam design and construction in the United States. Civil Engineering, 22(9), 702–710. Newspapers, trade and other journals consulted: Construction Equipment, Engineering NewsRecord. New York Times, Public Roads. Ockerson, J. A. (1898). Dredges and dredging on the Mississippi river. Transactions of the American Society of Civil Engineers, 40, 215–354. Patzewitsch, W. W. (2007). Changing patterns and perceptions of water use in East Central Texas since the Time of Anglo Settlement. Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Geography, Texas A&M University. Retrieved November 5, 2008, from http://www.adb.org/Water/Topics/Dams/dams0120.asp. Accessed 5 . Retrieved November 5, 2008, from http://files.asme.org/ASMEORG/Communities/History/ Landmarks/5550.pdf Retrieved November 5, 2008, from http://www.new-brunswick.net/Saint_John/sjfirst.html Retrieved November 22, 2008, from http://www.ncdc.noaa.gov/oa/climate/extremes/2001/june/ rainfall3-20010610.txt Schnitter, N. J. (1994). A history of dams: The useful pyramids. Rotterdam: Balkema. Second Congress on Large Dams. (1938). Washington, DC: United States Government Printing Office. Seely, B. E. (1988). The diffusion of science into engineering. Highway research at the Bureau of Public Roads, 1900–1940. In P. J. Hugill & D. B. Dickson (Eds.), The transfer and transformation of ideas and material culture (pp. 143–162). College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press. Shaler, N. S. (1896). American highways. New York: The Century Co. Sherard, J. L., et al. (1963). Earth and earth-rock dams: Engineering problems of design and construction. New York: Wiley. Stilgoe, J. R. (1983). Metropolitan Corridor: Railroads and the American scene. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Terzaghi, K. (1925a). Erdbaumechanik auf bodenphysikalischer Grundlage. Vienna: Deuticke. Terzaghi, C. [K.] (1925b). Principles of Soil Mechanics [I thru VII]. Engineering NewsRecord, 95, 742–746, 796–800, 832–836, 874–878, 912–915, 987–990, 1026–1028, 1064–1068. Terzaghi, C. [K.] (1926). Simplified soil tests for subgrades and their physical significance. Public Roads, 7(8), 153–162, 170. Terzaghi, C. [K.] (1927a). Principles of final soil classification. Public Roads, 8(3), 41–53. Terzaghi, C. [K.] (1927b). The first international soil congress and its message to the highway engineer. Public Roads, 8(5), 89–94. Terzaghi, K. (1960). From theory to practice in soil mechanics. Selections from the writings of Karl Terzaghi. New York: Wiley. Thompson, J., & Dutra, E. A. (1983). The Tule Breakers: The story of the California Dredge. Stockton, CA: University of the Pacific. Thompson, J. (2002). Wetlands drainage, river modification, and sectoral conflict in the lower Illinois valley, 1890–1930. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press.

1408

P.J. Hugill

Turhollow, A. F. (1992). Airfields for heavy bombers. In B. W. Fowle (Ed.), Builders and fighters: U.S. army engineers in World War II (pp. 207–214). Fort Belvoir, VA: Office of History, United States Army Corps of Engineers. Warner, S. B. (1971). Streetcar suburbs: The process of growth in Boston, 1870–1900. New York: Atheneum. Wixom, C. W. (1975). ARBA pictorial history of roadbuilding. Washington, DC: American Road Builders’ Association. International Commission on Large Dams (1973). World Register of Dams. Paris: International Commission on Large Dams.

Chapter 79

Engineering the Emirates: The Evolution of a New Environment Pernilla Ouis

79.1 Introducing the Riddle Few places on this earth have shown such a remarkable development in a short time span as the United Arab Emirates (UAE). Today the country is the leading site for the latest ultramodern architecture and revolutionary landscaping applying the most up-to-date technology. An index of this development is that over a third of the world’s cranes are found in the emirates, a fact often proudly mentioned in their public discourse. A number of megaengineering projects are implemented at the moment. Absolutely nothing seems impossible here! It is a paradise for enthusiastic developers and investors, and for experts such as engineers and architects seeking challenges. As a human ecologist I am interested in human-environmental relationships. In my thesis I completed a study in the UAE on the theme that is best expressed in an easy slogan as “modernizing nature – naturalizing modernity” (Ouis, 2002a). Based on this thesis and the most recent megaengineering projects in the UAE, the riddle in this paper is: How is it possible that the mega-projects in the UAE are presented as environment friendly in the public discourse? This question is based on the assumption that such megaengineering projects are somehow problematic for the environment, a point to which I will return later in this paper. First, I will first in give a brief introduction to the UAE and some of its most spectacular megaengineering endeavors. It has been necessary to rely on Internet as a source, in part because so few books provide accounts of the most recent development. My objective is not to provide only impressive facts, but rather to show a smorgasbord of these projects to illuminate their scope. By giving examples from the discourse regarding these projects, I will problematize the notion of their benefits for the environment. Finally, I analyze this discourse based on theories about ecological modernization.

P. Ouis (B) Faculty of Health and Society, Malmö University, Malmö, Sweden e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_79,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1409

1410

P. Ouis

79.1.1 The United Arab Emirates The UAE is a federation established in 1971 of seven sheikhdoms or emirates on the Arab coast of the Persian Gulf. These emirates were former British protectorates. The capital is Abu Dhabi, which is also the name of the largest emirate that constitutes almost 87% of the country’s territory (Heard-Bey, 1996: 11). Perhaps the most famous city (and name of a small emirate) is Dubai. The Emirati economy has been based on the export of fossil fuels since the early 1960s, but other forms of business and financial activities are rapidly growing in their importance to meet the post-oil era. Furthermore, the country has invested many resources in developing tourism as the primary source of income. The major motive behind the boom in building, landscaping and greening during the last couple decades is to attract foreign investors, business and tourists. However, another motive for constructing all the megaprojects might be: “Because they can.” Unlike most developing countries, the Emirates have the financial means to carry out all these spectacular endeavors. On a cultural analysis level, the inferiority complex towards the West, with its roots in Orientalism, often inspire developing Arab countries to show that they are utterly modern in order to combat prejudices of Arab backwardness. Furthermore, and perhaps given less attention, is that these megaprojects are manifestations and legitimization of power in a somehow unstable political setting, for instance with threats from Islamists and democratic human rights movements. The projects can also be seen as articulation of the interior competition between the different emirates and other Arab oil states based on the traditional prestige society (i.e., the tribal kinship society) (Heard-Bey, 1997; Ouis, 2002a). The UAE has an extreme physical environment: a naturally very hot climate, humid air, but little rainfall and little vegetation apart from the low scrubby desert and the traditional date palm plantations in the oases. The climate is arid subtropical climate with humidity exceeding 85%, and on the coast up to 100% in summer (Long, 1996: 3). In winter the temperature range is between 17 and 20◦ C (63–68◦ F), while in July the shade temperature can reach 50◦ C (122◦ F) or more in the desert. Rainfall is very limited, infrequent and irregular, and droughts are also common. Abu Dhabi also includes parts of the large uninterrupted sand desert in interior of the Arabian peninsula: Rub’ al-Khali, literally meaning “the empty quarter.” The megaengineering projects are to some extent, in my interpretation, aiming at overcoming naturally harsh environmental conditions. Below, I will focus on some recent spectacular megaengineering projects, many which are still under construction: skyscrapers, ecological desert cities, winter sport facilities, artificial islands and various landscaping and greening projects.

79.1.2 Towers Scraping the Sky and Ecological Desert Cities Skyscrapers are perhaps one of the most important manifestations of human power over nature and a prominent sign of modernity. The tallest buildings in the world today are all found in newly developed or developing countries and not in the West.

79

Engineering the Emirates: The Evolution of a New Environment

1411

The building of skyscrapers and high towers is a process that began on a large scale during the latest decade in the UAE. I will only mention a few of the newest ones. Burj al-Arab, meaning the “Tower of the Arabs,” constructed 1994–1999 in Dubai, is with its 321 m (1,053 ft), the tallest hotel building in the world. It is marketed as the world’s first and only “seven-star” hotel. It was built on an artificial island 280 m (919 ft) from the beach. The island took three years to build and the building of the hotel building another three years to complete. The hotel is built to resemble the sail of a dhow, a type of traditional boat from the Gulf. Two wings spread in a V to form a vast mast, while the space between them is enclosed in a massive atrium of 180 m (891 ft) in height. One of the difficulties in the construction was to prevent large amounts of condensation or rain clouds from forming in the atrium. To lower the interior temperature, the building was cooled by one degree per day over a 6 months period (Jodidio, 2007: 42–49; Tom Wright, 2008). The tallest building in the world is also found in Dubai: Burj Dubai (Burj Dubai was renamed into Burj Khalifa after it was opened in 2010) is presently the tallest human-made structure in the world since 7 April 2008. So far have only 160 floors have been completed, but the final height of the tower is officially being kept a secret due to competition from other buildings under construction or proposed. It has been suggested a final height of around 818 m (2684 ft) and the total number of floors is expected to be around 162 (Emaar Poperties, 2008). The design of the tower is made up of three elements grouped around a central core rising into a single spire, a form derived from local desert flowers (Jodidio, 2007: 178). Just like the dhow-like Burj Al-Arab, it should be noted how traditional elements are included in the modern design. The cultural sensitive balance between tradition and modernity is significant in the Arab Gulf States. The legitimization of power is grounded in history, tradition and culture as well as in modern development strategies (Ouis, 2002b). While the original inhabitants are only a small minority having Emirati citizenship in the country, the majority of the guestworkers come primarily from Asia. The building boom somehow presumes a growth both in economy and in population that supposedly must be met by immigration. Burj Dubai competes with other projects as an expression of the interior regional rivalry. Few up-to-date books have been published on this theme (except for Jodidio, 2007), but a quick search on the Internet reveals that several buildings in the region are competing for the epithet “the tallest building in the world.” For example, Murjan Tower in Manama, Bahrain, is expected to be 1,022 m (3,353 ft) in height with 200 floors (Emporis, 2008). But other high towers are planned; 1,001 m (3,284 ft) Burj Mubarak al-Kabir is planned to be erected in Kuwait as part of a massive development project called Madinat al-Hareer. The project also includes an Olympic stadium, residences, hotels, and retail facilities. However, the project may require 25 years to complete (Luxury Launches, 2008). Even within Dubai, the tower is challenged by “The Tower”, Al Burj, on a site near Dubai Marina. Speculation has suggested various heights between 750 m (2,461 ft) and 1,000 m (3,281 ft) (Burj Dubai Skyscraper, 2008). Finally, The Mile-High Tower, a recently announced skyscraper planned for Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, would be almost twice as tall as Burj Dubai, if completed as planned (SkyscraperPage Forum, 2008).

1412

P. Ouis

Another tower that is not competing in height, but in genius engineering is the Da Vinci tower in Duabi. It is has been called many names: the Dynamic Architechture Building, the Rotating Skyscraper, and the Dynamic Tower. It will be 420 m (1,378 ft) with 80 floors, but the spectacular feature of the tower is that each floor can rotate independently of maximum 6 m/min, allowing full rotation in 90 min. It is a prefabricated skyscraper built in a factory and not on site under construction at the moment. It is designed by the architect Florentine David Fisher, who says on the tower’s official website: The Dynamic Tower is environmentally friendly, with the ability to generate electricity for itself as well as other buildings nearby making it the first building designed to be selfpowered, it achieves this feat with wind turbines fitted between each rotating floor. An 80-story building will have up to 79 wind turbines, making it a true green power plant.

He further states that: “From now on, buildings will have four dimensions, the fourth dimension is ‘Time’ to become part of architecture” (Dynamic Architecture, 2008). Ecological awareness is definitely shown in the construction of these new buildings and cities. The “first positive energy building in the world” is under construction in Abu Dhabi. Sun panels will make the building produce more energy than it consumes. It will be the master-piece in Masdar, a new ecological city. The city has zero-waste and zero-carbon ambitions and 80% of its water will be recycled. The city will have a personal rapid transit system instead of cars. Designed by the dignitary Norman Foster, Masdar will be free from cars and run only by solar and wind energy. The project gained international attention as an ecological utopia and a testing ground for environmentally friendly technological solutions (The Masdar Initiative 2008). In another of the lesser developed emirate, a complete new eco city, the Ras al Khaimah’s Gateway City, will be constructed from scratch in the desert for 150 000 inhabitants. The city is calculated to be completed iin 2012 (Jodidio, 2007: 124–129; OMA, 2008).

79.1.3 Engineering a New Environment: Ice, Snow, Islands and Creek Extension In the many publications on the UAE directed towards tourists, the country’s winter sport facilities are always boosted about. “Isn’t it amazing that skiing and skating can be done in the world’s hottest climate?” This is the message. The massive use of energy for these many ice skating rinks and ski slopes is not a detail discussed in these publications. Ski Dubai, is a quite new indoor winter sport centre with 5 runs, the longest one is 400 m (1312 ft) long. The total area of the centre is 58,275 km2 (22,500 mi2 ) covered with 6,000 tonnes (6,614 tons) of snow in total, 30–40 tonnes (33–44 tons) of new snow needs to be produced every night. Hence, the hot climate is not a limitation; nature can be altered. Another quest to change the natural environment is the constructions of the many artificial islands. ”The world” is a human constructed archipelago of 300 islands outside the coast of Dubai shaped as the world. It was constructed 2003–2008, 24 h a

79

Engineering the Emirates: The Evolution of a New Environment

1413

day, seven days a week. Each island can be bought for prices from $US 10–45 million US. The most recent megaengineering of human-made islands are the three palm-shaped islands still under construction in Dubai. These tourist and residential complex shaped as palm trees topped with a crescent (breakwater) will add 520 km (1,705 mi) extra beach to Dubai. The smallest island, Palm Jumeriah has a size of 5 by 5 km (16.4 by 16.4 mi), has already been finalized (2001–2006). It has 17 fronds and has a surrounding crescent island as an 11 km (36 mi) long breakwater. Palm Jebel Ali, constructed 2002–2008, is 50% larger than Palm Jumeirah and is expected to accommodate 1.7 million people by 2020. Round the island houses on stilts form the poem by the ruler of Dubai saying: “Take wisdom only from the wise, not everyone who rides a horse is a jockey. It takes a man of vision to write on water, great men rise to great challenges” (Eikongraphia, 2008). This is yet another manifestation of power based on the twin pillars of tradition and modernity. The largest island, Palm Deira will be eight times larger than palm Jumeirah once completed (under construction since 2004 with an estimated completion date in 2015). It will be the world’s largest human-made island. Large amounts of sand and rock have been used in the construction: The first two islands used about 100 million m3 (3.53 billion ft3 ) of rock and sand; Palm Deira alone used 1 billion m3 (35.3 billion ft3 ) of rock and sand. The islands will have luxury hotels, villas, apartments, marinas, water theme parks, restaurants, shopping malls, sports facilities and health spas (Nakheel, 2008). The plan is to attract millions of tourists from the global elite. A combination of landscaping, artificial islands and high towers are found in the human-made extension of Khor Dubai, the natural saltwater creek dividing the city of Dubai. The creek has recently been extended and redirected into the Gulf again, in total more than 12 km (39.4 mi), so that one part of the city, Bur Dubai, has become an island. This extension is part of the development of Business Bay that is planned to become a new financial megacenter in the world (Dubai Properties, 2008). Seven artificial islands will be created in connection to the creek. These are called The Lagoon and will just, as Business Bay, be developed into an explosion of skyscrapers inspired in their shape by candle lights, the Dubai Towers Dubai (Dubai Towers Dubai, 2008; Gulf News, 2008).

79.1.4 Evolving a Whole New Environment: Greening the Emirates The UAE is famous for its achievements in greening the desert. This was a very special ambition of the late sheikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nayhan (1918–2004), who has stated that: “They used to say, agriculture has no future, but with God’s blessing and our determination, we have succeeded in transforming the desert into a green land.” Figure 79.1 shows the cover of a publication of Sheikh Zayed as the leader who made the desert green. The greening ambitions are mostly implemented

1414

P. Ouis

Fig. 79.1 Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan (1918–2004) was the leading figure in the greening ambitions

in the emirate of Abu Dhabi, which covers 87% of the whole area of the UAE. The greening project discussed in the public discourse uses the phrase “rolling back the desert” which includes forestry (mostly plantations of date palm trees), agricultural development, parks, mangrove plantations on the coast, nature reserves and a global ”green image.” In 1980 forests covered 100 km2 (38.4 mi2 ) of Abu Dhabi, while in 2003 over 3,053 km2 (1,176 mi2 ) were forested. This is equal to an annual expansion of 26% (State of the Environment Abu Dhabi, 2008). One can recall the statement by Sheikh Mohammed bin Butti, chairman of Abu Dhabi municipality, to give a glimpse of the prevalent attitude towards forestry: “Plant more palm trees and still more palm trees. The desert is there before you. Confront the yellow invasion with the green invasion” (UAE Ministry of Information and Culture, 1993: 93–94). Forests are irrigated by groundwater, in total 607.3 million m3 (21.4 million ft3 ) per year; 80% of the total ground water in the emirate has already been used (State of the Environment Abu Dhabi, 2008). Desalinated water is increasingly being used, but the problem is that this type of water production requires huge amounts of energy. At the universities there are on-going experiments with salt tolerant plants which use sea water directly for irrigation (personal observation).

79

Engineering the Emirates: The Evolution of a New Environment

1415

Fig. 79.2 The covers of two environmental magazines demonstrate the Emirati flag as a central feature in the greening efforts

The greening is perceived as part of the global battle to combat desertification. The UAE Ministry of Information and Culture (1995: 35) states in one of its publications that: “The process of desertification is not irreversible.” Sheikh Zayed received during his lifetime (1995) an international award from UN Food and Agriculture Organization for his efforts to combat desertification. Hence the problem of desertification in poorer areas such as the Sahara in Africa serves to legitimize the greening projects in the UAE. Furthermore, in the Emirati public discourse the large green areas are presented in a way that they can create more rain and moderate the climate. This issue has been debated by scientists, saying that perhaps local microclimates can be affected, but not on a larger scale. The greening projects are seen as positive for the environment, not as problematic due to the high amount of water and fertilizers required. Forestry and greening are also framed in terms of nationalism and environmentalism. Figure 79.2 shows two covers from the Emirati environmental magazine Environmental Issues. Both pictures show the national flag, either as a brush brushing away the desert in one picture or as a colorful berry in the other, which has the central symbolic feature of greening the emirates.

79.1.5 Environmental Problems with the Megaprojects The question that arises considering the enormous development of various megaengineering projects while at the same time maintaining an ecological image

1416

P. Ouis

is: Is this development sustainable? My answer as a human ecologist is definitely “no.” The UAE has serious environmental problems such as ground water depletion, large carbon dioxide emissions and the largest “ecological footprint” per capita in the world. It is a measure of the resource consumption translated into the amount of biologically productive land and sea area needed to regenerate (if possible) the resources a human population consumes and to absorb and render harmless the corresponding waste, given prevailing technology and current understanding. The ecological footprint per capita in the UAE is almost 12 ha (39.4 acres) per capita, a number that can be compared with what is often seen to the world’s largest ecological sinner US with its 9.5 ha (31.1 acres) per capita. Global average is 2.2 ha (7.2 acres) per capita; the total supply of biocapacity is 1.8 ha (5.9 acres) per capita (Global Footprint Network 2008; data from 2003 presented in the 2006 edition). This fact has caused environmental concerns in the UAE. UAE Al Basama Al Beeiya, “the Ecological Footprint Initiative” was launched in October 2007 with the mission to produce an interim report to the Global Footprint Network for the 2008 calculations. The explanations for the large footprint were presented in the report in March 2008 which stated that the UAE has a higher population than previously considered, that the country is a regional re-export hub, and that it has little greenery to soak up carbon emissions (UAE Interact, 2008). One of the most challenging environmental problems faced by the Emiratis is the water issue. Ground water depletion is a serious problem in this milieu. The water consumption today in the UAE is 350 l (370 quarts) per person per day in the UAE, that can be compared to USAs number of 425 l (449 quarts) per person per day. The greening projects demand large amounts of water, and the previous expansion rate of 3,000 new farms every year has been restricted. The water consumption rate is expected to be almost double in 2015. One of the problems is that desalinated water is available at very low price and subsidized by the government. The low price level does not motivate users to save water. (State of the Environment Abu Dhabi, 2008). With the expected millions of new luxury tourists coming to the palm islands, the high towers, and the greening projects, the water issue becomes even more acute. But the energy issue also merits attention. It is argued that sun and wind energy will replace fossil fuels, but is this possible? How will the millions of tourists travel to the UAE if not by air? So far, there is no alternative for long distance travelling than air born fossil fuel based transportation. There are no alternatives developed yet within the UAE to replace car transportation, with the only exception being in Masdar. Public transport is today more or less non-existent. A large amount of energy consumed in the UAE is used for cooling indoor environments. Can solar panels cover that energy demand? A general issue that also must be raised is: Are the tourists’ lifestyle sustainable? All the financial activities, consumerism and tourism are currently dependent on a fossil fuel based society, in addition to the fact that the export of fossil fuels remains the backbone of the economy. In my judgment no alternatives to the business-as-usual non-sustainable lifestyle are presented so far. Leaving the lifestyles issues apart, we should also take a closer look at one of the mega-engineering projects: the artificial islands. Ironically, the rising sea levels from climate change can affect the islands as they run the risk of being flooded in

79

Engineering the Emirates: The Evolution of a New Environment

1417

a near future. The enormous dredging and redepositing of sand have made the sea water clouded with silt, causing organisms choked by the sediment particles. The construction of the islands damages the marine habitat, burying coral reefs, oyster beds and sea grass, threatening many marine species. The recent habitat loss of 35% in the Persian Gulf and its waters are increasing in salinity and temperature. The developer Nakheel claim that they will construct artificial reefs after the islands have been finalized. They also claim that the channels between the fronds of the palms are ideal habitat for seagrass. (Butler, 2005). Environmental impact assessments are problematic, even though they are applied in the megaengineering projects. Nature is not so predictable, which sometimes can be positive since new species and habitats can arise in unexpected situations. However, it is important to ask which approach society has taken to deal with environmental problems. The UAE has chosen, along with the rest of the modernized world, the approach of ecological modernization that will be explained in detail below.

79.1.6 Ecological Modernization in the UAE Ecological modernization, as defined by Hajer, 1995), is an environmental discourse which assumes that the existing political, economic and social institutions can take care of the environment. In the 1960s the environmentalist grassroots movement was considered a threat to project of modernity with its critique. However, the conflict between economic growth and ecological interests that characterized this early environmental movement has been reconciled within ecological modernization discourse from the late 1980s and onwards. In this discourse the conflict is presented as a “win-win” situation: economic growth is needed to attain the means for solving environmental problems, while a clean and sound environment is a precondition for economic expansion. Ecology and environmental concerns goes hand in hand, an idea manifested in the concept of “sustainable development.” Critics have argued that in the new discourse it is rather the sustainability of economic growth, not of the environment, that is of concern. Within ecological modernization, modernity is not the cause of the environmental crisis, as presented in earlier environmentalism, but rather “Modernity is the solution.” Environmental concerns are reduced to a management issue. Hence, ecology has become the masterframe of modernity, says sociologist Klaus Eder (1996). He elaborates that today we are in the post-Rio era experience a phase in which “the cultural normalization of environmental concerns and their integration with established patterns of ideological thought” emerges (Eder, 1996: 163). Figure 79.3 can be interpreted as an illustration of ecological modernization in the Gulf. The picture is from a cover of an environmental show and is illustrating a sick earth in a hospital bed surrounded by four male doctors curing the earth with modern technology. I have identified the Emirati environmental public discourse as an expression of global ecological modernization (Ouis, 2002c). In the megaengineering projects the latest environmentally friendly technologies are being used, they are all preceded by

1418

P. Ouis

Fig. 79.3 An illustration of ecological modernization in the Gulf. The picture is from a cover of an environmental show and illustrates a sick earth in a hospital bed surrounded by four male doctors curing the earth with modern technology

environmental impact assessments, and many resources are being invested in creating a green image of the projects. Still, I argue, the megaprojects are all based on the continuation of a non-sustainable lifestyle. And this is one of the core issues and mysteries of the discourse on ecological modernization. The discourse successfully hides the conflicts between consumption and ecological concerns. It makes us believe that energy- and resource efficiency is sufficient enough, without questioning the total use of resources, energy or the consumerist lifestyle in total. So can the ecological modernization and megaengineering projects solve the environmental

79

Engineering the Emirates: The Evolution of a New Environment

1419

problems in the UAE? I have already shown some examples of negative ecological impact of these projects. What interests me is how these projects can be depicted as environmentally beneficiary in the public discourse. I will illustrate some examples. One example how energy efficiency is mystifying the total use of energy (or in a harsh way of putting it -: the squandering of energy by creating a winter environment in one of the world’s hottest climates) is from Ski Dubai. Phil Taylor, engineer in the project says to the Alfa Laval International Customer Magazine (2008) “People would think that Ski Dubai requires huge amounts of energy, but our system is incredibly energy efficient.” He continues: “Actually our energy costs are less than 10% of our operating costs. Right now the wall-mounted chillers installed to maintain the temperature are not even running. The cooling effect of the glycol system and the snow layer as such is enough to maintain the desired temperatures day and night.” The article continues enthusiastically: “The energy efficiency goes further than this. Ski Dubai and the Mall of the Emirates are integrated into an extremely efficient energy recovery and recycling system. The 30–40 tonnes (33–44 tons) of snow that are removed every night to make room for the new snow is melted and used in the chilled water supply for the system that air-conditions the mall. After that the water from the melted snow is used to irrigate the gardens. So the energy is actually used three times” (emphasis added). Even though the energy is efficiently used, the whole issue of creating the world’s largest refrigerator in the world’s hottest climate is not scrutinized critically. The ecological awareness is present but rather as an image and as management issues. In an article on Masdar, the ecological city, the question is: But, the United Arab Emirates is an oil-rich nation containing approximately 10 percent of the world’s oil reserves. So why is Abu Dhabi doing this? “The answer is simple,” says Sultan Al Jaber, CEO of Abu Dhabi Future Energy Co., which is the developer planning the city. “There are two reasons. Number one, because we can. Number two, because we should. And because this is a logical step and a natural extension for our involvement in the energy markets.” In other words, when the oil runs out, which it eventually will, Abu Dhabi wants to be ready to sell the world solar or wind or whatever renewable technologies will be needed to supply people’s energy needs. But there’s another reason. “Abu Dhabi wanted to show that it’s aware of its carbon footprint today,” says Khaled Awad, the man in charge of building Masdar City. (Palca, 2008; emphasis mine)

Abu Dhabi, is investing to maintain a leading position in the global energy market. So is this the real reason hidden behind this large scale ecological experiment? Economic concerns have always taken precedence over ecological ones. Or is the whole project just about creating a new green image and getting rid of its bad ecological reputation? In a panel debate arranged by TreeHugger, the $US 22 billion project of Masdar was debated from an ecological point of view (Fox, 2008). The expert expressed some ambivalence towards the project. The question was stated: With entire economies based on selling oil and natural gas to fund massive, rapid growth and a per capita ecological footprint larger than the United States, the United Arab Emirates is currently one of the most unsustainable places in the world. Are Masdar City and the Masdar Initiative a first step toward genuine sustainable development in the Gulf, or a very clever

1420

P. Ouis

strategy to shield the Emirates from environmental criticism while they continue along the same unsustainable path?

Professor Sahar Attia anwered: “Sustainability is among their goals, and they hope to reach it through the Masdar project; but that does not mean that it will be replicated throughout the UAE, especially if it contradicts their current path of growth and development.” Richard Register, ecological theorist, stated that: Sustainable? How could it possibly be? What on Earth could they mean by that? Maybe massive solar energy, once established, could run artificially refrigerated environments on the sun’s energy, partially shaded, solar cooled greenhouses producing food, fish farms also run on solar, boats on solar electricity and on and on after massive investments. But the kind of synthetic life there would seem unbearable to anyone who loves natural animals or plants. Very weird.

Professor Peter Droege, chair of the World Council for Renewable Energy concluded by saying: “The only way for Masdar to be 100% fossil fuel free and sustainable at this late stage in the unfolding climate-tipping-point drama would be to not build it at all, and instead spend the money on converting the rest of the economy and infrastructure onto a renewable footing.” This comment could stand as a reminder that ecological modernization makes us dazzled by technological solutions that hide the more obvious questions at stake. A second example is the other ecological city. OMA, the developers of the new ecological city in Ras al-Khaimah put the obvious “eco riddle” on their homepage: “If green is good ... what is greening of the desert?” They answer themselves: “For some time now desert developments have been constructed as though they could have been constructed anywhere else. Large sections of the desert are being turned into high maintenance lawn. Levels of energy and water consumption are representing immense ecological cost.” However, their project will make a difference. They continue: “This project couples the conveniences of one’s home to the proximity of cultural and social provisions, the intimacy of the traditional street to smooth accessibility and quality public realm to a large quantum of development.... Concentration, density, synergy, simultaneity, critical mass are the main features, not out of nostalgia, but out of absolute necessity.” (OMA, 2008) It is good that urban concentration is addressed, but again large scale lifestyle issues are not addressed.

79.2 Conclusions My conclusion based on the facts presented above is that the creation and evolution of a new environment in the UAE is not sustainable in the broader environmental perspective. The discourse of ecological modernization successfully hides this fact by focusing on new technologies, renewable energy, energy efficiency and environmental impact assessments, but without addressing the non-sustainable lifestyle promoted in this development. The economy of the post-oil era in the UAE somehow presumes that existing lifestyle can be maintained in the future and that fossil fuels can be fully replaced by renewable energy sources. Will it be possible? This is not a question addressed to the UAE only, but a crucial question to the entire

79

Engineering the Emirates: The Evolution of a New Environment

1421

globe and its inhabitants. The Emiratis have a unique position with its excessive financial means to create whatever future they wish to see. Still, they are vulnerable since their wealth is utterly dependent on business as usual and the continued export of fossil fuels. The discourse of ecological modernization makes us blind to the obvious fact that in order to attain the means to make the emirates ecological, the Emiratis have to sell more oil, with the result that more ecological problems will be created. One has to be aware of that the energy doomsday scenarios sketched in the 1970s are happening here and now, and not there and then.

79.3 Addendum (February 2009) I am not an economist and must rely on secondary sources to speculate on how the global economic crisis has affected the Emirati megaprojects. It is obvious that the global economic recession and the decline in oil price (from $US 140 dollar per barrel last summer to about $US 35 in February 2009) have created an abrupt halt in the Gulf economic boom. These economies, as I have argued, are more reliant on fossil fuel exports than they like to admit. Stock and real estate markets have subsequently fallen dramatically. However, the previous good years have provided UAE a buffer to cope with fiscal deficits, even if the GDP would fall in 2009. A check on the homepages of the megaprojects presented reveals that none of the projects have been cancelled, and even if this was the case, it would probably not been admitted in public yet. It is difficult to know the true status of these enterprises due to reasons of competition and prestige. The cost of construction might have been covered in advanced, but the problems regarding the success and use of these constructions will appear later on. A plausible scenario is ghostly artificial islands, skyscrapers, desert cities and business quarters empty of people. In this paper I raised the question if these megaprojects could be considered as sustainable. The recent economic recession has really made my point. Overproduction of luxury in the UAE existed even before the crisis a problem, but the demand for luxury properties has now dropped drastically. I criticized the Emirati strategy for developing an economy that is basically dependent on businessas-usual and I think the recent crisis has revealed its vulnerability. I have shown that the Emirati development is not ecologically sustainable, but moreover, the global crisis have shown that is not even economic sustainable or even viable in the longer perspective.

References Alfa Laval International Customer Magazine here (No 22, April, 2008). Article by Birgitta Lundblad. Skiing in the desert. Retrieved June 16, 2008, from http://here.alfalaval.com/ ?pageID=3&articleID=894&keyTechnologyID=2 Burj Dubai Skyscraper. Retrieved September 9, 2008, from http://www.burjdubaiskyscraper.com/ 2005/competitors/alburj.html

1422

P. Ouis

Butler, T. (2005). Dubai’s artificial islands have high environmental cost. The price of “The World”: Dubai’s Artificial Future. Article published on mongabay.com August 23, 2005. Retrieved July 6, 2008, from http://news.mongabay.com/2005/0823-tina_butler_dubai.html Dubai Properties. Retrieved September 26, 2008, from http://dubai-properties.ae/en/ Projects/BusinessBay/Index.html Dubai Towers Dubai. Retrieved September 29, 2008, from http://www.dubaitowersdubai.com/. Dynamic Architecture. Official website of Da Vinci tower. Retrieved September 24, 2008, from http://www.dynamicarchitecture.net/home.html Eder, K. (1996). The social construction of nature. London: Sage. Eikongraphia. Retrieved September 25, 2008, from http://www.eikongraphia.com/?p=223 Emaar Properties. Homepage of the constructor/developer of Burj Dubai. Retrieved September 8, 2008, from http://burjdubai.com/MediaCenter/PressReleases/2008September01.asp Emporis. The World’s Website about Buildings. Retrieved September 24, 2008, from http://www.emporis.com/en/wm/bu/?id=271744 Fox, J. (2008). Ecocities of Tomorrow: Can Foster + Partner’s Masdar City in U.A.E be Truly Sustainable? Published 03.4.08. Retrieved September 24, 2008, from http://www. treehugger.com/files/2008/03/masdar-roundtable.php Global Footprint Network. Retrieved September 25, 2008, from http://www.footprintnetwork.org/ gfn_sub.php?content=global_footprint Gulf News. Dubai Creek link to sea approved. Published April 20, 2007. Retrieved September 26, 2008, from http://archive.gulfnews.com/articles/07/04/20/10119562.html Hajer, M. A. (1995). The politics of environmental discourse: Ecological modernization and the policy press. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Heard-Bey, F. (1996 [1982]). From trucial states to United Arab Emirates: A society in transition. London & New York: Longman. Heard-Bey, F. (1997). The tribal society of the UAE and its traditional economy. In E. Ghareeb. & I. Al Abed (Eds.), Perspectives on the United Arab Emirates (pp. 254–272). London: Trident Press. Jodidio, P. (2007). Architecture in the Emirates. Köln: Taschen. Long, D. E. (1996 [1978]). The Persian Gulf: An introduction to its peoples, politics, and economics. Boulder: Westview Press. Luxury Launches. Retrieved September 24, 2008, from http://www.luxurylaunches.com/buildings/ burj_mubarak_alkabir_in_kuwait_will_be_the_tallest_building_in_the_world.php Nakheel. Developer of the Palm islands. Retrieved September 25, 2008, from http://www.thepalm.ae/ OMA, The Office for Metropolitan Architecture. Retrieved September 25, 2008, from http://www.oma.eu/index.php?option=com_projects&view=project&id=443&Itemid=10 Ouis, P. (2002b). Islamization as a strategy for reconciliation between modernity and tradition: Examples from contemporary Arab Gulf states. Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations, 13(3), 315–334. Ouis, P. (2002a). Power, person, and place: Tradition, modernity, and environment in the United Arab Emirates. Lund: Lund Studies in Human Ecology 4, Lund University. Ouis, P. (2002c). ‘Greening the Emirates’: The modern construction of nature in the United Arab Emirates. Cultural Geographies, 9, 334–347. Palca, J. UAE has mixed motivations for eco city. NPR May 5, 2008. Retrieved July 7, 2008, from http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=90139449 SkyscraperPage Forum. Retrieved September 24, 2008, from http://forum.skyscraperpage.com/ showthread.php?t=135116 State of the Environment Abu Dhabi. Retrieved September 25, 2008, from http://www.soe.ae/Abu_ themespage.aspx?m=185 The Masdar Initiative. Retrieved September 26, 2008, from http://www.masdaruae.com/index.aspx

79

Engineering the Emirates: The Evolution of a New Environment

1423

Tom Wright. Homepage of the architect behind Burj al-Arab. Retrieved September 8, 2008, from http://www.tomwrightdesign.com/web/burj_al_arab.php UAE Interact. Retrieved June 18, 2008, from http://www.uaeinteract.com/docs/UAE_presents_ interim_report_on_key_Ecological_Footprint_data/29205.htm UAE Ministry of Information and Culture. (1993). The UAE 1993. Dubai: Hyatt Annas Magazine. UAE Ministry of Information and Culture. (1995). The United Arab Emirates. Dubai: Motivate Publishing.

Chapter 80

Land Marks in the Cure of Madness: The Shaping of 19th Century Asylum Sites in Melbourne, Australia Anne Bourke

80.1 Introduction The incomparable beauty and seclusion of the Yarra Bend appeared to recommend it as an isolated and picturesque spot for the erection of a lunatic hospital. (Horne, 1853: 12)

This statement, which was made in 1853 in the Melbourne paper, The Argus, in relation to the Melbourne asylum of Yarra Bend, encapsulates an attitude to ‘nature’ and ‘landscape’ that can be reasonably described as one of ‘salvation’ or ‘transcendence’ (Fig. 80.1). It reflects expert medical opinion of the 19th century centered on

Fig. 80.1 Yarra Bend Asylum from Studley Park. (Photo by N.J. Caire; State Library of Victoria) A. Bourke (B) Faculty of Architecture, Building and Planning, University of Melbourne, Melbourne, VIC, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_80,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1425

1426

A. Bourke

the idea that ’beauty,’ ‘seclusion’ and the ‘picturesque’ have the power to influence the mind, to replace disorder with order and ‘bad’ thoughts with ‘good’. ‘Madness’ it was theorized was caused by disordered thoughts which to some extent were the result of the ‘disordered’ environment in which the individual was living (Porter, 1987: 191–192). For this reason, the rapid urban expansion of the 19th century was held partly responsible for the perceived increase in madness and the obvious antidote was removal from the congested chaotic city to the quiet and peaceful scenery of the country (Philo, 1987: 404). This paper looks at two asylum sites in order to explore ideas of ‘madness’ and ‘landscape’ in colonial Melbourne, particularly in regard to ambivalent ideas about the power of ‘landscape’ to both induce and cure madness. This is framed within a colonial context and examines the influence of essentially European ideas of land use and ‘garden’ in forming Australian sites. Of particular interest is the perception that the land itself, that is the experience of ‘Australia,’ produced its own form of madness. In this sense, the land can be conceived of as an ambivalent agent in the asylum experience, as representing both menace and salvation. Finally, the persistence of the belief in a particular ‘landscape’ as appropriate for the treatment of mental illness is briefly explored. Specifically, the archival material used as the basis of this study includes the asylum sites themselves, as artifacts that are revelatory of 19th century attitudes to land and the cure of mental illness. As such, it is in keeping with the work of medical geographers such as Chris Philo (1987, 1995, 2004) and Hester Parr (2007); Parr, Philo, and Burns (2003) who examine the geographical and physical characteristics of asylum sites in order to explore the history and experience of mental illness.

80.2 The ‘Land’ and Madness in Australia The Zox Commission in 1884, one of a number of Royal Commissions inquiring into the treatment of the mentally ill in Victoria in the 19th century, proclaimed Melbourne, Victoria’as being the maddest place in the world’ (Royal Commission on Asylums for the Insane and Inebriate, 1886: 303). Zox made this assertion on the basis of the higher proportion of the population admitted to Victorian asylums as compared to those in England. Although, there may have been a number of reasons for this, not the least being the practice of shipping out mentally ill relatives from ‘the old world’ (Report from the Select Committee upon the Lunatic Asylum, 1858: 9–10). There was also a firmly held belief that the experience of ‘Australia’ contributed to a higher incidence of mental illness. La Trobe, the first governor of the colony suggested as much in 1845 in talking about the requirements for the new asylum at Yarra Bend: I am greatly appreciative that for a variety of causes mental diseases will be found of very frequent occurrence in this particular colony and confined to no particular group. (La Trobe, 1845: 45/1299)

80

Land Marks in the Cure of Madness

1427

The ‘warm climate’ was considered a factor, which not only encouraged heavy drinking but produced a ‘peculiar condition of the blood’ which induced deliriums tremens (Black, 1856), one of the major reasons for admissions to Yarra Bend and Kew Asylums (Brothers, 1957: 341–347). Loneliness, despair, isolation were all counted as contributing factors and were listed in official reports. The 1858 Select Committee inquiring into a new site for instance, raises ‘peculiar climate,’ ‘northerly winds’ and ‘disappointment’ as possible explanations (Report from the Select Committee upon the Lunatic Asylum, 1858: 26, 28, 34, 37, 40). This last suggestion of ‘disappointment’ was particularly associated with young women who had been only a short time in the colony and who found the reality of their new home so at variance with their idealized hopes, that they took to drink and became ‘mad’ (Report from the Select Committee upon the Lunatic Asylum, 1858: 10). The underlying premise was that these conditions had as their root cause, the unfamiliar and disconcerting experience of a land in which nature was out of kilter, where ‘trees shed their bark, swans were black, rather than white, and the seasons reversed’ (Turcotte, 1998: 11). More than this was the presence of the alien vegetation of the landscape – the bush. This excerpt from Henry Lawson‘s, The Drover’s Wife expresses some of the feelings of hopelessness and despair that were associated with ’the bush:’ Bush all round—bush with no horizon, for the country is flat. No ranges in the distance. The bush consists of stunted, rotten native apple trees. No undergrowth. Nothing to relieve the eye save the darker green of a few sheoaks which are sighing above the narrow, almost waterless creek. (Lawson, 1935: 107)

Elsewhere in the story the bush is ‘maddening’ because of its stunted trees. Immersion in the unnatural bush, as Sue Rowley in her discussion on ‘bush-induced’ madness points out, could send you mad (Rowley, 1996: 138–143). In the light of these perceptions of the land as inducing ‘madness,’ it is interesting to consider how the asylum landscape was thought and written about in the context of curing ‘madness,’ and not least of all, what the asylum site itself revealed about these attitudes.

80.3 Asylum Land and Madness 80.3.1 Location The first two purpose built asylum sites in Melbourne were situated on opposite banks of the Yarra River, that is Yarra Bend and Kew Asylums (Fig. 80.2). The Yarra Bend Asylum was built in 1848, while the Kew Asylum was started in 1862, but for a number of reasons having to do with bureaucratic bungling was not finished until 1871. The building styles of the two asylums developed very differently. Yarra Bend evolved into a series of scattered and low rise buildings whilst, Kew which was based on Hanwell Asylum, is an example of the ‘barracks style’ prevalent

1428

A. Bourke

Fig. 80.2 Yarra Bend and Kew Asylums (right), 1900–1910. (W.T. Pater Postcards Collection, State Library of Victoria)

in England at the time. Both expansive sites included ornamental gardens, vegetable gardens, farms and recreational grounds such as cricket ovals and bowling greens. Both these Melbourne sites can be seen as typical of other Asylum sites in the 19th century that could be found in England, across Europe, America and other parts of Australia (Coleborne & MacKinnon, 2003, Taylor, 1991; Yanni, 2007). The typical asylum site found was distinguished by rural location, expansive grounds, farm areas, ornamental gardens, airing yards and an emphasis on a ‘picturesque’ aesthetic. Its dominance was influenced by firmly held medical beliefs of the period, in the power of ‘nature’ and immersion in rural life as a cure for mental illness. The asylum site was formed and shaped according to these ideas which were discussed in government reports, medical journals and architectural texts. It was the importance of the medical opinion, however, that drove the construction of these sites and accounts for the uniformity of the asylum model across the world. As such, these sites can be interpreted as land that was highly engineered according to medical and scientific ideas of the period. Figure 80.3 shows a map of Melbourne from 1865 with the two asylums shown as colored areas while the circles represent the public hospitals of the period. A number of things are immediately apparent from this map about ‘the land’ that was considered suitable for the treatment of mental illness. Firstly, is the location of the asylums on the urban fringe as compared with the general hospitals within the city. In contrast to England which had a number of urban asylums, Victoria did not produce a city-based asylum until 1909. The lack of an urban asylum could indicate the predominantly, pastoral character of the new colony but can also indicate other influences. Primarily, the location reflects the tone of recommendations in the

80

Land Marks in the Cure of Madness

1429

Fig. 80.3 Map of Melbourne showing geographical location and size of Yarra Bend and Kew Asylum sites (shaded areas at upper right) in relation to general hospital sites (circles). (Adapted from George Slater’s ‘Plan of Melbourne and its suburbs, 1857,’ State Library of Victoria)

Metropolitan Commissioners in Lunacy Report (1844) in England which favored a ‘rural geography’ as Chris Philo has expressed it (Philo, 2004: 568–575). It could also be argued that it indicates the importance attached to seclusion which is emphasized by the way in which the waterways enclose the land, particularly at Yarra Bend Asylum. The road network also developed in such a way that that discouraged interaction with the general public. The 1855 plan of Yarra Bend (Fig. 80.4), drafted before the building of Kew Asylum illustrates all these points. The buildings are at the far end of the site, clustered near the river and distant from Heidelberg Road. This building site was later to be criticized for being hemmed in by the topography which restricted views yet could be overlooked by people on the high side of the river and blocked healthful breezes. (Report from the Select Committee upon the Lunatic Asylum, 1858: 1, 12, 25, 40, 77). The site of the buildings had been chosen by La Trobe as a result of practical concerns to do with water supply (La Trobe, C. J.: 1846, No. 46/347). The proximity of the river however, was seen as problematic for its encouragement of thoughts and provision of opportunities for suicide (Report from the Select Committee upon the Lunatic Asylum, 1858: 2). The official sanction of the

1430

A. Bourke

Fig. 80.4 Map of Yarra Bend Asylum, 1855 showing the location of original buildings in relation to river and public roads. (Adapted from Lands and Survey Map, State Library of Victoria)

19th century idea of the capacity of geographical features to influence thoughts and hence behavior is apparent in this discussion. The aboriginal school and farm in the confluence of the Merri Creek and Yarra River (1841–1851) originally shared the Yarra Bend site and is interesting for the insight it provides into the ideas around ‘rural arcadias’ in Australia (Heydon, 2004). The aboriginal farm was conceived as a way of civilizing indigenous males through the rigor and discipline acquired through agricultural work and the accompanying attachment to a circumscribed place that is a defining feature of farm work. As such, it was an attempt to remove aboriginal people from the city which was seen as a corrupting influence and to furnish them with an occupation which it was hoped, would allow them to integrate into European society. In this sense, it fulfilled a very similar role to that of the farmland of the asylum which was important in not only supplying food for the institution but in providing useful employment that was considered therapeutic. In both cases, ‘the farm’ is presented as the antithesis to the congested industrial city and it is interesting that these two institutions shared a site. The requirement for a rural idiom has a resonance with a Foucault analysis of the ‘ordered’ landscape of the farm and the experience of ‘working with the land,’ as countering ‘social constraints’ of the city (Philo, 2004: 586–597). For both the indigenous male and the ‘mad’ person, the city is a destructive force, whose influence could be counteracted by simple rural activities.

80

Land Marks in the Cure of Madness

1431

The accompanying interpretation of the location of these sites is that although apart from the urban city, they are not in isolated country far from the nearest signs of civilisation. This is not ‘Henry Lawson’ country where people are driven mad by isolation. The city was at a distance but within reasonable proximity so that it could be visited by doctors and officials or as the Australian Medical Journal expressed it, ‘provide facility of access for purposes of supervision’ (Willson, 1859).

80.3.2 Size of Site The expansive size of asylum sites is the second observation to be made in relation to the geography of asylum land. Yarra Bend was reported as being 640 acres (259 ha) by the Argus newspaper (The Argus, 1846: 2) while Kew was gazetted at 398 acres (161 ha) (Victorian Government Gazette, 1871: 2113). This contrasts with the much smaller size of land allotted to general hospitals. The Melbourne Hospital for instance, occupied 4.75 acres (1.92 ha) and the Alfred, the largest of the general hospital sites, occupied just over 14 acres (5.7 ha) (Charitable Institutions, 1890: Table IV). It would seem from this marked difference between the size of land for the treatment of ‘mind’ as compared to that for the treatment of ‘body,’ that ‘madness’ required large amounts of land in a way that the hospital for physical conditions did not.

80.3.3 Topography The topography of the site was also considered with great seriousness and emphasis was placed on the requirements for views and variety of scenery. This is perhaps best illustrated in the 1858 Select Committee Report, which not only discusses the deficiencies of the existing Yarra Bend Asylum site, but articulates the desirable characteristics for the new site. In terms that now seem almost comical in their naivety, medical experts talk about the relative benefits of a distant rather than a confined view, the need for variation in scenery, concerns regarding the thoughts of escape that may arise by the view of the city, or as already mentioned, the merit of the river as a scenic element rather than an initiator of suicidal thoughts. Statements such as those made by the Government architect Vivian in which he testifies that he has ‘medical authority, for stating that an extensive view was not needful, but rather a pleasant prospect,’ is a typical example of the tone of the debate (Report from the Select Committee upon the Lunatic Asylum, 1858: 69). The most telling factor of course, is that questions about views and scenery were raised by the commissioners at all, and then at such length. It is interesting to note that the views could not be of a nature to excite patients, which was another emphasis in the reports. In fact, it was the practice to keep ‘manic’ patient indoors for this reason (Report from the Select Committee upon the Lunatic Asylum, 1858: 12). As one account records the desirable scenery needed to be ‘romantic without wildness’ (Humanitas, 1856: 6).

1432

A. Bourke

The adoption of the English landscape discourse in relation to Australia is indicative of course, of the close association of the colonial ties between Australia and England. More than this however, it demonstrates the pervasiveness of the ‘English’ view in not only defining problems in Australia, but in framing the aesthetic landform in which the solutions are found, despite the difference in land, climate and vegetation.

80.3.4 Picturesque Related to this idea of the ‘Englishness’ of Melbourne asylums, is that the identification of desirable topography was again, not the flat, monotonous country of Henry Lawson stories but rather that of the English ‘picturesque.’ As with Australian landscape paintings of the period, the asylum landscape in providing a connection to ‘home’ was counteracting the disturbing influence of the ‘unfamiliar’ land (Willis, 1993). Medical Officer, Dr. Thomas Embling for instance, writing in The Argus newspaper in 1853, employs the language of the picturesque in describing the Yarra Bend site: At the very commencement of the grounds the view is the most beautiful one; the river, breaking upon the sight suddenly and in one of its multitudinous serpentine turnings as suddenly disappearing, has all the effect of a very charming little lake. (Embling, 1853: 5)

Similarly with Kew Asylum, the description of views from the airing yards use painterly terms such as ‘lights and shades’ to place the asylum site within a picturesque landscape: . . .a magnificent view over Heidelberg and the Yarra valley, far away to the Dandenong Ranges. In fair weather or in foul, this is a magnificent prospect, rich in trees and greenery, brightened or subdued by varying lights and shades. (Vagabond, 1856: 4)

Similarly, the views and experience of nature are presented in romantic language of the picturesque in this description by the same attendant of his walk with patients in the Kew Asylum grounds: And when we arrived at a knoll from whence there were views of the river, the pleasant verdure of the bottom lands, the houses peeping through the trees around Heidelberg, and in the distance the Dandenongs, and beyond them, through the gap, higher and more distant mountains soaring into sunny cloudland we sat down with our backs turned to the hated asylum walls, and the grateful prospect, for a time, soothed the minds of all. . .. The walk having done us a thousand times more good than the church service. (Vagabond, 1876: 4. 4)

The picturesque perception of the asylum grounds was reproduced in images of the period which presented a framed scenic view of the asylum that was a feature of such colonial artists such as Conrad Martens (Willis, 1993: 68–70) and is demonstrated in Fig. 80.5. In an aligned treatment, Kew in the following woodcut is represented as a country estate where the inhabitants stroll around the grounds enjoying the laid out garden beneath a typically expansive sky (Fig. 80.6).

80

Land Marks in the Cure of Madness

1433

Fig. 80.5 Yarra Bend Lunatic Asylum, 1864 (‘Scene on the Yarra’ image in Australian News, State Library of Victoria)

Fig. 80.6 Metropolitan hospital for the Insane, 1869 (Australian News image, State Library of Victoria)

This idealized woodcut may have differed from the reality but the reference to a country estate is unmistakeable. In fact, as can be seen in a photograph taken from almost the same perspective in 1869 (Fig. 80.7), it is obvious that the ‘asylum’ aspects of the site have been glossed over, particularly the fencing, to heighten the sense of the asylum as country house.

1434

A. Bourke

Fig. 80.7 Kew Asylum, 1889. (Photo by Charles Rudd, State Library of Victoria)

80.3.5 Domesticated Landscape What is clear is the importance a familiar and ordered landscape is regarded in restoring sanity. In the 1858 report, the questioning of witnesses revolves around the necessity for providing ‘familiar’ and ‘domestic’ surroundings (Report from the Select Committee upon the Lunatic Asylum, 1858: 23, 54, 127) and naturally and quite unselfconsciously, the ‘familiar’ and ‘domestic’ are grounded in memories of ‘home’, that is, of England. So, at Yarra Bend, a visitor familiar with St Luke’s in England describes the grounds as follows: . . .others were amusing themselves with talking to themselves, walking to and fro, sitting up in corners, reclining in the sun, or gathering on benches beneath a wooden shed or verandah, such as we see in England attached to village inns opposite the skittle ground or bowling green. (Horne, 1853: 6)

There is emphasis placed on the ‘cottage’ gardens that are tended by the inmates with pleasant weeping plants and arbors, while elsewhere: The well metalled road winds along past grassy and shady lawns, the trees having been wisely left standing. Shrubs and flowers have since been planted; seats are placed under the trees, on which patients were sitting, and the whole aspect was soothing and home-like. (Vagabond, 1876: 4)

As can be seen in an 1861 image of the cottage section of the Yarra Bend asylum (Fig. 80.8), an almost idealized urban form is adopted with picket fences, paved footpath, gutters and front ornamental gardens of exotic European plants. The indigenous eucalypt is retained in the background, but is treated as a gardenesque ‘feature’ tree, without the context of the Australian scrub. The bush has been ‘tidied up.’ The ‘cottage’ idiom is presented as an alternative to the isolation of the

80

Land Marks in the Cure of Madness

1435

Fig. 80.8 Yarra Bend cottages, 1861 (Photo by Jean-Baptiste Charlier, State Library of Victoria)

bush or the congestion of the city and was referred to as ‘a little settlement’ in 1876 (Vagabond, 1876: 4). At Kew however, references to the garden describe a much grander ornamental treatment in keeping with the grandeur of the building. So, there are descriptions of oak avenues, extensive borders, rose plantings, turf, terraces and stands of exotic trees (Leader, 1881: 9, 1885: 14). Again, the grounds are that of the country villa.

80.3.6 Rural Arcadia The other feature of the asylum grounds that is emphasized in visual representations, is the ‘rurality’ of the sites, both in terms of location and function. In fact, one of the interesting observations to note from representations of Yarra Bend and Kew is that the proximity to the city or suburbs is never referenced, despite the fact that eye witness accounts indicate that the nearby city and suburbs could be clearly seen in 1858 (Report from the Select Committee upon the Lunatic Asylum, 1858: 12). Further, representations of the asylum as a rural retreat, persisted well into the 20th century, even when the sites were abutted by suburbs. An example of this is the 1920 postcard of the road through Yarra Bend that crossed the Yarra River to Kew, ‘Track to the Asylum’ which retains the device of the picturesque and rural in both visual and verbal language (Fig. 80.9). The ambiance of a rural property is also evident in a series of 31 photographs taken by a government official within the grounds of the newly closed Yarra Bend Asylum in 1927 (Fig. 80.10) which give no indication of the crowded suburbs on the other side of the river (Fig. 80.11).

1436

A. Bourke

Fig. 80.9 Track to Asylum, Kew, 1920 (Shirley Jones Collection of Victorian postcards, State Library of Victoria)

Fig. 80.10 Looking toward Zig Zag Bridge and Kew Asylum from site of stables, 1927 (Photo by E. Luly, Yarra Bend Park and Lunatic Asylum Collection, State Library of Victoria)

These images which could be interpreted as a populist idea of the importance of a ‘rural’ setting for treating madness, would have been at odds with the ‘medical’ or expert opinion of the time, which was increasingly engaged with pharmacology and technology as providing a cure for mental illness. Ideas surrounding the importance of landscape in the cure madness had become largely redundant in medical circles by the beginning of the 20th century.

80

Land Marks in the Cure of Madness

1437

Fig. 80.11 Collingwood from the town hall tower. (F. Oswald Barnett Collection, State Library of Victoria)

80.4 Conclusion Ideas about ‘landscape’ and scenery as active elements in the treatment of mental illness have been revealed in this analysis of 19th century ‘sites’ of Melbourne asylums. Location, topography, ideas of ‘rural arcadia’ and the ‘picturesque’ within the context of the Australian land as ‘maddening’ were carefully considered by medical experts as key elements in the choice of asylum site. Particularly, the asylum site demonstrated the importance of the ‘English picturesque’ as an antidote to increasing urbanization and the depressing influence of the unfamiliar Australian ‘bush,’ both considered causes of madness in colonial Melbourne. Australian landscape needed to be ‘Europeanized,’ in order to be non-threatening and as such is in keeping with other views of Australian land such as is represented in landscape painting of the period. All of these ideas produced a specific asylum site type based on officially sanctioned beliefs in the importance of land in the treatment of mental illness that was current throughout the western world in the nineteenth century. The impact of these nineteenth century ideas can still be seen in the geography of Melbourne today. A contemporary map of Melbourne shows a large green park and golf course that had been the Yarra Bend site until 1925. It is unlikely that such a large area of land close to the city would have been available for such a use if it had not been set aside for a lunatic asylum in 1848. The Kew site which did not surrender its institutional status until the early 21st century, is now a medium density housing estate. The former Kew asylum building site is part of a gated community in the late 20th century, an irony that is not lost upon any historians of Melbourne or of mental illness. It remains as a land mark of madness on the Melbourne skyline overlooking the city and the suburbs it succeeded in keeping at bay for nearly one hundred and fifty years. The expansive grounds are now engulfed by uniform all-white housing,

1438

A. Bourke

strangely reminiscent of the institutional site it replaces. It remains as a powerful reminder of the power of the 19th century idea that a particular landform, aspect and land use are important in the treatment of mental illness.

References Anon. (1846). Yarra Bend. Argus 11 August. Anon. (1881). Gardens of the Kew Asylum. The Leader, 8 January. Anon. (1885). Gardens of the Kew Asylum. The Leader, 31 October. Black, J. (1856). On delirium tremens. Australian Medical Journal, April, 119–124. Brothers, C. R. D. (1957). Archives of Victorian psychiatry. The Medical Journal of Australia, 1(11), 341–347. Charitable Institutions. Report of Inspector for the year ended 30th June (1890). No. 204. Victorian Parliamentary Papers 1890. Melbourne, VIC: Government Printer, Vol. 4. Coleborne, C., & MacKinnon, D. (2003). Madness in Australia: Histories, heritage and asylum. St Lucia, QLD: University of Queensland Press Embling, T. (1853). To the Editor. The Argus (pp. 6–7). 14 July. Heydon, I. D. C. A. T. (2004). A bend in the Yarra: A history of the Merri Creek Protectorate Station and Merri Creek Aboriginal School 1841–1851. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Horne, R. R. (1853). A visit to the lunatic asylum. The Argus (p. 6). 14 March. Humanitas. (1856). The Yarra Bend Asylum. The Argus (p. 6). 5 February. Lawson, H. (1935). The drover’s wife (1892). In The prose works of Henry Lawson (Vol. 1). Sydney, NSW: Home Entertainment Library. La Trobe, C. J., La Trobe to Colonial Secretary. Outward letter books -31st Dec 1845 G- 31ST Dec 1846 H, PROV, VPRS 16/P000/14. Parr, H. (2007). Mental health, nature work, and social inclusion. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 25, 537–561. Parr, H., Philo, C., & Burns, N. (2003). ‘That awful place was home’: Reflections on the contested meanings of Craig Dunain Asylum. Scottish Geographical Journal, 119(4), 341–360. Philo, C. (1987). Fit localities for the asylum: The historical geography of the nineteenth-century “mad-business” in England as viewed through the pages of the Asylum Journal. Journal of Historical Geography, 13, 398–415. Philo, C. (1995). Journey to asylum: A medical-geographical idea in historical context. Journal of Historical Geography, 21(2), 148–168. Philo, C. (2004). A geographical history of institutional provision for the insane from medieval times to the 1860s in England and Wales. Lampeter: Edwin Mellen Press. Porter, R. (1987). Mind-forg’d manacles: A history of madness in England from the restoration to the regency. London: Athlone. Report from the Select Committee upon the Lunatic Asylum: together with the proceedings of the Committee, minutes of evidence and appendices, 1858. D-No. 16. Votes and Proceedings of the Legislative Assembly 1857–58. Melbourne, Government Printer, Vol. 1, Part 2. Report of the Metropolitan Commissioners in Lunacy. Presented to both Houses of Parliament by command of her Majesty (1844). Rowley, S. (1996). Imagination, madness and nation. In E. Gunner, S. Nuttall, & K. Darian-Smith (Eds.), Text, theory, space: Land, literature, and history in South Africa and Australia (pp. 131– 144). London; New York: Routledge. Royal Commission on Asylums for the Insane and Inebriate including Appendices and Minutes of Evidence. No. 15. Victorian Parliamentary Papers, 1886, Vol. 2. Government Printer, Melbourne. Taylor, J. (1991). Hospital and Asylum Architecture in England 1840–1914. London: Mansell Pub. Ltd.

80

Land Marks in the Cure of Madness

1439

Turcotte, G. (1998). Australian gothic. In M. M. Roberts (Ed.), The handbook to Gothic literature (pp. 10–19). Basingstoke: Macmillan. Vagabond. (1876a). A month in Kew Asylum and Yarra Bend. No. IV. The Argus, 12 August. Vagabond. (1876b). A Month in Kew Asylum and Yarra Bend. No. I. The Argus, 22 July. Victorian Government Gazette (1871) No. 76, 1 December, p. 2113. Melbourne: Government Printer. Willis, A.-M. (1993). Illusions of identity: The art of nation (pp. 61–92). Sydney, NSW: Hale & Iremonger. Willson, R. W. (1859). A Few Observations relative to the Yarra Bend Lunatic Asylum. Reprinted from the Australian Medical Journal. Melbourne, VIC: Goodhugh and Co. Yanni, C. (2007). The architecture of madness: Insane asylums in the United States. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press.

Chapter 81

Sea Art: The Mediterranean Sea Terrace Proposal Nicola M. Pugno, Richard B. Cathcart, and Alexander Bolonkin

81.1 Precursor Art Forms Space Art proponents have mostly opted to construct various symbolic artifacts in extraterrestrial space that could be visible from Earth’s surface with the naked eye. Using various plastic film and dense textile envelopes, Air Art’s advocates have already exploited some of the possibilities of heated and compressed air (or other safe-to-use gases) as well as natural winds. Land Art projects usually result from different personal interpretations of natural and anthropogenic landscape significance and their deliberate alteration (Tufnell 2006). To date, few artists have attempted geographically large-scale Sea Art and yet such a revolutionary, but obviously down-to-Earth, art-form is far more readily realizable nowadays with available technologies than Star Art (Infante, 1992).

81.2 Oceanic Art Progenitors Artworks were installed in the ocean near Tobago, West Indies, during 1969 by Peter Hutchinson and Dennis Oppenheim and Christo installed eleven flamingo-pink floating plastic collar-mats, covering approximately 600,000 m2 (6,456,000 ft2 ) in a placid lagoon of Florida’s Biscayne Bay in 1983 (Spies & Volz, 1985). Installations of this type were christened “Oceanographic Art” and they are best characterized as purely large-scale projective decoration efforts. Sea Art, however, is a form of seawater sculpting by aquatic terracing focused on the 70% of Earth’s surface that is ocean. Seemingly, and perhaps actually, the originator of Sea Art is the renowned German architect Frei Otto, who first contemplated the concept c.1953 (Nerdinger, 2005). In our team’s view, Sea Art has a practical, commercially useful aspect that Oceanographic Art lacks and, therefore, is of interest to 21st century adherents of Macro-engineering (Badescu, Cathcart, & Schuiling, 2006).

N.M. Pugno (B) Department of Structural Engineering and Geotechnics, 10129, Torino, Italy e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_81,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1441

1442

N.M. Pugno et al.

81.3 Staircase Farming “Land Art” About 5000 years ago, the Earth-atmosphere’s methane concentration started to increase markedly and its main source was human cultivation of rice in flatland paddies; about 2000 years ago humans commenced growing rice in watery paddies on laboriously terraced hillsides. Terracing refers to the bench (terrace) constructed in the form of a ridge and channel the entire earthen surface of which is cultivated as a farm field. For example, the spectacular tourist attraction of hillside rice paddy terrain at Ifugao in northwest Luzon (Philippines) is preserved as a UNESCO World Cultural Heritage site (Scarborough, 2003). UNESCO’s dedication reflects people’s unwillingness to accept the natural duration of their outdoor physical creations since, currently, a global financial undertaking helps to prevent natural erosion and human reconstructive actions, obviously causing decay of the old anthropogenic terrain. Methane is a greenhouse gas and the anthropogenic contribution to the atmosphere causes some enhanced global warming and, consequently, also contributes to the on-going rise worldwide of the ocean’s level (Ruddiman, 2006). Perhaps half of all living humans eat rice and the microorganisms inhabiting anoxic rice field soils contribute between 10 and 25% of annual methane emissions; by 2030, there might be five billion persons nourished by rice consumption (Khush, 2005; Normile, 2008). Artificial wetlands on shaped hillsides have in the past, and continue today, to contribute to the ocean’s instability in terms of volume and surface. By 2100 our world’s ocean could elevate by as much as 1 m (39.3 in) relative to its present-day level, thereby directly affecting the world’s coastline (Harff, Hay, & Tetzlaff, 2007). Worst-case global warming geophysical scenarios focused on the invasion of land by seawater were devised by artists such as Terry Schoonhoven and Helen Mayer Harrison and Newton Harrison (Harrison ˆ Harrison, 1993). By September 1994 Quarry Cove, a part of the Yaquina Head Outstanding Natural Area near Newport, Oregon served to permanently remove a minute volume of seawater from the ocean (Thompson, 1996) yet far short of the anti-global sea level rise management and sand dune fixation macro-project proposed during 2008 by geoscientists (Badescu, Cathcart, & Bolonkin, 2008).1

81.4 Sea Terracing About 4300 years ago, urban governments commenced construction of monumental edifices and massive infrastructures following the post-Ice Age natural stabilization of our world’s ocean (Day, Gunn, & Folan, 2007). About 2.2% of this planet’s land that is 10 m (32.8 ft) or less in elevation above the world-ocean’s current level probably supports 10% of all humans and about 13% of all human population designated as “urban” (McGranahan, Balk, & Anderson, 2006). Humanity’s activities (to make and earn a living) will “globalize” the Mediterranean Sea, viz., its seawater, organic and inorganic contents, and periphery (Blondel, 2006; Dora, 2007). Mediterranean Sea Basin nation-ecosystems have several expensive 20th century ameliorative macro-project options available, possibly, someday, including

81

Sea Art: The Mediterranean Sea Terrace Proposal

1443

even Atlantropa’s institutional realization as basically contrived by Herman Sorgel (1885–1952) after World War II (Vleuten & Kaijser, 2006).2 However, recent material properties R&D and newer industrial products stemming directly from advanced material technologies, particularly, technical textiles and flexible impermeable films exhibiting high-performance, purely functional, and precisely woven or non-woven fabrics, offers teamed artist/macro-engineers the prospect of a cheap Mediterranean Sea Basin anti-sea level rise barrier macro-project hung underwater (Cullen, 2005). A fabric artwork and barrier, the Gibraltar Strait Textile Barrage (GSTB), could replace the discontinued and/or postponed MOSE (Modulo Sperimentale Elettromeccanico) macroproject to save Venice (Italy) with a facility of costly operationally complex-to-manufacture-and-maintain storm surge gates (Rinaldo et al., 2008). The Strait of Gibraltar connects the North Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea, making it inevitable that the Mediterranean Sea will rise as our world’s ocean elevates. The GSTB will likely be draped on a 20 km (12.4 mi)-long alignment between Tarifa in Spain and Ksar e’ Sghir in Morocco, creating an aerial and submarine fabric artwork somewhat imitative of Christo’s “Valley Curtain, Rifle, Colorado, 1970–1972”, which was macro-engineered by Ernest C. Harris (1915– 1998) (Vaizey, 1990). Its sole purpose will be to insure the maintenance, for a long period of future historical and geological time, the present-day Mediterranean Sea Basin’s seawater level; in other words, this artwork would preclude any future erosion of valued land-based artworks encompassed by the urban fabric of North Africa and southern Europe. The GSTB’s structural, mechanical and hydro-dynamical physics was first preliminarily demonstrated in 2007 (Cathcart & Bolonkin, 2007). Basically, the seawater-impervious Gibraltar Strait Textile Barrage replicates, in a critical Mediterranean Sea Basin setting, Christo’s temporary suspended fabric curtain, the Pacific Ocean end of “Running Fence”.3

81.5 Gibraltar Strait Textile Barrage “Valley Curtain” was punctured regularly at numerous places to prevent its being torn asunder by strong up-valley and down-valley windstorms. Coincidentally, a watery version of “Valley Curtain”, concocted by the UK engineer Andrew Noel Schofield, was offered as a Thames River Storm Surge Barrier during 1971– 1972. The GSTB will be impervious to seawater, safely sealed to the rocky sidewalls and sedimentary seafloor of the Gibraltar Strait. Consequently, the GSTB will bow or “billow” like a ship’s sail eastwards from the selected construction/emplacement/installation site because of marine and aerial (seasonal winds) pressures acting directly on the GSTB. There are differences in seawater elevations on a two-sided, bottom-anchored and virtually vertical suspended membrane and natural currents such as North Atlantic Ocean tidal solitons. Indeed, prevailing seasonal winds normally flowing along the Gibraltar Strait will pile approximately 5–6 mm (0.19–0.23 in) of seawater on the GSTB’s west face. To cope with these natural environmental forces, macro-engineer planners must draw on the installation experience with heavy wire nets, floatation systems and their seabed moorings

1444

N.M. Pugno et al.

derived from World War II antisubmarine net installation in strategic harbors and that documented experience offered by the 100 km (62.1 mi) -long World War I antisubmarine Otranto Strait Barrage (1915–1919). From its western approaches, the GSTB will have the characteristic of an architectural deception resembling an English Garden or zoo landscape architect’s geo-textile “ha-ha” (also known as a “sunken fence”) in that, without warning light-buoys and radar reflectors, ship navigators will visually misapprehend the true nature of the plotted sea-route ahead. Those mariners, such as private-sector fishermen and yachtsmen, piloting their boats without benefit of up-to-date navigational charts that indicate clearly the GSTB’s presence, will have no inkling via normal optical clues that a 1 m (3.28 ft) drop in sea level occurs in the Gibraltar Strait. Mariners without radar readouts using the eastern approaches will visually spy a 1 m (3.28 ft)-high tensioned fabric wall spilling some seawater caused by wave overwash, which if made of clear or aquamarine-colored material might be almost invisible until closely sighted. The total area of the vertically draped GSTB is about 200 km2 (76.6 sq mi) but only approximately 20,000 m2 (215,000 ft2 ) will be constantly exposed to the air and material-degrading sunshine on its eastern face while the GSTB’s submerged western face will be required to continually resist a 1 m (3.28 ft) seawater hydraulic head. The GSTB artwork, if built to be the first true Sea Art, will be mechanically lifted by shore-based winches gradually only as much as the North Atlantic Ocean actually rises, it will act as an active compensation mechanism to accommodate the anticipated 21st century ocean changes in volume and surface.

81.6 Textile Barrage Structural and Material Design The GSTB textile barrage structure and material have to be strong enough in order to support the nearly 1 m (3.28 ft) water hydraulic pressure difference which remains constant along the height h, Fig. 81.1. The brittle fracture of the membrane would

T

y

z h p

Fig. 81.1 Scheme of the textile barrage (side view)

81

Sea Art: The Mediterranean Sea Terrace Proposal

1445

cause the propagation of a damaging surprise tsunami wave and has thus to be avoided by a proper barrage structural and material design. Considering the scheme reported in Fig. 81.1 and indicating with y(z) the barrage deflection, from classical structural mechanics we have: pL d2 y (z) =− TH dz2

(81.1)

where p is the pressure difference, L is the barrage length (along x) and TH is the horizontal component of the tension T. Equation (81.1) can be easily integrated with the boundary conditions y(z = 0) = y(z − h) = 0. The real height H of the barrage can be calculated as: h



H=

 1+

dy dz

0

h 

2 dz ≈

1 1+ 2



dy dz

2

0

dz = h +

p2 L2 h3 6TH2

(81.2)

Accordingly we find: pLh H−h TH = √ , ε = h 6ε

(81.3)

The mean tension in the barrage will thus be 1 T= h

h 0

TH

TH  dz ≈ dy(z) h cos dz

  h  H 1 dy 2 1+ dz =TH 2 dz h

(81.4)

0

Consequently, noting that the ultimate tension per unit length Tu /L = σu t is the product of the material strength σ u and barrage thickness t, we expect a minimum thickness: pH t= √ (81.5) σu 6ε Due to the huge physical size H, the GSTB composing material has to be sufficiently strong, for example, steel, Kevlar or carbon nanotubes, or alternatively the structure itself has to be sufficiently thick. Graphene sheets are ideal candidates in this context, thanks to their great mechanical strength, impermeability and natural two-dimensionality. Considering H ≈ 1 km, ε ≈ σu /E ≈ 0.1 − 0.01 (E is the material Young’s modulus) and p ≈ 10 KPa, we deduce for realistic macroscopic, thus defective, graphene sheets (σu ≈ 10 GPa, see Pugno, 2007) t ≈ 1 − 4 mm (for defect-free graphene sheets, σu ≈ 10 GPa, we would expect t ≈ 100−400∗ m); for comparison, for steel membranes (σu ≈ 10 GPa)t ≈ 1 − 4 cm.

1446

N.M. Pugno et al.

81.7 Artwork Preservation Paramount The proposed Gibraltar Strait Textile Barrage is an artwork intended to preserve extant artworks within the Basin of the Mediterranean Sea. It is a means to improve humanity’s ability to apply macro-engineering principles which skirt or correct a near-term future global oceanographic problem impairing the economic usefulness of low-elevation coastal land. It is a practical and low-cost example of Sea Art for the 21st century that preserves humanity’s ancient and modern heritage situated in the multi-cultural Mediterranean Sea Basin.

Notes 1. Al Nakheel Properties continuing commercial artificial island construction effort, which does extend Dubai’s sandy shoreline seaward, more than offset all the temporary Tu /L = σu t Mohamed El-Kassas renewed a call for Sorgel’s dam in Issue 919, 23–29 October 2008, of Egypt’s Al-Ahram – see: http://weekly.ahram.org.eg/print/2008/919/sc3.htm. 2. Here, it is interesting that Christo intends to complete a horizontally-laid 9.5 km (5.9 mi)long fabric covering of the State of Colorado’s Arkansas River valley by 2013 (Christo & Jeanne-Claude, 2008). 3. A 170 m (558 foot) section of Christo’s “Running Fence” plunged into the Pacific Ocean from a place bordering Bodega Bay in Northern California (O’Doherty, 2010).

References Badescu, V., Cathcart, R. B., & Bolonkin, A. A. (2008). Sand Dune fixation: A solar-powered Sahara seawater pipeline macroproject. Land Degradation & Development, 19, 676–691. Badescu, V., Cathcart, R. B., & Schuiling, R. D. (2006). Macro-engineering: A challenge for the future. Dordrecht: Springer. Blondel, J. (2006). The ‘design’ of Mediterranean landscapes: A millennial story of humans and ecological systems during the historic period. Human Ecology, 34, 713–729. Cathcart, R. B., & Bolonkin, A. A. (2007, 9 January). Ocean Terracing. Retrieved from arXiv.org>physics>physics/0770110. Accessed January 10, 2009. Christo and Jeanne-Claude. (2008). Over the river. Hong Kong: Taschen. Cullen, M. N. (2005). Tension membrane water retaining structures. Transactions of the Built Environment, 79, 427–436. Day, J. W., Gunn, J. D., & Folan, W. J. (2007). Emergence of complex societies after sea level stabilized. EOS: Transactions, American Geophysical Society, 88, 169–170. Dora, V. della (2007). Geo-strategy and the persistence of antiquity: Surveying mythical hydrographies in the eastern Mediterranean, 1784–1869. Journal of Historical Geography, 33, 514–541. Harff, J., Hay, W. W., & Tetzlaff, D. M. (2007). Coastline changes: Interaction of climate and geological processes. Washington, DC: Geological Society of America. Harrison, H. H., & Harrison, N. (1993). Shifting position toward the earth: Art and environmental awareness. Leonardo, 26, 371–377. Infante, F. (1992). Projects for the reconstruction of the firmament. Leonardo, 25, 11. Khush, G. S. (2005). What will it take to feed 5.0 billion rice consumers in 2030? Plant Molecular Biology, 59, 1–6. McGranahan, G., Balk, D., & Anderson, B. (2006). Low coastal zone settlement. Tiempo, 59, 23–26.

81

Sea Art: The Mediterranean Sea Terrace Proposal

1447

Nerdinger, W. (2005). Frei Otto: Complete works. Basel: Birkhauser. Normile, D. (2008). Reinventing rice to feed the world. Science, 321, 330–333. O’Doherty, B. (2010). Christo and Jeanne-Claude REMEMBERING the Running Fence (p. 59). Berkeley: University of California Press. Pugno, N. (2007). The role of defects in the design of the space elevator cable: From nanotube to megatube. Acta Materialia, 55, 5269–5279. Rinaldo, A., Nicotina, L., Celegon, E. A., Beraldin, F., Botter, G., Carniello, L., et al. (2008). Sea level rise, hydraulic runoff, and the flooding of Venice. Water Resources Research, 44, W12434. Ruddiman, W. F. (2006). Plows, plagues & petroleum. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Scarborough, V. L. (2003). How to interpret an ancient landscape. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 100, 4366–4368. Spies, W., & Volz, W. (1985). Christo: Surrounded islands, Biscayne Bay, Greater Miami, Florida 1980–1983. New York: Harry N. Abrams. Thompson, J. W. (1996). Taming the tide. Landscape Architecture, 86, 74–102. Tufnell, B. (2006). Landart. London: Tate Publishing. Vaizey, M. (1990). CHRISTO. New York: Rizzoli. Vleuten, E. van der, & Kaijser, A. (2006). Networking Europe: Transnational infrastructures and the shaping of Europe, 1850–2000. Sagamore Beach: Science History Publications.

Part X

River Diversion and Coastal Reclamation Projects

Chapter 82

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and the Mississippi River Cutoff Plan Damon Manders

82.1 Introduction In 1861 Capt. Andrew Humphreys and Lt. Henry Abbot of the U.S. Army Topographical Engineers released their monolithic work, the Report on the Physics and Hydraulics of the Mississippi River, more commonly called The Delta Survey. It was, according to historian John Barry (1997: 50–51), “one of the most influential single engineering reports ever written on any subject.” In response to the mandate of Congress, the authors reviewed a variety of flood control methods: outlets, reservoirs, levees, reclamation, and cutoffs. While generally in agreement with previous studies on the use of levees, Humphreys and Abbot were in clear disagreement with other engineers in some of their conclusions. For example, they rejected a system of reservoirs proposed by civil engineer Charles Ellet only nine years previously. On the matter of making cutoffs, or cuts across the meandering loops of a river, their opinion was particularly strong. After comparing observations of the two known human-made Mississippi River cutoffs – Shreve’s cutoff of 1831 and the Raccourci cutoff of 1849 – with European cutoffs and general theory, the report concluded that “a cut-off raises the surface of the river at the foot of the cut nearly as much as it depresses it at the head,” thus proving that a system of cutoffs “is entirely inapplicable to the Mississippi River, in whole or in part” (Humphreys & Abbot, 1861: 402–403). For nearly 70 years, leading river engineers embraced their recommendation, and though some engineers disagreed with the position, from the establishment of the Mississippi River Commission (MRC) in 1879, the verdict of Humphreys and Abbot remained the official policy of the U.S. government. Then, quite suddenly, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers changed its position on cutoffs in 1932. Over the next dozen years, the Corps and the MRC set out on a channel rectification program that included more than a dozen cutoffs from Arkansas to Louisiana, which, along with other river improvements, shortened the river by 170 mi or 25% of the total length

D. Manders (B) U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, St. Louis, MO, 63103, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_82,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1451

1452

D. Manders

between Memphis, Tennessee, and Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and significantly lowered flood stages. Given the Corps’ opposition to them only a few years prior, the cutoffs were one of the most dramatic reversals in river engineering policy, remarkable not only for their departure from accepted theory, but for their sudden end in 1944.

82.2 Origin of the Cutoff Policy By the time that Congress established the MRC in 1879 to oversee improvements to the Mississippi River after a series of damaging floods, the ban on man-made cutoffs was already in effect. Leading engineers agreed that cutoffs were harmful. In addition to Humphreys and Abbot, Ellet had questioned the effectiveness of cutoffs, and the 1874 Warren Levee Commission, which Congress established to investigate reclamation of the river basin subject to inundation, had also opposed cutoffs. Leading civil engineers such as James Eads also believed them harmful. In this matter, the MRC merely received accepted tradition (Camillo & Pearcy 2006). When Mark Twain ridiculed the MRC in his novel Life on the Mississippi saying that “ten thousand River Commissions, with the mines of the world at their back, cannot tame that lawless stream,” one of the charges that the character Uncle Mumford got wrong was the belief that the MRC would “plow down into an old ditch where the river used to be in ancient times; and they think they can persuade the water around that way” (Twain, 1986: 205, 207). In fact, the MRC tried to maintain the current riverbed to the largest degree possible. Based mainly on Humphreys’ Delta Survey, the view developed among most MRC engineers that any benefits from cutoffs were temporary in that they raised flood heights below the cut to the same degree they lowered them above, and caused dangerous increases in velocity that increased erosion and bank caving (U.S. Congress, 1880). Further analysis for the MRC by civil engineer Robert E. McMath in 1886 seemed to confirm this conclusion, and in fact he argued that the river was 100–200 mi too short. The logic, though odd to university-educated hydraulic engineers of the early twentieth century, then seemed obvious to engineers working by rule of thumb. As a consulting engineer for the MRC later explained McMath’s position, . . .he rightly reasoned that if the channel were longer the fall per mile would be less and the current consequently slower and less able to erode the banks, so that from the standpoint of navigation the conditions would be improved. (Gardner, 1930: 1)

In other words, reduce the length and increase slope of the river, and higher velocities would result that would cave banks, reduce river draft, and damage navigation. Even had the technical analysis of MRC engineers been more favorable, it had neither the funding nor the dredging equipment necessary to seriously consider a cutoff program. While hydraulic dredges had existed since 1871, the first effective hydraulic dredge designed for use on the Mississippi did not appear until 1892 (Matthes, 1948).

82

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and the Mississippi River Cutoff Plan

1453

There had been several natural cutoffs over the years, such as one that occurred in 1876 at Vicksburg, Mississippi, that separated the riverfront and port from the main channel. But once the MRC took charge of the river, its policy was not only to bar man-made cutoffs, but to prevent natural ones from occurring, primarily through bank stabilization works such as revetment, dikes, and groins. It was not always successful in doing so. There had been at least one natural cutoff in 1886 at Terrapin Neck creating Eagle Lake, and at least 13 natural chute cutoffs, the enlargement of a diverging channel across a meandering bend, which the MRC considered less dangerous because they were shorter and more gradual. For example, in 1913 an enlargement of the Albemarle Chute resulted in the Newman Cutoff (Matthes, 1948; Winkley, 1977). In addition, bank caving threatened cutoffs at many other locations, which the MRC tried to prevent. Even in September after the Flood of 1927, when Chief of Engineers Maj. Gen. Edgar Jadwin was formulating a radical departure from 50 years of river policy on outlets, the MRC reported, . . .the Commission adheres to its policy of preserving the river generally in its present form, and cannot subscribe to a plan of flood control or of improvement for navigation that involves the formation of cut-offs. Rather the Commission believes that its first duty . . . is to prevent cut-offs. (MRC, 1927: 119)

As a result, a cutoff program was not included in the Mississippi River and Tributaries Project that evolved from Jadwin’s recommendations. There were, of course, many engineers who vehemently disagreed with this stand, even within the MRC. In the MRC’s preliminary report, Maj. C.B. Comstock and Benjamin Harrison wrote in the minority report that “we are not prepared to absolutely reject their use,” provided that sufficient revetment is made above and below the cutoff (U.S. Congress, 1880: 22). As early as 1859, there was recognition that a system of cutoffs could be beneficial, although fears of the adverse effect of isolated local cutoffs continued. In 1882 J.B. Johnson, assistant engineer for the MRC, submitted a recommendation for improvements in the lower Mississippi using artificial cutoffs. Several imminent civil engineers agreed, including John R. Freeman, who recommended investigating the possibility of cutoffs, and James B. Miles, who proposed specific details on the number and location of cutoffs. Yet before 1917 Congress made only limited appropriations for river improvement and none specifically for flood control, leaving little funding for the MRC to even consider the plans, particularly given the costs associated with dredging and relocation of works such as levees and dikes. Federal funding levels remained limited until after the Flood of 1927, which, due to its devastating impact on the Lower Mississippi Valley, prompted Congress to approve broad spending. This opened the door to consideration of a number of cutoff plans, including ones proposed by John F. Coleman and W.E. Elam (Matthes, 1948).

82.3 Cutoff Policy Changes After 1929, three circumstances combined to change the outlook of the MRC on the question of cutoffs. The first was the occurrence of a natural cutoff at Yucatan

1454

D. Manders

Bend at the end of 1929. For some years, the MRC was aware of the possibility of a cutoff from mile 638 to mile 640 where the Big Black River intercepted the Mississippi south of Vicksburg. The bank was caving on both sides of the loop located there, gradually narrowing the neck. However, as late as 1928 no one knew exactly where or when it might take place. In August 1928 the MRC had placed revetment between mile 639–640 and in September had placed revetment in the Big Black about midway across the neck. The low water inspection in September 1929 and an inspection by MRC President Brig. Gen. Thomas H. Jackson in December revealed that only a narrow ridge existed between the Big Black and Mississippi rivers. When the senior engineer returned to inspect the location the following May, a junction some 300–500 ft had appeared, and about 10% of the river was flowing through it. At that point the engineer began to take gauge readings and discharge measurements, which he compared with high water readings from 1927 to 1929, a hydrographic survey from 1913, and a bank survey from 1927 to track the progress of the cutoff. In August 1930 engineers took a small launch through the junction and reported depth measurements in excess of 18 ft other than at the revetment across the Black River. Recognizing the opportunity to gain valuable insight into cutoffs in general, rather than trying to prevent the cutoff according to MRC policy, at the behest of Chief of Engineers Maj. Gen. Lytle Brown, Jackson established 11 cross-section surveys in the vicinity of the cutoff to observe how it developed. Measurements taken throughout 1931 and 1932 captured the best information on the cutoff process to that time ever observed (MRC, 1932). Although 1930 and 1931 were low-water years, the cutoff proceeded at a moderate speed. Discharge through the cutoff increased from 10% in 1930 to 40% by January 1932. After the high water of the spring of 1932, discharge increased to 58% by mid-April with a peak of 850,000 ft3 /s. Observations showed a gradual enlargement of the cutoff from 1930 to 1932 with a rather rapid change in the “controlling” section from January to April 1932. The cross-sections showed great variability in slope due to local conditions, but seemed to indicate that the overall effect was slightly in excess of one foot. The sections immediately below the cutoff showed a small increase across all stages from 1931 to 1932, with sections further downstream showing very little change or even a slight decrease in discharge. Sections above the cutoff showed very little change. A comparison of readings from 1930 to 1932 showed a definite lowering of stages above and a slight increase below, but that 5 or 6 mi upstream or downstream showed no change in gauge readings. Because the MRC did not take regularly scheduled readings, there was some question of their accuracy, but it appeared that the variance in stages was very slight and localized to the vicinity of the cutoff, and that the gradual nature of the cutoff precluded any major impacts to navigation (MRC, 1932). By September 9, 1932, the U.S. Lighthouse Willow reported navigation was established on the cutoff and that around Yucatan Bend discontinued (Persons, 1934). Even the preliminary suggestion that a cutoff could occur without the much anticipated negative impacts on velocity and navigation generated several recommendations for cutoff and channel rectification programs. For example, Gardner Williams, a consulting engineer for the MRC, in 1930 tried to demonstrate the

82

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and the Mississippi River Cutoff Plan

1455

illogic of old anti-cutoff arguments and instead proposed re-carving a river channel from Cairo, Illinois to St. Delphine Landing, Louisiana, south of Baton Rouge and creating a new outlet across the Atchafalaya River to West Cote Blanche Bay on the Gulf of Mexico (Fig. 82.1). Another plan he analyzed by comparison carved a channel directly from Cairo to Atchafalaya Bay, in essence abandoning the Mississippi River channel for a human-made one (Williams, 1930). A more modest plan proposed within the Corps came from Col. Harley B. Ferguson, the South Atlantic Division Engineer and member of the Board of Engineers of Rivers and Harbors. In a memo to the board dated November 22, 1930, he summarized the situation: “The flood problem above the Arkansas is solved by levees. The problem below Old River is solved by the Atchafalaya floodway and the Bonnet Carre spillway.” It was the critical stretch from the Arkansas River to the Red River that posed the problem, not the entire river (Ferguson, 1930: 1). Ferguson’s solution included increasing the carrying capacity of this stretch of the river while maintaining control of the river through a combination of revetment,

Fig. 82.1 The Williams channel rectification plan. (Adapted from Williams, 1930)

1456

D. Manders

removal of obstructions, and natural control works. However, the truly radical change proposed was that “there can be no possible harm in reducing the river to the length which it had in 1880.” He argued for humanmade cutoffs in targeted locations, primarily Gaillardo Lake (Glasscock), Giles Bend, Grand Gulf (Diamond Point), and the Greenville Bends. On the side of caution, he added that “it will be necessary to have several dredges on hand” to ensure navigation and that “before any cut-off is made, the river should be protected above and below, by such revetments and dikes as are necessary to prevent the upsetting of conditions desired.” Further, he argued that it was necessary to enlarge the riverbed through “corrective dredging” above and below a proposed cut. Long-term, he argued that “the amount by which the flood capacity of the main river channel can eventually be increased can be determined only by proceeding with the work and measuring the effects” – in effect that the only real way of determining once and for all whether cutoffs were beneficial or not was to proceed with a program such as what he proposed (Ferguson, 1930: 2). The second circumstance that enabled the cutoff plan to proceed was hydraulic experimentation at the U.S. Waterways Experiment Station (WES) in 1930. For many years after civil engineer John R. Freeman first suggested the idea of a national hydraulic laboratory in 1922, the Corps resisted its establishment for nonengineering reasons. However, with changing national opinion favoring increased spending for flood protection after the Mississippi River Flood of 1927, Chief of Engineers Maj. Gen. Edgar Jadwin included a plan to establish a modest laboratory as part of his flood control recommendations, which Congress authorized in the Flood Control Act of 1928. When Brown came in as Chief of Engineers in late 1929, he gave the lab a boost by directing additional funding to it and moving its proposed location from Memphis, Tennessee to a more spacious location near Vicksburg. As with other hydraulic laboratories in vogue in the first half of the 20th century, WES conducted hydraulic experiments using physical models based on the principle of similitude, i.e., that fluids would act the same in similar situations though at different scales. Engineers at WES would run water through flumes containing precise models of rivers and structures, carefully measuring results. They also experimented with movable-bed models, in which sediment or like materials demonstrated the behavior of sediments in the river (Fatheree, 2004). Engineers could then apply the results to actual river projects. One of the first projects assigned to WES was modeling of a cutoff at Tarpley Neck in the Greenville Bends. At the request of Brown, in November 1930 Jackson ordered WES Director 1st Lt. Herbert Vogel to prepare a study of the Greenville Bends, a particularly meandering and flood-prone span of river between Memphis and Vicksburg running 98 mi over a 45-mile distance. WES started work on the fixed-bed model of Tarpley Neck in December, ran more than 100 tests, and in April 1931, WES Director 1st Lt. Herbert Vogel submitted the preliminary report. In it, he presented the “irrefutable” results: a lowering of stages by 2.2 ft for 45 mi above the cutoff and no change below it. Further, the model showed “no indication of detrimental effects due to the cut-off,” directly contradicting earlier theories based on the Humphreys and Abbot report (Vogel, 1931). Gerard Matthes and others involved

82

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and the Mississippi River Cutoff Plan

1457

in the cutoff plan later doubted the influence of modeling at WES on the plan they actually developed, mainly because additional modeling conducted by Vogel on cutoffs on the remaining necks in the Greenville Bends in 1932 showed questionable benefits (Matthes 1948). Although the results of the April 1932 report were mixed, with a cutoff at Diamond Point showing positive results, a cutoff at Ashbrook showing negative results, and most of the others showing no great benefit or detriment, the earlier 1931 tests helped to scientifically confirm the observations at the Yucatan Cutoff, further removing opposition to cutoffs in some quarters. They may have also helped to decide where such a program should begin, although certainly Ferguson did not let modeling results dictate his program, later ordering additional modeling of several sites. The third circumstance enabling cutoffs was the promotion of Ferguson to brigadier general and his assignment as president of the MRC in the spring of 1932. General Ferguson, or Fergy as his friends called him, was one of the most flamboyant characters in the Corps in the first half of the twentieth century. As Capt. Paul W. Thompson, the director of the Waterways Experiment Station from 1937 to 1939, later described him, he was . . .whimsical and picturesque and not very precise in conveying instructions, impatient of experimental results which failed to fit his own instinctive conclusions – but a man of moral courage unsurpassed (yes, unequaled), a man whose ‘instinctive conclusions’ were so often and so uncannily right – especially when the stakes were high. (Tiffany, 1968, p. IV-2)

On assuming his position, Ferguson requested studies of additional proposed cutoff locations, began an intensive regimen of data collection, developed a plan for how to proceed, and pushed for a test cutoff at Diamond Point. In addition, in March 1932, Brown appointed Ferguson president of a Mississippi River Engineering Board of Review, where he was able to introduce and discuss his plan, expanded to include a dozen cutoffs. Although some engineers testifying before the board continued to resist cutoffs, Brown approved Ferguson’s plan in 1933 (Matthes, 1948).

82.4 The Cutoff Program The first human-made cutoff in the program was at Diamond Point below Vicksburg, which General Ferguson started to plan within days of assuming his MRC post on June 15, 1932 with a goal of completing the work before the next high water. Although Jackson evidently conducted some preliminary surveys and preparation in the spring of 1932, it was Ferguson who made the final plans, acquired the rightsof-way and initiated dredging operations that summer. The technique used, as with all of the cuts that followed, was to lower the riverbed near the cut through dredging as he argued in 1930, and to make a pilot channel from either side using dragline machines and cutter-head dredges instead of allowing the river to carve its own channel. This avoided the “piling-up” of water that typically resulted from natural cutoffs. He left the old bends open to allow “valley storage” or locations to temporarily store up floodwaters and avoid raising of flood stages during high water.

1458

D. Manders

Location was also of great importance. In essence, he tried to choose the most stable locations to make the cut so as to avoid any impediments to navigation. The bends he selected were usually stretches of river with mild curvature, no islands or chutes, and no excessive bank erosion or sedimentation. He avoided cuts across the narrow necks where instability already existed, did not attempt to straighten the river unduly and thus risk excessive bank caving, and in general planned cuts from south to north and only after the channel below was able to carry eroded material. The engineers completed the cut at Diamond Point on January 8, 1933, dramatically dynamiting the narrow ridge separating the pilot channels. With the approval of his overall scheme in 1933, additional cutoffs quickly followed at Glasscock Point and Giles Bend near Natchez, Mississippi in March and May 1933, with preparation started at several others (Matthes, 1948). Despite the best efforts, some cuts were unplanned or came out of sequence. The Leland Neck Cutoff in July 1933 was the first of these. This section of river right off the Greenville, Mississippi, business district was an area that Ferguson had considered for a cutoff location. The neck had narrowed from 2 mi in 1824 to 4,000 ft, while nearby Chicot Point grew in length by 2 mi. Prior to the river cresting in 1933, it had washed out a permeable dike and started flooding the neck on June 3, making a natural cutoff inevitable (Fig. 82.2). Within eight days, the Corps started work on the cutoff, removing the dike, dynamiting a ridge, and starting dredging operations. By August 7 the cutoff was 575-ft wide and had captured 29% of the river (Schweizer, 1933). The cutoff at Leland Neck greatly impacted the program, which relied heavily on careful planning, and it eventually required large expenditures in dredging and revetment, the addition of a cutoff at Ashbrook Point two years later, and adjustments in the locations of planned cutoffs nearby. Another

Fig. 82.2 Sketch of the Leland Neck cutoff. (Adapted from Schweizer, 1933)

82

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and the Mississippi River Cutoff Plan

1459

stretch where there was chronic bank caving was Paw Paw Bend near Marshall Point which in 1932 threatened to cause a junction with an abandoned channel of the Yazoo River that would have required 3 mi of revetment. Instead the MRC began work on a cutoff on October 19, 1933, completing it on March 12, 1934. A similar situation occurred when the Corps went forward with a cutoff at Worthington Point ahead of schedule to alleviate rapid bank caving in Kentucky Bend (Matthes, 1948). Another issue faced by Ferguson was the possibility of rendering inoperative the proposed Boeuf Floodway, a part of the Mississippi River and Tributaries Plan originally recommended by Jadwin in 1928 but delayed by lawsuits. Located near Arkansas City, Arkansas, the floodway would include a floodwater dispersal area down the Boeuf-Tensas Basin and a “fuse-plug levee,” a levee of reduced height that would give way during river stages of a planned height. By 1934 it became obvious that the increased carrying capacity of the Greenville Bends might lower water levels enough to prevent the operation of the proposed fuse plug. Getting the fuse plug to operate was relatively simple, either by lowering the levee or diverting more water into the floodway through a series of dikes. The larger problem was that, since it would now require a larger volume of water, 2.15 million ft3 /s versus 1.95 million under the 1933 water levels to make the fuse plug operate correctly, the river south to Vicksburg would have to pass more water volume before the floodway began to operate, thereby increasing potential flooding (Morris, 1934). In fact by 1937 the cutoff program had reduced flood stages sufficiently from Greenville to Old River so as to make the Boeuf Floodway and an alternatively proposed floodway at Eudora, Arkansas, unnecessary, a circumstance which Brown had foreseen when approving the cutoff plan. As a result, Congress deauthorized the floodway in the Flood Control Act of 1941, although debate over the impact of higher flood stages on and solutions for the Yazoo River backwater area continued to present day (Camillo & Pearcy, 2006). By the end of 1935 nine cutoffs were in operation at Yucatan, Diamond Point, Glasscock, Giles, Leland, Worthington, Willow Point, Marshall Point, and Ashbrook, with two more under construction. In a report to the Chief of Engineers that year, Ferguson was able to state, The Commission concludes that no material adverse effect on through navigation has occurred or is to be anticipated due to these cut-offs. It considers that the Department is committed to the completion of the cut-offs that have been authorized and that they should be completed.

The total cost at that point was at $8.1 million for easements, levees, and dredging, while the actual savings in maintenance dredging was $385,000. The cost was still below Ferguson’s 1930 cost-avoidance estimate of $10 million for reveting much of the river from Memphis to Baton Rouge should the plan fail (Ferguson, 1935: 1). However, these estimates did not include benefits for lowering of flood stages. In 1939 flood crest heights declined 12.8 ft between gauges at Cairo, Illinois, and Arkansas City, and 7.4 ft between Cairo and Vicksburg, versus an average increase of 2.5 and 0.1 feet over the same stretches during flood years from 1915 to

1460

D. Manders

1932 (MRC, 1939). At the same time, there was a significant improvement in navigation measured in travel times. By 1938 the trip downriver from Helena, Arkansas, to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, took nearly 11 hours less than in 1931; the trip upriver took more than 20 hours less than in 1931 (Camillo & Pearcy, 2006). The MRC completed cutoffs at Sarah and Rodney bends in 1936 and another at Caulk in 1937. With three additional cutoffs made between the Arkansas River and Memphis in 1941 and 1942, there were 16 cutoffs in operation after the end of World War II (Fig. 82.3), which had reduced the length of the Mississippi between Memphis and Baton Rouge by 151.9 mi, as shown in Table 82.1. Adding to cuts corrective dredging, chute enlargements, and other improvements, the total reduction in length was 170 mi. Increase in slope was for several of the cutoffs less than a tenth of a foot per mile, while the overall flood stages from the Arkansas City to Vicksburg gages were anywhere from 7 to 13 ft lower than in 1933, even though some readjustment in flood stages later occurred at some locations. The plan had not proceeded without some difficulties – unexpected bank caving caused the Corps to proceed with the Leland and Worthington cutoffs a year ahead of schedule in 1933 and to add another cutoff at Ashbrook Neck in 1935, while difficulties in cutting through clay at the Glasscock Cutoff prevented its opening by five years (Matthes, 1948; Winkley, 1977). Although some participants in the cutoff program believed that additional correction of the river would be necessary in the future with additional cutoffs to avoid bank caving at other locations, in fact no such program ever recurred. In the Flood Control Act of 1944 (PL 78-534), Congress authorized a channel stabilization program that Charles Senour, the MRC Chief of Engineering called “the necessary sequel to the flood control and navigation improvement hitherto accomplished.” While including significant deepening of the channel through dredging and adjustment to proposed dispersal of floodwaters using controlled outlets, the law’s most dramatic change was the adoption of a channel stabilization plan that ended the cutoff program. Even in 1928 the Corps saw the need for stabilizing the channel through revetment or other bank protection, but it was not until the Corps refined the use of articulated concrete mattresses as a replacement for willow mattress revetment then in use that this plan became possible. At the same time, further modeling and geological investigations greatly improved knowledge of the meandering process. This program greatly stabilized the riverbanks and made further correction of the river largely unnecessary (Senour, 1947: 277). Even had there been the desire to create further cutoffs, political and environmental considerations have rendered such a program practically impossible to implement today. For example, many scientists or engineers have proposed relocating or diverting a portion of the river channel to produce new wetland areas, such as a plan included under the Louisiana Coastal Area (LCA) program proposed by Sherwood Gagliano, who was one of the first to document the extent and causes of wetland loss (Dean, 2006). However, these proposals have met repeated opposition from various stakeholders ranging from flood control, navigation, or environmental advocates. Despite their different purposes, modern schemes of channel rectification being for coastal wetland restoration rather than improved navigation, the proposal

82

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and the Mississippi River Cutoff Plan

Fig. 82.3 Cutoff Locations from Arkansas to Louisiana. (Adapted from Ferguson, 1935)

1461

1462

D. Manders Table 82.1 Mississippi river cutoffs in 1946

Name

Date opened

Location (Mi. AHP)

Net shortening (Mi.)

Yucatan Diamond Glasscock Giles Leland Worthington Marshall Willow Tarpley Ashbrook Rodney Sarah Caulk Jackson Sunflower Hardin

December 1929 January 8, 1933 March 26, 1933 May 25, 1933 July 8, 1933 December 25, 1933 March 12, 1934 April 8, 1934 April 21, 1935 November 19, 1935 February 29, 1936 March 23, 1936 May 13, 1937 April 26, 1941 February 16, 1942 March 18, 1942

404 420 342 364 532 507 444 458 535 542 385 498 569 624 622 676

9.6 12.0 10.8 11.1 9.8 4.3 4.2 7.7 8.6 11.4 5.8 5.3 15.2 8.7 10.4 17.0

Adapted from Ferguson (1935) and Matthes (1948)

that engineers should relocate the mouth of the Mississippi River are surprisingly similar to at least part of what Gardner Williams and other engineers proposed after the success of the Yucatan Cutoff in 1930. Whether or not federal, state, or local agencies and stakeholders ultimately recommend and Congress authorizes such a program to proceed, the history of the cutoff program demonstrates the possibility of engineers affecting a change in the course of the river, as Matthes notes, through “a conservative, gradual process, at all times under complete control,” rather than through the natural “cataclysmic way of producing a channel in a matter of days” (Matthes, 1948: 14). Even if a channel rectification program remains politically infeasible, the cutoff program demonstrated the potential of engineering to control nature on the grandest scale by actually changing the course of rivers.

References Barry, J. (1997). Rising tide: The great Mississippi flood of 1927 and how it changed America. New York: Simon and Schuster. Camillo, C. A., & Pearcy, M. T. (2006). Upon their shoulders: A history of the Mississippi River commission from its inception through the advent of the modern Mississippi River and tributaries project (2nd ed.). Vicksburg, MS: Mississippi River Commission (MRC). Dean, R. G. (2006). New Orleans and the Wetlands of Southern Louisiana. The Bridge, 36(1). Retrieved October 8, 2008, from http://www.nae.edu/NAE/bridgecom.nsf/weblinks/MKEZ6MYST9?OpenDocument Fatheree, B. H. (2004). The first 75 years: History of hydraulics engineering at the waterways experiment station. Vicksburg, MS: U.S. Army Engineer Research and Development Center. Ferguson, Col. H. B. (1930). Memorandum for Board of Engineers for Rivers and Harbors on Control of Mississippi River Floods, Nov. 22, 1930. File 13, Drawer-2. Vicksburg, MS: MRC Archives.

82

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and the Mississippi River Cutoff Plan

1463

Ferguson, Brig. Gen. H. B. (1935). Report of the Mississippi River Commission on Cut-Offs to Chief of Engineers, U.S. Army, Washington, D.C., December 3, 1935. File 28, Drawer 1–2. Vicksburg, MS: MRC Archives. Humphreys, Capt. A. A., & Abbot, 1st Lt. H. (1861). Report on the physics and hydraulics of the Mississippi river. Washington, DC: Corps of Topographical Engineers. Matthes, G. H. (1948). Mississippi river cutoffs. ASCE Transactions, 113, 1–39. Mississippi River Commission (MRC). (1927). Special report of the Mississippi River Commission on revision of plans for improvement of navigation and flood control of the Mississippi river. St. Louis, MO: MRC. MRC. (1932). Memorandum for the President, MRC, Subject: Yucatan Bend Cut-Off, Jun. 10, 1932. File 22, Drawer 1-2. Vicksburg, MS: MRC Archives. MRC. (1939). Flood Crest Relations For Stages Between 45 and 55 Feet at Cairo, Illinois, Revised Mar. 19, 1939. File 13, Drawer 1-2. Vicksburg, MS: MRC Archives. Morris, G. A. (1934). Memorandum, Subject: Plan for Channel Realignment in Greenville Bends, Jul. 31, 1934. File 19, Drawer 1-2. Vicksburg, MS: MRC Archives. Persons, D. (1934). Memorandum, Subject: Yucatan Bend Cut-off, Shift of Navigation to, Jan. 22, 1934. File 22, Drawer 1-2. Vicksburg, MS: MRC Archives. Schweizer, C. W. (1933). Memorandum on Leland Neck Break, Aug. 9, 1933. File 25, Drawer 1-2. Vicksburg, MS: MRC Archives. Senour, C. (1947). New project for stabilizing and deepening lower Mississippi river. ASCE Transactions, 112, 277–297. Tiffany, J. B. (Ed.). (1968). History of the waterways experiment station. Vicksburg, MS: Waterways Experiment Station. Twain, M. (1986). Life on the Mississippi. New York: Penguin. U.S. Congress. (1880). Report of the Mississippi river commission. H.D. 58, 46th Cong., 2nd Sess. Vogel, 1st Lt. H. D. (1931). Experiment to Determine the Effect of a Cutoff at Tarpley Neck, Apr. 10, 1931. File 31, Drawer 1-2. Vicksburg, MS: MRC Archives. Williams, G. S. (1930). The Mississippi River Problem. File 26, Drawer 1-2. Vicksburg, MS: MRC Archives. Winkley, B. R. (1977). Man-made cutoffs on the lower Mississippi river, conception, construction, and river response. Vicksburg, MS: Vicksburg District.

Chapter 83

The Impacts of Megahydraulic Engineering Projects from a Dutch Perspective Guus J. Borger, Sjoerd J. Kluiving, and Adriaan M.J. De Kraker

83.1 Introduction This chapter looks into two megahydraulic engineering works in the Netherlands, how they evolved through time, what has changed the perception on these megaworks, and why they have changed since they were carried out. The Zuiderzee works are a megahydraulic engineering project in the northern area of the Netherlands that has been carried out to close off and partly drain the former Zuiderzee. The megaworks were undertaken between 1927 and 1975. The Delta works are a megahydraulic engineering project in the southwestern part of the Netherlands that was planned to close off the major inlets of the rivers Meuse, Rhine and Scheldt. This project was carried out between 1954 and 1997. Both megahydraulic engineering projects are the result of a long term tradition of water management and coastal management, which can only be fully understood within the framework of the geoarchaeological setting of the Dutch landscape. This chapter begins with this geoarchaeological setting. Next the megahydraulic engineering projects will be examined by addressing four key questions. (1) What were the initial objectives to build the two megaprojects? (2) When a project was completed, did it meet its initial objectives? (3) How have the perceptions and appreciations of each project evolved since their building and completion? (4) And how will perception of each of these megahydraulic structures change in the near future, especially within the context of expected climatic change and an accelerated sea-level rise?

G.J. Borger (B) Faculty of Earth and Life Sciences, Institute for Geo and Bioarchaeology, VU University of Amsterdam, Amsterdam, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_83,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1465

1466

G.J. Borger et al.

83.2 Geoarchaeological Setting In the western part of the country, which is the most densely populated and economically most important area, people live below sea level. Therefore, an ever-present danger of flooding threatens the area, which generally could be handled, except for single large scale natural events. Below the geo-archaeological history with respect to the development of the coastal zone and its inhabitants is presented as an introduction to the construction of megahydraulic engineering projects in the low-lying countries. The Netherlands is situated at the southern fringe of the Cenozoic North Sea Basin (Fig. 83.1). Because of the regional tectonic position and sedimentary response the geology as well as the preconditions of coastal hazards differ considerably from neighboring countries and regions. The center of sedimentary deposition is in the present North Sea (Zagwijn, 1989). The thickness of the entire Quaternary sediments can mount to 600 m (2,132 ft) onshore and increase to 850 m (2,789 ft) offshore (De Gans, 2007). This thickness of sediments reflects a history of tectonic subsidence, marine transgressions and regressions. In addition a deltaic position of the Netherlands with respect to large river systems (Rhine, Meuse, and Scheldt) that have been depositing sediments in the basin for over a period of two

Fig. 83.1 Overview of northwestern Europe showing the location of the Netherlands at the southern fringe of the North Sea Basin. Adjacent regions are rich in relief and have older geological formations exposed with respect to the Netherlands (arrow). (Source: Google Earth)

83

Impacts of Megahydraulic Engineering Projects from a Dutch Perspective

1467

million years. These create a unique geological setting with respect to neighboring regions. In essence, the processes of sedimentation due to tectonic subsidence, sediment supply from rivers, as well as relative sea level rise continue until the present day. Sedimentary facies data record changes in coastal evolution controlled by sedimentary processes and variations in sediment supply and accommodation space (Beets and Van der Spek 2000), as well as human impact. In addition the impact of regional variations in subsidence needs to be taken into account (0, 1–1, 0 m/ka (4–40 in/ka)) (Vink, Steifen, Reinhardt, & Kaufman, 2007). These variations may be the causes behind the different landscapes and coastal evolutions in nearby regions. It has been 250,000 years since the first inhabitants in this region have lived in the southeastern higher part of the province of Limburg (extended part of the Ardennenmassif; Roebroeks, 2005). This province is a hilly area that was at about 200 km (125 m) distance from the unprotected coastal lowland in the western Netherlands, where early hunter-gatherers may have been active. Around 200,000 years ago there is some evidence that people had settled down in the river area in the Central Netherlands prior to the arrival of land ice in the penultimate ice age, the Saalian, which covered the northern half of the Netherlands (Roebroeks, 2005). Due to sea level rise coastlines have moved inland since the end of the last ice age, the Weichselian. Subsidence of the land, e.g., by tectonic lowering of the land surface, and input of ice sheet’s meltwater contributed considerably to that sea level rise. About 10,000 years ago people already fought against rising water. Mesolithic hunters and gatherers fled from the quickly filling up of the North Sea basin. The oldest known archaeological features coming from Bergschenhoek, the province of Zuid-Holland, date from 6200 years BP. At this location the surface level was raised with reed bushes by the inhabitants to keep their feet dry. Possibly certain Mesolithic cultures were bound to relative short time periods where sand barriers (early coastal barriers) or elevated river beds offered dry conditions. If after sea level rise or stream channel diversion the once dry locations were flooded, people moved away or adapted to this new situation. In terms of coastal management it can be stated that people at that time were reacting against the threat of the rising water (Fig. 83.2). At 5000 years BP sea level rise was relatively fast as melt water from the ice sheet speeded up the rise in sea level. When finally all ice was melted, only subsidence remained which resulted in a slower rising sea level. From that time on the coast started to secure itself by building up a series of elongated sand barriers that shielded the inland from coastal erosion processes. The relative sea level rise in the last 3000 years in the southern North Sea cannot be exclusively explained by geological factors. Since then there is growing evidence that humans occupied the coastal zones leaving their imprint on the landscape and since that time humans in the Netherlands have become a major geological factor (De Gans, 2007; Vos & Van Heeringen, 1997). After the introduction of agriculture the forest coverage decreased considerably and at about 3000 BP wide open spaces and heath lands originated on a wide scale (De Gans, 2007). Around 2000 years ago the way people reacted to rising sea level or to the threat of rising water changed. They became proactive in a structural way. There is growing evidence for water

1468

G.J. Borger et al.

Fig. 83.2 Schematic diagram shows change in reaction of historic humans against rising sea level and coastal hazards. Box 1. Zuiderzee works, Box 2. Delta works

Fig. 83.3 General map of the Netherlands and locations of mega-scale engineering works

management during Roman times and even earlier in terms of infrastructural works carried out, such as dams, dikes, dwelling mounds (terps, the first since 2500–2600 BP) and canals (De Gans, 2007; De Ridder, 2005) (Fig. 83.3). Within about a thousand years the cultivation and draining of the peat lands with wind-driven watermills, that started about 1400 AD, led to a subsidence in the coastal zone which could mount to about five meter. As this process is an indirect result of settlement and land reclamation, it cannot be considered as a proactive measure with regard to water management! From about 2000 BP sand barrier aggradations at the coast ended and since 1000 AD coastal erosion started again (De Gans, 2007).

83

Impacts of Megahydraulic Engineering Projects from a Dutch Perspective

1469

The transition from an agricultural to an industrial society during the 19th century accelerated human interference with geological processes. In addition, the importance of water as a defensive system should not be underestimated, a concept that remained valid until the early 1950s. General aims of the period 1850–1950 AD are years in which there was a striving for independence, in particular to secure food supply in order to sustain a growing population and reducing the risks of natural hazards. The growing influence of humans on the coastal landscape after the end of Middle Ages is also evident by data on shoreline shortening: during the 16th century the Dutch coastline measured more than 3,000 km (1,850 mi), with almost all estuaries and coastal inlets open to the sea. In 1840 the coastline was already shortened to 2,000 km (1,250 mi). After building the Closure Dike (Afsluitdijk) in 1932 (one of the key acts of the Zuiderzee works), the entire coastal length was shortened to ca. 1,650 km (865 mi). After completing the Delta works in 1975, the coastline measures ca. 850 km (530 mi).

83.3 Zuiderzee Works 83.3.1 Background The 1916 storm surge finally determined the discussion about the closure of the former Zuiderzee and partly reclaiming the area. The oldest plans to drain this shallow sea were made by Hendric Stevin already in the late 17th century (Van Duin & De Kaste, 1995: 41). He proposed to close off the Wadden islands and to discharge water towards the North Sea at low tide, but his plans were not carried out. Also in the course of the 19th century many new plans were made (Van Duin & De Kaste, 1995: 40–44). Through the development of science and technology at that time, there was a firm belief that there was an engineering solution to all problems, but that did not particularly apply to the future development of the Zuiderzee. Three reasons need to be mentioned here. First there was the vast extent of the intended earthwork that could not yet be handled. Building a dike is not only expensive but also risky. In the wink of an eye one gale could jeopardize all investments. The chances of such gales hitting the southern shores of the North Sea were low that only for a few weeks per year were such engineering risks considered acceptable. In was in that short time period that the entire project had to be carried out up to the closure of the last gap in the dike. In order to carry out the project this way, the sheer amount of earth works and additional work were calculated into the number of laborers and working days needed. It was only during the 1860s through the introduction of the first steam-driven dredger operating on the Dutch waterways, that plans to close off the Zuiderzee became more realistic. Still, discussion about the financial realization and uncertainty about the hydrological consequences kept on delaying plans. In the 19th century land reclamation served an economic interest. It was considered that private investors and not the government should take the initiative, which concept was taken to be valid for the draining of the Zuiderzee as well. However,

1470

G.J. Borger et al.

private investors remained very reluctant because of the huge risks involved. The 1916 storm surge changed the attitude of investors and put the project in another perspective. It shifted the focus from the damage caused by the storm to the special position the Netherlands held during the Great War (1914–1919). During the late 19th century Dutch agriculture modernized and became highly specialized. Dutch farmers increasingly used cheap American corn as fodder to increase stockbreeding. Poultry and pigs produced high quality proteins for the British industrial towns and the growing markets in the Ruhr area in Germany. From the outbreak of the Great War Holland remained neutral. In order to prevent any given aid to the enemy, the transshipments through the Netherlands were controlled by the nations at war carefully. No more American corn could be imported and this led to a dramatic decline in stockbreeding and consequently to a change from grassland into arable land. Worries about future food supply were very much enhanced by the 1916 storm surge event, which was generally perceived as a national disaster. Vast areas were flooded and became unproductive for a long time. This widespread perception of vulnerability provided the political support needed to impose a special law in March 1918, which anticipated the closure and partial draining of the former Zuiderzee. As a result of this thinking, the Zuiderzee project became a national issue with the Dutch government responsible for financing it. Initially, it was estimated the project would cost some $US 20 million, but in the 1930s the costs already surpassed $US 700 million.

83.3.2 Zuiderzee Works Carried Out This background explains the initial objectives of the Zuiderzee project. Firstly, it aimed at reducing the risk of flooding through the reduction in the length of sea dikes. Secondly, the project aimed at increasing the arable area in order to guarantee long-term food supply of the Dutch population. Thirdly, the Zuiderzee project was supposed to provide more jobs. Finally, because surrounding areas of the former Zuiderzee faced a growing salt gradient in dry summers, which resulted in lower crop yields, it was aimed to reduce the area’s salt gradient to a brackish and eventually fresh water area. The building of the Closure Dike would change the former Zuiderzee into a huge fresh water reservoir that could also be used to replenish drainage canals in the polders of North Holland and Friesland. Moreover, this was considered to enhance both agricultural production and food supply. As soon as it was decided to carry out the Zuiderzee project, it was not quite clear yet if it was hydrological safe to close off the former sea. Building the Closure Dike would block off the tides and nobody could foresee its consequences in terms of future tidal ranges in the northernmost part of North-Holland and Friesland. Some researchers anticipated an increase of at least 4 m (13 ft). Would dikes be able to withstand these higher tides during heavy storm surges? In order to address this question, in 1918 a committee was installed to investigate this problem. The committee was chaired by Nobel Prize winner H.A. Lorentz. Nobody anticipated that it would take this committee eight years to resolve the

83

Impacts of Megahydraulic Engineering Projects from a Dutch Perspective

1471

matter. At the time hardly anything was really known about the working of the tides in between the Wadden Islands and outside the inlets in the North Sea. The impact of storm surges and how well the bottom of the sea resisted the incoming and outgoing tides was not very well understood too. That is why it took the committee a long time to collect all the necessary data. It took still longer to process all the data into science-based models about tidal movements. This approach has indisputably proved it usefulness in carrying out the Delta project at a later stage. In late 1926 the committee published its findings, which led to the start of the Zuiderzee project (Table 83.1 and Fig. 83.4). In August 1930 the Wieringermeer fell dry as the first polder and in 1932 the Closure Dike was finished (Fig. 83.5). In less

Table 83.1 Areal and temporal dimensions of dikes and polders of the Zuiderzee works Project

Length (km)

Size (km2 )

Carried out

Wieringermeer Afsluitdijk Noordoostpolder Eastern Flevoland Southern Flevoland Houtribdike

18 32 55 90 70 28

200 – 480 540 430 –

1927–1930 1927–1932 1936–1942 1950–1956 1959–1967 1963–1975

Fig. 83.4 Map shows location, nature and size of the different projects of the Zuiderzee Works in the central north of the Netherlands that were carried out between 1927 and 1975. (Cf. Table 83.1)

1472

G.J. Borger et al.

Fig. 83.5 The final stage of completing the Closure Dike (Afsluitdijk) in 1932

than five years time the Zuiderzee changed into a fresh water body. In order to discharge the new IJsselmeer, two groups of locks were built in the Closure Dike. The western locks were named “Stevinsluizen,” named after the first engineer to suggest the closing off of the Zuiderzee, and the eastern locks were called “Lorentzsluizen.” In 1942 the Noordoostpolder fell dry, but in terms of water management it proved to be a mistake to have connected this polder to the headland of the eastern neighboring province. As draining the Oostelijk Flevoland (completed in 1957) came next and a specially developed bordering lake (Veluwerandmeer) between this polder and the southern headland was formed. This was also carried out south of Zuidelijk Flevoland, which became dry in 1968. In the early 1990s it was decided to not drain any further the last polder to be created: Markerwaard. Thus, it becomes clear that the perception of the Zuiderzee project changed in the course of the 20th century.

83.3.3 Assessment There is no doubt that the Closure Dike has significantly reduced the risk of flooding the northern area of the Netherlands (Fig. 83.6). Except for the 32 km (20 mi) long Closure Dike, a length of 320 km (200 mi) initial coastal defense changed into secondary dikes. However, in of the process of Europe unifying and globalizing, the reclaimed land has become significantly less important in terms of national food supply. At the start of the 20th century nobody could foresee this kind of development. This is also true with respect to the process of urbanization in the Netherlands, which accelerated especially after the Second World War. A fast

83

Impacts of Megahydraulic Engineering Projects from a Dutch Perspective

1473

Fig. 83.6 The 32 km (20 mi) long Closure Dike has not really changed shape since the completion in 1932, in spite of modern busy traffic as this photograph from 2006 shows

growing population, a growing need for more space per inhabitant and a strongly improved infrastructure, caused this development. At the same time industry and services became much more important and occupied more space than previously. Through the realization of a building program and the development of vast industrial areas, the polders of Flevoland contributed significantly to the economic potential of the northern area of the Randstad (the most developed economic region in western Netherlands).

83.3.4 Solution/Outlook Next to the reduction of risks, the IJsselmeer (123,000 ha; 303,933 acres) is now considered to be the most important advantage of the Zuiderzee project. Presently, this vast fresh water reservoir plays a key role in reducing the salt gradient and improving the water quality in large parts of the Netherlands, it will become more important in the future. Because of the vast space available from abandoning arable land, ecology, nature building and town development could be generously compensated. Moreover, future climatic change will lead to a further sea level rise, which will result in much more increasing pressure from sea water upon lower lying parts of the country. Climatic change is also expected to result in a more irregular river discharge and the occurrence of longer dry spells in summer. Inhabitants, farmers and industries will become increasingly dependent on the fresh water reservoir in the IJsselmeer. Finally, there is a growing interest in the Ijsselmeer as a nature reserve and recreational area.

1474

G.J. Borger et al.

83.4 Delta Works A second megascale project referred to as the Delta Works has been carried out since 1954. In many respects this megaengineering project changed the southwestern delta area thoroughly. As it took about four decades to complete it, major changes were already carried out during its construction. On the eve of 31 January 1953 a northwestern storm surge hit the southern North Sea area very hard (Fig. 83.7). As the event continued for two successive high tides many dikes finally breached (De Kraker, 2006). A coastal area stretching from Antwerp (Belgium) to Rotterdam (The Netherlands), as well as further eastward along the many tidal inlets, suffered heavy damage: 1920 km2 (475,000 acres) of land were flooded, 47,000 cattle died, 3000 houses and 300 farms were destroyed, over 250 mi (402 km) dike were destroyed and 72,000 people were evacuated of which 1836 were drowned. In terms of money the total amount of damage was estimated over $US 1.7 billion (Lammers, 1955). The devastating effect of the 1953 flooding disaster cannot entirely be attributed to the storm surge. For decades the State Department of Public Works (Rijkswaterstaat) had warned about the top levels of dikes being too low, however, no measures were taken. Money was spent on rebuilding the post-war economy instead of dike maintenance. Moreover, the large number of over 300 small water boards proved to be too inefficient to take immediate and adequate measures. Furthermore, communication broke down very quickly which made fast national coordination of large-scale rescue operations difficult. Only two helicopters were operating in the area. Once flooding occurred and tides moved in and out of polders, buildings began to collapse, because of their poor construction. Finally, many

Fig. 83.7 Impact of the 1953-flooding disaster in Zeeland causing about 400 km (250 mi) of dike to breach and flooding at least 1,920 km2 (475,000 acres)

83

Impacts of Megahydraulic Engineering Projects from a Dutch Perspective

1475

people fleeing to rooftops were killed when buildings collapsed or just died from cold, because on 1 February the temperatures dropped below 0◦ C (32ºF). Many people were evacuated during the following days. Vast areas were declared no-go areas in order to prevent the outbreak of contagious diseases, theft and further chaos. Meanwhile aid arrived from many countries. As soon as the Dutch government realized the extent of the disaster, measures were taken to close as many breaches as possible. Before the end of 1953 closure of these gaps was completed. Meanwhile the government prepared new legislation.

83.4.1 The Delta Works Carried Out In 1957 the “Deltaplan” was issued (Fig. 83.8). This special law anticipated the building of large scale hydraulic engineering works. As safety-first was the key objective of this new law, all tidal inlets in the southwestern delta area had to be closed. As this was impossible because the “Nieuwe Waterweg” gave access to Rotterdam harbor and the Western Scheldt gave access to Antwerp harbor, alternative measures were required. Furthermore, it was deemed necessary to reorganize the body of small water boards into a large-scale merger. Finally, a warning system was put into operation (Van de Ven, 2004).

Fig. 83.8 The location, nature and size of the different projects of the Delta works in the Southwestern Netherlands and shows the years when they were completed

1476

G.J. Borger et al.

The expedition of the Delta project is considered as part of a single chain of innovations according to technical criterions: each stage or separate hydraulicengineering work required a unique approach. Because of the many inlets in the coastal area penetrated far eastward, the tidal flow was much too strong to close them off in the west only. In order to reduce the energy of the incoming and outgoing tides, closing-off started with the smaller inlets and those at the far end in the larger ones. Moreover, closing-off an inlet still required great care because of the strong water flow through the last remaining gap. At one stage three islands were connected with dams. The Veersegatdam and Zandkreekdam were built of sand and partly of concrete caissons. At slack tide caissons were put into position with tugs after which they were very quickly filled with gravel and stones in order to be finished as dikes with earth, grass and tarmac serving as roads. At other locations the bottom of the inlet was leveled over the entire width with big boulders of concrete placed there by cableways built across the inlet (Brouwersdam and Grevelingendam). As the bottom was gradually raised, the tidal flow stopped automatically. Next the boulder dam was likewise finished. In order to accommodate shipping between Antwerp and Rotterdam the Haringvlietdam at the far end of the inlet had locks built in (Ferguson, 1970). The final act of the Delta Project, already begun in 1967, was the closing off of the mouth of the Eastern Scheldt (Bijker, 2002). Beforehand, a series of technical problems had to be solved as well as one of a political nature. The political problem appeared to be the most difficult one to solve. While the building of the Delta Works was nearly two decades underway, another tide had changed too. Gradually public opinion turned against a complete closing-off of the Eastern Scheldt. It was argued that fisheries and nature interests should be taken care of as well. Traditionally, the Eastern Scheldt was important because of its oyster, mussel and cockle farming providing several hundreds of people a livelihood. Closing off the tidal inlet would make the tides disappear and therefore also the shellfish. As public protest increased, the government gave way. In 1975 it reconsidered the initial plans (Parma, 1978). The solution was simple: the Eastern Scheldt would only be partly closed. Now it was up to the technicians to find the best technical approach to this political decision. The solution they provided was just as simple. A Storm Surge Barrier would be built with a number of large slides held in between piers which could be moved. Normally, the slides would be lifted in order to reduce the tides’ impacts, except for extra high tides or during severe storm surges when the slides would be entirely lowered (Fig. 83.9). The problems the technicians faced were the following. The inlet had two major deep channels with a sandbar in the middle. The bottom was too weak to carry any heavy concrete construction. It was estimated that large quantities of building blocks had to be made, and that transporting them from distant places would be too expensive as well. First a deep lying polder was built on the local sandbar (“Werkeiland Neeltje Jans”) where the large concrete building blocks were made. Also special means of transportation were designed to carry them or to perform part of the construction process. Because the bottom of the inlet was too weak, the sandy top layer

83

Impacts of Megahydraulic Engineering Projects from a Dutch Perspective

1477

Fig. 83.9 Delta Works: The Storm Surge Barrier is built with a number of large slides held in between piers which can be moved. Normally, the slides are lifted in order to reduce the tides’ impacts, except for extra high tides or during severe storm surges when the slides can be entirely lowered (Courtesy Rijkswaterstaat)

was removed. Even down to 15 m (49.2 ft) the sub layers had to be re-enforced, then on top of that layers of gravel with a concrete mat would form the foundation of the Storm Surge Barrier. Because it is hard to transport 18,000 tons of concrete piers, the construction site was flooded. Then the partly submerged pier became less in weight and could be moved to its final position. After placement of all piers, the large steel slides were fit in. Finally, a new road was built on top of the Storm Surge Barrier. One extra pier was not used and it remains an icon of the Delta Works up to the present day. In 1986, the Storm Surge Barrier was officially opened. Meantime another technical innovative barrier was built. With two large mobile slides on rails, this Maeslantkering could close off the “Nieuwe Waterweg.” Only the Western Scheldt could not be closed off, so the dikes on both banks had to be rebuilt into Delta dikes. These dikes have a wide base and a top level of 10 m (33 ft) above Amsterdam Ordnance Datum. The last stretch of this work was completed in 1992.

1478

G.J. Borger et al.

83.4.2 Assessment Did the Delta Project meet the initial objectives? One of these was safety. Since the 1953 storm surge no other natural hazard has hit the area yet. The storm 1976 surge only hit the Belgian area, which had not carried out similar projects. Meanwhile, the large number of small water boards has merged in two large ones in Zeeland, one on the Brabant side and one around Rotterdam. Moreover, the warning system, installed on the Storm Surge Barrier works perfectly, only having lowered the slides a dozen times, while dikes at risk are being watched by especially trained personnel during heavy gales. So on the sides of safety, the Delta Works were and still are a big success. Additional consequences have been the many extra jobs created during the construction of the engineering works and the many new and quite original engineering innovations being applied. Furthermore, the salt gradient has been reduced significantly in large parts of the Zeeland area. Initially, after being no major objective at all, the closing off of inlets by a number of south-north running dams has radically, but positively changed, the infrastructure of the Zeeland area. A third positive consequence of the Delta Works is the large numbers of tourists visiting them each year which provides much additional income. When looking at the preservation of nature and ecology of the inlets, the story is rather different. On the one hand, shellfish farming in the Eastern Scheldt has not only to hold its own, but has even managed to expand seriously. On the other hand some inlets have changed slowly from a salt-water area into a brackish and fresh water area (Doornbos, 1982; Groenendijk, 1987). Because tides are not active anymore, there is a need now for active flowing water in order to better clean the water and to make blue-green algae completely disappear. In the former Eastern Scheldt there is only a reduced impact of the tides, which has led to a gradual filling of the former channels. Eventually, the reduced tidal impact will make the sandbars disappear into the channels and changing the former sea bottom into a vast flat sandy bottom, which is not able to sustain marine life to its former glory.

83.4.3 Solutions/Future After more than half a century the southwestern part of the Netherlands faces ecological changes that have not been anticipated. Moreover, the growing focus on nature preservation of the recent decades very much calls for new changes. These changes might range from allowing more tidal impact in the Eastern Scheldt again and opening up some other dams on a very limited scale to flooding some polders in the Western Scheldt area in order to retain areas. Although the Zeeland area is in still very much in the midst of this discussion, the ecological and nature issues have become more complex than ever. There is also a need for changing the Western Scheldt estuary to meet the demands of lager sea-going bulk and container carriers. This problem can only be solved through international negotiations with Belgium. However, most uncertain is the expected climate change, which will lead to a serious sea level rise in the area.

83

Impacts of Megahydraulic Engineering Projects from a Dutch Perspective

1479

83.5 Conclusion This chapter looked into the issue of how the Dutch have dealt with a growing sea impact on the low lying coastal zone through time in general and how they have dealt with that problem in the recent century by carrying out two specific megaprojects. In addition, an answer needs to be given to the question whether these megaprojects are still as much appreciated as they were at the start. In the geological history of the Netherlands it is shown that within the last 10,000 years the first deposition cannot keep up pace with fast sea level rise, then sea level rise slows down, deposition becomes more important and can keep up pace with land subsidence with the consequences being that the coastal areas become a safer place to live for man. Looking back at the building of the two Dutch megahydraulic engineering projects of the 20st century it is fair to say that from its start until the early 1970s, hydraulic engineers have determined coastal management and, therefore, the building of the Zuiderzee works and the Delta works. Prior to that the only land reclamation remained a valid objective for the Zuiderzee works, while reducing the risk of flooding and the salt gradient remained valid for both projects. But as the guarantee of providing a food supply as prime objective for land reclamation became less important, while at the same time there was a growing awareness for environmental and ecological issues and preserving nature, these changes also had an impact on the building of both megaengineering projects. For the Zuiderzee project, this change led to the cancellation of draining the Markermeer. Abandoned arable lands were partly changed into nature and recreation areas (Veluwerand Meer). Initially, while not an original objective, the reclaimed polders of the former Zuiderzee provided much space for town building (Almere, Lelystad). Moreover, because of the high quality of the fresh water body of the IJsselmeer, there is no need for further change and hardly anyone questioned the need for all parts of the Zuiderzee works to be implemented. For the Delta works the shift in perception of initial objectives led to the building of a half-open Storm Surge Barrier to allow a reduced tidal impact in order to guarantee the shellfish industry and additional environmental interests. Because guaranteeing safety and reducing salinity were the only initial objectives aimed at, dams and dikes cannot easily be removed to improve water quality. Nor can this objective prevent the continuously changing Easter Scheldt sea bottom from becoming a channel-less horizontal sand dessert in which shellfish will gradually disappear. The environmental issues or the interest of nature seem to be incompatible with those of safety. Therefore the new generation of hydraulic engineers has changed into engineers of nature. However, more space for water and marine life and more appreciation for environmental issues has already led to again an increase in the salt gradient. In spite of the fact that the Delta works have significantly improved the infrastructure and enhanced tourism as well, many question the validity of all of its projects in terms of environmental issues and issues that concern nature. By living in the coastal low lands of the Netherlands, either in the Delta works area or in the Zuiderzee works area, the Dutch will eventually also have to face

1480

G.J. Borger et al.

expected climate change. A continuous rising sea level and more rainfall will increase the pressure. Are we going to discover the prefect civil or hydraulic engineers that can cope with all these problems at the same time in future? Dutch society has often shown its vigilance, resilience and resourcefulness during the past, so there seems to be hope for the future.

References Beets, D. J., & Van der Spek, A. J. F. (2000). The Holocene evolution of the barrier and the back-barrier basins of Belgium and the Netherlands as a function of late Weichselian morphology, relative sea-level rise and sediment supply. Geologie en Mijnbouw/Netherlands Journal of Geosciences, 79(1), 3–16. Bijker, W. E. (2002). The Oosterschelde storm surge barrier: A test case for Dutch water technology, management, and politics. Technology and Culture, 43(3), 569–584. De Gans, W. (2007). Quaternary. In: T. E. Wong, T. E. D. Batjes, & J. De Jager (Eds.), The geology of the Netherlands (pp. 173–196). Amsterdam Royal Netherlands Academy of Arts and Sciences, vii. De Kraker, A. M. J. (2006). Flood events in the southwestern Netherlands and coastal Belgium, 1400–1953. Hydrological Sciences Journal, 51(5), 913–930. De Ridder, T. (2005). Wassermanagement in römischer Zeit: Die ältesten Deltawerke in Westeuropa. In: M. Fansa & C. Endlich (Eds.) Kulturlandschaft Marsch. Natur – Geschichte – Gegenwart. Vorträge anlässlich des Symposiums in Oldenburg vom 3. bis 5. Juni 2004. Schriftenreihe des Landesmuseums für Natur und Mensch, Heft 33 (pp. 60–67). Oldenburg: Isensee-Verlag (German). Doornbos, G. (1982). Changes in the fish fauna of the former Grevelingen estuary, before and after the closure in 1971. Hydrobiological Bulletin, 16, 279–283. Ferguson, H. A. (1970). The Haringvliet sluices. Directie Algemene Dienst van de Rijkswaterstaat. The Hague. Groenendijk, A. M. (1987). Ecological consequences of a storm-surge barrier in the Oosterschelde: the salt marshes. Rotterdam: Communication of the Delta Institute for Hydrobiological Research, Diss. Utrecht. Lammers, C. J. (1955). Studies in Holland flood disaster 1953. Instituut voor Sociaal Onderzoek van het Nederlandse volk. Published by the Instituut voor Sociaal Onderzoek van het Nederlandse volk (4 Vols.). Washington, DC: Amsterdam and National Academy of Science. Parma, S. (1978). Political aspects of the closure of the Eastern Scheldt estuary. Hydrobiological Bulletin, 12, 163–175. Roebroeks, W. (2005). Neanderthals and their predecessors. Lower and Middle Palaeolithic. In: L. P. Louwe Kooijmans, P. W. Van den Broeke, H. Fokkens. & A. L. Van Gijn (Eds.), The prehistory of the Netherlands. (pp. 93–114). Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Van de Ven, G. P. (2004). Man-made lowlands. History of water management and land reclamation in the Netherlands. Utrecht: Matrijs. Van Duin, R. A., & De Kaste, G. (1995). Het Zuiderzeeprojekt in zakformaat. Provincie Flevoland, Lelystad (Dutch). Vink, A., Steifen, H., Reinhardt, L., & Kaufman, G. (2007). Holocene relative sea-level change, isostatic subsidence and the radial viscosity structure of the mantle of northwest Europe (Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, the southern North Sea). Quaternary Science Reviews, 26(25–28), 3249–3275. Vos, P. C., & Van Heeringen, R. M. (1997). Holocene geology and occupation history of the Province of Zeeland. In: M. M. Fischer (Ed.), Holocene evolution of Zeeland (SW Netherlands) (pp. 5–109). NITG-TNO Haarlem. Zagwijn, W. H. (1989). The Netherlands during the tertiary and the quaternary: A case history of coastal lowland evolution. Geologie en Mijnbouw, 68, 107–120.

Chapter 84

Dutch Coastal Engineering Projects: Past Success and Future Challenges Robert Hoeksema

84.1 Introduction The Dutch have a long history of executing massive engineering projects for the purpose of either flood protection or land reclamation. Flood protection includes the construction of seawalls, dikes and storm barriers to protect the low lying land along the coast. Reclamation projects involve draining previously submerged areas. The primary focus of this chapter is two major 20th century projects, the Zuiderzee reclamation and the Delta Project. These are arguably two of the largest land reclamation and flood protection projects every completed. This chapter also describes some of the plans that are in place to manage future climate change and sea level rise. Additional discussion on flood protection and land reclamation in the Netherlands can be found in Designed for Dry Feet: Flood Protection and Land Reclamation in the Netherlands (Hoeksema, 2006) and Man-Made Lowlands: History of Water Management and Land Reclamation in the Netherlands (van de Ven, 2004).

84.2 Background Early in the Pleistocene epoch much of the present Netherlands was submerged. With time marine and fluvial deposits built up the land. Around 5000 years ago the coastline consisted of a sandy coastal zone, mud flats, salt marshes, and peat bogs. The subsequent formation of coastal dunes closed off the area of mud flats and salt marshes resulting in an increase of peat growth. Figure 84.1 shows the coastline around 800 A.D. when the shape was a result of natural forces only. Note Lake Almere in the center of the region. Increased settlement in the low-lying coastal areas during the Middle Ages resulted in significant change to the landscape. This, along with increased flooding frequency and gradual sea level rise, changed the shape of the coastline R. Hoeksema (B) Engineering Department, Calvin College, Grand Rapids, MI 49546, USA e-mail: [email protected] S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_84,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1481

1482

R. Hoeksema

Fig. 84.1 The Netherlands coast – 800 A.D.

dramatically. Eleventh century inhabitants drained the peat swamps to transform them into agricultural land. As a result, the peat shrank, consolidated, and oxidized resulting in significant land subsidence. As the land subsided, marshes and lakes formed in the lowest areas. With time, these lakes grew ever larger threatening inhabitants of neighboring cities and villages. In some areas the problem was exacerbated by removal of peat for fuel. The Dutch coastline was also threatened by North Sea flooding and the expansion of Lake Almere. Twelfth century storms destroyed some of the mud flats where Lake Almere drained into the sea. The resulting extensive growth turned it into a sea arm later named the Zuiderzee. The Southwest delta region lies at the mouths of the Rhine, Maas, and Schelde Rivers. This area changed dramatically in Middle Ages. Increasing sea activity along with land subsidence and peat removal (for salt and fuel) resulted in the widening of existing sea arms and rivers as well as permanent loss of land. Figures 84.1, 84.2, 84.3, and 84.4 shows the transformation of the entire Dutch coastline between 800 and the present.

84.3 Developments Prior to the 20th Century While the primary focus of this paper is the major 20th century projects, developments prior to the 20th century would lay the important groundwork for more recent activities. Specifically, land reclamation by pumping dry previously submerged lands started as early as the 16th century and developed to a high degree of sophistication in the 17th century. Coastal flood defenses also got an early start with later projects benefitting from centuries of experience. Prior to describing the 20th century projects some of these earlier activities will first be presented.

84

Dutch Coastal Engineering Projects

1483

Fig. 84.2 The Netherlands coast – 1250 A.D.

Fig. 84.3 The Netherlands coast – 1600 A.D.

84.3.1 Lake Draining In the area north of the city of Amsterdam peat was drained as early as the 12th century to create agricultural lands. The drained soils consolidated and the land settled forming lakes. By the 16th century the lakes had grown to a point where region’s safety was threatened. By draining the water from these lakes safety was improved and new agricultural lands were created.

1484

R. Hoeksema

Fig. 84.4 The Netherlands coast – Present

The process of draining a lake started with the construction of a ring canal around the lake to redirect existing streams and to provide a drainage path for the lake water. The spoils from the canal were used to create a dike between the lake and the canal. An outlet was then created to a receiving water body. The water from the lake was lifted into the ring canal with water pumping windmills. A single windmill could drain lakes smaller than 600 ha (1480 acre). Larger lakes required many more (Meijer, 1996). Finally, drainage ditches, dug inside the drained lake, conveyed water from the center to the perimeter. With lake bottoms well below sea level pumping (using modern pumps) continues to the present. The windmills used to drain the lakes were adapted from corn mills used as early as the 14th century. An important technological innovation was the placement of multiple windmills in series allowing drainage of ever deeper lakes. Many lakes required groups of 3 to 4 windmills in series to keep the lowest areas dry. In 1533 the 35 ha (86 acre) lake Achtermeer became one of the first ones drained (van de Ven, 2004). By the year 1600, 19 lakes comprising a total of 2,747 ha (6,790 acre) had been drained in the region north of Amsterdam. The 17th century saw a shift to draining ever larger lakes starting with 7,220 ha (17,800 acre) Lake Beemster. With capital acquired from the spice trade, Lake Beemster was drained in 1612 using 50 windmills (Meijer, 1996). Lying south of Amsterdam, Lake Haarlem continued to grow into the 19th century. At 180 km2 (70 mi2 ) it was more than twice the size of Lake Beemster. Lake Haarlem is distinguished as the first large lake drained using steam powered pumps alone. Construction of the 60 km (37 mi) ring canal and ring dike started in 1840 and was finished in 1848. To remove the 800(10)6 m3 (28.3(10)9 ft3 ) of water from Lake Haarlem three pumping stations were built. Their pumps are considered to be the largest steam pumps ever built. Each station was designed with a single

84

Dutch Coastal Engineering Projects

1485

steam engine driving multiple piston pumps. The pumps were arranged in a circular fashion around the steam engine. The first pumping station built had a steam cylinder with a bore of 3.66 m (12 ft) and a stroke of 3.05 m (10 ft). It powered 11 pumps, each with a bore of 1.6 m (5.25 ft) (van der Pols & Verbruggen, 1996). The other two pumping stations used 8 pumps instead of 11 but with larger bores. All three facilities were operational by the spring of 1848. It took 39 months of pumping to drain the former lake. The draining of Lake Haarlem had a very significant impact on the 20th century projects. The Dutch realized that new technologies allowed them to successfully take on ever larger projects. Furthermore, draining Lake Haarlem was done as a public works project instead of with private investment. The major 20th century projects followed that pattern.

84.3.2 Coastal Flood Protection Seventy-five percent of the outer Dutch coast is protected from flooding by sand dunes. The gaps in the dunes and the shorelines of the estuaries and islands are protected by hundreds of kilometers of dikes or seawalls that have been constructed over many centuries. The early dikes were just mounds of tamped earth. Along the coast the dikes require a seaward face that can withstand wave forces and tidal currents. Several different types of sea dikes were developed for this purpose. In the 13th century the mud dike was constructed with pieces of sod covered by a layer of seaweed on the dike’s steep seaward side (Lambert, 1971). Many of these dikes were still in use in the 17th century. In the 15th century the mud dike was improved by placing a wall of seaweed sandwiched between wooden piles on the seaward side. Stone was also placed at the foot of the dike. The pile dike was a variation in which the outer wall consisted solely of 30 cm (12 in) square wooden piles. This type of dike was used extensively along the shore of the Zuiderzee. In the southwest delta region the sea dikes were built differently because they experienced more direct attacks from the North Sea. These “Zeeland Dikes” were built with a gentle slope on the seaward side to dissipate the wave and tidal energy. They were constructed in layers using horses to compact each layer. Once the soil was in place the dike was covered with clay sod. Around 1730 the pile dikes, used in the rest of the country, were being destroyed by the pileworm. This mollusk with a rasp-like mouth and a soft wormlike body bored holes in the exposed wood of sea dikes. Within a short time, the wooden piles began to crumble. By 1732, 50 km (31 mi) of the West-Friesland sea dike were destroyed (Lambert, 1971). These wooden dikes were finally replaced with new dikes fashioned after the Zeeland Dike. By the 19th century sea dike design had advanced significantly. Dikes were constructed with a foreland for wave run-up. Their crest was placed up to 1.75 m (5.74 ft) above any previously known storm level. The crests were up to 6 m (19.7 ft)

1486

R. Hoeksema

wide and included roadways. The dike body was made of clay. The seaward side was protected with a layer of stones. Timber piles were placed into the dike at the toe to keep the protective revetments from sliding (van de Ven, 2004).

84.4 Zuiderzee Reclamation While the transformation of Lake Almere into the sea arm called the Zuiderzee provided the opportunity for Amsterdam to develop in the 17th century as a world class port and trade center, it also presented a significant flooding risk for the region. To keep the Zuiderzee from expanding with each passing storm the entire coastline was protected with dikes. Plans for the reclamation of the Zuiderzee appeared as early as 1667, but this 6,700 km2 (2,590 mi2 ) water body could never be drained with windmill technology. In 1886 the Zuiderzee Association was formed to make a serious effort to solve the Zuiderzee problem. The Zuiderzee Association hired Conelis Lely who, in 1891, presented the first technically feasible plan to reclaim the Zuiderzee. His plan called for the closure of the Zuiderzee with a 30 km (19 mi) long barrier. The barrier would turn the sea arm into a freshwater lake fed by the River IJssel. Once the Zuiderzee was cut off from the North Sea, parts of it would be drained. This would be done by building dikes out into the water forming a closed ring. Once the dikes were constructed, pumps would remove water from the diked-in areas thereby creating new land from the sea bottom. Lely’s 1891 plan, including four reclaimed areas or polders, was not immediately adopted. It took food shortage in World War I, floods, and Lely being appointed to the director of the national water management authority before the plan became law in 1918. Lely’s 32-year construction schedule was never realized either. War, economic recession, and major project changes delayed completion of the reclamation. The completed project is shown in Fig. 84.5. Construction began in 1920 on the 30 km (19 mi) long barrier dam designed to isolate the Zuiderzee from the North Sea. The barrier protected areas surrounding the Zuiderzee from flooding. It also provided a land transportation route between the North Holland and Friesland provinces. Additionally, it created a freshwater lake, called the IJsselmeer, which reduced salt water impacts on the surrounding agriculture. Soundings, soil borings, and model studies preceded the construction of the barrier. The barrier was designed to withstand typical storms experienced in the previous 100-year period. The core of the barrier was constructed using locally available boulder clay. The rest of the dam was constructed from sand fill with submerged parts protected with mattresses constructed of osier fascines sunk with stones. The lake that formed behind the new barrier dam was fed primarily by the river IJssel. Calculations showed that this lake had to be at least 800 km2 (309 mi2 ) to provide enough storage to hold back fresh water during high tide periods on the North Sea (van de Ven, 2004). Two outlet sluices were needed with a discharge capacity of up to 5000 m3 /s (177,000 ft3 /s) (van Duin & de Kaste, 1990).

84

Dutch Coastal Engineering Projects

1487

Fig. 84.5 Map of the Zuiderzee reclamation

Even before the barrier dam was finished work started on the first polder. Before the polder dikes could be built unstable foundation soils were removed and replaced with compacted sand fill. The dike was constructed using a double boulder clay core and sand fill. Riprap, asphalt, and basalt revetments were placed on the dike body to protect against wave action. The pumping stations were constructed in the dike at locations where the primary discharge channels were planned. Before the diked-in areas were pumped dry the primary drainage canals were dredged to allow water to continue to drain to the pumping stations as the water level was lowered to that of the former sea bottom. To make the new land usable the water levels needed to be lowered to 1.5 m (4.9 ft) below the new ground surface. This was done with drainage canals as well as transpiration through reeds sown by airplane. The reeds extracted water as well as improved the bearing capacity of the soil. When the ground was stable enough for heavy equipment to move around, additional field ditches were dug. Finally, after the soil was matured through a series of different plant types, the field ditches were replaced with field tiles. Wieringermeer was the first large polder created from the Zuiderzee (see Fig. 84.5). The dike from the tip of Wieringen Island to the mainland at Medemblik was constructed between 1927 and 1929. After removing around 700(10)6 m3 (24.7(10)9 ft3 ) of water the polder came dry on August 11, 1930 creating 200 km2

1488

R. Hoeksema

(77 mi2 ) of new land. The deepest portion of this polder is 6 m (20 ft) below the IJsselmeer water surface. Wieringermeer was designed to be almost entirely agricultural. Each plot was 20 ha (49 acre) in size with a road in front and a canal, large enough to transport agricultural products, in back. Most farms, leased to the framers, encompassed one to three of these plots. Very little planning was done for the towns needed to support the agricultural community. It was assumed that they would just appear spontaneously. When this did not happen, the planners realized that the development of new towns was going to be as important as the physical design of the polders. The second large polder created in the Zuiderzee reclamation was the 480 km2 (185 mi2 ) Northeast Polder (see Fig. 84.5). The polder dike runs from Blokzijl on the east to Lemmer on the north. The drained land included two islands, Schokland and Urk. Two rivers in the old land had to be dammed and diverted to drain into the water surrounding the new polder. Construction started in 1937 and the 1.5(10)9 m3 (53(10)9 ft3 ) of water was removed by 1942. The deepest canals lie 5.5 m (18 ft) below the outside IJsselmeer water (van Duin & de Kaste, 1990). After this area was pumped dry it was discovered that the groundwater levels in the old land around the perimeter of the newly created polder were much lower. This resulted in a drying out of the old land. They concluded that a peripheral lake between the polder and the old land would have kept this from occurring. Town planning was more deliberate in the Northeast Polder. A single central city, Emmeloord, was constructed at the center of the polder. Ten small villages were constructed in a ring surrounding Emmeloord. The island of Urk, which had been occupied since the 17th century, was incorporated into this new polder as an additional town. Town spacing was set at 5 km (3.1 mi), appropriate assuming that the bicycle would be the primary mode of transportation. After World War II fewer people remained on the farm and agricultural activities became complex enough that the small villages could not provide the required level of support. Automobiles became more common reducing the need for such tight town spacing. As a result the 10 small villages did not develop as planned. Eastern Flevoland and Southern Flevoland were the third and fourth large polders constructed (see Fig. 84.5). They were built at different times but share a common dike boundary. These polders included a marginal lake to eliminate any problems with lowered water tables in the surrounding old land. These lakes provided additional recreational benefits. National reconstruction after World War II delayed the start of work on these final polders. Eastern Flevoland construction started in 1950 and Southern Flevoland in 1959. These two polders became dry in 1957 and 1968 respectively. A total of 3(10)9 m3 (106(10)9 ft3 ) of water was removed creating 970 km2 (375 mi2 ) of new land (van Duin & de Kaste, 1990). The total amount of new land created between 1930 and 1968 added up to 1650 km2 (637 mi2 ). On a national scale this was equal to a 5 % increase in total land mass. Four towns were constructed in Eastern Flevoland. The largest of these was Lelystad, named after Cornelis Lely. In 1986 the Dutch government established a new province consisting of the last three polders. Lelystad is the capital city of the

84

Dutch Coastal Engineering Projects

1489

Flevoland Province. Two towns were constructed in Southern Flevoland, Almere and Zeewolde. Over the years since Lely’s first work on the Zuiderzee project the needs of the Netherlands changed considerably. Technological advances in farming reduced the need for new agricultural land. With Southern Flevoland being so close to the Amsterdam metropolitan region the new focus became housing and recreation. Agricultural allocations in Wieringermeer and Northeast Polders were 87% as compared to 50% in Southern Flevoland. The city of Almere is around 20 km (12.4 mi) from the center of Amsterdam and is the largest and newest of the new cities developed in the Zuiderzee reclamation. It is still, in effect, under construction today. It represents the ultimate dream for any city planner: to design a new major city starting with only dry ground. Almere is being constructed as a polynuclear city. The larger Almere is really a number of smaller cities held together by green space. Each nucleus has its own neighborhoods, central business district and unique character. The entire area has a well planned public transportation system. Almere Stad is the central nucleus. When completed in 2025, Almere is expected to have 350,000 to 400,000 inhabitants.

84.5 The Delta Project The Zuiderzee reclamation was easily the largest effort by the Dutch to reclaim lost land. The Delta Project was the largest coastal flood protection project ever attempted by the Dutch. These two projects are similar in many ways. Both were initially planned without any urgency until a flood event sent the plans into action. Both projects were developed in stages allowing new developments to alter the plans as time went by. And, both projects took longer to complete than originally planned. Most of the islands in the Southwest delta region lay between –2 and +5 m (–6.6 and +16.4 ft) elevation and were protected by dikes, some dating as far back as the 12th century. This, along with neglect during the World War II years, left the region in a vulnerable state. Prior to 1953 plans were already in place to close off much of the Southwest delta coastline to protect the region from storms and to protect the agricultural lands from salt water intrusion. By 1950 dams were already constructed closing the Brielse Maas. Then the storm of the century hit. On the morning of January 31 the Royal Netherlands Meteorological Institute issued the first warnings about the impending storm. By early evening distress signals were being received by ships at sea. Around midnight dikes began to fail. The storm was characterized by a deadly combination of high winds, high spring tides, unfavorable wind direction, and long duration. With wind velocities exceeding 100 km/h (62 mi/h) from the northeast the North Sea was pushed into the funnel shaped by the Dutch and British coasts causing unusually high surge levels. At the town of Hoek van Holland water levels reached 3.85 m (12.6 ft) above sea level. This was 0.57 m (1.87 ft) higher than the previously measured high in 1894.

1490

R. Hoeksema

Fig. 84.6 Map of the Delta project

By the time the storm was over 800 km (497 mi) of dikes were severely damaged and 2000 km2 (772 mi2 ) of land flooded. Over 3000 homes were destroyed, 1835 people drowned and 72,000 were evacuated. In 67 locations there were large enough gaps in the dikes to allow tidal flows to pass through. The tidal flows scoured the gaps, some to a depth of 40 m (131 ft). Many dikes failed simply because they were not high enough. They were overtopped and scoured on the inside slope. It took around 9 months to close all of the major gaps. In response to this flood disaster the Minister of Transport and Public Works instituted the Delta Commission. This group was assigned the task of finding ways to make sure that a flood disaster of this magnitude would never occur again. Two clear options emerged. One was to raise the level of approximately 700 km (435 mi) of sea walls and dikes throughout the Delta region. The other option was to dam most of the tidal inlets and raise dikes only along the open shipping routes. Previous studies that had proposed closing the tidal inlets for flood protection and salt exclusion heavily influenced the approach taken by the Delta Commission. The main advantage was clear: a shorter coastline would be much easier to defend from future storm events. The plan developed by the commission was approved by parliament in May 1958. The finished plan, which differed somewhat from the 1958 version, is shown in Fig. 84.6. The dams and barriers constructed consisted of primary barriers along the coast and secondary barriers further inland. The secondary barriers were generally located at tidal divides between two neighboring inlets thereby isolating one inlet from the influence of its neighbor. The primary barriers could not be constructed until the

84

Dutch Coastal Engineering Projects

1491

secondary barriers were in place. The following sections cover some of the more significant structures completed in the Delta Project.

84.5.1 Hollandse IJssel Barrier The Hollandse IJssel River, east of Rotterdam, was one the most critical locations in need of flood protection. It passes through some of the lowest land in the entire country. A major disaster was averted during the 1953 flood when a ship was purposely sunk in a developing dike breach along this river. Had this dike failed a large part of the region between Rotterdam and Amsterdam would have been flooded affecting millions of people. The construction of this barrier began even before the Delta Commission issued its final recommendations. It consists of two movable gates each 80 m (262 ft) long and 11.5 m (37.7 ft) high (Lingsma, 1966). These gates are held above the river by two 45 m (148 ft) tall towers. When a flood threatens they can be lowered down to the river with the aid of two 19 kw (25 hp) motors and counterweights. Once in place ships can still travel through a ship lock next to the barrier.

84.5.2 Veerse Gat Veerse Gat was the first primary closure along the North Sea. Not only was this location exposed to direct wave attack but it experienced a twice daily tidal flow volume of 70(10)6 m3 (2.5(10)9 ft3 ) (Lingsma 1966). Standard dike construction methods would never work. As the size of the opening gets progressively smaller the tidal flow velocities increase to the point where any new materials placed would simply be swept away. The solution involved the use of the sluice caissons. This is a large concrete box with removable sides. The caissons used in Veerse Gat measured 45 m (148 ft) long, 20.5 m (67.3 ft) wide, and 20.5 m (67.3 ft) high (Lingsma 1966). The caissons were built off-site then floated into place at the closure location. The caissons were sunk onto a prepared sea bed with the sides left open to allow tidal flows to continue through the caisson. Once all caissons were in place the sides were closed at once at the turning of the tide. With this method they completely eliminated the tidal flows in the Zandkreek inlet all on a single day. After the caissons were closed, they were covered with sand, forming the rest of the dam body.

84.5.3 Haringvliet Dam and Sluice The Harinvliet estuary was, at one time, the outlet of the Rhine River. The tidal volume here was 260(10)6 m3 (9.2(10)9 ft3 ) passing through an opening 4.5 km (2.8 mi) wide. The dam constructed here had to allow excess water and ice to discharge into the North Sea so it was built with a 1 km (0.6 mi) long discharge sluice. The discharge sluice was built in a dry construction pit on-site. This was, in essence, a polder in the middle of the Haringvliet inlet. When most of the ring dike

1492

R. Hoeksema

Fig. 84.7 Haringvliet sluice

was constructed suction dredgers entered and excavated the pit down to the desired level. After the dredgers left the dike was completed and pumps drew the water down to the sea bottom. Pile drivers next entered the site placing over 20,000 piles for the foundation of the structure. The structure included 17 sluices each 56.5 m (185 ft) wide with a total flow area of 6,000 m2 (65,000 ft2 ). Two radial gates were installed in each sluice opening. The gates were supported by 25 m (82 ft) long steel arms pivoting on a massive beam. The 22 m (72 ft) wide upper surface of the support beam carried a roadway. After the sluice complex was completed, the dike surrounding it was removed and the remainder of the closure dam was completed. Throughout construction of the closure dam the sluice remained open. Once the dam was completed the sluice could finally be closed eliminating tidal flows into the Haringviet. The completed sluice complex is shown in Fig. 84.7.

84.5.4 The Brouwers Dam The Brouwers Dam crossed the 6.5 km (4.0 mi) wide and 30 m (98 ft) deep Browershavense Gat between the islands of Goeree and Schouwen-Duiveland. After expanding the size of several natural sand banks two tidal gaps were left to be closed. One gap was closed using sluice caissons. The other gap was closed by

84

Dutch Coastal Engineering Projects

1493

dropping 240,000, 15 metric ton (16.5 ton) concrete blocks from cable cars that traveled across the gap (Lingsma, 1966).

84.5.5 The Oosterschelde Barrier At 9 km (5.6 mi) wide the Oosterschelde was the largest estuary to be closed in the Delta Project. The opening passed a tidal volume of 1.1(10)9 m3 (39(10)9 ft3 ) and included gullies up to 35 m (115 ft) deep. The original plan called for a closure similar to the Brouwers Dam. The first step, commencing in 1967, was to construct three islands in the middle of the estuary creating four gaps to be closed. Until the construction of the Oosterschelde Dam there were no serious concerns raised about the impact that the closures would have on the environment of these salt water tidal estuaries. The Oosterschelde estuary supported abundant sea life including mussels and oysters. Its impending closure sparked a national debate about the direction taken by the Delta Commission. Should safety be regarded above all other concerns or should the design incorporate the environmental concerns as well. The debate resulted in a complete redesign of the Oosterschelde barrier. An open barrier was to be built. The redesigned barrier would allow tidal flows to continue into the Oosterschelde estuary. Only when a storm threatens would the barrier be closed. The new design incorporated 62 large steel gates supported by massive concrete piers. Because of the size and depth of this estuary it would not be possible to construct this barrier in place like Haringvliet. Instead, the concrete piers that form the framework of this barrier would be constructed off-site and floated into place. The first step was to create a foundation for the concrete support piers. Poor soils from the sea bottom were removed and replaced with sand fill. This was then compacted using vibrating needles. Next, foundation mattresses were assembled in a specially designed factory and rolled onto a gigantic spool to be spread out on the sea bottom. Polders were built at the sand bank islands in the middle of the estuary opening for the construction of the piers. Once construction of the piers was complete, the polder could be filled and the dikes breached to allow a special ship to lift and carry off the completed piers to the barrier site. A total of 65 piers were constructed. They varied in height from 30 to 39 m (98 to 128 ft) or about the height of a 10-storey building. The largest weighed 18,000 metric tons (19,800 tons) (DOSBOUW, 1983; van de Ven, 2004). Each pier took a year and a half to construct and a new one was started every two weeks. The last step involved placing the various components between the piers. These included a sill beam and upper beam that together with the piers formed the rectangular opening through which the tide would flow. In addition the gates and a roadway were placed between the piers. The steel gates had a span of 42 m (138 ft) and ranged in height from 5.9 to 11.9 m (19.4–39.0 ft) depending on the depth of

1494

R. Hoeksema

Fig. 84.8 Oosterschelde barrier

the water at the particular location. One section of the completed barrier is shown in Fig. 84.8.

84.5.6 The Maeslant Barrier Because of the need to maintain shipping routes, the original 1958 Delta Plan did not include any barriers to protect the entrances to Antwerp or Rotterdam harbor areas. The entrance to Antwerp was through the wide Westerschelde, but ships heading to Rotterdam used the man-made Nieuwe Waterweg canal. A decision was made to provide additional flood protection to this economically important region by building a storm barrier at the entrance to the Nieuwe Waterweg. The primary restriction was that the barrier would not hinder ship traffic. Several companies formed a partnership to win the contract to design and build this barrier. The selected design used two hollow, semicircular gates as the main element of the barrier. The gates normally sit in a dry dock on the side of the canal. When a storm threatens the dry dock is filled with water and the gates are pushed out to the center of the canal. Once in place they are filled with water and sink to a concrete sill. Each gate is 210 m (689 ft) long and 22 m (72 ft) high. It pivots on a 10 m (33 ft) diameter ball joint via 237 m (778 ft) long steel space trusses. The ball joints were 3 times larger than any previously constructed. As built, the Maeslant Barrier (Fig. 84.9) is considered to be the largest man-made moving object on earth. At the time of its construction, it was anticipated that this barrier would close, on average, once every 10 years. The barrier was completed in the spring of 1997. In November 2007, with sea levels at 2.84 m (9.32 ft), the barrier closed for the first time under storm conditions.

84

Dutch Coastal Engineering Projects

1495

Fig. 84.9 Maeslant barrier

84.6 The New Delta Plan The original Delta Commission was given the task of finding a way to keep a flood disaster like that of 1953 from ever happening again. The result is a system of strengthened dikes and structures that have successfully protected the southwest delta area up to the present. Along the way, maintaining the environmental condition of this area was added as an additional constraint. Recently, a new commission was established to look further into the future. The effects of climate change and associated sea level rise could undo all of the progress made in the past. The new commission was asked to provide recommendations to parliament that would make the country “climate proof” and yet remain an attractive place to live and work. The new Delta Commission presented its initial recommendations to parliament in September 2008. The advice emphasized the need for both water security and sustainability. The recommendations are based on an assumption that relative sea level rise (including land subsidence) will be somewhere between 0.65 and 1.3 m (2.1–4.3 ft) by the year 2100 and between 2 and 4 m (6.6–13.1 ft) by the year 2200. Increased flows from the rivers Maas and Rhine are also included in the recommendations. The Delta Commission report includes a set of 12 recommendations for the future. These recommendations are to be the foundation for the “Delta Program” to be made law in the new “Delta Act.” The following are the recommendations that relate to the coastal defenses and reclamations described in this chapter (Deltacommissie, 2008). Recommendation 1: Between the present and 2050 the protection level of all diked areas must be improved by a factor of 10. This would increase the standard for high value areas along the coast to protection for up to the

1496

R. Hoeksema

100,000 year storm event. To do this might require the construction of a so called “Delta Dike” which is so high or so wide and massive that there is virtually zero probability of a sudden failure. After 2050 the protection standards must be updated regularly. Recommendation 2: Detailed cost benefit analysis will be required for any construction in low lying areas. All costs, including those for flood protection, for new construction must be covered by those benefiting. Recommendation 4: Flood protection along the entire North Sea coast will be provided by beach nourishment gradually moving the coast seaward in the next century. Recommendation 5: The Wadden Sea islands will be maintained. Recommendation 6: Through 2050 the Eastern Schelde barrier should be able to function in its present condition. After 2050 its life will be extended by technical interventions up to a sea level rise of 1 m (3.3 ft). Once this level is attained a new solution to protection of the Eastern Schelde estuary will be found that restores all of the tidal dynamics while still providing safety against flooding. Recommendation 7: The Western Schelde must remain open for navigation to Antwerp. Flood protection will be maintained by strengthening the existing dikes. Recommendation 8: The former sea inlets now closed off by the Delta barriers must be able to provide temporary storage of river water (Rhine and Maas) during periods where the sea barriers are closed. Recommendation 11: Between the present and 2050 the level of the IJsselmeer will be raised by a maximum of 1.5 m (4.9 ft) to allow gravity drainage to the higher Wadden Sea. The challenges will be to protect the lower reaches of river IJssel. After 2050 even higher levels may be required. Recommendation 12: The political administration of water safety must be strengthened. Funding of projects must be guaranteed. The Delta Act must be approved by parliament.

84.7 Conclusions The Dutch have a long history of water management. Living in a low lying coastal area has forced them to continually find ways to protect themselves from flooding. They have also perfected the art of reclaiming land that was previously lost. The two major projects of the 20th century, the Zuderzee reclamation and the Delta Project, are proof that they can take on flood protection and land reclamation challenges on the grandest scale. Unfortunately the battle is not over. Climate change and sea level rise threaten to undo the progress made in the past. Instead of giving in to future threats, the Dutch have taken the path of flood proofing their country. Only time will tell if this can be done successfully and sustainably, while maintaining the natural and cultural resources that exist today.

84

Dutch Coastal Engineering Projects

1497

References Bakker, I., Duijn, J. van, Fresco, L., Heidema, A., Kabat, P., Metz, T., et al. (Deltacommissie). (2008). Twelve Recommendations for the Future. Summary report. Deltacommissie. Retrieved September 4, 2008, from http://www.deltacommissie.com/ doc/twelve_recommendations.pdf Hoeksema R. J. (2006). Designed for dry feet: Flood protection and land reclamation in the Netherlands. Washington, DC: ASCE Press. Lambert, A. M. (1971). The making of the Dutch landscape. London: Seminar Press. Lingsma, J. S. (1966). Holland and the Delta plan. Rotterdam: Nijgh & Ditmar. Meijer, H. (1996). Water in, around and under the Netherlands, IDG-Bulletin 1995/96. Utrecht: The Information and Documentation Centre for the Geography of the Netherlands. Oosterschelde Stormvloedkering Bouwcombinatie (DOSBOUW). (1983). The storm surge barrier in the Eastern Scheldt: For safety and environment. Den Haag, Netherlands: Oosterschelde Stormvloedkering Bouwcombinatie. van de Ven, G. P. (Ed.). (2004). Man-made lowlands: History of water management and land reclamation in the Netherlands (4th ed.). Utrecht: Matrijs. van der Pols, K., & Verbruggen, J. A. (1996). Stoombemaling in Nederland, steam drainage in the Netherlands, 1770–187. Delft: Delftse Universitaire Pers. van Duin, R. H. A., & de Kaste, G. (1990). The pocket guide to the Zuyder Zee Project. Lelystad: Rijkswaterstaat–Directorate Flevoland.

Chapter 85

Moving the River? China’s South–North Water Transfer Project Darrin Magee

85.1 Introduction China is not a water-poor country. As of 1999, China’s per capita freshwater availability was around 2,128 m3 (554,761 gallons) per year, more than double the internationally recognized threshold at which a country would be considered waterscarce (Gleick, 2006). The problem, however, is that there is no such thing as an average Chinese citizen in terms of access to water. More specifically, the geographic and temporal disparity of China’s distribution of freshwater resources means that some parts of the country relish in (and at times, suffer from) an over-abundance of freshwater, whereas other parts of the country are haunted by the specters of draught and desertification, to say nothing of declining water quality. The example of China’s Yellow River (Huang He) has become common knowledge. The Yellow takes its name from the color of the glacial till (loess) soil through which it flows for much of its 5,464 km (3,395 mi) journey (National Bureau of Statistics, 2007). After first failing to reach the sea for a period during 1972, it then suffered similar dry-out periods for a portion of the year in 22 of the subsequent 28 years (Ju, 2000). The river so important for nurturing the earliest kingdoms that came to comprise China, once known as “China’s sorrow” because of its devastating floods, now has become a victim of over-abstraction, pollution, and desert encroachment, and a symbol of the fragility of the human-environment relationship on which our societies depend. Meanwhile, in southern China, the Yangtze (Chang Jiang) suffers the opposite fate. The 6300 km (3915 mi)-long Yangtze’s annual flow of nearly 951.3 billion m3 (33.59 trillion ft3 or 771.2 million acre-feet) is some 14 times greater than that of the Yellow (National Bureau of Statistics, 2007). Lanzhou, a city on the river in western China’s Gansu Province, receives a paltry 87.92 mm/month (3.46 in) of precipitation in its rainiest month (August). Further east but still on the Yellow, Zhengzhou receives its peak rainfall of some 136.98 mm/month (5.39 in) in July. On the Yangtze, though, Wuhan peaks at 195.53 (7.70 in) mm/month in June (IWMI,

D. Magee (B) Environmental Studies, Hobart and William Smith Colleges, Geneva, NY 14456, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_85,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1499

1500

D. Magee

2007). Long prone to severe seasonal flooding, the Yangtze came very close to inundating the important regional economic hub city of Wuhan in 1998. The rising waters threatened the lives and property of millions of people and resulted in some 4000 deaths. The disaster prompted central officials to institute a nationwide logging ban and widespread afforestation effort, especially in the headwaters area, soon after the river crested in the hopes of preventing future catastrophes. The event also lent increased credibility to those who touted the flood-control benefits that would result from completion of the Three Gorges Project upstream of Wuhan. By several measures – installed generating capacity, number of migrants, reservoir volume, to name a few – the Three Gorges Project is to date the world’s largest water engineering project (Chen, 2006). A second project underway on the Yangtze now, though, will likely make the dam look like a child’s sandbox toy once completed. The South-North Water Transfer (SNWT) project aims to address the disparity in water resource availability between the Yangtze and Yellow Rivers through a series of inter-basin transfer canals that could allow for up to 48 billion m3 (1.7 trillion ft3 , or 39 million acre-feet) of water per year to be diverted from the Yangtze basin to the drier Yellow in the north (Beijing Huaxinjie Investment Consulting Co. Ltd., n.d.). The transfer design calls for three channels: east, central, and west, each of varying technical complexity, feasibility, and potential for social and ecological impacts. To date, an inter-basin transfer of this scale has not been attempted elsewhere in the world. This chapter outlines the details of the SNWT project, situating it not only in the context of China’s overall freshwater resources availability, but also in that of the socioeconomic and biophysical (both negative and positive) each channel will likely bring. In closing I briefly discuss the institutional and bureaucratic changes that have accompanied the project thus far, which in some ways represent fundamental shifts in the functioning of China’s water governing apparatus.

85.2 Socio-Terrestrial Engineering: The Appeal of Megaprojects As noted above, China’s Three Gorges Dam boasts many superlatives when compared to other megadams in the world. China is also the country of the Great Wall, the Grand Canal, the Qinghai-Tibet railway (detailed in this collection), the Long March, the terra cotta army, and numerous other large scale projects, both social and physical. Can we infer, then, that the country that is home to nearly one-quarter of the world’s population has a particular penchant for megaengineering projects? Wittfogel (1957) argued that only a particular kind of regime, “Oriental despotism,” could compel its populace to undertake such gargantuan projects. Not surprisingly, China and the former Soviet Union are often lumped together for, among other things, their perceived gusto for gigantism. Yet the “west” is no stranger to similar mega-projects; the U.S. boasts a long list of megadams and cascades built mostly in the first half of the 20th century, and Chinese policy makers and engineers are quick to equate the high levels of hydropower exploitation in the North

85

China’s South-North Water Transfer Project

1501

America and Europe with high levels of economic development in those regions. It is hardly surprising, then, that Chinese hydropower development companies, flush with favorable loans from Chinese central banks and brimming with technical expertise, should seek to tap the country’s massive hydropower reserves with projects that are correspondingly massive in both scale and number.

85.3 Project Details The SNWT project was first conceptualized in the early 1950s. Chairman Mao himself is said to have suggested on 30 October 1952 that the north should “borrow” water from the south (State Council Office of the SNWT Construction Committee, 2003a). At the time, exploration of potential western routes for such a transfer was already underway, though the SNWT (nanshui beidiao) moniker didn’t appear until 1958, at the time of the Great Leap Forward (State Council Office of the SNWT Construction Committee, 2003b). The project was given the final go-ahead by the National Development and Reform Commission (NDRC) and the State Council in 2001 (Oster, 2008). According to the approved SNWT Comprehensive Plan, the project would link the Yangtze, Huai, Hai, and Yellow Rivers in a “four horizontals, three verticals” (siheng sanzong) arrangement to address water shortages in the North China Plain (Chinawater, 2007). Initial plans called for the project to be completed in three phases (routes) over time, according to the severity of water shortages in the north and to the level of economic development of the country (Fig. 85.1).

Fig. 85.1 Schematic of SNWT routes (west, central, east). DJK=Danjiangkou, site of intake for central route. (Adapted from Henan Water Conservancy Network at http://www.hnsl.gov.cn/look0/ article.php?L_Type=1&id=698) (For color figure see online version)

1502

D. Magee

Those plans envisioned water flowing through the eastern route by 2007, the central route by 2010, and the western route by 2030 (Jiangsu Bureau of Water Resources, 2005). The government now expects the eastern route to come online around 2013, with the others to follow.

85.3.1 Eastern Route The eastern route of the SNWT project is the most technically feasible since the channel uses the existing Grand Canal waterway, originally constructed as a trade artery connecting Hangzhou to Beijing. Ground was broken on the first section of the Grand Canal in 486 BC, but it took nearly a millennium for the various sections to be connected into one contiguous waterway. Yellow River floods, warfare, and imperial neglect left portions of the canal damaged and non-navigable at various points throughout history. At present, the stretch from Jining southward to Hangzhou is navigable, while the northern third is not. Some portions of the canal, especially near Shanghai and Hangzhou, are heavily used by barge traffic. When completed, the eastern route is expected to deliver 14.8 billion m3 of Yangtze water to northern China (Jiangsu Bureau of Water Resources, n.d.). One key challenge, however, complicates this portion of the transfer project: gravity. The Grand Canal’s channel bed elevation above sea level gradually increases over the first (southern) two-thirds of the 1156-km length, rising roughly 130 ft (40 m) from Hangzhou (the southern terminus of the canal) to Jining in Shandong Province, where it reaches its maximum elevation (Fig. 85.2). Pumping is therefore necessary to ensure the flow of Yangtze water northward (uphill); pumping, in turn, requires energy, and eastern China has suffered from acute electric power shortages in recent years. A series of 13 low-lift pumping stations, each comprising multiple actual pumps (for a total of nearly 70 pumps), will lift the water upward and northward (State Council Office of the SNWT Construction Committee, n.d.). Construction on the Eastern Route began in December 2002. In addition to the pumping stations, the project also requires constructing two parallel tunnels under the Yellow River (Figs. 85.3 and 85.4) and a host of investments in improved

Fig. 85.2 Elevation profile of Eastern route

85

China’s South-North Water Transfer Project

1503

Fig. 85.3 Artist’s rendering of parallel tunnels crossing underneath the Yellow river. Similar tunnels will also be part of the central route. (Source: Changjiang (Yangtze) Water Resources Network at http://www.cjw.gov.cn/news/detail/20070508/91050.asp. Xinhua News Agency Photo)

wastewater treatment. After exiting the tunnels, Yangtze water will then flow downhill to reservoirs near Tianjin. A report spearheaded by the China Environmental Planning Institute (Zhongguo huanjing guihua yuan) in 2005, jointly drafted by the NDRC, Ministry of Environment, and provinces and municipalities involved in the eastern route, called for wastewater treatment improvements in 23 cities and 105 counties along the channel’s route (Jiangsu Bureau of Water Resources, 2005).

85.3.2 Central Route In terms of operational energy demands, the central route of the SNWT is the most attractive, since water would flow by gravity for most, if not all, of the journey northward, dropping some 100 m (328 ft) from start to finish. Additional advantages of the central route include relatively good water quality and large service area (Changjiang Institute, 2005). Yet unlike the case of the eastern route, there is no existing channel for the central route, so the potential for social, economic, and ecological disruption resulting from constructing the channel are far greater. According to Beijing Huaxinjie Investment Consulting Company, a construction and engineering services firm attached to the National Development and Reform Commission

1504

D. Magee

Fig. 85.4 Workers constructing part of the tunnel to cross under the Yellow river. (Source: Changjiang (Yangtze) Water Resources Network at www.cjw.gov.cn/news/detail/ 20070508/91050.asp. Xinhua News Agency Photo)

(NDRC), the objective of the SNWT central route is to address water shortages in Beijing, Tianjin, and the North China Plain, as well as in parts of Hubei and Henan Provinces along the transfer route (Beijing Huaxinjie Investment Consulting Co. Ltd., n.d.). This includes supplementing water supplies for municipal, industrial, and agricultural use, as well as for ecological demands. The central route aims to divert some 9.5 billion m3 (7.7 million acre-feet, or 335 billion ft3 ) per year for the first few years after the project is completed, with diversion volumes gradually increasing to a maximum of 12–14 billion m3 by roughly 2030 (Changjiang Institute, 2005). The original plans for the central route, revised in 2001 and approved by the State Council in December 2002, called for water to be diverted northward from the Danjiangkou dam reservoir on the Han River, a tributary that enters the Yangtze from the north side in Hubei Province

85

China’s South-North Water Transfer Project

1505

Fig. 85.5 Workers increasing the height of the Danjiangkou Dam in 2008. (Source: South–North Water Diversion website at http://www.nsbd.gov.cn/nsbdgc/zxgc/djk/20080313/ 200803130017.htm)

upstream of the Three Gorges Dam. Those same plans set the completion date for 2010, which, as I discuss below, turns out to be unrealistic. In addition to some 1,380 km (857 mi) of channel infrastructure, the diversion would require increasing the height of the existing multipurpose dam at Danjiangkou in northwestern Hubei (Fig. 85.5) by roughly 14.6 m (47.9 ft), to a new height of 176.6 m (579.4 ft) (Mid-Route Source Co., 2006). The resultant increase in reservoir elevation would enable water to flow unassisted toward Beijing and Tianjin, reaching the Yellow River some 462 km (287 mi) to the north, at which point approximately 5 billion m3 (177 billion ft3 , or 4 million acre-feet) would be released directly into the Yellow. The remaining 9 billion m3 (318 billion ft3 , or 7 million acre-feet) would then continue northward for another 774 km (481 mi) before reaching Tuancheng Lake at the Summer Palace in Beijing (Yan, 2009). A portion of the diverted volumes would also be piped another 144 km (89 mi) to reach Tianjin (Beijing Huaxinjie Investment Consulting Co. Ltd. n.d.). According to the project proposal, only 7% of the natural runoff in the Han River is currently utilized, leaving (in the minds of project proponents, at least) ample room for diversion of some of the river’s average annual discharge of 59.1 billion m3 (47.9 million acre-feet, or 2.08 trillion ft3 ) to the drier regions of northern China. The central channel will largely follow the route of the Beijing-Guangdong railroad line, traversing the Yue, Huai, Yellow, and Hai River watersheds along the way. The primary trunk from Danjiangkou to Beijing will require construction of nearly 700 new road bridges, along with the demolition of some 1660 preexisting structures along the channel route (Changjiang Institute, 2005). Work on this route began

1506

D. Magee

in late 2003 with the onset of the dam modification project at Danjiangkou, and was originally scheduled to be completed by 2010. The plan was recently delayed for further study of potential environmental impacts, including localized increases in in-stream pollution concentrations, for example, in late 2008, pushing back the expected completion date to 2014 (Oster, 2008); notwithstanding this, various pieces of the project seem to be moving forward apace, with the dam modification work and other components of the middle route are already well underway, including construction of tunnels, reservoirs, and resettlement villages along the channel route. Current modifications and additions to infrastructure within Beijing include a canal in the southern part of the city and a 37.5 million m3 reservoir, expected to cost 3 Billion yuan (US$ 438 million) and 948 M yuan (US$ 138 million), respectively (Xie, 2009). The entire ensemble of infrastructural additions necessary for Beijing to fully utilize SNWT water likely won’t be completed until 2020 (Yan, 2009). Actual raising of the Danjiangkou dam was originally estimated to take 66 months to complete, while the tunnel under the Yellow River was projected to take 56 months. While a tunnel under the Yellow River and an aqueduct over it were both considered and determined feasible during the preliminary study period, planners opted for a tunnel in the expectation that it would cause fewer complications with the hydrodynamics and basin planning for the Yellow River. The tunnel will be 3.5 km (2.2 mi) long, consist of two parallel pipes of 7.5 m (24.6 ft) inner diameter, and be capable of moving water at 500 m3 /s (17,657 cfs) (Changjiang Institute, 2005). Some have argued that, despite (or perhaps because of) the fragility of the North China Plain through which much of the central route passes, the ecological benefits to be derived from that route (in addition to the societal benefits in terms of augmentation of municipal and industrial supplies) are significant. Specifically, such ecological benefits could potentially include mitigating the amount of groundwater extracted for municipal, agricultural, and industrial uses; augmenting river channels along the way that have long suffered from drought conditions; and thereby creating (or restoring) ecological niches that have all but disappeared in some areas (Chen & Du, 2008). At the same time, however, others claim that removing significant quantities of water from the Han River will increase pollution levels in the river to the detriment of locals while benefiting far-away cities and industries (Oster, 2008). As I discuss below, decision-making regarding water resources in China is complicated and involves numerous areas of bureaucratic and legal ambiguity, making reconciliation of such conflicting concerns potentially difficult.

85.3.3 Western Route The western route, consisting of several disjoint segments, is the most controversial, most technically difficult, and (currently, at least) the most economically infeasible of the three routes. The list of complications is short but significant. First, the route would traverse ecologically and culturally diverse areas of western China, potentially posing unwarranted risks in terms of species loss and challenges to human

85

China’s South-North Water Transfer Project

1507

livelihoods, sites of cultural importance, and traditions. Second, redirected water would have to flow uphill at points over the eastern Himalayas, requiring largescale tunneling projects, as well as pumping and siphoning to lift water over ridges, all of which would take place in extremely difficult terrain. Pumping demands would, in turn, create greater demand for more electricity in the southwestern part of the country. Third, the long-term impacts of major inter-basin transfers are poorly understood. This is especially important in the upper reaches of the Yangtze and its tributaries, where transferred volumes would comprise a greater percentage of in-stream flows in the Yangtze itself. The principal objective of the western route would be to supplement flows in the Yellow River and its upper tributaries, primarily to meet industrial, municipal, and agricultural water demands in Qinghai, Gansu, Ningxia, Inner Mongolia, Shaanxi, and Shanxi Provinces. As with the other routes, the plan makes mention of reserving some transferred water for ecological demands, but does not specify how much, or how those demands might be estimated. Diversion points would be in the Tongtian, Yalong, and Dadu Rivers, all upper tributaries of the Yangtze, each of which would require construction of new dams. Adding further to the complexity of the project would be the need to bore a diversion tunnel through the Bayan Har1 Mountain Range, which separates the upper Yangtze and upper Yellow drainage basins. Not surprisingly, the elevations at which such engineering feats would take place are dizzying, ranging from around 3,000 to 4,500 m (roughly 10,000 to 15,000 ft) above sea level. Newly constructed dams would need to be 100–300 m (328–984 ft) high, towering over many of China’s tallest dams.2 Even though the siting of the dams and the size of the intake reservoirs in the Yangtze basin would yield reservoir elevations 80–450 m (262–1,476 ft) higher than the outlets in the Yellow River, the complexity of the topography would allow a simple gravity flow for only part of the diversion’s total length, necessitating some combination of pumping and siphoning capacity. Indeed, the original planning report calls for diversion tunnels ranging from 30 to 130 km (19 to 81 mi) in length. As early as the 1970s, one of the plans put forth for the western route included a transfer through no fewer than five basins outside the Yellow, beginning in the headwaters of the Nu River (upper Salween), and connecting to the Yellow by passing through the Lancang (upper Mekong), Jinsha (upper Yangtze), Yalong, Dadu and Min (tributaries of the upper Yangtze) (Liu & Ma, 1983).

85.4 Environmental and Socioeconomic Impacts of the SNWT Project 85.4.1 Eastern Route As noted above, the eastern route crosses through Zhejiang, Jiangsu, Shandong, and Hebei Provinces, as well as the neighboring municipalities of Tianjin and Beijing. Environmental impacts for this route are expected to be relatively minor, primarily since the channel already exists and only requires minor modifications in some

1508

D. Magee

areas (e.g., dredging and installation of pumping facilities). Impacts on the downstream sections of the Yangtze are expected also to be minimal, since the outtake of water to be diverted northward occurs near the mouth of the river, where its volumes are greatest. Some experts have expressed concern that the diversions may increase the severity of saltwater intrusion into the Yangtze delta during parts of the year, due to diminished volumes of freshwater available for holding the seawater back. Yet this is likely only to pose a localized threat in the driest of seasons, and could potentially be mitigated by temporarily reducing diversions during those periods (Nickum, 2006). There is also some concern about the potential for increased incidence of schistosomiasis (bilharzia) due to expansion of prime habitat (i.e., slow-moving water) for a species of snail that is a key vector for the disease. Perhaps the most significant environmental concerns, though, revolve around the quality of water actually arriving in Beijing and surrounding areas. Despite the attractiveness of the existing channel for moving Yangtze water northward through the eastern route, significant and well-founded concerns about water quality have persisted since the idea was first floated. Indeed, in much of the canal suffers from agricultural and industrial runoff, untreated sewage, and pollution from vessels plying its waters. This is not surprising, given the amount of barge traffic and the fact that the canal transects Zhejiang, Jiangsu, Shandong, and Hebei Provinces, as well as the municipalities of Tianjin and Beijing, all of which are densely populated and the site of much of eastern China’s most highly polluting economic development. Indeed, one MWR press release noted that the very success or failure of the SNWT eastern route depended upon major improvements in wastewater treatment along the channel route (Ministry of Water Resources, 2008). Water quality testing conducted in 2005 on the eastern route found concentrations of seven out of 31 tested pollutants to be in excess of China’s Class III standards (minimum standard for use as municipal raw water). Those included ammonium nitrate, permanganate, petroleum, nitrates, BOD, volatile phenols, and dissolved oxygen (Jiangsu Bureau of Water Resources, 2005). In certain tested reaches, concentrations of some pollutants were worse than average, exceeding Class IV standards or, in the case of the entire Hai River watershed and three other areas in Henan and Anhui, Class V. In terms of socioeconomic impacts, there is some potential for increasing transportation utilization of some parts of the channel that had previously suffered from reduced water levels or increased sediment buildup. While potentially beneficial in some aspects, care will need to be taken to ensure that increased barge and boat traffic on the channel does not counteract water quality improvement measures vital to ensuring that the water which reaches Beijing and the surrounding areas is, in fact, suitable for municipal and agricultural use. Chinese Premier Wen Jiabao, along with his predecessor, former Premier Zhu Rongji, advocated a “Three First, Three Then” (sanxian, san hou) policy with regard to the eastern route: “first conserve water, then transfer water; first treat pollution, then channel water; first protect the environment, then use water,” acknowledging the importance of addressing such pollution concerns particular to the eastern route, and serving as the motivation for a pollution

85

China’s South-North Water Transfer Project

1509

control plan jointly drafted by the NDRC, the Ministry of Environment, and the relevant provincial and municipal administrative units transected by the route.

85.4.2 Central Route When completed, the central route will traverse parts of Hubei, Henan, and Hebei Provinces, as well as Beijing and Tianjin municipalities. By far, the most significant socioeconomic impact will be the resettlement of more than 300,000 people, mostly from the area around the intake site at the Danjiangkou reservoir. More than half those individuals (179,000 people) will come from counties and municipalities within Hubei, with the remainder being resettled from areas in neighboring Henan Province (Mid-route Source Co., 2009). The increase in height of the Danjiangkou dam will result in a corresponding increase in the reservoir surface area, from its present area of 745 km2 (288 mi2 ) to 1050 km2 (405 mi2 ), an increase of some 40% (Mid-Route Source Co., 2006). Work on raising the dam height, as well as preparatory work for the increased reservoir size, is already well underway by the Mid-route Source of South-to-North Water Transfer Corporation, a subsidiary of the Hanjiang Group. According to a news release by the Hanjiang Group, preparatory work in the reservoir area has included removing an existing smaller dam, constructing resettlement villages, and improving provision of electrical, water, and communications services in the area surrounding the reservoir. The company is also working with relevant governmental authorities to arrange resettlement logistics, including compensation for residents of areas that will be flooded, recognizing that a smooth relocation process is crucial for the progress of the project (Wu & Jiang, 2006). This is especially true for the area around Danjiangkou, where many residents will likely have already been resettled for the construction of the original dam, which took place from 1958 to 1973 and required the relocation of some 383,000 people (Heggelund, 2004). The plan for the central route that was approved by the State Council in late 2002 called for water to be taken only from the Danjiangkou reservoir. Further in the future, however, water could also be taken from the Three Gorges Reservoir to be sent northwards. Indeed, given that annual runoff entering the Danjiangkou reservoir is expected to drop by some 8% over the coming decades, from 38.8 billion m3 (1.37 trillion ft3 , or 31.5 million acre feet) in 2005 to 35.6 billion m3 (1.26 trillion ft3 , or 28.9 million acre-feet) by 2030, eventual diversions from the Three Gorges Reservoir seem highly likely in order to meet the expectations of increased volumes flowing northward by 2030 (Changjiang Institute, 2005). Despite the recently announced delay in the completion date for the central route, the prospect of Beijing residents drinking abundantly from Yangtze water still holds currency. A Beijing news report from 29 April 2009, for example, fêted the future arrival of that water, proclaiming that Beijing households within the fifth ring road will be able to “relax” (fang xin) and drink Yangtze water as soon as 2014, once the central route and its accompanying storage, treatment, and distribution facilities in

1510

D. Magee

Beijing are complete (Yan, 2009). In Beijing alone, the SNWT project is expected to require construction of an additional 13 water treatment plants with a combined delivery capacity of some 35 B tons of treated water each day. At the same time, though, concerns about water quality in the central route persist, including fears that withdrawals from the Han River at Danjiangkou could exacerbate eutrophication conditions downstream of the dam in dry years. As for water quality in the central channel itself, several measures are supposedly being taken to ensure that the Danjiangkou reservoir will be “a reservoir of clean water to send to Beijing” (yiku qingshui song Beijing), including constructing an ecological forest preserve of some 356,667 ha (881,342 acres) around Danjiangkou; establishing erosion control measures throughout 680 ha (1,680 acres) immediately surrounding the reservoir; and shutting down more than 800 small but heavily polluting businesses in the area3 (Zhang, 2008).

85.4.3 Western Route Given the long time-horizon and questionable feasibility of the western route, less research has been conducted on the specific socioeconomic and environmental impacts that might result from the project. One concern is that diverting water from the upper reaches of rivers such as the Yalong, Dadu, Tongtian, and Lancang will reduce the power generation capacity of downstream hydroelectric dams on those rivers (Ma & Wu, 2006). If, as the original plans specified, as much as 17 billion m3 (13,782,044 acre-feet) of water stands to eventually be diverted from those and other rivers to the Yellow River Basin, then corresponding adjustments in the power generation expectations for downstream dams (including design parameters for new ones) should be made accordingly (Tan & Cui, 2003). Tan and Cui found that planned diversion volumes in 2020 (4 B m3 , or 3.2 M acre-feet), 2030 (9 B m3 , or 7.3 M acre-feet), and 2050 (17 B m3 , or 13.8 M acre-feet) in the western route would result in decreases in annual downstream hydropower generation amounting to 3.1 B kWh, 33.6 B kWh, and 111.7 B kWh, respectively. Interestingly, their study discussed such changes partly in a water rights framework, a fairly novel approach in China in 2003. Aside from reduction in power generation, other socioeconomic disruptions in the area around the western route would be fairly minimal, given the remoteness and low population levels. Environmental impacts, however, might be more significant, since much of the area is considered ecologically fragile. According to one study, potential impacts could include disruption of ecosystem integrity, including in especially sensitive wetland, dryland, and protected ecosystems in the headwaters regions of the Yangtze, Yellow, and other rivers implicated in the diversion (Wu, 2007). This disruption would result partly from the construction of new dams in the headwaters region, the impoundments of which would submerge surrounding terrain and create standing lakes in places where rushing waters have long been the norm (Xuan, 2006). Such changes could alter food webs and diminish habitat for endemic species at the intake points, while also potentially threatening species in

85

China’s South-North Water Transfer Project

1511

the upper reaches of the Yellow River watershed by permitting passage of flora and fauna from the sending watersheds through the diversion tunnels. There remains a clear need for further research on the likelihood, magnitude, and ramifications of such impacts, should they occur. A final concern in the region surround the western route is seismic activity and the potential for landslides and slope failures. Disturbances to the physical environment of the western route could not only impact the long-term viability of the project as a whole, but may also bring about land degradation and increased likelihood of natural disasters that would threaten nearby human communities, many of which are comprised primarily of ethnic minority populations in areas targeted for development assistance through the Western Development Campaign (Ma, Chen, Chen, Shang, & Tu, 2006).

85.5 SNWT and Challenges to Water Governance in China Governance of water resources on major rivers in China is often a murky affair, with bureaucratic restructuring, semi-privatization of many former state-owned enterprises, and changes in legal institutions resulting in many ambiguities and areas of overlapping jurisdiction (Magee, 2006, 2007). As James Nickum (2006), a longtime observer of major water projects in China, has noted, “The biggest challenges to the diversions are probably not ones of engineering or environment, but of institutions.” Space restrictions do not permit a full-scale investigation of the water resources governance apparatus in China here; it is nevertheless important to include some mention of key institutions involved in order to envision the challenges that the SNWT presents in terms of water resources management and governance. In principle, responsibility for comprehensive planning and management of the country’s water resources rests with seven basin (or watershed) commissions named after principal river systems,4 each encompassing numerous sub-basins. The bureaucratic rank of the commissions would seem to place them subordinate to the Ministry of Water Resources (MWR), yet in reality they have a high degree of autonomy from the Ministry, and from provincial and sub-provincial subordinates of the MWR. In addition, even though the Water Law of China delegates some enforcement authority (rather than just planning responsibilities) to the basin commissions, they frequently find their decision-making authority skirted by developers of water infrastructure (especially hydropower) who, as remnants of the former Ministry of Electric Power, retain close ties to central decision makers in the NDRC and State Council (Magee, 2006). Part and parcel of the restructuring of the water and power sectors in China over the past decade has been a move toward “corporatization,” where former ministries and state-owned enterprises have been transformed into stock corporations, many of which have subsidiaries that are listed on international stock exchanges. Though some might see this as “privatization,” in most cases, the majority of the stock is owned by the central government through the State Assets Supervision and Administration Commission. Thus while the goals of corporatization were to

1512

D. Magee

encourage competition and reorient key industries in the direction of profit generation, in actuality central (political) decision-makers still retain influence over certain aspects of these corporations. The relevance to the SNWT project discussed here is that the design and construction work done on various components of the project is being carried out by dozens of provincial and sub-provincial subsidiaries of key national corporations, complicating immensely the task of understanding and explaining lines of authority and accountability. Key Chinese companies involved include Hanjiang Water Resources and Hydropower Company, which has undertaken much of the construction work on the eastern and central routes. Design work for the has been conducted by the Hai River Watershed Commission (likely with significant input from the Yangtze, Yellow, and Huai commissions as well) (Southto-North Water Diversion Project, China, n.d.). Foreign company participation is apparently limited to highly specialized tasks such as long-distance precision tunneling under the Yellow River, which is being done by Germany’s Herrenknecht company (Herrenknecht, 2006). Recognizing the magnitude, complexity and importance of the SNWT project, the State Council has established a specific office devoted to overseeing engineering and construction of the project. While one would expect close coordination between that office and the relevant basin commissions (Yangtze, Yellow, Huai, and Hai), as well as with the actual entities involved in design and construction, more research needs to be done to understand the mechanisms and effectiveness of that coordination. Indeed, inter-basin transfers such as the SNWT bring the very salience of “watershed,” a natural delimiter all too often taken for granted, into question. The bureaucratic implications of such projects entail the creation of new offices, new laws, new regulations, and new enforcement mechanisms. The scholarly implications may be similarly complex, forcing us to think outside our comfortable analytical boxes in order to fully comprehend the nature, magnitude, and relevance of large-scale Earth engineering projects.

Notes 1. Occasionally Romanized as Bayankala or Bayankela, following the Mandarin Chinese transliteration. 2. The Xiaowan Dam on the Lancang (upper Mekong) River in Yunnan Province, currently under construction, will be China’s tallest dam at 292 m (958 ft) when complete (Magee, 2006). 3. The so-called “15 small industries” include low-output tanneries, coking plants, paper mills, and other industries known for toxic discharges. 4. Namely, Yangtze, Yellow, Songliao, Huai, Hai, Zhu (Pearl), and Taihu (Lake Tai) commissions.

References Beijing Huaxinjie Investment Consulting Co. Ltd. (n.d.). SNWT: Overall Plan. Beijing Huaxinjie Investment Consulting Co., Ltd. Retrieved April 20, 2009, from http://www.bhi.com.cn/ specialtopic/water/ztgh.asp. (in Chinese).

85

China’s South-North Water Transfer Project

1513

Changjiang Institute (2005, 1 August). Introduction to the SNWT Central Route. Changjiang Institute of Survey, Planning, Design, and Research. Retrieved April 24, 2009, from http://www.cjwsjy.com.cn/gcyg/20050801505.htm. (in Chinese). Chen, Y. (2006, 12 May). Ten world s greatest: of the Three Gorges project. Electronic. Xinhua News Agency. Retrieved 2009, from http://finance.people.com.cn/GB/1037/4368826.html. (in Chinese). Chen, H.-C., & Du, P. (2008). Potential ecological benefits of the middle route for the South-North water diversion project. Tsinghua Science and Technology, 13(5), 715–719. Chinawater (2007, 27 January). SNWT Project Comprehensive Plan confirms three diversion routes. Chinawater. Retrieved April 21, 2009, from http://www.chinawater.com.cn/ssw/ nsbd/200507/t20050701_150265.htm. (in Chinese). Gleick, P. H. (2006). The world s water: The biennial report on freshwater resources. Washington, DC: Island Press. Heggelund, G. (2004). Environment and resettlement politics in China: The three Gorges project. Aldershot: Ashgate. Herrenknecht, A. G. (2006). Herrenknecht begins 2006 with a high volume of orders. Business in China is growing. Company website. Herrenknecht AG. Retrieved June 3, 2009, from http://www.herrenknecht.com/news/press-section/press-archive/ IWMI. (2007). IWMI Online Climate Summary Service Portal. International Water Management Institute. Retrieved May 1, 2009, from http://wcatlas.iwmi.org/ Jiangsu Bureau of Water Resources. (2005, 23 November). Introduction to pollution control plan for SNWT eastern route. Retrieved April 21, 2009, from http://www.jsnsbd.gov.cn/ WebMain/News.aspx?Id=7 (in Chinese). Jiangsu Bureau of Water Resources. (n.d.). South-North Water Transfer. Jiangsu Bureau of Water Resources. Retrieved April 20, 2009, from http://www.jswater.gov.cn/slgk/nsbd/index.html. (in Chinese). Ju, C. (2000, 11 December). Water success! River flows on despite drought. China Daily. Liu, C., & Ma, L. J. C. (1983). Interbasin water transfer in China. Geographical Review, 73(3), 253–270. Ma, D., Chen, G., Chen, S., Shang, Y., & Tu, J. (2006). Issues of the western route and environmental geology disasters. In L. Lin & B. Liu (Eds.), Memorandum on the western route of the SNWT (pp. 87–96). Beijing: Economic Science Press. Ma, G., & Wu, S. (2006). Impacts of western route on Yalong River hydropower development. In L. Lin & B. Liu (Eds.), Memorandum on the western route of the SNWT (pp. 129–134). Beijing: Economic Science Press. Magee, D. (2006). Powershed politics: Hydropower and interprovincial relations under great Western development. The China Quarterly, 185, 23–41. Magee, D. (2007). Rewiring large-scale hydropower: Reforms and restructuring. In E. Schumacher-Voelker & B. Mueller (Eds.), Business focus China: Energy (pp. 152–159). Shanghai: German Industry and Commerce. Mid-route Source Co. (2006, 20 February). Danjiangkou dam height increase project. MidRoute Source of the South-to-North Water Transfer Corp. Ltd. Retrieved May 1, 2009, from http://www.zxsygs.com/html/jsrw/dbjggc/245.html. (in Chinese). Mid-route Source Co. (2009, 2 March). Xinhua: 179000 migrants from Danjiangkou reservoir area to enjoy "five-ones" treatment. Mid-route Source of the South-to-North Water Transfer Corp. Ltd. Retrieved May 1, 2009, from http://www.zxsygs.com/html/ymhb/zdym/1366.html. (in Chinese). Ministry of Water Resources. (2008, 27 March). Water pollution situation along the eastern route of the South-North Water Transfer. Retrieved April 15, 2009, from http://nsbd.mwr.gov.cn/ ztyj/200803271023365bcb04.aspx. (in Chinese). National Bureau of Statistics. (2007). China statistical yearbook. Beijing: China Statistics Press.

1514

D. Magee

Nickum, J. E. (2006). The status of the south to north water transfer plans in China. United Nations Development Programme. Retrieved April 15, 2009, from http://hdr.undp.org/en/ reports/global/hdr2006/papers/james_nickum_china_water_transfer.pdf Oster, S. (2008). China slows water project. The Wall Street Journal, 31 December. South-to-North Water Diversion Project, China. (n.d.). water-technology.net. Retrieved April 19, 2009, from http://www.water-technology.net/projects/south_north/ State Council Office of the SNWT Construction Committee. (2003a, 29 August). SNWT major events timeline of 1952. Retrieved April 24, 2009, from http://www.nsbd.gov.cn/zx/dsj/ 20030829/200308290015.htm. (in Chinese). State Council Office of the SNWT Construction Committee. (2003b). SNWT major events timeline of 1958. Retrieved April 24, 2009, from http://www.nsbd.gov.cn/zx/dsj/20030829/ 200308290017.htm. (in Chinese). State Council Office of the SNWT Construction Committee. (n.d.). South-to-North Water Diversion Project: Eastern project (ERP). Office of the State Council SNWT Project Construction Committee. Retrieved April 16, 2009, from http://www.nsbd.gov.cn/zx/english/ erp.htm Tan, Y., & Cui, Q. (2003). Recommendations and measures for reducing unfavorable impacts of the SNWT Western Route on downstream power generation. Water Information Network. Retrieved May 12, 2009, from http://www.nsbd.com.cn/TopicDisplay. asp?Id=80741&ClassID=992. (in Chinese). Wittfogel, K. A. (1957). Oriental despotism: A comparative study of total power. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Wu, C. (2007). Analysis of ecological impacts of Phase 1 of SNWT Western Route on source area. Renmin Huanghe (People s Yellow River), 28(1). Wu, T., & Jiang, Z. (2006). Hanjiang Group to undertake construction work for raising dam height. Hanjiang Water Resources Report. Retrieved 2009, from http://www.zxsygs.com/ html/gcjs/gzdt/643.html. (in Chinese). Xie, C. (2009, 17 April). 10 Major Projects Begin in Capital. China Daily Electronic. China Daily. Retrieved April 18, 2009, from http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/bizchina/200904/17/content_7688842.htm Xuan, X. (2006, 3 July). Yellow River Design Company examines intermediate results of study on western route s impact on aquatic biology. Yellow River Network. Retrieved May 4, 2009, from http://www.yellowriver.gov.cn/kance/dongtai/200612/t20061219_6919.htm. (in Chinese). Yan, X. (2009, 29 April). Residents inside Fifth Ring Road will drink Yangtze water by 2014. Newspaper (electronic format). Beijing Daily. Retrieved May 2, 2009, from http://news.sina.com.cn/c/2009-04-29/085915546142s.shtml. (in Chinese). Zhang, Q. (2008, 23 May). Henan SNWT Central Route water quality protection work meeting held in Zhechuan. H2O-China. Retrieved April 27, 2009, from http://news.h2ochina.com/show/expo_workshop/718941211505104_1.shtml. (in Chinese).

Chapter 86

The Siberian Water Transfer Scheme Philip Micklin

86.1 Introduction The 20th century was the era of megaengineering. Humans not only had unwavering confidence in technology to solve problems, but a deep-seated belief in the need and right to remake and control nature for human betterment. This was a worldwide phenomenon, but, perhaps, had its most clear expression in the Soviet Union (1922– 1991). This nation had a well-defined view of the human-nature relationship as part of its Marxist-Leninist ideological foundations. Economics determined the character and relationship of society and, given the proper economic system (communism), humans could overcome any problem on the path to creating a utopian world. A fundamental part of this dogma was faith in the power to radically transform nature by application of science and technology (Micklin, 1971: 19–40). Soviet government and Communist Party leaders, scientists and technologists, and large segments of society at large rejected the idea of environmental constraints and looked favorably on gigantic “nature transformation” efforts as a way to “tame” their huge country and use its natural wealth for social and economic progress. A plethora of megaengineering projects were conceived and some implemented. Among the truly breathtaking and surreal is the scheme promoted in the 1950s and 1960s by the Soviet engineer P. Borisov to change world climate by melting the North Polar ice cap (Borisov, 1973). This would be accomplished by damming the Bering Strait and pumping cold water out to induce the inflow of warm water from the Atlantic. Other gigantic domestic projects proposed included the post-World War II “Stalin Plan for Nature Transformation” intended to fundamentally alter the climate and character of desert and steppe lands lying in the southern part of the country through planting of extensive forest shelterbelts and gigantic water projects. Implementation of this project began, but was abandoned as a failure after Stalin’s death in 1953 (Micklin, 1971: 251–253). On the other hand, some less grandiose, but still enormous megaengineering projects were completed in the Soviet Union.

P. Micklin (B) Department of Geography, Western Michigan University, Kalamazoo, MI 49008, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_86,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1515

1516

P. Micklin

Among these, might be noted the “Virgin Lands Program” (1954–1970s) in which huge tracts of virgin or idle land were plowed up in Kazakhstan and turned to the production of spring wheat, with mixed success, and the chain of huge hydroelectric stations constructed along the Volga River in European Russia and the Angara and Yenisey rivers in Siberia. Among the most grandiose of the megaengineering projects contemplated during the years of the USSR was the plan to take part of the flow from the giant Siberian rivers Ob’ and Yenisey and send it 1,500 km (932 mi) southward into the arid Aral Sea basin of Central Asia. The Siberian plan, promoted and discussed since the latter part of the 19th century, underwent sophisticated designing, refining, and environmental evaluation from the late 1960s until the early 1980s. By 1985 the route was chosen, survey work completed, specialized construction equipment built and, it appeared, construction imminent. But in August 1986, the Soviet government announced the “Project of The Century” had been indefinitely postponed. In the paragraphs below I discuss and evaluate this project in terms of its rationale, evolution, shelving, and future prospects. I delineate and analyze its claimed economic benefits and potential environmental harm. The Siberian Diversion Project (better known simply as “Sibaral” the abbreviation for “Siberia to Aral Sea Canal”) provides an interesting and instructive case study how a specific ”Mega Engineering” project of grandiose proportions was nearly implemented.

86.2 Rationale and Evolution The primary motivation for Soviet interest in north-south water transfers was the sharp geographical lack of correspondence between regions of the country with abundant fresh surface water resources and those which had a high demand for water (Micklin, 1987). Rivers carrying 84% of average annual discharge flowed north and east across sparsely inhabited, economically underdeveloped territory to the Arctic and Pacific oceans (Fig. 86.1). The remaining 16% of flow crossed the southern and western zones where some 75% of the population lived, which generated 80% of economic activity, and which contained over 80% of cropland. Furthermore, although southern regions of the former USSR have the best soils and thermal conditions for agriculture, they have a decidedly deficit moisture balance (that is, potential evapotranspiration significantly exceeds precipitation). Hence during the Soviet years, irrigation had been increasingly developed to both increase and stabilize agricultural production (Micklin, 1983). In 1980, of 337 km3 withdrawn for all uses in the USSR, 53% went for irrigation. With a 1985 irrigated area of 19.6 million ha, the USSR tied for third place in the world with the US and behind China and India. Soviet leaders viewed irrigation expansion in Kazakhstan and the four Central Asian Republics (Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, and Kirgizstan) as absolutely essential for the economic improvement of those regions and of the entire country. This water would be obtained from the giant Siberian rivers to the north with their perceived “surplus” flow.

86

The Siberian Water Transfer Scheme

1517

Fig. 86.1 Mean flow of USSR rivers (km3 /year). Chart A indicates percentage of the USSR’s territory with river discharge into specified sea and ocean basins. Chart B indicates percentage of USSR’s average annual river discharge accounted for by rivers flowing into specified sea and ocean basins. Numbers above the bars indicate drainage basins: 1-Arctic Ocean; 2-Pacific Ocean; 3-Black and Azov seas; 4-Baltic Sea; 5-Caspian and Aral seas. (Adapted from Nikolskiy I.V, V.I. Tonyayev and V.G. Krasheninnikov (1975). Geography of water transport of the USSR. Moscow: Transport. In Russian.)

The condition of the Aral Sea (strictly speaking, a terminal lake) was a second powerful motivating factor (Micklin, 1986). The Aral Sea fell 10 meters from 1961 to 1985 and its salinity doubled, owing to the great reduction of inflow to the lake from its two influents (the Amu and Syr rivers) owing to very heavy irrigation withdrawals. Although not the primary goal, which was expansion of irrigation in the Aral Sea Basin, water transfers from Siberian rivers would have aided in ameliorating this problem by increasing return irrigation drainage flows to the two rivers. Inflow to the Aral from the Amu and Syr has remained very low and the lake has continued to rapidly shrink and salinize with severe environmental and economic consequences. A third factor favoring the Siberian transfer scheme was the availability of a natural route of transfer across the low Turgay Gate dividing Western Siberia from Kazakhstan and Central Asia. This simplified the engineering and lowered the estimated cost of the diversions. Politics and ideology, as well, played a key role. The project would be built within one nation having a dictatorial and powerful central government. This negated the need for time consuming and complicated negotiations with other states. It also meant that the Central Government could override opposition (that, as we shall see, was quite strong against the Siberian project). Finally, as noted above, Marxist-Leninist ideology adamantly promoted the concept of human, transforming nature via giant megaengineering projects.

1518

P. Micklin

Siberian river diversions into Central Asia were first studied during Tsarist times. In 1871, the engineer Demchenko proposed sending water from the Ob’ River into the Aral Sea and from there into the Caspian Sea (Micklin, 1971: 242). The plan was an engineering dream and well beyond construction technology of the day. During the 1920s and 1930s, both European and Siberian diversion concepts were seriously studied as part of the plans for the general development of the nations water resources (Berezner, 1985: 13–18, 106). M.M. Davydov, a Leningrad engineer, proposed the most grandiose Siberian water transfer scheme in the late 1940s as part of the “Stalin Plan for the Transformation of Nature” (Micklin, 1971: 251–253). The goal was radical improvement of the climate of the entire Aral-Caspian lowland and the conversion of steppe and desert regions into productive pastures and croplands. This grand concept foresaw ultimately taking 315 km3 annually from the Arctic flowing Ob’ and Yenisey rivers of Western Siberia and sending it gravitationally via a 930 km (578 mi) canal to be dug through the Turgay Gate water divide to Kazakhstan and Central Asia. The water would have been used to expand irrigation in this region from less than 5 to 25 million ha (12.3 to 61.75 million acres) and to supplement inflow to both the Caspian and Aral seas to make up for river water flowing to the two water bodies that would be diverted to irrigation. The length of water transfer from Western Siberia to the Caspian Sea would be 4,000 km (2485 mi). The plan would have reduced the average annual discharge of the Ob’ and Yenisey by 32%, created a gigantic 250,000 km2 reservoir on the West Siberian Plain inundating swamps, forests, farmland, and the largest, but unknown at the time, oil deposits in the USSR. Costs would have been enormous, running in today’s $US 100–200 billion. The plan would have taken 30–50 years to implement. Little was heard of it after Stalin’s death in 1953 when the grand plans for “Nature Transformation” were quietly shelved. During the 1950s and 1960s, primary attention was focused on water transfer plans in the European part of the USSR where the water management situation was perceived as more critical than in Central Asia (Micklin, 1983). However, in the early 1970s as water use in Central Asia grew rapidly and the Aral Sea continued to recede, interest renewed in schemes for sending Siberian water southward. Design efforts were the responsibility of subagencies of the national Ministry of Reclamation and Water Management (Minvodkhoz) located in Moscow. The late 1970s and early 1980s was a period of intense research and design work on both European and Siberian diversion schemes (Micklin, 1986, 1987). Planners recognized that identification and study of the potential environmental impacts of water transfers as well as development of mitigation measures for these lagged design efforts. Hence, a major effort to correct this deficiency was launched that involved more than 120 scientific and planning agencies. Technical-economic feasibility studies (TEOs) were completed on the initial phases of both European and Siberian diversion projects. These documents were subsequently submitted to Gosplan (the state planning agency) for their evaluation and approval. An expert commission of Gosplan during 1980–1983 evaluated the TEO for the first phase Siberian project. In August of 1983 it approved the scheme with one minor change

86

The Siberian Water Transfer Scheme

1519

that increased the proposed annual diversion from 25 to 27.2 km3 (Micklin, 1984). In January 1984 the USSR Council of Ministers accepted the positive recommendation of the expert commission and directed the Minvodkhoz to prepare the detailed engineering designs necessary for construction of the main diversion canal known as “Sibaral” (Siberia–Aral Sea Canal). The director of the Institute of Water Problems, Grigoriy V. Voropayev, who headed the research program on the environmental effects of water transfer projects, indicated to the author of this paper in February 1984 that, dependent on a favorable decision by the Government on the final design. The first phase Siberian diversions could be under construction by 1988 (Micklin, 1986). Figure 86.2 shows European and Siberian diversion schemes according to the designs worked out by 1984. Construction of first phase European transfers of 19.1 km3 /year (not discussed in detail here) was to begin before 1990 and be completed in the early 21st century. These diversions could possibly be increased to more than 60 km3 /year during the current century, but would require much deeper research prior to construction. Two phases were planned for Siberian diversions (Micklin, 1986). The first would draw 27.2 km3 annually from the Ob’ river and its right-bank tributary the Irtysh and send it southward. The route from the Ob’ to the Amu river in Central Asia would

Fig. 86.2 Final diversion plans for European and Siberian parts of USSR (1984). European Diversions: numbers 1–3-first stage, first phase (19.1 km3 ); number 4-first stage, second phase (10.2 km3 ); number 5-second phase (37.7 km3 ). Siberian Diversions: 6-First phase (27.2 km3 ); 6–7 second phase (32.8 km3 )

1520

P. Micklin

stretch 2,544 km (1,581 mi). The first 344 km would follow the Irtysh River from its confluence with the Ob’ to the city of Tobol’sk; the river over this part of its course would have its flow reversed (i.e. become an “anti-river”) to deliver water from the Ob’ from September to April. Water would be stored in a reservoir and then pumped on a year-round schedule from Tobol’sk up and across the Turgay divide and from here move mainly by gravity to the Amu via a huge earth lined canal. The cost for these facilities was estimated to be 13 billion rubles. An additional 18 billion rubles would be necessary for the construction of water distribution and irrigation facilities along the route, for a total project price of 32 billion rubles (a dollar figure is problematic, but the first phase certainly would have run into the equivalent of several tens-of-billions of 1984 U.S. dollars). Construction of first phase transfers was set to begin by the late 1980s and to be completed around the turn of the century. Table 86.1 shows basic economic and environmental information related to first phase Siberian diversions. A second phase would raise Siberian diversions to 60 km3 /year. It would require supplementing the Ob’ with water from the Yenisey River lying to the east. Implementation of the second phase would require further research and design work and was not viewed as necessary until well into the 21st century. The October 1984 plenary meeting of the Soviet Communist Party confirmed the start of construction on the initial phase of European diversions by 1990 and indicated design work would continue on Siberian diversions (Pravda, 1984). From January to August 1985 a series of articles appeared in the Uzbek government paper Pravda Vostoka (1985a, 1985b) that pushed hard for near term construction of the Siberian project and stated that construction crews had already arrived in Western Siberia from that republic to start work on infrastructure facilities for the main diversion canal to Central Asia. On 5 June 1985, the Minister of Land Reclamation and Water Management (Minvodkhoz) for the USSR, announced that both the European and Siberian water diversion projects would proceed as planned (Pravda, 1985).

86.3 The Fall of Sibaral However, when the government released the draft guidelines for the 12th Five Year Plan in November 1985, there was no mention of Siberian diversion projects, only the vague statement that the “Scientific justification of the regional redistribution of water resources needed to be raised.” (Basic directions . . ., 1985: 47). From September 1985 to the 27th Party Congress in late February 1986, scathing criticisms and denunciations of diversion plans by well-known Russian writers and prominent scientists appeared in a number of popular national circulation papers as well as Communist party papers and journals (Micklin, 1987). The water transfers were barely mentioned at the 27th Congress. The final guidelines for the 12th Five Year Plan stated only that it was necessary, “To deepen the study of problems connected with the regional redistribution of water resources.” Nevertheless, Minvodkhoz continued to proceed with route and facility design work for the Siberian first stage transfer and preliminary construction work on

86

The Siberian Water Transfer Scheme

1521

Table 86.1 Selected economic and environmental characteristics of the first stage Siberian water diversion project Annual average diversion (cubic kilometers) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27.2 Capital cost of main diversion canal (millions of rubles) • Total . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13,000 • Per cubic kilometer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 478 Capital cost of water distribution and irrigation facilities • (Millions of rubles) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18,000 • Amortization (payoff) period (years) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Irrigated area (millions of hectares) • 1984 irrigated area in affected zone(1) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 • Area to be irrigated from diversions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 • Percentage increase over 1984 irrigated area . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 • Feasible irrigation area in affected zone by 2010 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16–17 Benefits of first phase Siberian diversion (claimed) • Increased food production: grain (17.1 million tons), including 13.1 of corn; vegetables, potatoes and melons (6.7 million tons); fodder crops (45.1 million tons); meat (2.9 million tons); milk (10.9 million tons); eggs (9.2 billion); vegetable oil (130,000 tons) • Creation of a navigable waterway from the Amu to the Ob’ • Improved industrial and municipal water supplies • Creation of employment opportunities for the rapidly growing population of Central Asia • Improved water quality along the Amu and Syr rivers • Some reduction of flooding and water logging below points of diversion along the Ob’ and Irtysh rivers in Western Siberia Potential harmful consequences of diversion project to northern regions of water export (Western Siberia) (examples) • Flooding of land including agricultural (amounts unknown) • Inundation of commercial timber (amount unknown) • Resettlement of people (numbers unknown) • Deterioration of fisheries of the Ob’ and Irtysh as well as Ob’ Gulf • Worsened ice (i.e. lengthened cover) and climatic (i.e. cooler spring and summer) conditions in Ob’ Gulf • Degradation of water quality downstream from points of diversion deterioration of flood plain meadows with agricultural value downstream from points of withdrawal owing to reduced spring flooding • Worsened low-flow navigation conditions below points of diversion • Slower summer melt of Kara Sea ice cover (1) Kazakhstan and the republics of Central Asia; some water would be used for irrigation in the RSFSR (southern Western Siberia) Source: Micklin (1987: 72)

the first stage European diversions. In August 1986 the Central Committee of the Soviet Communist Party and the Council of Ministers, the top governmental body, stopped all construction work on first phase European diversions and design efforts on Siberian transfers (Micklin 1987). However, the decree did allow further research on the scientific problems associated with water diversions.

1522

P. Micklin

The stopping of design work on the Siberian project, postponing of the decision about its implementation into the indefinite future, and the call for further basic research into its economics and ecological consequences represented a surprising and fundamental change in Soviet national water management policy. The official Party and government line since the early 1970s was that this project required implementation by the turn of the century to meet the increasing water needs in Central Asia (Micklin, 1986, 1987, 1988; Micklin & Bond, 1988). National Party and governmental leaders as well those from the Republics of Central Asia who would receive the Siberian water as well as national and republican reclamation and water management design and construction organizations strongly supported implementation of diversion projects. However, the need and inevitability of Siberian (as well as European) water transfers was also widely accepted by many experts in the Soviet scientific establishment. These scientists’ basic concern was that water transfer concepts be carefully investigated and their likely consequences (economic, social, environmental) understood in order to select routes and facility designs that would minimize harm while at the same time providing the necessary amount of water to southern regions. Soviet scientists involved with the research effort on diversions were, in the 1970s, critical of many aspects of the then current proposals (Micklin, 1983a, 1983b, 1986, 1987). They believed research on environmental and ecological effects lagged behind design efforts. The massive environmental impact assessment program conducted in the 11th Five Year Plan (1976–1980) was intended to resolve this problem. There is no doubt the findings influenced the selection of the final routes, volumes, and designs of transfer facilities as well as their being used to develop mitigation measures. By the early 1980s Soviet water management experts and scientists working on the diversion projects publicly professed that the main environmental concerns had been addressed, that appropriate modifications had been incorporated into the schemes to minimize environmental harm, that though there would be local environmental and economic damage from the projects, the probability of catastrophic and widespread effects was minimal, and that, on balance, the benefits of diversions to the south would outweigh costs to northern regions of water export. Although the 1970s and early 1980s were years of general optimism about north– south water transfers, there was a consistent thread of concern about and criticism of them. The milder critiques tended to dwell on the need for further research (Voropayev, Gerasimov, kebal’chich, & Korenkevich, 1982; Voropayev, 1982). The most rigorous and persistent critics of the Siberian project were natural and social scientists from Western Siberia, the region where negative effects of the transfer would be concentrated. These scientists claimed the designers had exaggerated the benefits, minimized the harm, and greatly underestimated the cost of the scheme (Micklin, 1986; Voronitsyn, 1986). They called for much more research on the project and alternative means of meeting water needs in Central Asia and cautioned against any rapid move toward project implementation. However, the serious substantive issues raised about Siberian diversions did not reach even a broad scientific audience, let alone the general public.

86

The Siberian Water Transfer Scheme

1523

In 1982 a major public challenge was raised to the Siberian project. The influential newspaper Literaturnaya gazeta for 10 March carried a full-page debate on the proposed diversion under the title “Project of the century from different points of view”. Defending the scheme was chief project engineer Igor’ Gerardi; attacking it was economist Victor Perevedentsev who had worked at the Institute of Economics of the Siberian Branch of the Academy of Sciences in the 1960s. Gerardi asserted the first phase Siberian transfer had been thoroughly vetted by the experts and that it would have major economic benefits, chiefly for irrigated agriculture in Central Asia. He contended the project would pay for itself over a 10 year period, that its environmental hazards were not severe, and that it must be implemented in the near future owing to the deteriorating water situation in Central Asia. Perevedentsev questioned the adequacy of the environmental research and the need for, and the economic justification of, the project. His calculations indicated the payoff period would be at least 20 years and he noted that it would be many years after construction started before water would be delivered and expenditures started to be recouped. Perevedentsev argued that more effective alternatives exist to increase food production and deal with water problems in Central Asia, including the irrigation of grains in Western Siberia and northern Kazakhstan and the reconstruction of old, inefficient irrigation systems. Subsequently, Perevedentsev was bitterly denounced in Pravda Vostoka (3 April: 3) by a prominent Uzbek scientist and two well-known irrigation specialists. They stated that Perevedentsev was uninformed and his arguments absurd. This exchange occurred during the expert commission of Gosplan’s evaluation of the technical validation document on the Siberian project. The opposition was making a last attempt to derail the scheme and have it subjected to a thorough reappraisal, knowing how hard it was being pushed by Central Asian and reclamation interests. Perevedentsev no doubt knew Academician Abel Aganbegyan, reportedly a long-time critic of Siberian diversions, when they both were affiliated with the Economics Institute in Novosibirsk during the 1960s. Perevedentsev was presenting, as well as his own, the views of prominent scientists such as Aganbegyan, who opposed the project, but feared speaking out publicly against it. Several Russian writers with a nationalist/populist/environmentalist orientation also played an important role opposing the river diversion projects, both European and Siberian (Darst, 1988). These writers saw the water transfer projects as a threat not only to the character and integrity of the environment of northern European Russia and Western Siberian, but to traditional culture and village life in these regions. They opposed sending precious Siberian water to Central Asia where, in their view, it would only be wasted. Their writings often had racist overtones toward the indigenous Central Asian populations. The “official” approval of the Siberian scheme by the expert commission of Gosplan in August 1983 and the subsequent confirmation of this by the Council of Ministers in January 1984 had a chilling effect on the opposition. The clear message was that the decision had been made, that the project will go forward, and debates about it were over. The media were no longer open for any fundamental criticism of either European or Siberian diversions. Those who felt these projects

1524

P. Micklin

were a mistake were relegated to sending private letters to high officials expressing their concerns and circulating underground manuscripts (One more time . . ., 1984). The evidence is convincing that by 1984 the proponents of moving rapidly toward final designs for and near-term implementation of the Siberian project, in spite of opposition, had won the day. But their victory was short-lived. By the fall of 1985 they were on the defensive and 1986 saw the entire thrust of the early 1980s toward realization of the plan reversed with the cancellation of design work and a return to a phase of basic research and re-evaluation. The ascension of M. Gorbachev to General Secretary of the Communist Party and leadership of the Soviet Union in March 1985 was the key factor in this sudden reversal. His background as the top party official for agriculture (1978–1983), his emphasis on economic efficiency, and the need for careful scientific founding and clear justification for large construction projects very likely had made him an opponent of the diversion projects long before he became the top Soviet leader. He had a close friendship with Academician Aganbegyan, with whom he attended Moscow State University in the mid-1950s. Aganbegyan had also served him as an unofficial economic advisor for some time. Gorbachev moved quickly to reverse the decisions that had been made about both European and Siberian diversions. That this would happen was no doubt clear to supporters of these projects. Thus, the flurry of optimistic articles in the Central Asian and some national papers from January until September 1985 on the Siberian project and the press conference of the national Reclamation Minister in June 1985 promoting both European and Siberian transfers appear as desperate attempts to keep the projects moving toward construction. Their efforts were to no avail. The fall of 1985 saw a resumption of the public debate over diversions (encouraged by Gorbachev and his supporters) that had been silenced since 1982. Project opponents first moved to stop construction on the initial stage of European diversions as construction work had already commenced on it (Berezner, 1985: 13–18, 106). Favorable discussion of the Siberian diversion disappeared from not only the national papers but the Central Asian press by August 1985 (Brown, 1985, 1986). Central Asian Party and governmental leaders also stopped talking about it and it was not mentioned at the 27th Party Congress held in February 1986. Nevertheless, Minvodkhoz continued to push ahead with design work on the Siberian project and construction efforts on the European until the August 1986 decree finally halted these efforts and limited further work to basic research. The reasons cited for suspending the Siberian project were economic, institutional–political, and environmental (Micklin, 1987). A main economic argument was that not only would the projects be very costly and require a lengthy period of implementation, but there are cheaper means of improving water supplies and agricultural production in Central Asia. Reducing the great waste of water in irrigated agriculture in Central Asia was viewed as essential (Micklin, 2000: 24– 36). Lining of earthen canals, accurate measurement of water use, more appropriate applications of water to crops, substitution of less for more water intensive crops such as cotton, among others, were put forward as means to “free up” ample water and obviate the need for Siberian water.

86

The Siberian Water Transfer Scheme

1525

Critics charged that the water management agencies responsible for the design and environmental evaluation of the water transfers to make them look more favorable, had exaggerated their benefits while minimizing economic and environmental costs (Micklin, 1991: 60–68). One critic of the Siberian project estimated the first phase would cost at least 45 billion rubles and possibly as much as 100 billion rubles rather than the “official” figure of 32 billion rubles. The agricultural benefits of this project, its main justification, also were challenged. Deducting for losses along the diversion route (2.6 km3 ) and industrial and municipal uses (5 km3 ) leaves 19.6 km3 for irrigation. To irrigate 4.5 million ha (11.1 million acres) from this, as claimed possible, implies a consumptive use rate of 4,355 m3 /ha, far below what was typical in the Aral Sea basin. There were also allegations that key studies on project consequences were biased in favor of the projects as they were carried out by organizations whose leadership was committed to the diversion project and that Minvodkhoz financed these studies (Pravda Vostoka, 9 January, 1985: 1). Project designers were also charged with excessive secrecy and trying to keep the projects from public debate (Literaturnaya gazeta, 3 September 1986: 10). Although this was standard operating procedure during the Soviet era, Gorbachev’s campaign for openness (glasnost’) stressed denouncing such narrow, bureaucratic approaches. The August 1986 decree stopping work on the diversion projects alluded to the inadequacy of research on their ecological and economic consequences. One must note, however, that an enormous amount of effort was expended to forecast potential environmental impacts (Micklin 1986). Studies revealed that there would be significant and complicated negative environmental impacts, mainly in areas of water export, but that these would be of a local or in some cases regional nature. The “official” position of the Soviet government until 1985 was that environmental consequences were not sufficient to forego implementation of the projects. Indeed, Soviet experts rejected as absurd specters invoked by some Western writers of initial phase Siberian diversions (27 km3 /year) causing global climate changes as a consequence of their impact on the Arctic ice cover (Voropayev, 1982). Independent research by Western scientists supported the Soviet view on this issue (Micklin, 1981, 1986). After the water transfers were halted in 1986, the Soviet popular media promoted global climate change as a serious threat from the planned Siberian diversion. (Sovetskaya Rossiya, 1 January 1986: 3). Without doubt the potential adverse consequences from the proposed first phase Siberian diversion of 27 km3 /year would have been serious and deserved careful attention. Environmental concerns were downplayed and some key economic and socio-cultural problems were largely ignored. Nevertheless, following the policy reversal in 1986, these were exaggerated probably to lend further credence to the fundamentally investment-based decision to halt the projects. Environmental concerns did not play a dominant role in the projects demise. The decision to stop further work on diversions was economics based. The leadership became convinced their costs would be too great, their benefits too small, and that better means existed to obtain their nominal goals.

1526

P. Micklin

The campaign against river diversion schemes did not cease with their official suspension in August 1986 (Darst, 1988; Micklin, 1991: 60–68; Micklin & Bond, 1988). Savage criticism of the Ministry of Water Management and Reclamation, its design subagency, and the Institute of Water Problems, the main organization evaluating the environmental consequences of these projects, continued unabated in both the popular and scientific media. As a result, basic research on water transfers, even though not only permitted but also required by the August 1986 decree, stopped. G.V. Voropayev was forced to resign as director of the Institute of Water Problems in September 1988 and A.S. Berezner who headed design efforts on the diversions was sent to Mozambique to supervise Soviet-aided water management construction projects there. Clearly, opponents of the schemes feared that they could be revived and were intent on ousting diversion supporters from positions of authority and stopping any further research. For the remaining years of the USSR (1986–1991), there was little interest in north to south European water transfers. The level of the Caspian Sea was steadily rising, removing the key rational for them (to supplement that lake’s water balance). The Siberian project, on the other hand, was another story (Micklin, 1991: 60–68). In January 1988 the Central Committee of the Communist Party and the Council of Ministers directed that scientific study of north-south water transfers continue. After a two-year silence following the August 1986 decree, Central Asian water management officials, scientists and party and government officials began, again, to push publicly for water transfers as the only means to save the region from a catastrophe. Having counted on imported water from Siberia, the halting of the project was a great shock and disappointment for them (Micklin, 1986, 1987; Micklin & Bond, 1988). In March 1988, an article in the Uzbek party and government paper, Pravda Vostoka, by the president of the Uzbek Academy of Sciences and the director of the Central Asian Irrigation Research Institute stated that the ecological and socioeconomic difficulties of the Aral region could not be solved without diversion of water from Siberian rivers (Pravda Vostoka, 3 March 1988: 3). In October 1988, a national water management expert stated that water resources in the Aral Sea basin would be exhausted no later than 2005, in spite of comprehensive and successful efforts to improve water usage efficiency and that since 15 years would be required to complete the Siberian water transfer project, work on it needed to be started soon (Pravda Vostoka, 10 October 1988: 3). By 1989 Central Asian political leaders, most importantly Islam A. Karimov, President of the Uzbek Republic and First Secretary of the Uzbek Communist Party, were stressing the dire nature of the water management situation in Central Asia, were raising the question if the region could survive without water from outside, and were calling on Moscow for help (Pravda Vostoka, 23 September 1989: 1–2; 1 December 1989: 2). With the weakening of central (Moscow) authority and the declarations of sovereignty by the Union Republics, Central Asian politicians became more adamant. On 23 June 1990, the presidents of the four Central Asian republics and Kazakhstan signed a joint declaration on mutual problems and approaches to their solution, contending the ecological catastrophe of the Aral Sea and adjacent

86

The Siberian Water Transfer Scheme

1527

areas was so acute that it could not be solved by regional efforts (Pravda Vostoka 24 June 1990: 1). The leaders called on the national government to declare the Aral region one of national calamity and to provide real help. They also stated that it was necessary to revisit the idea of water diversions from Siberia as one of the principal means of saving the Aral and ensuring an adequate food supply for the region. By the early 1990s, it appeared a Siberian diversion “compromise,” involving a downsizing of the early 1980s design, might be possible. Ten to 15 km3 annually (rather than 27 km3 ) could be sent directly into the northern part of the Aral Sea or into the Syr River delta by a concrete lined canal and huge pipelines, somewhat shortening the route and considerably reducing filtration and evaporation losses. This would reduce impacts downstream from points of diversion on the Ob’ and Irtysh rivers in Western Siberia. In conjunction with the institution of widespread irrigation efficiency measures in the Aral Sea Basin to free water, a portion of which would go for the Aral, it might have been possible to raise the level of the sea and lower salinity to levels that would allow significant ecological improvement and partial restoration of the fishery, without any significant cutback in irrigation. It could have been argued that saving the Aral outweighed the harm to Western Siberia, although inhabitants of the latter region, no doubt, would have taken grave exception. The Soviet government and Russian Republic could also have insisted that no Siberian water be used for irrigation, encouraging Central Asian water interests to be more efficient, since expansion of irrigation and other water uses would be possible only from water freed by this means. The Central Asian republics might also have been able to use their exports of food and cotton to the Russian Republic as bargaining chips (i.e., a “food and cotton for water trade”). On the other hand, the Russian Republic at the time remained strongly opposed to Siberian water transfers to Central Asia. Given the shifting balance of power between Moscow and the Republics at the end of the Soviet era, diversions without the approval of Russia or even with the okay of the national government, would have been difficult. Nevertheless, two prominent Central Asian water management experts and officials told this writer in 1991, not long before the collapse of the USSR, that Siberian water transfers would go ahead as a means to hold the Soviet Union together.

86.4 Sibaral in the Post-Soviet Era The Soviet Union collapsed in 1991. The USSR became 15 Independent nations, pursuing their own national interests. The leadership of the five Central Asian Republics strongly supported the continuance of the Soviet Union, but was forced by circumstances to adapt to independence. They believed the economic power and common markets of the USSR were their best hope to prosper (Wikipedia Contributors, 2008). No doubt the belief that the Siberian water diversion project stood a far better chance to be implemented by the central government of one nation, as opposed to the central governments of six countries, also contributed to this support.

1528

P. Micklin

The dissolution of the USSR was a severe blow to Sibaral. Rather than being a project within one country it now would involve taking water from the Ob’ and Irtysh rivers in the Western Siberian part of Russia and routing it southward to Central Asia. This would entail formal, complicated international agreements among the six nations on such key issues as construction details and cost sharing, payments for water, allocation of water among the receiving countries, compensation for resulting environmental damage in the water donor regions, etc. Furthermore, Russia clearly had little interest in or incentive to send Siberian water southward. Nevertheless, proponents in Central Asia did not abandon the idea of a Siberian water transfer project. This grandiose scheme continued to be discussed and promoted in Central Asian water management and governmental circles during the 1990s and into the new millennium. While promoting the need for improved irrigation water use efficiency in Central Asia, they made several arguments that even a very costly and intensive program to implement such measures would not free enough water to expand irrigation to meet the food needs of a growing population, to increase flow to the Aral Sea to stabilize, let along, raise its level and improve its ecology and restore its fishery. In the early years of the new century, Sibaral found a sympathetic ear among some water management professionals and bureaucrats in Russia, including the mayor of Moscow and the First Deputy Minister of Natural Resources (Mikheyev, 2002; Polad-Zade, 2002; Temirov, 2003; Timashev, 2003). An article in the British popular science magazine New Scientist (2004) talked of the revival of interest in the plan among Russian Scientists as a means to reduce the flow of Siberia’s rivers that has increased (purportedly owing to global warming) and could upset the salt balance and circulation of the Arctic Ocean and thereby lead to a shutdown of the Gulf Stream that would trigger colder winters across Europe. The proposed diversion would be the same as under the Soviet plan – 27 km3 /year. It would require a 2500 km (1,553 mi) canal 200 m (656 ft) wide and 16 m (131 ft) deep. Costs were estimated at $US 40 billion. Proponents of the project again made the arguments that Siberian water is needed to expand irrigation in Central Asia and improve the condition of the Aral Sea, but added several new reasons: increased usage from the Amu River (up to 10 km3 ) by Afghanistan, predicated (by climatic models) major decreases in Central Asian rainfall as a result of Global Climate Change, and the need to protect Central Asian economies from collapse to prevent a flood of refugees to Russia. Proponents also portrayed the scheme as a way for Russia to rebuild its political and economic power in the region. But, the scheme continues to be hugely controversial in Russia. According to the New Scientist, the chair of the Siberian branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences believes the diversion would threaten the Ob basin with ecocatastrophe and socioeconomic disaster, including destroying fisheries and upsetting the local climate. The former deputy director of the Institute of Geography, a scientist who is very knowledgeable about the Siberian diversion project as well as being an expert on Central Asia, offered a scathing criticism of the “revived” project (Glazovskiy, 2003). He

86

The Siberian Water Transfer Scheme

1529

saw it as an ecological disaster and financial boondoggle that would neither benefit Russia nor Central Asia. Even some Central Asian experts agree that it would be wiser to spend precious capital and effort on improving regional water management rather than importing water from Siberia (Kamalov, 2003; Savitskiy, 2003). Even if Russia were willing to permit the southward transfer of Siberian water, obtaining financing for the project would be extremely difficult. The five Central Asian State do not have the likely $US 50–$60 billion (in current dollars) needed to build the project. Russia, flush with oil and gas revenue, might be willing to provide a loan for part of the cost, but certainly nowhere near the amount needed (Temirov, 2003). Earlier, Central Asian governments had hopes that international donors, chiefly the World Bank, might be willing to help finance the plan, but that organization has given a firm no. Will “Sibaral” the “Project of the Century” for the 20th century be realized in the 21st? Given the hurdles it faces, one must conclude it is unlikely. Yet, water shortage problems grow worse in Central Asia and regional leaders continue to call for its implementation (Central Asian Environment, Science, Technology and Health News 16–28 June 2008: 28–31). In 2007 Nursultan Nazyrbayov, President of Kazakhstan called for the building of Sibaral at the International Economic Forum in St. Petersburg and Moscow Mayor Yuri Luzkhov supported the idea at the 2008 event in early June. Supposedly, he will provide a report on the project to new Prime Minister Putin’s government. Opposition to Sibaral from prominent Russian scientists continues unabated. But, the project has risen from the dead before and may again.

References Basic directions of the economic and social development of the USSR for 1986–1990 and for the period to 2000 (plan). (1985). Moscow: Pravda. In Russian. Berezner, A. S. (1985). Territorial redistribution of river flow for the European part of the RSFSR. Leningrad: Gidrometeoizdat. In Russian. Borisov, P. (1973). Can man change the climate? Moscow: Progress Publishers. (Translated from Russian). Brown, B. (1985). Whatever happened to ‘Sibaral’? Radio Liberty Research, RL 420/85, 4 pp. Brown, B. (1986). What will cancellation of the Siberian River Diversion Project mean to Central Asia? Radio Liberty Research, RL 334/86, 3 pp. Darst, R. G. (1988). Environmentalism in the USSR: The opposition to the river diversion projects. Soviet Economy, 4(3), 223–253. Micklin, P. P. (1971). An Inquiry into the Caspian Sea Problem and Proposals for its Alleviation. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Geography, University of Washington, Seattle. Micklin, P. P. (1981). A preliminary systems analysis of impacts of proposed Soviet river diversions on Arctic sea ice. EOS, Transactions American Geophysical Union, 62(19), 489–493. Micklin, P. P. (1983). Soviet water diversion plans: Implications for Kazakhstan and Central Asia. Central Asian Survey, 1(1), 9–43. Micklin, P. P. (1984). Recent developments in large-scale water transfers in the USSR. Soviet Geography, 25(4), 261–263. Micklin, P. P. (1986). The status of the Soviet Union’s North–South water transfer projects before their abandonment in 1985–86. Soviet Geography, 27(5), 287–329.

1530

P. Micklin

Micklin, P. P. (1987). The fate of “Sibaral”: Soviet water politics in the Gorbachev era. Central Asian Survey, 6(2), 67–88. Micklin, P. P. (1991). The Water Management Crisis in Soviet Central Asia. The Carl Beck Papers in Russian and East European Studies, No. 905. Pittsburgh, PA: The Center for Russian and East European Studies. Micklin, P. P. (2000). Managing water in Central Asia. Central Asian and Caucasian prospects. London: The Royal Institute of International Affairs. Micklin, P. P., & Bond, A. R. (1988). Reflections on environmentalism and the river diversion projects. Soviet Economy, 4(3), 253–274. One more time about the “project of the century” (1984). Grani, 33, 190–268. Timashev, I. E. (2003). Caspian, Aral and Russian rivers: Nature, society and the 21st century. Vestnik Kaspiya, 3(41), 64–86 (in Russian). Voronitsyn, S. (1986) The river diversion scheme: Is the public debate only obscuring the real problems? Radio Liberty Research, RI 310/86, 6 pp. Voropayev, G. V. (1982). Problems of water ensuring of the country and the territorial redistribution of water resources. Vodnyye resursy, 6, 3–28 (in Russian). Voropayev, G. V., Gerasimov, I. P., Kebal’chich, O. A., & Korenkevich N. I. (1982). Problems of redistributing water resources in the Central Region. Izvestiya Akademii Nauk, Seriya Geograficheskaya, 6, 24–32 (in Russian). Wikipedia contributors. (2008). History of the Soviet Union (1985–1991). Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. Retrieved July 5, 2008, from http://en.wikipedia.org/

Chapter 87

Freshwater Supplies Necklace Super-Project: Floating Bags and Rolling Freshwater Tires Facilitating Future India–China–Bangladesh Life Necessities Trade Richard B. Cathcart

87.1 Introduction How will the world’s publics recognize the Indian Ocean Rim Century when it begins? Perhaps the best early indicator of that historic period ought to be whenever irrigation – farmed India, a crowded ecosystem-state where practicallyspeaking only the sky- shaded and heated by a non-seasonal anthropogenic “Brown Cloud” (Ramanathan, Ramana, & Roberts, 2007) –remains semi-natural, first attempts macro-engineering to control the affect of the Indian Ocean’s summer monsoon on its land territory. (Complementary holistic macro-projects holding the land’s albedo steady and reducing the Indian Ocean’s albedo – perhaps with a massive strategically-sited coating of unsinkable connected sunlight-reflective “Mega-Float”-type sea-going hulls, mirrored and flat-topped barges – it may become practical to prevent the vital Indian summer monsoon climate from abruptly destabilizing (Zickfield, Knopf, & Petoukhov, 2005). But, before such macroprojects may be seriously contemplated or ever actually begun, India must equal, at least, the national industrial capabilities of its technically advanced, economic and social ecosystem-country competitors (Nath, 2007). It seems desirable, therefore, for India and its Bay of Bengal Initiative for Multisectoral Technical and Economic Co-operation (BIMTEC) co-members [Bangladesh, Bhutan, Nepal, Sri Lanka, Myanmar, Thailand) to make a technological and infrastructural “long jump” causing a subsequent mid-21st century structural transformation of the ecosystemstate and region’s economy, and this initiative will promote effective and peaceful regional trade relationships as well as strong and persistent commercially integrated economic advancement in the future (Hidalgo, Klinger, & Barabasi, 2007). During 2007 the value of commerce between India and China alone surpassed $US11.4 billion. Naturally, India’s cultural heritage will have to be honored and preserved as speedy infrastructure modernization occurs. Also the inevitable affective

R.B. Cathcart (B) Geographos, Burbank, CA, 91506, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_87,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1531

1532

R.B. Cathcart

macro-ecological changes must be continuously and carefully monitored (Kerr, Kharouba, & Currie, 2007). Here, Geographos unveils a comprehensive maritime macro-engineering proposal, the “Freshwater Supplies Necklace Super-project (FSNS),” that would promote industrialization of India’s ∼7,000 km (4,350 mi) coastline; FSNS consists of two strategically-sited nodes of intensive near-term future infrastructure emplacements: (a) contiguous Tibet and (b) Palk Bay shared with Sri Lanka. It is a logical follow-on macro-project “Golden Quadrilateral,” a system of interlinked superhighways begun in 1998, which is part of India’s $30 billion cost for the National Highways Development Project. In its initial iteration, FSNS will parallel Highway 5 on India’s east coast.

87.2 Tibet On 1 July 2006 China commenced commercial operations of the Qinghai-Tibet Railway; some revealed plans exhibit China’s known intent to extend its surface transportation rail linkage from its present-day terminal at Lhasa to Xigaze and Nyingchi by 2011 (Peng, 2007). Tibet is an international tourist destination (Mercille, 2005) and, more importantly, it is one of the major resource regions for freshwater consumed in Bangladesh and India (Jain, Agarwal, & Singh, 2008). It is estimated that ∼12,000 km3 of freshwater are held in geographical check temporarily by ∼15,000 glaciers nested in the Himalayas. The Himalayas are the most vital northern freshwater source for the adjacent lowlands of Bangladesh, India and Pakistan. However, storage capacities in that mountain range are insufficient to collect winter runoff for summertime use downstream (Viviroli, 2007). What significantly complicates freshwater resource use-time projections is complex worldwide climate change affecting the Himalayas (Milly, Betancourt, & Falkenmark, 2008). Untrained rivers on the lowland south of the Himalayan foothills migrate drastically. There is now, and will continue to be for some open-ended period of recorded time, an “alarming scarcity” of freshwater in India (Garg & Hassan, 2007). Recent input/output tallies of “virtual water” (Yang & Zehnder, 2007) clearly indicate the need for harnessing Tibet’s abundant freshwater resources (Kumar & Jain, 2007), amongst other potentially available resources (Ravel, 2007). Ballabh (2008) confidently asserts that India cannot address its water challenges with the current policy and political framework. A joint India-China harnessing macro-project and subsequent use of waterpower resources in eastern Tibet could facilitate a mutually beneficial balance, even, a long-term resolution, of geopolitical power in the Himalayan region. A multinational macro-project, composed of one inflated bladder dam blocking the Yarlung Zangpo, a shallow Yarlung Zangpo valley upstream reservoir, and a short pressure tunnel feeding a series of geologically embedded subterranean powerhouses equipped with stair-stepped Francis turbines turned by falling river water, could capitalize on the sharp descent of the Yarlung Zangpo (also known as the Brahmaputra River) at a remarkably pronounced topographic loop (Finnegan,

87

Freshwater Supplies Necklace Super-Project

1533

Hallet, Montgomery, & Zeitler, 2008). This development also could supply the Earth’s two most populous nation-ecosystems with a low-cost means of rapidly improving national standards of living through widespread electrification, industrialization, and irrigation agriculture (Cathcart, 1999). These facilities will also provide vital insurance against pervasive future novel climate changes caused by Earth’s global warming and possibly occurring in the China-India-Bangladesh region before 2100. Competition between India and China over parts of Tibetan territory indisputably commenced on 20 October 1962. Since the 20th century military conflict of geopolitical power rivals, both ecosystem-states have mainly indulged in diplomatic confrontation and global propaganda action. China has boldly contemplated, publicly, a freshwater diversion macro-project that would siphon water from the Yarlung Zangpo near Pai Town, Tibet (29◦ 50 N by 95◦ 10 E), pumping the vital liquid over the ruggedly mountainous intervening terrain to the Yellow River’s headwaters in Tibet. China does have a need to augment the dwindling runoff of the Yellow River (Gou, Chen, & Cook, 2006) but the cost of using electricity-powered gigantic water pumps consuming several tens of thousands of megawatts to do so from a remote site in southeastern Tibet would be wasteful, especially with current, non-superconductive, long distance electricity transmission line technologies (Zeitler, Meltzer, & Hallet, 2007). The 1,790 km (1,112 mi) long Yarlung Zangpo flows from the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau near the 7,782 m (25,531 ft) high peak Namjagbarwa Feng. A 42 km (26 mi) long bored pressure tunnel, with a fall of ∼2,160 m (7087 ft) could carry all or part of the river’s flow through multi-staged Francis turbines enclosed in underground powerhouses, annually generating ∼240 TWh. This unique power plant would very likely be humanity’s mightiest land-based renewable electricity-producing installation. An India-China cooperative Tibet macro-project, perhaps authorized by BIMSTEC after China becomes a member, would obviate any need for China to pursue an old fashion macro-engineering facility plan involving the detonation of some peaceful nuclear explosives in the Himalayas bruited during the December 1995 Beijing meeting of the Chinese Academy of Engineering Physics. (The proposal was essentially reiterated in a worldwide news story by Damien McElroy, “China Planning Nuclear Blasts to Build Hydropower”, in Issue 1976 of the People’s Daily datelined Beijing 22 October 2000.) India’s astute macro-engineers have relevant practical experience in Himalayan tunneling and relevant foreign advice is available from Switzerland’s contract tunnel experts who have undertaken the New Transalpine Railway Lines planning and excavation. What if India-China macro-engineers opt to cooperatively emplace a simple lowrise inflated dam at the key site at Pai Town upstream of the Yarlung Zangpo’s loop around Namjagbarwa Feng before the freshwater flow enters India (Singh, 2006)? A 10 m (32.8 ft) high inflated Kevlar-reinforced nylon textile barrier bladder (it may be filled with air or freshwater) securely anchored to a river-spanning base-plate would induce a shallow reservoir to quickly accumulate at Pai Town. (An “Anchor assembly for an inflatable fabric dam”, US Patent 3975915 awarded 24 August 1974 to Sherwood Gordon Haw, best exemplifies this type of attachment. The pressure

1534

R.B. Cathcart

diversion tunnel must be completed prior to installation of the collapsible dam’s anchorage base-plate.1 As a consequence, 0% up to 100% of the Yarlung Zangpo’s average 4,160 m3 /s flow could be governed by the diversion pressure tunnel’s headgate. It is commonly alleged that a 21st century atmospheric global warming will cause enhanced Himalayan glacier melting and, thereby, increase the runoff transiting the lowlands south of the Tibet Plateau (Barnett, Adams, & Lettnmaier, 2005). The pressure tunnel must be soundly designed, dug and defended by a strong impermeable lining that is virtually failure-proof. Unlike the Qinghai-Tibet Railway (Wei, Fujun, & Satoshi, 2006) which must function despite serious threats from slope instability over which the tracks were laid, the shallow-pool impoundment near Pai Town ought not to increase markedly the local seismicity and natural rockslide hazard. Too, the dam may periodically be deflated in order to flush accumulated sediments down the natural older course of the river (Stewart, Hallet, & Zeitler, 2008). Imagine an integrated hydropower generation and superconducting electric power or an Extra-High-Voltage Direct Current transmission super-grid netted throughout the eastern Himalayas in Tibet. [Currently, the only regional grid interconnection India has is a link with Bhutan. However, India is examining the commercial possibilities of a 200 km (124 mi) long HVDC (High Voltage Direct Current) submarine transmission line connecting Madurai in Tamil Nadu and Anuradhapura in Sri Lanka’ North Central Province.] India and China are outer space-faring nation-ecosystems, both aiming to land humans on the Moon during the early 21st century. International cooperation of these two populous eco-system states, both of which are remarkably dependent on ocean shipping to conduct their commerce, will enhance landlocked and sparsely populated Tibet’s chances of becoming a preserved and improved environment, socially as well as geographically. It is worth noting that countries with the greatest number of persons living within 10 m (32.8 ft) of the world ocean’s extant mean sea level are China (144 million), India (64 million) and Bangladesh (63 million). Such a socioeconomic outcome is much preferable to the existing and ongoing dispute stemming from China’s independent completion during 1993 of the Manwan Dam in the Mekong River’s headwaters (Campbell, 2007). Furthermore, both India and China have sought during the past few years to diversify their energy import source ecosystem-countries and they have been competing with each other to contractually secure such resources by bidding against each other. With the Geographos-proposed macro-project in Tibet, there can be mutual as well as extraterritorial beneficial economic cooperation. Freshwater that passes through the final powerhouse at the base of the cascade of such facilities along the pressure tunnel will, at least, furnish Tibet Plateau, India and Bangladesh with electricity and a regulated freshwater supply. From the bottom powerhouse sited at the pressure tunnel exit in China, the freshwater will continue its natural downhill journey to the Bay of Bengal (Indian Ocean) via its present-day river course (Clarks, 2003). Its flow, possibly increased substantially by the forecasted enhanced glacial sublimation in the mountains, may make the long-standing dispute between India and Bangladesh over the daily operations of the 2,240 m

87

Freshwater Supplies Necklace Super-Project

1535

(7349 ft) long Farakka Barrage (24◦ 49 N by 87◦ 56 E) on the Ganges River a significantly reduced irritant to their mutual peaceful relationship. Bangladesh is a peculiar deltaic region where the Ganges and Brahmaputra rivers meet the Bay of Bengal (Mikhailov & Dotsenko, 2006). In addition to increased runoff, Geographos suspects that future Indian Ocean sea level rise during the 21st century, perhaps as much as 0.25 m (9.84 in) to 1 m (39.3 in) and the advent of post-Kra Canal macroproject nuclear powered dredgers (Cathcart, 2008; Thapa, 2008) may reduce India’s requirements to maintain its seaport navigability for sea-going shipping on the Hooghly River. In other words, the Farakka Barrage may become part of an international flood control and urban-rural freshwater regulatory system rather than a basic seaport depth-maintenance device (Messerli & Hofer, 2006). It may become necessary for the signatory powers to revise the 1996 Ganges Water Treaty sometime prior to its 2026 expiry (Mirza, 2004). By 2026 it surely will become uncontrovertibly clear whether current regional climate change forecasts of increased future yearly inundation in flood-prone Bangladesh actually can rise above the measured maximum 40% coverage of its low elevation flatland national territory. Bangladesh is struggling with a difficult domestic freshwater supply problem that commenced during the 1970s when 8–12 million newly bored tube-wells brought to the surface for use freshwater laden with arsenic. The addition of new, reliably controlled freshwater supplies means some relief from this major national public health problem. Freshwater can be siphoned from rivers entering the delta that is Bangladesh and be easily packaged in movable, buoyant Kevlar-reinforced plastic bags, in effect, very large flexible textile barges carrying a fluid low value bulk commodity that can be towed on the Indian Ocean’s surface southward to be unloaded at India’s coastal cities (Cathcart, 2005). Such floating bags, sometimes referred to as “Medusa Bags” and “Dracone Barges,” could be unloaded or loaded in ∼3.5 h when the fluid cargo is pumped at the rate 100 m3 /min. Of course, gravitational discharge can be accomplished by raising one end of the Medusa Bag with a shore-based or marine floating crane to an elevation appropriately above the receiving storage container or distribution pipe. The bags must be fabricated of water-tight textile materials that will cause the bags to float when the bags are empty. Floating filled barges, each tanker conveying 35,000 m3 of freshwater, can be towed at 10 knots and provide a year’s potable water supply to ∼100 persons (Modarres-Sodeghi, Paidoussis, & Semler, 2005). (On 6 February 1996 Terry G. Spragg was awarded US Patent 5488921 for a “Flexible fabric barge apparatus and method” that closely resembles what Geographos proposes herein.) Geographos reasons that an $US 300 million start-up system of cylindrical “Spragg water bags,” tugboats, loading and unloading facilities, including a net-profit of ∼5%, delivering 250,000,000 m3 of potable freshwater annually would likely cost $US $0.25–0.50/m3 delivered. For every person fully satisfied by an imported personal supply of freshwater, the local rivers, wells and springs are relieved of the burden to provide same, and the water thus released from a life-giving task can then be used only for closely controlled irrigation agriculture and industry. Employment of lightermen and seaport workers in several nations would increase and the post-1972 urgency for expensively linking

1536

R.B. Cathcart

India’s rivers as K.L Rao desired (Thatte 2007; Jain, Kumar, & Panigrahy, 2008) would become unnecessary. The Himalayan Rivers Development Component and the Peninsular Rivers Development Component, outlined in Jancy Vijayan and Bart Schultz’s “Experiences with Inter Basin Water Transfers for Irrigation, Drainage and Flood Management” issued in August 2007 (see http://www.icid.org) in a single geographically vast and socially controversial macro-project would certainly decrease (Misra, Saxena, & Yaduvanshi, 2007). During 2007 the Port of Chennai (13◦ 06 N by 80◦ 18 E) started constructing a “mega terminal” that may be economically and structurally adaptable for time-tabled floating Medusa Bag shipment off-loading. Maritime traffic control offshore will have to be updated and intensified and the modernized regional weather prediction service must increase its accuracy and mandate. India’s freshwater resources are becoming overstrained due to irrigation agriculture extractions, human and animal population increases and the costs of imported fossil fuels to manufacture electricity to power water pumps (Kumar, Singh, & Sharma, 2005). India is a nation-ecosystem consisting of >260,000 villages (Black, 2005); many villages situated inland from India’s coastline, for example, in the Madurai-Ramanathapuram Region, are presently served by tanks (Narayanmoorthy, 2007). India’s geographically remarkable “tank landscape” is distinguished by the presence of many small streams and their adjacent overflow lands that, over a period of many years, have been laboriously dammed with earthen barriers. United Kingdom geographers have colorfully described the water-filled “tank landscape” appearance (from a mid-altitude aerial perspective) as like “. . .a surface of vast overlapping fish-scales” (Spate & Learmouth, 1967). “An average sized tank in south India has an embankment 2 km (1.24 mi) long, is 5–7 m (16.4–23 ft) deep at its deepest point, and may irrigate around 300–350 ha (131–156 acres) of land” (Bijker, 2007). Such well populated regions that are dependent on tank irrigation may refill such perennial freshwater reservoirs, of 3,500,000 m3 capacity each, during the dry season or drought period by utilizing a fully developed rolling freshwater-conveying Kevlar-reinforced plastic-fabric bag technology imagined prior to 1974 by Francisco Alcalde Pecero (1941–2004). His legally documented invention, “Container that can be displaced by rotary force” can be examined in US Patent 4036254 awarded on 19 July 1977. Of course, freshwater could be stored long-term in such landbound tankers if they were cheap enough to spare for that particular task. Such a use would stop the spread of mosquitoes such as Anopheles culicifacies and Culex quinquefasciatus which are rural malaria vectors fostered by present-day uncovered tank breeding places. Pecero’s huge tire-like freshwater tankers could be economically and efficiently moved uphill from the seaports by motorized towing vehicles, singly or in multi-unit coupled trains, or by already employed common living draft animals. However, Pecero did not outline in any useful detail the complete terramechanics of his invention, a single unit of which was alleged to move ∼100 m3 of freshwater at ∼10 km/h with the distributed tread pressure of his device not exceeding that of one walking human’s footfall (∼0.3 kg/cm2 ). Recently, relevant actual tests were conducted that resulted in a finding that “. . .rubber tire rolling resistance measurements in three depths of uniform density dry sand at velocities from 2.1 up

87

Freshwater Supplies Necklace Super-Project

1537

to 18 m/s. . .and three load ranges from 4534 to 10,266 N. . .” (Coutermarsh 2007) are now experimentally known factors. Road traffic control and road maintenance services will have to be improved and upgraded to cope with scheduled convoys of expedited, possibly escorted by police personnel, rolling Pecero Bag tankers. Undoubtedly, environmentalists will offer reasonable complaint that freshwater derived from the Himalayas, running through densely human-populated regions such as India and Bangladesh, is likely to harbor harmful bacteria and other organisms that must not be allowed to pollute or contaminate public potable freshwater supplies stored elsewhere. Suppose, then, that an efficiently manned and sufficiently structured hierarchical management organization dealt with this incipient macroproblem. For many decades it has been known that sea-going cargo vessel ballast water, whether seawater or freshwater, acts as a vector for the transport of exotic, and sometimes pathogenic, organisms (Ruiz, 2000). A cost-effective method to rid stored Medusa Bag freshwater of deleterious organisms is to pump bubbling nitrogen gas into the floating shipping barge-containers and the reliable rolling Pecero Bags as well in order to remove oxygen which, in turn, transforms the freshwater into a toxic medium for most aquatic organisms, which are extremely sensitive to oxygen levels (Tamburi, 2002). Targeting undesirable living stowaways with a pre-shipment management option (deoxygenation) will prevent all biotic invasions.

87.3 Palk Bay Scheduled originally for completion during 2008, yet work has stopped during 2008, India is still slated to excavate the Sethusamudram Ship Channel Project (SSCP) in Palk Bay. The SSCP will be more than broad enough to accommodate passage of “Medusa Bags” and “Dracone Barges”. The SSCP will be a well-marked, safe ship passage built to reduce by ∼500 km (310 mi) the distance shipping must currently traverse between India’s east and west coasts. Previously, Geographos has foreseen that Palk Bay will likely become a major industrial site (Cathcart, 2004) as well as a possibly unique source of future methane gas supplies for India and Sri Lanka (Cathcart, 2007). Early in the 21st century it is possible that methane-fueled rocket engines could be utilized to propel India-launched interplanetary space craft (Ashley, 2007). The use of methane is a viable energy option for industrializing nationecosystems such as India since aerial methane levels that tend to cause some Earth-atmosphere global warming have stabilized as one of the air’s non-aerosol components (Khalil, Butenhoff, & Rasmussen, 2007). Viable new chemical technologies, using either bromine or chlorine, have been recently introduced commercially that can convert methane into petrochemicals such as ethylene or propylene for plastics manufacture (Podkilzin, Strangland, & Jones, 2007). In terms of global warming, Indian and China are now widely seen as greenhouse-gas emissions “giants,” literally saddled with the increasing capacity to change the Earth’s air drastically. “Responsibility” is likely to succeed “capacity” in the world-public’s eyes.

1538

R.B. Cathcart

87.4 Conclusion Geographos advocates a bi-nodal energy generation and freshwater delivery system, the “Freshwater Supplies Necklace Super-project (FSNS),” for India’s extensive east coast that instigates and stimulates a “long jump” for India and two of its immediate key ecosystem-nation neighbors (China and Bangladesh). Other than a logical and reasonable near term future expansion of BIMSTEC’s membership, Geographos proposes no specific cure for known contentious diplomatic issues or compiling a comprehensive international Environmental Impact Statement. Such an instigative FSNS facility will form, in effect, a locked-up, safe and plentiful freshwater supply necklace for the coastal India population. The FSNS is cheaper than competing inter-basin freshwater transfers and pioneering in the on-going “globalization of water” outlined by A.Y. Hoekstra and A.K. Chapagain’s Globalization of Water: Sharing the Planet’s Freshwater Resources (Hoekstra & Chapagain, 2008). And, such a massive, but nevertheless inevitably monetary cost indeterminate, future macro-engineering project may eventuate in the onset before the dawn of the 22nd century of the “Indian Ocean Rim Century!”

Note 1. All patents mentioned herein can be viewed freely as USA Patent Office pdf downloads from the “Google Patents” website: http://www.google.com/patents.

References Ashley, S. (2007). Natural gas rockets. Scientific American, 296, 24B. Ballabh, V. (2008) Governance of water: Institutional alternatives and political economy. New Delhi: Sage. Barnett, T. P., Adams, J. C., & Lettnmaier, D. P. (2005). Potential Impacts of a warming climate on water availability in snow-dominated regions. Nature, 438, 303–309. Bijker, W. E. (2007). Dikes and dams, thick with politics. Isis, 98, 114. Black, M. (2005). Water: A matter of life and health: Water supply and sanitation in village India. London: Oxford University Press. Campbell, I. C. (2007). Perceptions, data, and river management: Lessons from the Mekong River. Water Resources Research, 33, WR005130. Cathcart, R. B. (1999). Tibetan power: A unique hydro-electric macro-project servicing India and China. Current Science, 77, 854–855. Cathcart, R. B. (2004). Palk Bay: A future industrial complex? Current Science, 87, 849–850. Cathcart, R. B. (2005). Nautical jugs or not? Current Science, 88, 1211–1212. Cathcart, R. B. (2007). Tapping Earth’s upper-mantle methane gas resource at a nuclear drilling initiative area, Palk Bay, India/Sri Lanka. Current Science, 92, 729–732. Cathcart, R. B. (2008). Kra Canal (Thailand) excavation by nuclear-power dredges. International Journal of Global Environmental Issues, 8, 248–255. Clarks, T. (2003). Delta blues. Nature, 422, 254–255. Coutermarsh, B. (2007). Velocity effect of vehicle rolling resistance in sand. Journal of Terramechanics, 44, 275–291. Finnegan, N. J., Hallet, B., Montgomery, D. R., & Zeitler, P. K. (2008). Coupling of rock uplift and river incision in the Namche Barwa-Gyala Peri massif, Tibet. GSA Bulletin, 12, 142–155.

87

Freshwater Supplies Necklace Super-Project

1539

Garg, N. K., & Hassan, Q. (2007). Alarming scarcity of water in India. Current Science, 93, 932–941. Gou, X., Chen, F., & Cook, E. (2006). Streamflow variations of the Yellow River over the past 593 years in western China reconstructed from tree rings. Water Resources Research, 43, WR005705. Hidalgo, C. A., Klinger, B., & Barabasi, A. L. (2007). The product space conditions of development of nations. Science, 317, 482–487. Hoekstra, A. Y., & Chapagain, A. K. (2008). Globalization of water: Sharing the planet’s freshwater resources (224 p). London: Wiley-Blackwell. Jain, S. K., Agarwal, P., & Singh, V. P. (2008). Hydrology and water resources of India. Dordrecht: Springer. Jain, S. K., Kumar, V., & Panigrahy, N. (2008). Some issues on interlinking of rivers of India. Current Science, 95, 728–735. Kerr, J. T., Kharouba, H. M., & Currie, D. J. (2007). The macroecological contribution to global change solutions. Science, 316, 1581–1584. Khalil, M. A. K., Butenhoff, C. L., & Rasmussen, R. A. (2007). Atmospheric methane: Trends and cycles of sources and sinks. Environmental Science & Technology, 10, 1021. Kumar, V., & Jain, S. K. (2007). Status of virtual water trade from India. Current Science, 93, 1093–1099. Kumar, R., Singh, R. D., & Sharma, K. D. (2005). Water resources in India. Current Science, 89, 794–811. Mercille, J. (2005). Media effects on image: The case of Tibet. Annals of Tourism Research, 32, 1039–1055. Messerli, B., & Hofer, T. (2006). Floods in Bangladesh: History, dynamics and rethinking the role of the Himalayas. New York: United Nations University Press. Mikhailov, V. N., & Dotsenko, M. A. (2006). Peculiarities of the hydrological regime of the Ganges and Brahmaputra river mouth area. Water Resources, 33, 353–373. Milly, P. C. D., Betancourt, J., & Falkenmark, M. (2008). Stationarity is dead: Dead whither water management? Science, 319, 573–574. Mirza, M. M. Q. (2004). The Ganges water diversion: Environmental effects and implications. Dordrecht: Springer. Misra, A. K., Saxena, A., & Yaduvanshi, M. (2007). Proposed river-linking project of India: boon or bane to nature? Environmental Geology, 51, 1361–1376. Modarres-Sodeghi, Y., Paidoussis, M. P., & Semler, C. (2005). A nonlinear model for an extensible slender flexible cylinder subjected to axial flow. Journal of Fluids and Structures, 21, 609–627. Narayanmoorthy, A. (2007). Tank irrigation in India: a time series analysis. Water Policy, 9, 193–216. Nath, P. (2007). National capability to catch-up: Lessons for India. Current Science, 93, 303–307. Peng, C. (2007). Building a “green” railway in China. Science, 316, 546–547. Podkilzin, S. G., Strangland, E. E., & Jones, M. E. (2007). Methyl chloride production from methane over lanthanum based catalysts. Journal of the American Chemical Society, 129, 2569–2576. Ramanathan, V., Ramana, M. V., & Roberts, G. (2007). Warming trends in Asia amplified by brown cloud solar absorption. Nature, 448, 575–578. Ravel, U. (2007). Geosciences and border disputes. Current Science, 93, 1047. Ruiz, G. M. (2000). Global spread of microorganisms by ships. Nature, 408, 49–50. Singh, S. K. (2006). Spatial variability in erosion in the Brahmaputra basin: Causes and impacts. Current Science, 90, 1272–1276. Spate, O. H. K., & Learmouth, A. T. A. (1967). India and Pakistan. London: Methuen. Stewart, R. J., Hallet, B., & Zeitler, P. K. (2008). Brahmaputra sediment flux dominated by highly localized rapid erosion from the easternmost Himalaya. Geology, 36, 711–714. Tamburi, M. A. (2002). Ballast water deoxygenation can prevent aquatic introductions while reducing ship corrosion. Biological Conservation, 103, 331–341.

1540

R.B. Cathcart

Thapa, R. B. (2008). Sea Navigation, challenges and potentials of South East Asia: An assessment of suitable sites for a shipping canal in the South Thai Isthmus. GeoJournal, 70, 161–172. Thatte, C. D. (2007). Inter-Basin water transfer (IBWT) for augmentation of water resources in India: A review of needs, plans, status and prospects. International Journal of Water Resources Development, 23, 709–725. Viviroli, D. (2007). Mountains of the world, water towers for humanity: Typology, mapping, and global significance. Water Resources Research, 43, W07447. Wei, M., Fujun, A., & Satoshi, A. (2006). Slope instability phenomena in permafrost regions of Qinghai-Tibet Plateau, China. Landslides, 3, 260–264. Yang, H., & Zehnder, A. (2007). “Virtual Water”: An unfolding concept in integrated water resources management. Water Resources Research, 43, W12301. Zeitler, P. K., Meltzer, A. S., & Hallet, B. (2007). Geologic hazards associated with a proposed dam on the Yarlung-Tsangpo river in SE Tibet. EOS Transactions AGU, 88(52), H11C-0644 Fall Meeting Supplement, Abstract. Zickfield, K., Knopf, B., & Petoukhov, V. (2005). Is the Indian summer monsoon stable against global change? Geophysical Research Letters, 32, L15707.

Chapter 88

Aral Sea Partial Refilling Macroproject Richard B. Cathcart and Viorel Badescu

88.1 Introduction In 1960, the Aral Sea’s volume was slightly more than 1000 km3 with a salinity of ~10 g/L and a surface area of 67,000 km2 . Its level stood at about 53 m above the world-ocean’s mean sea level. Since then its size has been reduced continuously, with a concomitant rise in the impounded water’s salinity. By 2007 the Aral Sea level had dropped to ~30 m above the world’s prevailing ocean level (Zavialov, 2009a). A comprehensive control strategy to partially recreate the endorheic Aral Sea is proffered in this chapter. It is a brief presentation of results reported in Badescu and Cathcart (2009a, 2009b). It involves regulation of several hydrological factors: (1) overland tensioned textile pipeline conveyance of seawater extracted from the Caspian Sea and deposited in the Aral Sea Basin; (2) overland importation of seawater by tensioned textile pipeline from the Black Sea to the Caspian Sea; (3) stabilization of the endorheic Caspian Sea’s water level by a real-time hydrological management of the freshwater inputs of the Volga and Ural rivers as well as regulated evaporation in the Kara-Bogaz-Gol Bay (Kasarev 2009). Subsequently, the imported seawater will be diluted with freshwater inputs conserved in the contributing catchments of Central Asia.

88.2 Background of Proposed Macroproject Especially since the onset of humankind’s Space Age in 1957, the world-public began to become more aware of the Aral Sea’s reduced area and fluid volume. As early as the 1960s, Earth-orbiting USA imagining reconnaissance satellites began to fully document the physical state of the Aral Sea in Kazakhstan because the relatively nearby Baikonur Cosmodrome, built in the 1950s, in that region was the rocket launching facility for all USSR manned space missions, starting with R.B. Cathcart (B) Geographos, Burbank, CA, 91506, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_88,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1541

1542

R.B. Cathcart and V. Badescu

Yuri Gagarin in 1961. Publicized satellite imagery revealed the ongoing drastic anthropogenic geographical alterations. The former seabed, now exposed to the air by the regressing body of water, became a wind-modified, salt-strewn arid landscape, the Aralkum Desert. Indeed, the draining event-process took place with such rapidity that one might imagine that artist Barry Flanagan’s “Hole In The Sea” (1969), a cylindrical hollow plastic tube buried in the beach swash-zone at Scheveningen, The Netherlands, and filmed from above while the tide rose, was operating. Once fed by two historically famous rivers, the Amu Darya and the Syr Darya, the Aral Sea mingled their runoffs in a contiguous body of water. The extreme post1950 abstraction of freshwater from these Central Asian Aral Sea-feeding rivers for ultimate application on mismanaged farmland irrigation mega-schemes caused such a pronounced technogenic reduction of the Aral Sea that, since 1989, there are now really three discontinuous lakes remaining. The new geographical reality is described in World Atlas (2007) and Aral Sea Encyclopedia (2009). It was during the 1950s that scientists finally recognized that humanity’s technological impacts on the Earth-biosphere were almost total. Year 1950 AD is also the reference for carbon fourteen dating. With regard to the modern-day diminished Aral Sea, it if were possible to provide the three lakes with the Central Asian river runoffs extant during the pre-1960 period, at least 200 years would be necessary for the Aral Sea to recover. And, of course, the presence of the Aralkum Desert, as well as the vast regions of inefficient mono-culture irrigation agriculture, has caused remarkable short and long-term meteorological changes in the various climates of Central Asia. Full restoration of the 1960 Aral Sea through freshwater conservation alone is unrealistic since such a restrictive consumptive use program would impose very great economic hardships on the populations of Central Asia’s post-1991 independent ecosystem-states (Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan). A reasonable estimate of the normal freshwater inflow to the vicinity of the Aralkum Desert during the 21st century is ~12 km3 /year; to restore the Aral Sea fully to its 1960 presence would require a total annual fluid inflow of more than 56 km3 . There are already proposals to bring water to the relict Aral Sea from outside Central Asia (Micklin & Aladin, 2008). In other words, the replacement of a 20th century desert-like landscape covered by a 21st century-instigated refilled “New Aral Sea”. Most macro-engineers have contemplated only 27–30 km3 /year of freshwater inflows – as from the long-discussed Siberian River Diversions (Duke, 2006) and such postulated freshwater transfers will certainly be affected by global climate change during the 21st century. Even so, some Russian geopoliticians have tried to revive the Siberian River Diversion macro-projects to import freshwater from the Ob River and its tributary, the Irtysh River, to Kazakhstan via a proposed “SibAral Canal Project”. The concrete-lined Sib-Aral Canal is planned to be ~2,500 km long and 200 m wide with a maximum prism depth of 16 m that would convey ~27–30 km3 /year of freshwater – about 6–7% of the Ob River’s discharge – to Central Asia, overcoming a 110 m-high topographic elevation in the Turgai Depression at a high cost

88

Aral Sea Partial Refilling Macroproject

1543

in expensive electricity of ~10.2 billion KW/h. Disconcertingly, the Ob River’s annual flow seems to be contaminated with unhealthy nuclear materials and, therefore, its partial transfer might constitute an undesirable Aral Sea pollution since the Aral Sea already has uranium contamination present (Friedrich, 2009). Furthermore, although northern Eurasian rivers discharging into the Arctic Ocean do have rising minimum daily flows (Smith, 2007) possibly due to melting permafrost, the overall situation is that these rivers have not yet shown decisively any indisputable evidence of strong influence by global climate change (MacDonald, 2007). The Irtysh River seems to be a seriously affected ecological river basin that may not offer its abusive users any excess exportable freshwater outflow by circa 2030 (Hrkal, 2006). In brief, the feasibility of the “SibAral Canal Project” is questionable. A possible one-time only 17 × 106 m3 induced controlled flood of freshwater, departing a headwater tributary to the Amu Darya Basin, could eventually be beneficially channeled into the currently diminished Aral Sea(s) to help reclaim that anthropogenic wasteland (Risley, 2006). On 18 February 1911 a very strong earthquake caused a landslide in the Pamir Mountains of eastern Tajikistan that blocked the Bartang River, one of many tributaries of the Amu Darya. A large-volume lake 60 km-long accumulated upstream of this rock fall, named “Usoi” after a village that was buried by the landslide. The Usoi landslide dam is 600 m-high and is the highest dam, natural or anthropogenic, in the Earth’s biosphere. The lake, Lake Sarez, has a maximum depth of ~550 m and a volume of ~17 km3 . During April and May of 2007, a Tajik Government-sponsored conference was held in Dushanbe to consider means of preventing a catastrophic structural failure of the dam. A lake-tapping pipeline, as well as a regulating hydropower plant has been suggested to reduce the volume of freshwater behind the natural dam to some as-yet-undetermined “safe” level (Parshin, 2007). If a controlled release of this impounded freshwater reservoir were technically arranged by macro-engineers, and safely performed, then such a carefully planned freshwater shifting could jump-start the “Aral Sea Partial Refilling Macro-project” seawater importation via tensioned textile pipeline macro-project proposed in Badescu and Cathcart (2009a, 2009b). Drained, or nearly drained, Lake Sarez’s freshwater would serve to dilute the imported salty water extracted from the Black Sea and Caspian Sea (Zavialov, 2009b). Aside from the exciting, but obviously frustrating, geographic projection of the Siberian River Diversion, however, imported seawater diluted with all available locally-derived and legally obtained freshwater would be useful to the region’s inhabitants. Seawater, transported from afar, must be filtered to remove all harmful biota. The best source for seawater is the nearly tide-less Caspian Sea, lying presently ~27 m below the world-ocean’s level and, approximately, 600 km west of the Aralkum Desert. The route of the pipeline is proposed to connect the Caspian Sea and the northern regions of the Aral Sea, because of the low elevation relief in that region (Route A in Fig. 88.1). Another overland route for a pipeline transporting salty water from the Aral Sea to the Caspian Sea, (i.e., route B in Fig. 88.1) is the abandoned natural Uzboy Channel which, as recently as 1500 B.C., connected the Aral Sea with the Caspian Sea as an Aral Sea peak-flood overflow channel (Letolle, 2007).

1544

R.B. Cathcart and V. Badescu

Fig. 88.1 Routes for the pipelines connecting Caspian Sea to Aral Sea, with altimetry shown (m)

Most of the world-public has been made aware of the geographical news fact that the world-ocean rose by ~13 cm during the 20th century but few persons situated outside of Central Asia are aware that the Caspian Sea level rose by ~13 cm just during the period 1977–1995. Coastal erosion, infrastructure damage and other macro-problems stimulated by such fluid volume variances have proven to be chronic drags on the fragile economies of the bordering ecosystem-nations. Recent super-computer general climate modeling hints that the Caspian Sea climate regime is changing, and that there is therefore a possibility that the Caspian Sea may decrease in elevation by several meters during the 21st century. Hence, a replenishment of the Caspian Sea with filtered seawater imported from the Black Sea by a tensioned textile pipeline seems doubly proper and truly cost-effective in terms of professional Macro-engineering. Integrating the 700 km-long Black SeaCaspian Sea pipeline plus the 600 km-long Caspian Sea-Aralkum Desert pipeline would form a combined effective pipeline system or network that totals ~1,200 km, ~54% of the 2,200 km length of the “SibAral Canal Project”.

88

Aral Sea Partial Refilling Macroproject

1545

88.3 Aral Sea Refilling Pipeline Specifications To achieve a restoring liquid water flow to the moonscape that is today’s Aralkum Desert of 56 km3 /year – or, expressed differently, ~1,776 m3 /s – over a distance of, say, ~650 km within a normal, horizontal steel pipe having a constant 30 mdiameter necessitates a seawater velocity of ~2.5 m/s. Obviously, a substantial volume of freshwater must be set aside and allowed to pass downstream into the rejuvenating Amu Darya and Syr Darya to dilute the saltwater emptied from the importation pipeline into the Aralkum Desert. In other words, the “Aral Sea Partial Refilling Macro-project” will help to induce good long-term rural and urban water conservation practices in Central Asia. In our report, we opt for tensioned textile pipelines, made with strong materials, because they are cheaper, can be moved on the landscape when operations demand, and can be camouflaged.

88.4 Results A comprehensive control strategy to partially recreate the endorheic Aral Sea is offered in Badescu and Cathcart (2009a, 2009b) which involves several actions: (1) management of the freshwater inputs from the Syr Darya and Amu Darya rivers; (2) regulated evaporation in the existing Western Basin of the Aral Sea; (3) water imported from the Caspian Sea and (4) salty water extracted from the Aral Sea and transported into the Caspian Sea and/or elsewhere. A simple technical and economical model is proposed. Taking into account that covering the whole Western Basin surface to reduce evaporation is very expensive and yields a gain of about 1 m in free water surface level (see Table 6 of Badescu and Cathcart (2009a)), one may conclude that action (2) is not recommended. A combination of the remaining three actions may, however, yield a steady-state Aral Sea larger than its 2005 status, depending on the funding involved (see Tables 5 and 7 in Badescu and Cathcart (2009a)). The Aral Sea evolution process has been described in Badescu and Cathcart (2009b) by using two balance equations, for the time variation of water volume and salinity, respectively. These equations were solved under appropriate assumptions, by using common finite-difference techniques. Both the natural stabilization process and the Macro-engineering restoration process have been studied. The main results are as follows. Three scenarios were used to analyze the natural stabilization process. The Aral Sea water level stabilizes to 28.9, 27.2, and 25.7 m for these three scenarios. The water surface area reduces to a few thousand square kilometers while the salinity increases about two times for first scenario and up to three times in the final scenario. The influence of various control factors was analyzed when the Macroengineering solution has been considered. Increasing the freshwater inflow rate by rivers yields an increase of the free water surface level (by 1.4–3.5 m) but the North

1546

R.B. Cathcart and V. Badescu

Basin still does not merge with the Western and Eastern basins. The fluid water surface stabilizes to about 60–80% of the 2005 A.D. – Aral Sea surface, depending on the case considered. The water salinity decreases by an improved freshwater management, but it is always higher than its 2005 value. The influence of importing seawater from the Caspian Sea at flow rates larger than > 14 km3 /year is associated to a stabilized mean free water surface level in the Aral Sea of the order of ~32 m, which is about 1 m below the level prevailing during 2005. A few considerations about the ecological, cultural and social consequences of the macro-project (both positive and negative) were presented in Badescu and Cathcart (2009b). Unwanted biotic invasion of the Caspian Sea and renewed Aral Sea can be prevented by thorough filtration of the pumped fluid. Before the restoration is undertaken, it is recommended to (1) remove all rusting shipwrecks from the exposed seabed; (2) fully map the restoration work-site for future hydrographic and navigational charts and (3) fully assess bathymetrically the new saline lake’s bottom, just as if it were a commercial “real-estate” development lake.

88.5 Conclusions A water-filled Aral Sea may change the climate, making it more favorable for human resettlement and salty water from a regenerated Aral Sea may be used for seawater agriculture. Simulation results show that the fluid water surface stabilizes to about 60–80% of the 2005 Aral Sea surface, depending on the case considered. The water salinity decreases by an improved freshwater management, but it is always higher than its 2005 value. The Caspian Sea water imports can be achieved, at less economic and environmental cost, than strictly freshwater Aral Sea Basin imports from Siberia’s diverted rivers. A successful outcome of the proposed Aral Sea control strategy, “Aral Sea Partial Refilling Macroproject,” will require a United Nations Organizationobserved international treaty-codified unity of the affected region’s participating geopolitical and Macro-engineering decision-makers.

References Badescu, V., & Cathcart, R. B. (2009a). Aral Sea partial restoration. I. A Caspian water importation macroproject. International Journal of Environment and Waste Management, (in press). Badescu, V., & Cathcart, R. B. (2009b). Aral Sea partial restoration. II. Simulation of timedependent processes. International Journal of Environment and Waste Management, to be published. Duke, D. F. (2006). Seizing favours from nature: The rise and fall of Siberian rivers diversion. In T. Tvendt & E. Jakobsson, E. (Eds.), A history of water: Water control and river biographies (pp. 3–34). UK: I.B. Taurus. Friedrich, J. (2009). Uranium contamination of the Aral Sea. Journal of Marine Systems, 76, 322–335. Harpercollins Publishers Ltd. (2008). Times comprehensive Atlas of the World (12th ed., 544 p). Harpercollins Publishers.

88

Aral Sea Partial Refilling Macroproject

1547

Hrkal, Z. (2006). Will the river Irtysh survive the year 2030? Impact of long-term unsuitable land use and water management of the upper stretch of the river catchment (North Kazakhstan). Environmental Geology, 50, 717–723. Kosarev, A. N. (2009). Kara-Bogaz-Gol Bay: Physical and chemical evolution. Aquatic Geochemistry, 15, 223–236. Letolle, R. (2007). Uzboy and the Aral regressions: A hydrological approach. Quaternary International, 173–174, 125–136. MacDonald, G. M. (2007). Recent Eurasian river discharge to the Arctic Ocean in the context of longer-term dendrohydrological records. Journal of Geophysical Research, 112, JG000333. Micklin, P., & Aladin, N. V. (2008). Reclaiming the Aral Sea. Scientific American, 298, 64–71. Parshin, K. (2007, 6 July) Tajikistan: Abundant water, scarce money. YaleGlobal Online. Retrieved from http://yaleglobal.yale.edu/article.print?id=9407 Risley, J. C. (2006). Usoi dam wave overtopping and flood routing in the Bartang and Panj Rivers, Tajikistan. Natural Hazards, 38, 375–390. Accessed 22 February 2009. Smith, L. C. (2007). Rising minimum daily flows in northern Eurasian rivers. Journal of Geophysical Research, 112, JG000327. The Times. (2009). The Times Comprehensive Atlas of the World (12th ed.). London: The Times. Zavialov, P. O. (2009a). Five years of field hydrographic research in the Large Aral Sea (2002– 2006). Journal of Marine Systems, 76, 263–274. Zavialov, P. O. (2009b). Ongoing changes of ionic composition and dissolved gases in the Aral Sea. Aquatic Geochemistry, 15, 263–275. Zonn, I. S., Glantz, M. H., Zonn, I.S., & Kostianoy, A. G. (2009). Aral Sea Encyclopedia. Springer. 292 pages.

Chapter 89

Geo-Engineering South Australia: The Case of Lake Eyre Viorel Badescu, Richard B. Cathcart, Marius Paulescu, Paul Gravila, and Alexander A. Bolonkin

89.1 Introduction Australia is the world’s driest permanently inhabited continent and it has the most variable precipitation with periods of widespread drought (Sohn, 2007). “Afflicted” by a climate dominated by the subtropical high pressure belt which encloses high pressure air systems that move from the west Coast to the east Coast above the ocean isolated terrestrial ecosystem, Australia is a vast dry-land region; ∼75% of the continent – approximately ∼3,030,000 km2 – is classed as either arid or semiarid. Naturally, the boundaries of these continental climate regions are neither static nor obviously abrupt. During the coolest period of the year (Winter: May– October), the high pressure systems pass slowly over central Australia’s land in an air belt extending from 29◦ to 32◦ S Lat and often remain stationary for several days, causing orographic precipitation on the east coast mountains. Studies show precipitation for the nation varies from summer dominant rainfall in the north to winter dominant rainfall in the south, making the resulting available flowing freshwater resource very problematic (Fleming, 1995). During the warmest period of the year (Summer: November–April), the subtropical high-pressure systems belt normally shifts offshore, flowing over the Indian Ocean at 37◦ to 38◦ S Lat. Pigram (2006) offers the most comprehensive assessment currently available. Currently, the episodic Lake Eyre is Australia’s largest playa and lowest elevation. The annual rainfall on Lake Eyre amounts to ∼125 mm (4.9 in) with an average annual panevaporation of ∼3,800 mm (149.6 in); northeast of Lake Eyre the rainfall averages ∼500 mm (19.7 in) and pan-evaporation is ∼2,400 mm (94.5 in). The Lake Eyre Basin, ∼1,140,000 km2 , or ∼15% of all Australia, exhibits ephemeral stream channels, aeolian dunes, gibber plains and bare bedrock. 21st century human residents of Lake Eyre Basin number fewer than 60,000 persons. Lake Eyre is comprised of two depositional basins, the North Basin, which is the deepest, has an estimated plane surface area of ∼8,400 km2 (3,218 mi2 ) and the South Basin is ∼1,200 km2

V. Badescu (B) Candida Oancea Institute, Polytechnic University of Bucharest, Bucharest, Romania e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_89,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1549

1550

V. Badescu et al.

Fig. 89.1 Port Augusta to Lake Eyre Pipeline Corridor. A slightly different course might prove better if only the South Basin is to be filled at the Lake Eyre terminal south of the proposed Goyder Channel Tension Textile Dam. (Source: Fereidoun Ghassemi & Ian White, 2006, Fig. 7.5, p. 146)

(460 mi2 ) (Fig. 89.1). It can contain about 27 km3 of water at 9.5 m (31.1 ft) below global sea level. The brackish water level in Lake Eyre is unregulated and, owing to rare storms, can rise rapidly in a matter of months with flows of 5,000 to 10,000 m3 /s; during 1974 water flowed from the –15 m-deep North Basin into the South Basin but during 1984 the South Basin overflowed into the North Basin. Present-day Lake Eyre (28.3◦ S Lat. by 137.2◦ E Long.) is situated in the “hot dry summer, cold winter” Australian Climatic Zone, meaning the average January maximum air temperature >30◦ C (>86◦ F), three o’clock afternoon water vapor pressure is <2.1 kPa and average July mean air temperature exceeds 14◦ C (57◦ F). Kingsford (2006) offers a comprehensive overview of watered arid lands worldwide, including the Lake Eyre Basin.

89

Geo-Engineering South Australia

1551

Though macro-engineering is a rather recent subject of public interest (Badescu, Cathcart, & Schuiling, 2006), proposals for the flooding of Lake Eyre with water from the ocean (via Spencer Gulf’s Port Augusta) have become a staple of conversation in ordinary and national political circles since about 1883 (Boia, 2005). Filled to present-day ocean level, the Eyre Seawater Reservoir (ESR), North and South basins combined, would hold more than 200 km3 . “By contrast, the deepest historical filling held 30 km3 ” (DeVogel, Mageeb, Manleya, & Millerc, 2004). Ghassemi and White (2006) offer the best historical account of some schemes for the creation of an artificial inland sea. The slope of the canal would be less than 3 cm/km, and it was doubtful if the water would flow in such a canal. Excavation of a canal from Port Augusta (32◦ S Lat. by 137◦ E Long.) at the head of Spencer Gulf to Lake Eyre, a distance of ∼320 km (198.8 mi) with a maximum ridge elevation of <60 m (196.8 ft) (see Fig. 89.1) may well exceed 50 GUSD (billions USD). In this chapter a macroengineering project is proposed, which exploits technologies that have the potential to enliven the arid region surrounding Lake Eyre.

89.2 Aims of the Macroproject Bringing seawater to Lake Eyre has been discussed since at least 1883 but here, for the first time ever, we offer technical and economical details. The macroproject will utilize ∼0.11% of Australia’s territory that is below present-day global sea level, most of which is entirely unsettled and has a small annual GDP economic impact, even though it is also often described as picturesque (Gibbs, 2006). This study does not provide final macroproject solutions; there are additional problems that must be investigated before any political and financial decision-making. Some of these problems are enumerated in the section entitled Ecological, Cultural and Social Consequences. The macro-project assumes Lake Eyre is permanently filled with seawater. When Lake Eyre is full, and its ASL is +5 m (16.4 ft), Lake Eyre covers an area of ∼19,600 km2 (7,509 mi2 ) and contains ∼215 km3 of saline liquid. It might be best to envision Lake Eyre with an artificial level of –3.5 m (11.48 ft) ASL, an area of 9,920 km2 (3,800 mi2 ) and a volume of 75 km3 (Fig. 89.2). Even a lower filling level such as –6 m ASL, ∼55 km3 , constitutes an ambitious macro-project aim. Such a vision offers a Lake Eyre where both the North and South basins are filled constantly and joined through the Goyder channel. The water volume and the surface area of a full Lake Eyre is denoted Vlake and Slake , respectively. Here we accept Vlake = 75 km3 and Slake = 9, 920 km2 . The source of incoming water into the lake may be non-continuous (massif rains, occurring at a random time interval t). Lake Eyre South is known to have filled in 1938, 1955, 1963, 1968, 1973, 1974, 1975, 1976 and 1984. In 1984 Lake Eyre South overflowed to Lake Eyre North. In 1974 water flowed from Lake Eyre North to Lake Eyre South between March and October when an equilibrium level was obtained. Groyder Channel is a 15 km (9.3 mi)-long topographic depression that links Lake Eyre North and South (see Fig. 89.1). The width as well as lowest elevation of the

1552

V. Badescu et al.

Fig. 89.2 Volume/elevation curve of the Lake Eyre

Goyder Channel, named for George Woodroffe Goyder (1826–1898), changes with each significant flooding event. In this study we accept t = 8 years as an average value of the observed data (McMahon et al., 2005).

89.3 Macroproject Components Long term flooding of Lake Eyre may have important consequences for the sparse human population nearby. In terms of aims, this macroproject proposes the ESR as a center of a region of biosaline agriculture. Other possible benefits are briefly enumerated in the section entitled Seawater Irrigation Macroproject. In terms of tools, the project is based on three ideas. First, seawater is transported by flexible pipes rather than by a single canal. Second, use of photovoltaic (PV) cells is envisaged to ensure the electricity necessary to pump the seawater. Third, artificial covering of the Lake will greatly diminish evaporation. All of these tools were previously proposed and studied by various groups of researchers. Some details and critical notes follow. The study involves some engineering and economic calculations. However, these evaluations are very rough, not taking into account the many unknown and missing parameters involved.

89.3.1 Pipeline and Pumps There is an Australian precedent plan for a seawater pipeline (Allan, Banens, & Fielder, 2001). They mention that the Water Corporation of Western Australia proposed a 348 km (216 mi)-long Esperance to Kalgoorlie seawater pipeline as a major water supply option. Our proposal uses low pressure and cheap pipes by having multiple pumping stations along the route. If a pipe ruptures, the damage should be easily repaired

89

Geo-Engineering South Australia

1553

Fig. 89.3 Tube-wall thickness via wall safety tensile stress for different tube diameters and water pressures

without creating environmental problems. We suggest the pipe walls could be made mainly of inexpensive waterproof textile. It is possible to employ multiple tubes instead of merely one, two or more “pipelines” transporting seawater to Lake Eyre in a special zoned land-use corridor. A wide-diameter hydraulic tube is more expensive but such a pipe, hose or tube has the advantage of decreasing greatly the pressure loss and increases significantly the efficiency and decreases the friction loss and pump power. Below, is the equation for tube wall thickness computation: δ=

pD 2σ

(89.1)

where δ is tube-wall thickness; p is water pressure and σ is safety tensile stress. The computation’s result is presented in Fig. 89.3. The tension textile tube must be supported along its entire length by a special chute, a cradle-like trough or discrete air-inflated pillows. (Earthquakes in the region are not a known infrastructure hazard.) The source of seawater for Lake Eyre may be a continuous or non-continuous macro-engineered addition from the Indian Ocean. Lake Eyre’s South basin lies 356 km (221 mi) from Port Augusta. Cost-free seawater can be extracted from Spencer Gulf. The duct length and diameter is denoted Lduct and Dduct , respectively, while its maximum elevation above sea level is Hduct . The seawater volume flow rate through the duct is Qsw . The duct includes some pumps (main parameters: consumed pumping power Pp ). The necessary power is provided by PV cells (collection area Apv , produced electrical power Ppv ). The speed Wsw of seawater in the duct of diameter Dduct is given by: wsw =

4Qsw π D2duct

(89.2)

1554

V. Badescu et al.

The power Ppump required to impel the seawater within the duct is obtained from: Ppump = gρsw Qsw H/ηp

(89.3)

In Equation (89.3), g = (9.78 m/s2 ) is gravitational acceleration, psw = (1, 030 kg/m3 ) is the density of the seawater, H is the hydraulic head and ηp (∼ = 0.75) is the efficiency of the electric pump. The hydraulic head is obtained by summing the highest altitude of the duct Hduct (≈ 60 m) with the lost pressure height H due to friction: H = Hduct + H

(89.4)

Only linear pressure losses are considered next and:

H = λ

Lduct w2sw Dduct 2 g

(89.5)

where λ is the linear pressure loss coefficient given by: ⎧ 1 ⎪ ⎨ √ for 4 100Re λ= ⎪ ⎩ 0.0032 + 0.211 Re0.237

Re < 105 (89.6) for

Re > 105

where the Reynolds number is defined by Re =

wsw Dduct νsw

(89.7)

with νsw the kinematic viscosity of seawater. The constant value νsw = 13 · 10−4 / psw is adopted in this study. The specific power for a 1 m3 /s flow is: Pspecific = Ppump /Qsw = gρsw H/ηp

(89.8)

Numerical results for pipe diameters of 3 m (9.8 ft), 6 m (19.7 ft) and 9 m (29.5 ft), respectively, and water-speeds of 2 and 4 m/s, respectively, are presented in Table 89.1. Figure 89.4 shows the dependence of the specific pumping power (in MW per m3 /s) on water-speed and pipe diameter. A first conclusion is that using a large diameter tube, low pressure, low water-speed is much more energy effective. We identify the scheme no. 5 (marked with an ·) as best suited for our project. It is clearly better to construct two units of this type than to double the speed of water. More fine-tuning for optimizing the pumping system can be made only when exact price specifications for all components are known.

89

Geo-Engineering South Australia

1555

Table 89.1 Parameters for Port Augusta to Lake Eyre Pipeline Diameter wsw Qsw Number (m) (m/s) (m3 /s)

Hydraulic Ppump Total head (MWe) (m)

Number of p Ppump /Station stations (atm) (MWe)

1 2 3 4 5 6

270 830 156 411 120 282

9 28 15 41 12 28

3 3 6 6 9 9

2 4 2 4 2 4

14 28 56 113 127 254

53 313 120 620 204 956

3 3 1 1 1 1

5.8 11.2 8.0 15.1 17.0 34.1

Fig. 89.4 Specific pumping power dependence on water speed and pipe diameter

89.3.2 Photovoltaic Power Plant Kurokawa (2006) touts the benefits of carpeting desert regions with photovoltaic cells. Essentially, his proposals differ little from those made by TREC Australia (DESERTEC, 2008). Both TREC Australia and Kurokawa recognize that Australia’s deserts are perfect places for such vast power generating installations. The average annual temperature varies from 21◦ C (69.8◦ F) south of the Basin to 24◦ C (75.2◦ F) north of it, and the average maximum temperatures are 18◦ C (64.4◦ F) and 24◦ C (75.2◦ F) respectively in July, and 36◦ C (96.8◦ F) and 39◦ C (102.2◦ F) in January. The annual hours of sunshine vary from 3,250 to more than 3,500 and the average global radiation is 6 KWh m−2 day−1 . Surprisingly, the literature is poor on detailed solar radiation data in the vicinity of Lake Eyre. In Table 89.2 there are some data that could be used as a starting point in computations. Here the following yearly averaged daily solar global irradiation on a horizontal plane around Lake Eyre is adopted: Gday = 21.6 MJm−2 day−1 , which is close to the

1556

V. Badescu et al. Table 89.2 Monthly mean of daily global solar irradiation [KWh/(m–2 day–1 )]

Location

Dry-Creek

Moomba

Woomera

Gladstone

Lat. and Long.

34.83S, 138.58E

28.10 S, 140.20 E 31.52 S, 137.17 E 33.28 S, 138.37 E

Type

P

U

U

U

Jan Feb Mar Apr May Jun July Aug Sep Oct Nov Dec

8.03 6.98 5.66 4.95 2.71 2.29 2.43 3.32 4.61 5.57 6.97 7.69

8.25 7.90 6.97 5.00 4.18 3.78 3.75 4.18 5.52 7.10 7.85 8.14

7.42 6.97 6.00 4.81 3.53 3.08 3.36 4.14 5.28 6.36 7.08 7.50

6.86 6.53 5.81 5.33 4.39 4.00 4.28 4.86 6.06 6.50 7.03 6.81

Yearly Mean

5.10

6.06

5.47

5.69

value estimated in Table 89.2 for Moomba. The yearly solar global irradiation Gyear is: Gyear = 365Gday

(89.9)

The energy provided per unit surface area by PV cells during a year, EPV, year, 1 is given by: EPV,year,1 = Gyear ηPV

(89.10)

where ηPV is PV cell efficiency (yearly average). In computations we use a rather high (optimized) value ηPV = 0.15 (Badescu, 2006). In dimensioning the solar power plant, we use the earth surface – level solar irradiance Sc (of about 1 kWm−2 ) to calculate the collector surface area in order to match the power specifications of the pumping system. Keep in mind that we are constructing a system consisting of a generator and a consumer, without energy storage or other essential power regulation devices. The consumer (pumps) will be designed so that they can operate under partial loads with good efficiency (by example, each station may be fitted with a tandem of (different-sized) pumps so that the one, or the other, or both are automatically switched on according to conditions). The area covered by PV panels will be: Ppump /Sc ηPV

(89.11)

For example, for generating 204 MW of electricity, as the system no. 5 in Table 89.1 demands, the area would be 1,36·106 m2 . The top area (section) of the

89

Geo-Engineering South Australia

1557

pipe is Dduct Lduct = 3.2 · 106 m2 , it means that the PV system may even be fitted on top of the duct. A solution using thin film technology (second generation solar cells) with smaller efficiencies (∼0.08) but cheaper, can also be considered. Future PV technologies may greatly improve the feasibility of this component. The drawback of using only solar generation without energy storage is of course that the pumping system is working full power only a few hours per day, in good weather. The energy produced in a year is E(PV,year) = APV E(PV,year,1) , equals 1.6·109 MJ (440 GWh), as for our example. This would pump roughly 1 km3 of water per year (for one unit, but more units can be build). At nominal power day and night the same pump would do ∼ 4 km3 of water per year.

89.3.3 Lake Eyre Lid A global warming mitigation by reduction of outgoing longwave radiation through large scale surface albedo enhancement of deserts using white plastic polyethylene film was proposed in 2003 (Gaskill & Reese, 2008). We wish to lid a large, saline water body, in order to decrease evaporation and freshwater loss. One denotes by qevap,1 the rate of evaporated water per unit surface (units: cubic meter per square meter and per second). Then: Qevap = qevap,1 (1 − x)Slake

(89.12)

Here x is the fraction of lake surface covered (x = 1 means the whole surface is covered and consequently, no evaporation occurs). Earlier estimates show that the annual rainfall on Lake Eyre amounts to ∼125 mm (4.92 in) with an average annual pan-evaporation of ∼3,800 mm (149.6 in). The difference between these two quantities gives the net specific evaporation rate. The measure of evaporation used in a recent report (McMahon et al., 2005) is the mean annual area potential evapotranspiration (APET). APET values vary from ∼1,000 mm/year in the south of the Lake Eyre Basin to >1,500 mm/year in the north (Fig. 89.5 for monthly evaporation rates). For an average value of 1,250 mm/year, one finds q(evap,1) = 0.396 ∗ 10−7 m3 /m2 /s. One assumes that: Qsw = zQevap

(89.13)

where z is a fraction (z = 1 means that the water flow rate coming from the ocean equals the evaporated water flow rate). Our first proposal consists of a floating lid made from thin polyethylene sheeting, like the “bubble-wrap” used by shipping industry packagers, with 100% water imperviousness. It can be manufactured as modules, “carpets” of 100−1,000 m2 of very low density material with tougher plastic margins (frame), which can be assembled together with clips and tethered to the seabed. Rainwater accumulating atop the

1558

V. Badescu et al.

Fig. 89.5 Eyre North and South monthly evaporation rates

mat is allowed to drain through small holes so that the lid stays afloat. The lid covers 60−75% of the lake surface, leaving a couple of kilometers off the shores open. This greatly reduces adverse ecological and aesthetical impact, however important ecological concerns will remain and require further studies. Evaporation consists of precious freshwater, so preventing it is a main part of this proposal. It goes along with albedo enhancing on large scale which is benefic for the climate. Most researchers agree that water evaporated from the Eyre region, even if the Lake would be filled, is lost and does not induce climatic changes and precipitations on target areas. If the cost per square meter is not kept down by ingenious design and maybe on-site production, the total cost may well become outlandish. While the lid itself can be very light and cheap (cents per m2 ), the frame adds to the module cost. Also, installing them may be a logistic nightmare. We adopt ccover,1 = 1 USD/m2 , where ccover,1 is covering cost per unit surface area. This means that covering the lake is by far the most expensive part of the project, not only as investment, but also in terms of maintenance. We mention that there are also other means to cover the body of liquid, namely, floating white plastic balls. The material costs will be about the same as the sheeting but deployment will be much easier. But, hollow balls will be much more affected by wind than rim-anchored flat plastic sheeting; they can also pile up on the shoreline. Then, they have to be returned to the water’s surface by diligent macroproject caretakers. Since we will be using a lot of plastic, the bulk manufacturing costs should be low since bidding will offer the prospect of worldwide suppliers. While the sheeting is impermeable and causes 100% seawater retention (zero evaporation) the floating balls will (theoretically) cause ∼70% seawater retention.

89

Geo-Engineering South Australia

1559

89.4 Investment Costs For each of these macro-engineered components (i.e., covering the lake, ducts and pumping) there are two obvious associated costs: • Costs of construction (investments). They are proportional with the main extensive quantity of each component. These costs refer to covering the surface xSlake of the lake, building the duct Spencer Gulf-Lake Eyre, including the pumps and the PV cells (this cost is a function of Lduct , Hduct , Dduct , Qsw , material of the duct). • Costs of operation and maintenance. They are proportional with the main extensive quantity of each component. They are related to seawater pumping and maintenance of the floating covering system. The duct cost increases by increasing the pipe diameter, as expected. Obviously, it depends on the tensioned duct material, with composed fabric the least expensive solution. The same feature exhibits the cost of installing the duct, but in this case the dependence on duct diameter is weaker. The cost of the pumps comprising the pumping installation decreases by enlarging. However, it is obvious that the larger contribution to the macroproject cost is provided by covering Lake Eyre. The cost of the duct, the PV cells and of the electric pumps enabling steady seawater shifting, are estimated. The cost cduct of the conducting tube is given by: cduct = cduct,1 Lduct

(89.14)

where cduct,1 is the cost of a unit length of duct. Similarly, the cost of installing the tube, cinst,duct is given by: cinst,duct = cinst,duct,1 Lduct

(89.15)

where cinst,duct,1 is the cost of installing a unit length of duct. The unitary costs depend, of course, on various factors, such as the duct diameter Dduct as well as the material of the duct. The cost of the pumping installation, Cpump , is obtained from: Cpump = Ppump cpump,1

(89.16)

where cpump,1 is the cost a pump of unit power. The cost cPV of the PV cells is obtained from the cost per Watt of the PV cells, c(PV,W) , and the total installed power: cPV = cPV,W PPV

(89.17)

Today, PV cell prices are about 3.0 USD/W for thin film cells (η∼0.08), and 4.8 USD/W for monocrystaline cells (η ∼ 0.12 − 0.15).

1560

V. Badescu et al. Table 89.3 Cost estimations

Component

Cost/Unit

Units

Fabric Duct D = 9 m 900 USD/m

360,000 m

Installation Pumps PV Plant Lidding 60%

360,000 m 204,000 kW 204,000 kW 6000 km2

400 USD/m 800 USD/KW 4800 USD/KW 1.0 USD/m2

Total MUSD 324

144 163 980 6000

Totals One complete pumping unit for 1 km3 /year: 1611 MUSD

6000 MUSD

To evaluate the financial magnitude of partially covering Lake Eyre we have to calculate: ccover = xSlake ccover,1

(89.18)

An estimation of the investment costs is summed in Table 89.3. We also estimate that the pumping systems will be largely maintenance-free (cost ∼ 2% /year), but the floating lid will require higher maintenance (cost ∼ 10% /year). In order to effectively raise water levels and transform Lake Eyre from ephemeral to permanent, more (3−5) such pumping units have to be installed, raising the total cost of the project to 12−14 GUSD and maintenance costs to about 0.8 GUSD/year. Finally, note that the computations reported here are very rough and in actual practice the costs of the macro-project may be higher.

89.5 Seawater Irrigation Macroproject In what follows, some considerations on biosaline agriculture are now addressed. While we do not expect that this sector alone will make for the huge costs of this macroeconomic project, it is a good example of an activity enabled by this project, with potential to enhance the economic viability of the region. Biosaline irrigation requires no special equipment. Existing test farms have tried either flood irrigation of large basins or broadcast seawater (Glenn, Brown, & O’Leary, 1988). Seawater agriculture needs ~35% more irrigation fluid when crops are grown using seawater than conventional crops using freshwater. The main problem is that the land evaporates sweet water and the land’s soil salinity will increase year by year. However, generally, there are no insurmountable macroengineering problems associated with biosaline agriculture (Ozturk, Waisel, Khan, & Gork, 2006). Input values were suggested from the Project Ras al-Zawr (located in Saudi Arabia, north of Jubail on the Persian Gulf) where Salicornia bigelovii is cultivated (SaudiAramCo, 2007). There, computer-controlled pivot-irrigation arms sprayed seawater sucked in by three diesel pumps at a rate exceeding 28 m3 /min each unit watering a 50 ha (20.2 acres) circle. It took 6.5 h for the arms to complete one circuit. From these data one easily finds that qw,1 = 0.0093 ·10−4 m3 /(m2 s).

89

Geo-Engineering South Australia

1561

The irrigation installation cost cirrig is, of course, proportional with the irrigated land surface: cirrig = Sirrig cirrig,1 (89.19) where cirrig,1 is the cost of irrigating a unit surface of cultivated crops. Depending on the crops, cirrig,1 ranges from 200 to 2,000 USD/acre (Farm Management, 2007) (one acre equals about 4,048 m2 ). Here we accept 750 USD/acre which then yields cirrig,1 = 0.185 USD/m2 . The annual maintenance cost for the irrigation installation, cirrig,maint,1 is cirrig,main,1 = firrig,maint cirrig (89.20) where firrig,maint is a given fraction. Here firrig,main = 0.05 has been adopted. The yearly maintenance cost firrig,main for the time period t of the irrigation installation is: cirrig,maint = cirrig,maint,1 (t/365·24·3600)

(89.21)

The cost associated to the irrigation installation, ctot,irrig , after the time period ctot,irrig = cirrig + cirrig,maint

(89.22)

The economic gain per year from the crops irrigated with seawater, girrig,year , is given by girrig,year = Sirrig girrig,1

(89.23)

where girrig,1 is the economic gain per unit surface of cultivated crops, per year. The economic gain after the time period t from the cultivated crops, girrig is given by girrig = girrig,1 (t/365·24·3600)

(89.24)

During 6 years of field trials in Mexico, Salicornia bigelovii produced an average annual crop of 1.7 kg/m2 of total biomass and 0.2 kg/m2 of oilseed (Imaz, Gay, Friedmann, & Goldberg, 1998). It is expected that the benefit consists of food products like cooking oil and “sea asparagus”, a delicacy that sells in Europe for USD 40/kg. In calculations, we considered as possible sale products: oil (0.75 USD/kg) and sea asparagus (40 USD/kg) but only results for this last (more advantageous economically) product are given here. In the two cases, girrig,1 is evaluated to about 0.15 USD/m2 and 8 USD/m2 , respectively.

89.6 Ecological, Cultural and Social Consequences This paper focuses mainly on technical and economical aspects. Ecological, cultural and social consequences of the macroproject (both positive and negative) have not been fully considered. To provide a perspective, a few considerations are presented next.

1562

V. Badescu et al.

An important problem is that, with continuous seawater imported from the Indian Ocean, the salinity of Eyre Lake will increase year by year. A rather similar problem occurs in case of closed seas, such as the Caspian Sea. But this large body of water has a rather constant salinity because it fills up by fresh river water. The difference is that in case of Lake Eyre, one has an anthropogenic salinization of an episodic inland body of brackish water (Williams, 2001). The accumulation of salt and its effects on Lake Eyre have to be examined and solutions proposed to diminish the consequences have to be proposed. For example, an artificial evaporative southern gulf of the ESR might be created, playing the same role that Kara-Bogaz Gol does for the Caspian Sea. In this way, the ESR’s salinity might be kept within reasonable limits. Also, a solution exists to extract freshwater from the Earth-atmosphere (Bolonkin, 2007). This freshwater might be used to decrease the seawater importation need. But the implementation of these (and other) solutions should be studied in much more detail. The present macroproject should be underpinned by an inter-basin freshwater transfer macroengineering plan renewal, viz., the diversion of Cooper Creek (Kingsford, Boulton, & Puckridge, 1998; Walker, Puckridge, & Blanch, 1997). Cooper Creek is one of the last “wild” (i.e. unregulated) river systems in Australia and is protected by the “Lake Eyre Basin Agreement.” But the valuable and infrequent river runoff may be used to dilute from time to time the Eyre Seawater Reservoir, replacing for time intervals the import of seawater. The potential inflow to Lake Eyre contributed by the Diamantina River must also be dealt with somehow. Given that these, and the other rivers that flow into Lake Eyre, have the potential to fill the lake in times of flood the diversion of these rivers would constitute a macroproject in itself. In addition to the large and irregular flood events that fill the lake, brackish water also covers half of the lake every three years and more than half the lake every ten years (Kingsford & Porter, 1993). All these aspects should be studied in detail and solutions to keep the salinity of ESR at a reasonable level should be proposed. Lake Eyre is not a heavily brackish lake and the land surrounding the present-day lake is not a barren desert. There are abundant plant and animal species established in this region. Indeed, Lake Eyre is one of Australia’s largest ephemeral wetlands and a major breeding ground for water-birds. When Lake Eyre floods it supports great numbers of birds, fish and invertebrates. Kingsford and Porter (1993) estimate more than 100,000 water-birds use the lake while Roshier, Robertson, Kingsford, and Green (2001) allege the Lake Eyre Basin has the highest habitat availability for water-birds in Australia, with interconnected wetlands providing broad pathways to the wetter regions of currently drought-stricken southeastern Australia. Also, unpredictable rainfalls produce regions that support a high diversity and abundance of wildlife (Stafford Smith, & Morton, 1990). This macroproject could, no doubt, disturb the extant Lake Eyre Basin ecosystem. Lake Eyre acts as an ephemeral breeding ground for numerous bird species; covering any part of it with floating material could upset this activity, even if, as proposed, the lid will not come close to the shores. Varying Lake Eyre’s salinity, water composition, O2 content, could have adverse effects too.

89

Geo-Engineering South Australia

1563

Australia is a highly urbanized country and more than 50% of Australians live within 10 km (6.2 mi) of the world ocean (Chen & McAneney, 2006). In southern Australia, South Australia is classified as mostly “remote”, “other regionalrural” and “small regional” in terms of human settlement characteristics. Only Adelaide is a “large city” (Rofe & Oakley, 2006). The desert surrounding Lake Eyre is a region of very low population density and with a low future population growth projection (Taylor, 2003); human demographic projections are unlikely to change radically. It is preferable that development occur only after the Eyre Seawater Reservoir is emplaced and indisputably proven to be a benefic solution by computer modeling (Dean, Flowerdew, Lawrence, & Eckermann, 2006). Provision for no or insignificant cultural heritage damage to take place ought to be assured. Also, the capping of Lake Eyre would have consequences on the aesthetics of the landscape which is a tourist attraction. The lake is protected as a National Park. How groundwater flow beneath Lake Eyre might be changed by ESR’s presence should also be studied, even if no important negative effects are expected (Holzbecher, 2005). There is a possibility the topography and soils will endure some landscape contamination during emergencies. Design solutions should be proposed to ensure that the visual impact to be tolerable as the hoses/pipelines/tubes can be camouflaged, that the region’s groundwater and surface waters won’t be polluted, that air quality may improve (less blowing dust), that noise from enclosed electric pumps won’t provide a nuisance to anyone, and that construction wastes will be removed and/or discretely entombed. In addition, further research is necessary on the macro-project’s possible effects on flora and fauna, groundwater, water and soil salinity and aesthetic and cultural values. A useful initial reference along this line is Williams (2002). There are many benefits of the macroproject such as provision of photovoltaic energy, potential human settlement in the region, and increased areas for grazing stock. Also, there would be immeasurable economic gains stemming from the removal of dry land as a source of dust storms (Shao, Leys, McTainsh, & Tews, 2007) – it would be immersed by imported seawater – and locally enhanced rainfall will help curtail/diminish such damaging weather events in the region. All of these should be studied in much more detail. A full-of-water Lake Eyre may change the surrounding climate around, making it more favorable for human settlements. Such a change has been studied with rather disappointing preliminary conclusions; it remains under public debate (Hope & Neville, 2004). We have shown that biosaline agriculture in the ESR region might be profitable. However, a much smaller scale experiment closer to the coast (even at the scale of single landholder) might be more appropriate before undertaking an ESR macroproject. Indeed, this experiment would eliminate the costs of both ducted pipelines to the lake and costs of transporting the produce from such a remote region. Also, it is obvious that sea asparagus gains its high price per kilogram from the fact that it is somewhat of a “novelty” product; the mass production of sea asparagus could lower the prices. These aspects should be studied, too.

1564

V. Badescu et al.

89.7 Conclusions The present work proposes a macroengineering project, aimed at stimulating economic activity and human settlement in the Lake Eyre Basin. This territory, belonging to South Australia, often described as picturesque, is semiarid and practically unsettled. Historically, human settlement in the region was dependent on traditional agriculture as a basis, eventually followed by urbanization and industrial activities. In the past 150 years, a number of proposals were made, but none convinced or demonstrated the possibility of improving local arid conditions of inland central Australia. It may be that the chronic lack of freshwater and salt-ridden soils in the Lake Eyre Basin do not allow for the traditional agriculture economy. But, during the early 21st century, it may opportune to change this previous paradigm. The all-important quantity in this new macroengineering thinking is energy, instead of rich soils and precipitation. The Lake Eyre Basin is suitable for clean, large scale photovoltaic energy production. Large quantities of seawater can be transported without losses on the ground, using large, cheap tension textile tubes. Saltwater from the Indian Ocean can be pumped for input into Lake Eyre, which can be used as seawater reservoir for biosaline agriculture on its encircling shore. Increasing and stabilizing the level of the lake is of crucial importance in the macroproject. For this, apart from the relatively modest saltwater additional input, evaporation from the lake has to be reduced; the only means to perform this is by liding the lake with a floating, impervious, plastic mat (or, alternatively, with buoyant white hollow plastic balls). The exact composition and desired optical properties (reflectance) of this cap remain to be seen. Suppressing evaporation of the freshwater/brackish water is an important factor designed to raise the level of the lake and has the beneficial consequence of preventing salt concentration. In a first stage, in the period of raising levels, salinity is expected even to decrease. A crude economic cost estimate is included in this paper. We do believe that all the methods and elements presented in this article work, but using them together may even have a synergic effect. However, further research is necessary to provide a broader perspective on both the benefits and the negative consequences of this specific macroproject. The main lines of future research are briefly described in the section entitled Ecological, Cultural and Social Consequences.

References Allan, G. L., Banens, B., & Fielder S. (2001). Developing commercial inland saline aquaculture in Australia: Part 2. Resource inventory and assessment. (FRDC Project No. 98/335; NSW Fisheries Final Report Series, No. 31, 62–63). Badescu, V. (2006). Simple optimization procedure for silicon-based solar cell interconnection in a series-parallel PV module. Energy Conversion and Management, 47, 1146–1158. Badescu, V., Cathcart, R. B., & Schuiling, R. D. (Eds.). (2006). Macro-Engineering. A challenge for the future (Vol. 54). Dordrecht: Springer, Water Science and Technology Library. Boia, L. (2005). The weather in the imagination. Chicago, IL: Reaktion Books.

89

Geo-Engineering South Australia

1565

Bolonkin, A. (2007). Extraction of freshwater and energy from attmosphere. Retrieved from http://arxiv.org/ftp/arxiv/papers/0704/0704.2571.pdf Chen, K., & McAneney, J. (2006). High-resolution estimates of Australia’s coastal population, Geophysical Research Letters, 33, L16601. Dean, S. M., Flowerdew, J., Lawrence, B., & Eckermann, S. (2006). Parameterization of orographic cloud dynamics in a GCM. Climatic Dynamics, 28, 581–597. DeVogel, S. B., Mageeb, J. W., Manleya, W. F., & Millerc, G. H. (2004). A GIS-based reconstruction of late Quaternary paleohydrology: Lake Eyre, air central Australia. Palaeogeography, Palaeoclimatology, Paleoecology, 204, 1–13. DESERTEC. (2008). DESERTEC – Australia Clean power from deserts. Retrieved November 23, 2008, from http://www.trec.net.au Farm Management. (2007). Retrieved October 10, 2007, from http://www.cook.rutgers. edu/~farmmgmt/ne-budgets/methodology.html Fleming, M. (1995). Australian water resources are different. Australian Science, 16, 8–10. Gaskill, A., & Reese, C. E. (2008). Global albedo enhancement project. Retrieved November 23, 2008, from http://www.global-warming-geo-engineering.org/Albedo-Enhancement/ Introduction/Disadvantages/ag3.html Ghassemi, F., & White, I. (2006). Inter-Basin water transfer: Case studies from Australia, United States, Canada, China and India. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gibbs, L. M. (2006). Valuing water: Variability and the Lake Eyre basin, central Australia. Australian Geographer, 37, 73–85. Glenn, E. P., Brown, J. J., & O’Leary, J. W. (1988). Irrigating crops with seawater. Scientific American, 279, 76–81. Holzbecher, E. (2005). Groundwater flow pattern in the vicinity of a salt lake. Hydrobiologia, 552, 233. Hope, P. K., & Neville, N. (2004). The rainfall response to permanent inland water in Australia. Australian Meteorological Magazine, 53, 251–262. Imaz, M., Gay, C., Friedmann, R., & Goldberg, B. (1998). Mexico joins the venture: Joint implementation and greenhouse gas emissions reduction. Berkeley, CA: Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory, Environmental Energy Technologies Division, paper LBNL-4200. (Work supported by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency through the U.S. Department of Energy under Contract No. DE AC03 76SF00098). Kingsford, R. (2006) Ecology of desert rivers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kingsford, R., Boulton, A. J., & Puckridge, J. M. (1998). Challenges in managing dry land rivers crossing political boundaries: lessons from Cooper Creek and the Paroo River, Central Australia. Aquatic Conservation: Marine and Freshwater Systems, 8, 361. Kingsford R. T., & Porter, J. L. (1993). Waterbirds of Lake Eyre, Australia. Biological Conservation, 65, 141–151. Kurokawa, K. (2006). Energy from the desert: Practical proposals for very large scale photovoltaic systems. London: Earthscan. McMahon, T. A., Murphy, R., Little, P., Costelloe, J. F., Peel, M. C., Chiew, F. S. H., et al. (2005). Hydrology of Lake Eyre Basin. Melbourne, VIC: University of Melbourne and Sinclair Knight Merz, Malvern Victoria: Australia. Department of Civil and Environmental Engineering. Ozturk, M., Waisel, Y., Khan, M. A., & Gork, G. (2006). Biosaline agriculture and salinity tolerance in plants. Basel: Birkhauser. Pigram, J. (2006). Australia’s water resources: from use to management. Melbourne: CSIRO Publishing. Rofe, M. W., & Oakley, S. (2006). Constructing the Port: External perceptions and interventions in the making of place in Port Adelaide, South Australia. Geographical Research, 44, 272–284. Roshier, D. A., Robertson, A. I., Kingsford, R. T., & Green, D. G. (2001). Continental-scale interactions with temporary resources may explain the paradox of large populations of desert waterbirds in Australia. Landscape Ecology, 16, 547–556.

1566

V. Badescu et al.

SaudiAramCo. (2007). Retrieved October 10, 2007, from http://www.saudiaramcoworld.com/ issue/199406/samphire-from.sea.to.shining.seed.htm Shao, Y., Leys, J. F., McTainsh, G. H., & Tews, K. (2007) Numerical simulation of the October 2002 dust event in Australia. Journal of Geophysical Research, 112, D08207. Sohn, E. (2007). The big dry. Science News, 172, 266. Solar Irradiation Database. (2007). Retrieved October 10, 2007, from http://energy.caeds. eng.uml.edu/fpdb/Irrdata.asp Stafford Smith, D. M., & Morton S. R. (1990). A framework for the ecology of arid Australia. Journal of Arid Environments, 18, 255–278. Taylor, J. (2003). Population futures in the Australian desert. Australian Geographer, 34, 355–370. Walker, K. F., Puckridge, J. T., & Blanch, S. J. (1997). Irrigation development on Cooper Creek, Central Australia: Prospects for a regulated economy in a boom-and-bust ecology, Aquatic Conservation; Marine and Freshwater Systems, 7, 63. Williams, W. D. (2001). Anthropogenic salinization of inland waters. Hydrobiologia, 466, 329. Williams, W. D. (2002). Environmental threats to salt lakes and the likely status of inland saline ecosystems in 2025. Environmental Conservation, 29, 154–167.

Part XI

Dams

Chapter 90

Mega-Hydroelectric Power Generation on the Yangtze River: The Three Gorges Dam Stuart A. Harris

90.1 Introduction Arguably the most aggressive and important development of the late 20th and the first part of the 21st century is the Three Gorges Dam in the People’s Republic of China. It represents a major stepping stone in the industrialization of China and has the potential to bring a more comfortable life to millions of people, but at considerable cost to many others (International Rivers Network, 2003; Shen, 1998). It has also resulted in a vast change in the landscape along a considerable portion of one of the world’s three longest rivers (Dai, 1994; Pomfret, 2001). There are enormous environmental risks and consequences which have engendered a substantial amount of debate, both in China and in the rest of the world. This paper will summarize the main issues in the debate.

90.2 The Physical Setting The People’s Republic of China controls one of the four largest land areas in the world. It lies in eastern Asia and is bounded on its north side by the cold Taiga forests of Siberia and on the south by the northern slopes of the Himalayan mountain chain (Fig. 90.1). The western part is arid while the eastern side experiences Monsoon rains and occasional typhoons. Unfortunately, the precipitation is seasonal and highly variable from year to year. Topographically, it consists of a succession of step-like surfaces, the highest one being the Tibetan Plateau at 5,000 m (16.404 ft) elevation. All these plateaus have mountain chains rising above the general ground surface. Since the Indian Plate is still advancing northwards under the Asian Plate, surfaces such as the Tibetan Plateau, together with the various mountain ranges on them are still rising, accompanied by frequent major earthquakes.

S.A. Harris (B) Department of Geography, University of Calgary, Calgary, AB, T2N 1N4, Canada e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_90,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1569

1570

S.A. Harris

Fig. 90.1 Circular map with China highlighted

The third longest river in the world, the Yangtze, has its headwaters on the Plateau, and flows eastwards for 6,720 km (3,964 mi) to the East China Sea across the wetter, eastern side of China, cutting spectacular gorges through the outer margins of the succession of mountains located on the lower surfaces. The river developed when the floor of the former Tethys Sea became dry land in the area now called Tibet. The Yangtze has sufficient erosive power to have been able to cut down through the rising mountains crossing its path, so producing a succession of spectacular gorges, i.e., it is an antecedent stream. When it reaches the 200 m (656 ft) surface, it has an annual volume of 451 billion cubic meters from a drainage area of one million km2 (386,130 mi2 ). There it has cut an open valley in granite bedrock in the mountain range at the front of the terrace, producing good conditions for building a dam. Below this point, the river enters its flood plain, and flows some 1,500 km (932 mi) to the East China Sea. Under natural conditions this broad coastal plain is periodically subject to serious flooding. The river enters the sea at Shanghai, which is the most important port in China, analogous to New Orleans on the Mississippi delta. The river has been navigable from there to a point 2,620 km (1,628 mi) inland, while small junks and rafts can navigate even further inland for 8 months of the year. The limitations to increased navigation are not merely the gorges, but include the precipitation regimes along the river. There can be catastrophic precipitation in any of the three main zones, viz., the upper Yangtze, the middle reaches, or on the

90

Mega-Hydroelectric Power Generation on the Yangtze River

1571

coastal lowland, resulting in major downstream flooding. There can also be major droughts, e.g., in early 2008, when there was too little water in the river on the coastal lowland, so that boats were left stranded along the river banks and farmers lacked the water to irrigate their rice crops (Watts ,2008). In 1342 A.D., the Yangtze River in Jiangzu Province ran dry, with the river bed being exposed for a day. This was repeated on 13 January 1954 (Australian Chinese Daily Magazine, 2007). On the other hand, in 1954, 193,000 km3 (47.75 million acres) of land were flooded, and 18,884,000 people had to be evacuated from Wuhan (population 8 million people) and the surrounding area for more than three months. At least 33,169 people drowned and the Jingguang Railway was out of service for over 100 days (China Culture Mall Trading Group, Inc., 2007). Wuhan, some 900 km (560 mi) inland, is the area in which Chinese agriculture began in Neolithic times, 4,000–10,000 years ago, at the junction of the Han and Yangtze rivers (Ren, 1996). This area represents some of the most fertile land in a country where less than 10% of the land is suitable for intensive agriculture. Wuhan was the capital during the first two Chinese dynasties, before the center of political power moved north.

90.3 History of the Project When Sun Yat-Sen began the revolutionary movement in Wuhan, he realized the potential value of harnessing the Yangtze River, and in 1919 proposed that a dam be built (China Culture Mall Trading Group, Inc., 2007). In 1932 preliminary work was commenced on plans for building a dam by the Nationalist government of Chiang Kai-shek. The Japanese captured the region in 1939 and produced the Otani plan. After their defeat, the Chinese continued work with the aid of the US Bureau of Reclamation (Jones & Freeman, 2008). Mao Zedong rhapsodized about the dam in a poem, but economic problems prevented its progress. Li Peng restarted design work in the 1980s and finally in 1992 the construction of the dam was approved by the National People’s Congress, despite a record number of absentee members. This was probably in response to the environmental and other concerns raised by many people. Actual construction was started on 14 December1994 (Allin, 2004).

90.4 The Three Gorges Dam This is the largest hydroelectric project in the world, with a generating capacity projected to be 22,500 megawatts when it becomes fully operational in 2011. It will have 34 generators, of which 32 are main generators with an output of 700 MW. The other two are power plant generators producing 50 MW. The dam is located at Sandouping, Yichang, in Hubei Province, and will hold back 39.3 km3 of water (Fig. 90.2). The dam is 2,335 m (7,661 ft) in length, 101 m (331 ft) high, and has a thickness of 115 m (377 ft) at the base, tapering to 40 m

1572

S.A. Harris

Fig. 90.2 Oblique map of the Yangtze River

(131 ft) at the top. It is constructed of reinforced concrete and is designed to withstand earthquakes of up to 7.0 on the Richter scale. In addition, there are locks designed to allow the passage of freighters of up to 10,000 tons. The impounded water forms a lake extending almost 900 km (559 mi) upstream that can be seen from space, like the Great Wall of China (Fig. 90.3). It is also regarded as a symbol of the capability of the present-day People’s Republic of China.

90.5 Economics The lower inflation rate in China since 1994 has allowed the cost to be reduced from 203.9 billion Yuan to about 180 billion Yuan or $US 25 billion (China Three Gorges Project Corporation, 2006, 2007). This cost is expected to be recovered when the electricity output reaches 1000 TWh at a selling price of 250 billion Yuan ($US 30 billion), estimated to occur in about 10 years after the dam reaches full operation in 2011 (China Culture Mall Trading Group, Inc., 2007). Interim funding comes from the Three Gorges Dam Construction Fund, the World Bank, revenue from the Gezhouba Dam which was built first, policy loans from the China Development Bank, loans from commercial banks around the world, corporate bonds, and revenue from the electrical power already being generated. Every province receiving power from the project must pay an additional charge of 7.00 Yuan ($US 0.88) per MWh. All other provinces except Tibet have to pay a tax of 4.00 Yuan ($US 0.50) per MWh (China Three Gorges Project Corporation, 2003). As of 1 July 2008, the Three Gorges Dam Project had already generated over 235 TWh of electricity (Table 1 from Xinhua News Agency, 2007-12-08).

90

Mega-Hydroelectric Power Generation on the Yangtze River

1573

Fig. 90.3 Satellite photos of the Yangtze River dam site: (a) 1987, (b) 2006. (Source: EarthObservatory.NASA.gov/Newsroom/NewImages, accessed Oct 7, 2008)

Presumably when the debts are paid off, the Three Gorges Dam Project will generate funds that can be used by the China Three Gorges Project Corporation for new projects or to reduce energy costs in China.

90.6 Benefits: Real or Projected Apart from the nationalistic pride involved in building the largest hydroelectric dam in the world, there are a number of real or probable benefits from the construction. These are outlined below.

90.6.1 Provision of Clean Energy As has been widely discussed before and during the 9th Olympic Games in Beijing, air pollution is a major problem in eastern China. The major source of energy for heating buildings has traditionally been coal. It took 366 g of coal to generate 1 kWh

1574

S.A. Harris

of electricity in 2006 (National Development and Reform Commission of China, 2007). It is argued that the electricity from the project will replace coal consumption by 31 million tons per year, potentially cutting the emission of greenhouse gases by 100 million tons (Carbonplanet, 2006). In addition, burning coal discharges millions of tons of dust, 1 million tons of sulfur dioxide, 370 thousand tons of nitric oxide, 10 thousand tons of carbon monoxide and a considerable amount of mercury into the atmosphere (China Three Gorges Project Corporation, 2006). However, this reduction assumes no growth in use of energy in the region, which is unlikely. The migration of peasants to the cities in search of work and a better life, coupled with the rapid growth in the industrial sector seem likely to increase energy consumption in the future. The advent of numerous cars replacing bicycles on the streets of the cities, coupled with the rapid industrial growth has been making air quality an even worse problem. The provision of large quantities of electricity to at least part of the main industrial area of the country must slow the increase in air pollution in that region. It is likely that most of the electricity will be used in the Yangtze industrial corridor since too much energy is lost in the transmission lines if it is transported to distant locations. However, because there are at least 8,000 chemical plants along the lower Yangtze River, it cannot result in a complete clean-up of the air in the region.

90.6.2 Navigation The dam affects the type of shipping along the Yangtze. Previously, only vessels smaller than 1,500 tons capacity could travel beyond the dam site due to the gorges, and then only for 8 months of the year. Raising the water level behind the dam and installing ship locks capable of lifting ships up to 10,000 tons will make yearround navigation possible for larger vessels on the lower 660 km (410 mi) of the impounded lake. This improvement is expected to increase the river shipping from 10 million tons to 100 million tons per year. Cost of shipping is projected to decrease by 30–37% (China Economic Review, 2007). So far, the freight capacity of the river has increased six times and the cost of shipping has decreased by 25%. Completion of the ship lift system in 2014 should improve the situation, although the ship lift may be down-sized to one that has a 3,000 ton capacity (Three Gorges Probe, 2005). It will also encourage industrial development along the river above the dam.

90.6.3 Flood Control and Drought Relief This could be the most significant potential function of the dam if it is allowed to take on this role as well as generation of electricity. The storage capacity of the dam is 22 billion m3 (18 million acre ft). It has the potential of being used for flood control to protect the area downstream. There would have to be some modification to the electricity production at times, but downstream are the cities of Wuhan, Nanjing and Shanghai. In addition, the area along the river represents a large area of some

90

Mega-Hydroelectric Power Generation on the Yangtze River

1575

of China’s most productive farmland, as well as the industrial heartland of China. Until now, the lower Yangtze River has flooded between once in 10 years and once in 100 years. The expectation is that the dam would minimize the effect of the next major flood (China Culture Mall Trading Group, Inc., 2007), presumably referring to those floods originating in the upper or middle reaches of the Yangtze River. As noted above, there can also be major droughts along the lower Yangtze River such as in the early months of 2008. The dam has the potential to alleviate this problem if suitably modified, and it is doubtful if this would seriously reduce the electricity production. Thus far, this aspect of the potential use of the dam does not seem to have been taken into account by the Three Gorges Dam Corporation.

90.6.4 Reforestation The Chinese government has been pressured into reducing deforestation in the area upstream of the dam in order to protect against erosion and siltation. FAO has suggested that the Asia-Pacific region should gain about 6,000 km2 (2,317 mi2 ) of forest in 2008, compared with 13,000 km2 (5,020 mi2 ) net loss of forest each year during the 1990s. The terrible floods in 1988 convinced the government that it needed to restore the former forests of the middle Yangtze area, and it is this memory that has turned around the net forest cover equation for the region (China Economic Review, 2007).

90.6.5 Waste Management The construction of the dam has been accompanied by the completion of many waste treatment plants in the large conurbation and hinterland of Chongqing. Previously, effluent was discharged into the river without treatment, and obviously, the 900 km (559 mi) long lake would become a gigantic sewage pond if steps were not taken to remedy the situation. The Ministry of Environmental Protection of the People’s Republic of China reported that over 50 waste water treatment plans had been built by April 2007, with a total capacity of 1.84 million tons per day. This has resulted in about 65% of the waste water being treated before entering the reservoir. In addition, about 32 landfill sites have been developed which can handle 7664.5 tons of solid waste per day (Wikipedia, 2008).

90.6.6 Water Diversion In 2000 China announced plans to divert water from the Yangtze River to the Huang He. This river often dries up due to overuse since it supplies water to Beijing, Tianjin, etc., in the northern part of the region. At least two routes are possible, the easterly one using sections of the Grand Canal to provide water to Tianjin and a central one connecting the Han to the Huang He. These diversions are expected to be

1576

S.A. Harris

completed in about a decade. A third, western route is planned, but is not projected to be completed for 50 years.

90.6.7 Accumulation of Funds After about 10 years, the cost of the project should be paid off and the revenue generated in future years should provide a significant accumulation of funds after operating and maintenance costs have been covered. Whether the present surtax paid by the Provinces will be removed is unknown, but regardless of this, the Three Gorges Dam Corporation will be building a very large bank balance, similar to the national oil company, Gasprom, in Russia. This can then be used to finance other projects.

90.7 Problems: Real or Suggested There was widespread criticism of the project, both in China and abroad, which started long before the project was approved. The following appear to be the main items that have provoked the concerns.

90.7.1 Relocation of the Former Residents of the Valley A major requirement of the project was the removal of the local residents from the valley upstream of the dam. In the 1990s, it was estimated that 1,130,000 people would lose their homes and farms. It has subsequently been reported that at least 1.4 million people were actually moved, including residents of many riverside towns (Xinhua News Agency, 2008). About 140,000 residents were moved out of Hubei Province to the surrounding areas while the rest have relocated in the Province. The main relocation was completed by 22 July 2008, but on 11 October 2007, the Chinese state media announced that an additional 4 million people will be encouraged to move from their homes near the dam to the Chongqing metropolitan area by the year 2020 (BBC News, 2007-10-12; Jiang Yuxia, 2007; Wang Hongjiang, 2007). This relocation is at least partly related to slope instability which was increased by the new water levels as discussed below. The relocation was difficult for the affected people who lost their homes and had to find new land or jobs elsewhere. Some young people found work on the tour boats run by the State Tourist Bureau, taking foreigners on a tour of the area above and below the dam, but for most, it meant leaving the area in which their family had lived and survived for centuries. The Government sent tax money to be given to the displaced people, but there are accusations that the tax money disappeared after it reached the local government officials, so the displaced people received no financial assistance (Becker, 2000; Julie Chao, 2001-05-15). The intent had been to pay the relocated people 50 Yuan (approximately $US 7) a month to aid in their settling into a new life.

90

Mega-Hydroelectric Power Generation on the Yangtze River

1577

90.7.2 Effect on Local Culture and Aesthetic Values The former river level has been raised over 100m above the dam, flooding about 1300 archaeological sites (Debatty, 2007-12-09). The appearance of the valley has been changed and many undiscovered sites will have been inundated. Where possible, cultural and historic relicts have been moved to higher ground, but many, e.g., the famous “hanging coffins” in the Shen Nong Gorge are part of the landscape disappearing beneath the waters (Hogan, 2008). This is the land of the Ba, an ancient people who settled in the region over 3,000 years ago (Kleeman, 1998). They buried their dead in coffins in caves high above the river. As noted above, the construction of the dam has caused many newer settlers to leave their familiar surroundings and cultures to move to unfamiliar areas where they must start their life anew.

90.7.3 Sedimentation Inevitably, there will be deposition of large quantities of silt in the form of a delta at the head of the impoundment, brought down from the upstream reaches of the Yangtze, though it is claimed that this will be reduced by the construction of other smaller dams upstream (Wikipedia, 2008). Whether this is true remains to be seen. Deforestation of the slopes has been reduced from about 20% in 1950 to about 10% in 2008 (Qing, 1997). Current conditions indicate that 80% of the slopes along the river are yielding about 40 million tons of sediment that is washed down slope into the lake each year. It has been suggested that the people relocated along the lake will cause additional deforestation and erosion as they commence intensive agriculture in former forests. An additional problem is that the higher water levels in the valley will result in higher levels of the water table in the surrounding areas. Already, one village has had to be evacuated because of the development of large cracks as large blocks of land start to slide into the lake (Xinhua News Agency, 2007-5-09). Undoubtedly, this will prove to be an ongoing problem. In 2001 the Changjiang Water Resources Commission identified 1320 zones along the lake with a potential risk of landslides. Of these 760 are expected to become active (Probe International, 12-27-2007). Excessive sedimentation in the artificial lake could block the sluice gates which can cause failure of the dam. This happened in the case of the Banqiao Dam in 1975 that resulted in the failure of another 61 dams downstream. Over 20,000 people were drowned. In the case of the Three Gorges Dam, failure would not trigger failure of other dams, but the tremendous volume of water released would undoubtedly devastate the countryside and cities downstream.. Some hydrologists think that there would be less silt deposition down-stream of the Three Gorges Dam (Winchester, 2008). They argue that this will make the river banks below the dam more vulnerable to failure and flooding. It is also suggested that the large quantities of silt carried past Shanghai strengthen its foundations, and the postulated reduction in sediment will make the city vulnerable to serious flooding.

1578

S.A. Harris

90.7.4 Tectonics The dam will impound a very long lake that crosses several mountain ranges which are still rising. If a severe earthquake occurred under the lake, it could produce waves of water that could overtop the dam and cause severe devastation downstream. This has happened in Chile and could even result in failure of the dam. When the crust of the Earth is loaded with extra weight, isostacy causes a sinking of that part of the crust to compensate for the change. The result may be downward bending of the rocks under the weight (Walcott, 1970). Where the underlying rocks are brittle and faulted, movement may also cause induced earthquakes as the rocks slide along planes of weakness. This is believed to have occurred in the case of the Boulder Dam in the western United States (University of Alaska, Fairbanks, n.d.), and is suspected of causing the 12 May 2008 Sichuan earthquake (Probe International, 6-05-2008).

90.7.5 Pollution Although there has been great progress in building waste water treatment plants, there is still a great deal of pollution of the impounded waters. Since the lake waters are not moving and the water will remain behind the dam for a considerable period of time before passing through the turbines, the lake is likely to become a giant sewage pond unless attention is paid to this being done. The building of new chemical plants and other industrial developments above the dam will tend to make matters worse. Another environmental hazard consists of the toxins contained in over 1,600 factories and mines that have been flooded by the impoundment (PBS, n.d.). Whether the Chinese can control the build-up of contaminants in the lake remains to be seen. The dam also reduces the ability of the river to flush out the humanmade contaminants below the impoundment. Over 1 billion tons of wastewater are discharged into the river each year in the lower Yangtze River, so the pollution levels are predicted to rise. For the current level of pollution, the cost of reclamation is estimated to cost 2.8 billion Yuan to clean this part of the river (Qing, 1997).

90.7.6 Biodiversity The contaminants in the Yangtze River are already blamed for the great decrease in numbers of the Yangtze River porpoise (Nature, 2008). The numbers have been decreasing at the rate of 7.3% per year and it is believed that it will soon become extinct. Mammals accumulate various chemical contaminants such as PCB’s in their organs, which appear to be the reason at least for their decline. Likewise, the Yangtze River dolphin has now been declared officially extinct (Sample, 2007; Turvey, 2007), partly due to the indiscriminate and often illegal fishing practices of dragging longlines of unbaited hooks through their habitat. Several other endemic aquatic species are believed to be becoming extinct, e.g., the Chinese Sturgeon (King 2007) and the Yangtze giant soft-shelled turtle (Yardley, 2008). The Chinese alligator and the Chinese paddlefish are critically endangered.

90

Mega-Hydroelectric Power Generation on the Yangtze River

1579

Fig. 90.4 Map of Three Gorges Dam site features. (Source: Shen and Xie 2004) (For color figure see online version)

During the previous few millennia of human occupation of the Lower Yangtze River area, the original terrestrial vegetation has largely been cleared to provide land for intensive cultivation. As a result, we do not really know what species were present in its original state. Until about 1960 the aquatic fauna was varied and included the above-mentioned species in reasonable numbers. Since then, a combination of industrialization and greater affluence of many local Chinese has resulted in a great increase in the use of power boats for fishing. These developments, coupled with the growth of 9,000 chemical plants along the river banks and the resulting increased pollution, appear to be dooming the aquatic fauna to extinction unless there are drastic changes. Protected parks and natural reserves are needed to protect fragile habitats and threatened ecosystems (Fig. 90.4) (Shen & Xie, 2004).

90.7.7 National Security Concerns The Three Gorges Dam represents an obvious potential target for terrorists. This was pointed out to the US Congress by the US Department of Defense, who regarded it as a potential target for Taiwanese terrorists in the case of a Chinese invasion of that Territory (US Department of Defense, 2004). The Chinese media responded angrily, with General Lui Yuan of the People’s Liberation Army being quoted as saying that the People’s Republic of China would be “seriously on guard against threats from Taiwan independence Terrorists” (BBC News, 2004-09-14).

90.8 Conclusions There have to be sweeping changes whenever a large population of people living in a limited area wish to change their way of life from poor peasants to a western life style. The resulting consumer society requires good income and a plentiful supply of

1580

S.A. Harris

electrical power. The latter generally comes at the expense of the landscape, while the former involves industrialization with all its consequences. The industrial revolution in China is taking place at a tremendous rate and the Lower Yangtze valley is the leader of the change. Obviously, there is much to be gained by the Chinese people if the developments are successful. However there are also some very negative consequences to be overcome. In the worst case scenario, the dam might give way and cause the world’s greatest loss of human lives, together with the crippling of the Chinese industrial machine. How the future will unfold remains to be seen, but the Chinese government regards the potential advantages as outweighing the disadvantages.

References Allin, S. R. F. (2004). An examination of China’s Three Gorges Dam project based on the Framework Presented in the Report of The World Commission on Dams. Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://scholar.lib.vt.edu/theses/available/etd-12142004Australian Chinese Daily Magazine. (2007). See page 140 of the 986th edition, published on 18th August, 2007. BBC News (2004-09-14). Troops sent to protect China dam. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/asia-pacific/3654772.stm 125131/unrestricted/ SA11in_090304.pdf BBC News. (2007-10-12). Millions forced out by China dam. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/7042660.stm Becker, J. (2000). Dam official flees with $930 million. South China Morning Post, May 3rd, 2000. Carbonplanet. (2006). Greenhouse gas emissions by country. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www.carbonplanet.com/home/country_emissions.php China Culture Mall Trading Group, Inc. (2007). The Three Gorges Dam. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www.chinaculturemall.com/Crafts/article.aspx?id=2530 [in Chinese]. China Economic Review. (2007). Yangtze as a vital logistics aid. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www.chinaeconomicreview.com/logistics/?cat=88 [in Chinese]. China Three Gorges Project Corporation. (2003). The Three Gorges Dam. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www.ctgcp..com.cn/sx/sxgczds.php?mClassld=015004 [in Chinese]. China Three Gorges Project Corporation. (2006). Brief explanation of TGP. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www.ctgcp.com.cn/sxsln/index.php [in Chinese]. China Three Gorges Project Corporation. (2007). The Three Gorges Dam. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www.ctgcp.com.cn/sx/sxgczds.php?ClassId=015004 [in Chinese]. Dai, Q. (Ed.). (1994). Yangtze! Yangtze! Debate over the Three Gorges Project. Toronto: Earthscan. Debatty, G. (2007-12-09). Flotsam, jetsam and the Three Gorges Dam. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www.worldchanging.com/archives/007682.html Hogan, C. M. (2008). Shen Nong hanging coffins. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www.megalithic.co.uk/article.php?sid=17946 International Rivers Network. (2003). Human rights dammed off at Three Gorges. Berkley, California. Jiang Y, (2007). China warns of environmental “catastrophe” from Three Gorges dam. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://news.xinhuanet.com/english/2007-09-26/ content_6864252.htm Jones, W. C., & Freeman, M. (2008). Three Gorges Dam: The TVA on the Yangtze River. Washington, DC: Schiller Institute. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www. schillerinstitute.org/economy/phys_econ/phys_econ_3_gorges.html

90

Mega-Hydroelectric Power Generation on the Yangtze River

1581

Julie C. (2001-05-15). Relocation for the giant dam inflames Chinese peasants. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/1925172.stm King, M. (2007). Another extinction for the Chinese Yangtze River? August 16th, 2007. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www.environmentalgraffiti.com/ecology/another-extinctionfor-the-Chinese-Yangtze-River? Kleeman, T. F. (1998). Great perfection: religion and ethnicity in a Chinese MillennialKingdom. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. National Development and Reform Commission of China. (2007). The Three Gorges Dam. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www.ndrc.gov.cn/zjgx/t20070307_120213.htm PBS. (n.d.). Great Wall across the Yangtze. Environmental concerns. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www.pbs.org/itvs/greatwall/controversy3.html Pomfret, J. (2001). China’s giant dam faces huge problems. The Washington Post, 7 January. Probe International (2007-12-27). Three Gorges landslide threat forces villagers to flee. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www.eprf.ca/pi/index.cfm?DSP=content& ContentID=17487 Probe International (2008-6-05). Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www. probeinternational.org/catalog/content_fullstory.php?content. Qing, D, (1997). The River Dragon has come! The Three Gorges Dam and the fate of China’s Yangtze River and its people. East Gate Book. Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe. Ren, S. (1996). Several major achievements in early Neolithic China, ca. 5000 BC. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://http-server.carlton.ca/~bgordon/Rice/papers/REN96.htm Sample, I. (2007). Yangtze river dolphin driven to extinction. The Guardian, Wednesday August 8th, 2007. Shen, D. (1998). New study forecasts Three Gorges resettlement disaster. World Rivers Review, 13(2), 4–6. Shen, G., & Xie, Z. (2004). Three Gorges Project: Chance and challenge. Science, 304(20 April), 681. Three Gorges Probe. (2005). Ship lift work to begin at Three Gorges site. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://threegorgesprobe.org/tgp/index.cfm?DSP=content&ContentID=12712. University of Alaska, Fairbanks, (n.d.). Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www.gi.alaska.edu/ScienceForum/ASF7/739. html US Department of Defense. (2004). Annual report on the military power of the People’s Republic of China. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www.defenselink. mil/pubs/d20040528PRC.pdf Walcott, R. I. (1970). Isostatic response to loading of the crust in Canada. Canadian Journal of Earth Sciences, 7, 716–726. Wang, H. (2007). Millions more face relocation from Three Gorges reservoir area. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://news.xinhuanet.com/english/2007-10-11/ content_6864252.htm Watts, J. (2008). Outlook grim for Asia’s longest river. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://www.the age.com.au/news/world/outlook-grim-for asias-longest river. Wikipedia. (2008). Three Gorges Dam. Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Retrieved August 20, 2008, from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three_Gorges _Dam Winchester, S. (2008). The river at the center of the World: A journey up the Yangtze and back in Chinese Time. Henry Holt and Co. Xinhua News Agency. (2007-05-09). Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://news. xinhuanet.com/newscentre/content [in Chinese]. Xinhua News Agency. (2007-12-08). Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://:hinaneast:xinhuanet.com/jszb/2007-12/08/content_11882715.htm [in Chinese]. Xinhua News Agency. (2008-07-22). Last town was relocated. Retrieved January 21st and 25th, from http://news.xinhuanet.com/newscentre/2008-07-22/content_8750426.htm [in Chinese]. Yardley, J. (2008). Future of Giant Turtle still uncertain. The New York Times, 9th October, 2008; 7th October, 2008. http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/08/world/asia/08turtle.html

Chapter 91

Demographic Impacts of the Three Gorges Dam Yan Tan and Graeme Hugo

91.1 The Scale of Human Displacement The Three Gorges project (TGP) on the Yangtze River in China has three major purposes: flood control, hydropower generation, and navigation improvement. The latest survey of the affected population, land, infrastructure and other assets in the Three Gorges reservoir area was conducted by the Changjiang Water and Resources Commission (CWRC) in 1991–1992. The inventory of flooding losses in the survey reports that at the normal pool level of 175 m (574 ft) at the completion of the dam in 2009, the reservoir will stretch 660 km (373 mi) long and average 1.1 km (.68 mi) wide, encompassing a total area of 1,084 km2 (415 mi2 ) (CWRC, 1993). The reservoir will inundate 24,500 ha (60,539 acres) of cultivated land and orchards, and about 35 km2 (93.8 mi2 ) of residential areas and 824 km (512 mi) of roads. The affected area encompasses 20 cities and counties, 116 towns, 356 communes, and 1,711 villages in Chongqing municipality and Hubei province. Moreover, 1,599 factories and mining industries will be submerged, and 846,200 persons will be directly affected by the project. These people are referred to as the “directly affected population” people whose housing will be submerged. Taking into account the indirectly affected population, natural growth of population and growth of population caused by other factors, the ultimate number of people to be displaced was estimated to be some 1.2 million (CWRC, 1997). Among the “directly affected population,” some 350,000 are rural residents; while 496,200 are urban residents. They were planned to resettle in new cities and towns and engage in their original occupations. Although rural people to be displaced account for only 41.4% of the total, the problems associated with their resettlement are much greater than those associated with resettlement of urban residents. One of the greatest difficulties facing them is how to secure land or seek employment opportunities to compensate for their losses of farmland, housing and other assets, and to help them reconstruct a livelihood after removal.

Y. Tan (B) National Institute of Labour Studies, Flinders University, Adelaide, SA, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_91,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1583

1584

Y. Tan and G. Hugo

Fig. 91.1 The Three Gorges reservoir area. Note: Source: Adapted from the Resettlement Bureau of the Three Gorges Project Construction Committee (TGPCC) of the State Council, China; Resettlement Planning Map of the Three Gorges Reservoir Area, 1997. “A” shows the two sections that comprise the Three Gorges reservoir area is: the Chongqing section and Hubei section. “B” illustrates the sites of cities and counties before and after inundation in the reservoir area

The Three Gorges dam is situated at the lower section of the upper reaches of the Yangtze River. Due to its vast size and also for ease of project management, the Three Gorges reservoir area is divided into two sections, the Chongqing reservoir section and the Hubei reservoir section, on the basis of flooding status, the numbers of people to be displaced, and the responsibilities and administrations dealing with displacement and resettlement (Fig. 91.1). The Chongqing reservoir section is the area with the larger proportion of farmland to be inundated and population to be displaced. It makes up some 80% of the flooding losses and migrants to be relocated. The latest estimate of the number of people to be displaced in the Chongqing reservoir section is 1.138 million. Principal causal factors for the increased number of migrants include: natural growth of the population over the 17-year dam construction period, increasing fertility rates in the reservoir area, and inflows of people due to marriage. The government of China has committed itself to be fully responsible for the TGP resettlement. The optimal goal of TGP displacement and resettlement is “moving out people, keeping a stable society, and helping migrants to become wealthy gradually.” The process of TGP resettlement runs concurrently with the dam construction stages (Table 91.1). By the end of December 2007, the number of people

<90 90–135 135–156 156–175

16, 616 222, 526 230, 348 129, 783 599, 273

Water level of the reservoir (m) in cities 7, 746 47, 107 71, 559 21, 797 148, 209

in townships 9, 904 58, 292 72, 847 39, 524 180, 567

2, 777 46, 368 95, 630 40, 359 185, 134

outside the inside the county county

Rural resettlement

257 25, 029 66, 642 32, 009 123, 937

of which: resettled in distant provinces 37, 043 374, 293 470, 384 231, 463 1, 113, 183

Total

Source: Statistics of urban and rural resettlement by 2005. Available on the official website of the China Three Gorges Project Corporation, http://www.ctgpc.com.cn/sx/news.php?mNewsID=20920

Stage I: 1993–1997 Stage II: 1998–June 2006 Stage III-1: July 2003–May 2006 Stage III-2: June 2006–2009 Total

Dam construction stages

Urban resettlement

Table 91.1 Numbers of people actually displaced in the TGP by the end of 2005

91 Demographic Impacts of the Three Gorges Dam 1585

1586

Y. Tan and G. Hugo

displaced in Chongqing amounted to 1.072 million persons, accounting for 94.2% of the planned figure in Chongqing reservoir section (Peng & Han, 2008). People displaced in Hubei reservoir section amounted to 260,087 persons by the end of 2007 (Xu, 2008). The aggregate number of people actually displaced totaled some 1.33 million by the end of 2007. Of those displaced, about 1.2 million have been resettled within their original counties, while about 190,000 rural migrants have been moved out of their origin counties and resettled in distant places. The whole resettlement work associated with the TGP should be completed by early 2009. At the final phase of resettlement, about 53,000 migrants in Chongqing reservoir section will be displaced and resettled (Peng & Han, 2008).

91.2 Main Schemes of Resettlement 91.2.1 Near Resettlement The Chinese government and resettlement departments consistently insist on the essential resettlement principle: “taking agriculture as the primary sector to accept the displaced rural migrants, and taking land as a fundamental base for rural resettlement.” Near resettlement, which means moving people uphill to nearby local communities within their original county, has been a fundamental approach in settling rural migrants. The authorities and planners of the TGP have drawn lessons from past resettlements of large dam and reservoir projects since the 1950s. People in distant resettlement schemes experienced more physical, psychological, socioeconomic and cultural stress than in the local reservoir areas. Conflicts were often unavoidable between the migrants and the host people, especially over farmland, house-building plots and infrastructure services (Survey Group, 2001). People settled far away tried by every possible means to return to the reservoir area once they perceived themselves as being treated unjustly in the distant destination communities (Jing, 2000). To resettle those reverse-flow people from distant resettlement sites, the governments, especially local government and resettlement authorities had to invest substantial funding and effort. Another concern addressed by the local governments is that moving people away from the sending counties will result in dual losses: resettlement funds and human capital (especially the labor of young people). The early TGP resettlement plan stated that in terms of the willingness of local governments and migrants, all migrants can be resettled locally. It is unnecessary to move them out of their county and the majority of them can be resettled within township’ (REG 1988: 14). This approach was further ratified by the State Council in the Guideline for Dealing with the Three Gorges Project Reservoir Inundation and Resettlement Plans and proposed by the CWRC in July 1994. Nearly half (49.4%) of the total rural migrants displaced (365,701) were resettled through near resettlement by the end of 2005. More than 62% (or 112,371 persons) of the rural migrants were displaced post 2003. Three basic means have been used to secure land for resettling rural migrants in their origin communities: reclaiming uncultivated land on slopes, improving the quality of low yielding land, and taking some land from the host people in the designated resettlement communities. The main problem that

91

Demographic Impacts of the Three Gorges Dam

1587

has restricted the process of near resettlement is the severe inadequacy of farmland sought by any means. The major restrictions of land reclamation and improvement of low yielding land are aggregated by the scarcity of existing uncultivated land, the requirement of national reforestation, deficient capital input to land, lack of facilities for water conservation, deteriorating water supply and soil erosion arising mainly from runoff on steeply sloping land in the reservoir area.

91.2.2 Voluntary Scattered Distant Resettlement A total of 24,214 rural migrants in the Chongqing reservoir section had voluntarily displaced their families and resettled in 27 provinces nationwide (including Chongqing) by the end of 2004. The majority (18,074 persons) of them were resettled in Hubei, while 4,983 were settled in other provinces and 1,157 in non-flooded counties within Chongqing. This spontaneous mobility to locations beyond the reservoir area started mainly from 1996 to 1999. However, these migrants (15,898 persons) displaced (mainly to Hubei) at an earlier time have suffered much stress owing to some major constraints connected to their displacement. The land provided in some receiving locations (e.g., Yichang and Jinzhou cities in Hubei) is inadequate for migrants to restore their agricultural production to premovement levels. Their land is more often than not infertile or subject to frequent floods or droughts. A range of other problems include a lack of economic and technical support in the host communities to help the relocatees restore production; no non-agricultural job opportunities in most of the resettlement locations; difficulties in assimilating into and building new social ties in the host communities; ill-equipped basic infrastructure; and social instabilities in the host communities arising from clashes between the local authorities and/or the host people and the migrants. The problems of unstable resettlement in earlier practice of this program were not placed on the government’s agenda until 2003.

91.2.3 Government-Organized Distant Resettlement (GODR) 91.2.3.1 Resettlement Policy Adjustments and Reasons There have been two major policy adjustments during the process of TGP resettlement (Zhu, 1999). First, commencing in 2000, there has been a shift from settling rural migrants on uphill sites within the immediate reservoir area to encouraging them to move out of their origin counties to more distant resettlement sites. Second, the relocation policy for industrial enterprises in the reservoir area has shifted from simply re-establishing them at a new location to restructuring, merging, or closing down small and non-profitable enterprises. These two adjustments to the TGP resettlement policy mark a turning point in the TGP resettlement process. Prior to 2000 the TGP resettlement merely deployed local resources (especially land) to increase the human carrying capacity of the environment in the reservoir area. Yet, the human-carrying capacity of the land in the reservoir area has been inadequate (Wang & Huang, 2005). This problem existed even before 1993 when

1588

Y. Tan and G. Hugo

the dam project started (Chen, 1987). The cultivated land per capita is less than 1 mu (1 mu=1/15 ha; 0.37 acre) in the submergence area. Due to land inundation and needs for the reconstruction of new cities and towns, the amount of cultivated land per capita has successively shrunk at a rate of 0.11 mu every ten years in the reservoir area (GRICAS, 2000). The uncultivated land potential in the reservoir region is extremely deficient to meet the demands for land of a large population. Rural residents make up 90.2% of the total population (some 14.4 million) in the reservoir region (TGPCC, 2004). The areas above the 175m (574 ft)-inundation line are more populous, having a population density ranging from 600 to 1,000 persons/km2 (230–383 mi2 ). Farming on slopes, especially steeper slopes at gradients of 25◦ and greater, is common in the reservoir area. A national policy on reforestation, carried out since 1998, has been strictly implemented in the reservoir area. Some 83,000 ha (205,893 acres) of cropping land on steep slopes of more than 25º are in need of being returned to forest or grassland (Zhang & Xu, 1997). As a result, land availability is further reduced. The undeveloped land and grassland intended to be reclaimed is only 19,660 ha (46,949 acres) or 0.4% of the total land resource in the reservoir region. The inadequacy of available land provision is especially severe in the seven counties (Zigui, Badong, Wushan, Fengjie, Yunyang, Kaixian and Zhongxian) in the reservoir area. The environment of the reservoir area has severely deteriorated over time due to population growth, resource development, land degradation and natural disasters (e.g., droughts, floods, landslides) (Du & Yan, 1999). Water and soil erosion is the biggest environmental issue in the reservoir area (Lu & Higgitt, 2000; Tan & Yao, 2006). The major threat to the reservoir area also arises from the serious water and soil erosion in the upper reaches of the Yangtze. Soil erosion results in sedimentation of the reservoir affecting the longevity of the dam. Moving migrants out of the reservoir area is a necessary strategy applied by the policy-makers and resettlement practitioners that is designed to relieve the pressure of inadequate land to accommodate rural migrants locally in the reservoir area and to avoid deforestation and cropping on steep slopes, thus reducing the severity of water and soil erosion. 91.2.3.2 Temporal and Spatial Distribution The GODR approach includes two main schemes: moving rural migrants out of the reservoir area to 11 designated provinces or municipality and other non-flooded counties in Chongqing and Hubei. The 11 designated provinces or municipalities are mainly in the economically developed areas of the east coast (Jiangsu, Shanghai, Zhejiang, Guangdong, Fujian, and Shandong) or in regions which directly benefit from flood prevention and electricity generation provided by the project (Hubei, Hunan, Jiangxi, and Anhui). Sichuan province is the exception taking on some of the resettlement as the people of Sichuan and the reservoir area share a similar culture, language, lifestyle, and modes of agricultural production. The core component of the GODR approach is to move some 137,000 rural migrants from the nine counties/districts in the Chongqing reservoir section. Scheme (1) involves the rural migrants from eight countries/districts (Wanzhou,

91

Demographic Impacts of the Three Gorges Dam

N

1589

Distribution of migrants in the following provinces Anhui Fujian Guangdong Hubei Hunan JIangsu JIangxi Shandong Shanghai Sichuan Zhejiang Migrants sending counties within Chongqing reservoir area

Fig. 91.2 Counties of the 11 provinces where TGP migrants were resettled in 2000–2004

Kaixian, Yunyang, Wushan, Fengjie, Zhongxian, Fuling, Fengdu) in the Chongqing reservoir section, as shown in Fig. 91.2. Table 91.2 presents the numbers of migrants and their origins and destinations. Some 95,000 rural people have been displaced to the 11 distant provinces or municipality via Scheme (1) over a five-year period to 2004. They are resettled in some 2,000 localities of 232 counties of the 11 provinces (see Fig. 91.2) (Zhang, 2005). An additional 42,000 rural people have been resettled within 7 non-flooded counties or cities of the Chongqing reservoir area by scheme (2). Also some 25,000 rural migrants in Zigui and Badong counties in Hubei reservoir section have been resettled in the province by the latter scheme. The total number of rural migrants displaced through the GODR schemes totalled 162,000 persons by the end of June 2006 and at a capital cost of 5.04 billion yuan.

1590

Y. Tan and G. Hugo Table 91.2 Distribution of migrants displaced via GODR schemes (2000–2006) Out of Chongqing reservoir section

Origin county/district

Destination provinces

Number of migrants displaced

Yunyang

Shanghai Jiangsu Jiangxi Hubei Total Sichuan Shandong Anhui Hunan Total Zhejiang Fujian Hubei Jiangxi Total Anhui Guangdong Hubei Total Shandong Hunan Hubei Total Shanghai Jiangsu Fujian Jiangxi Hunan Guangdong Total Zhejiang Total Zhejiang Total

5,509 9,258 5,022 2,558 22,347 10,602 5,380 2,783 1,378 20,143 7,002 5,538 1,617 3,195 17,352 5,311 7,005 1,529 13,845 4,715 5,051 1,586 11,352 2,010 1,125 1,523 416 1,037 2,002 8,113 1,419 1,419 707 707

Total 11 Provinces

95,278

Kaixian

Fengjie

Wushan

Zhongxian

Wanzhou

Fuling Fengdu Wuxi Total

Within Chongqing reservoir section Destination county/city Jiangjin Tongliang Liangping Dianjiang Hechuan

Number of migrants displaced 5,852 5,386 2,569 3,172 16,979 4,728

Dianjiang Yongchuan

4,728 3,107 3,054

Liangping Tongliang

6,161 3,038 2,560

Hechuan Jiangjin

5,598 2,963 1,109

Bishan

4,072 3,269

3,269 1,223 1,223 Tongliang 161 161 7 Counties/Cities 42,191 Jiangjin

Source: Data provided by the Chongqing Resettlement Bureau, as requested. Data as of 30 June 2006

The number of the migrants originating from eight counties/districts in the Chongqing reservoir section and displaced to 11 distant provinces, for each year and province, are shown in Table 91.3 and Fig. 91.3. The process of displacing migrants to other provinces via GODR includes three phases: “trial resettlement” of a small number of migrants, “massive resettlement” and “follow-up resettlement.” The first

91

Demographic Impacts of the Three Gorges Dam

1591

Table 91.3 Numbers of migrants displaced to 11 provinces via GODR (2000–2004) Migrants resettled (persons) Destination province

In 2000

In 2001

In 2002

In 2003–2004 Total

Sichuan Jiangsu Shandong Zhejiang Guangdong Jiangxi Anhui Shanghai Hunan Hubei Fujian Total

631 810 611 620 60 817 625 640 703 674 584 7, 321

5, 820 4, 312 4, 090 4, 488 3, 617 3, 467 3, 560 3, 007 3, 065 5, 363 3, 065 4, 3854

2, 818 2, 157 2, 348 1, 894 2, 782 738 821 1, 862 1, 283 1, 253 1, 889 19, 845

1, 333 3, 104 3, 046 2, 126 2, 002 3, 611 3, 088 2, 010 2, 415 0 1, 523 24, 258

10, 602 10, 383 10, 095 9, 128 9, 007 8, 633 8, 094 7, 519 7, 466 7, 290 7, 061 95, 278

Source: Data provided by the Chongqing Resettlement Bureau, as requested. Data as of 30 June 2006 24,000 2003-04 2002 2001 2000

Displaced Persons

21,000 18,000 15,000 12,000 9,000 6,000 3,000 00 Yunyang

Kaixian

Fengjie

Wushan Zhongxian Wanzhou

Fuling

Fengdu

Origin Counties/Districts

Fig. 91.3 Annual number of migrants displaced to 11 provinces (2000–2004). (Source: Data provided by the Chongqing Resettlement Bureau, as requested. Data as of 30 June 2006)

phase, involving 7,321 displaced persons and 11 recipient provinces, was completed in 2000. The second phase started in September 2000 lasted until the end of 2002, displace 63,699 migrants to the 11 provinces. In the third phase (from January 2003August 2004) 24,258 migrants from 7 counties/districts (excluding Zhongxian) in the Chongqing reservoir section were resettled in 10 distant provinces (excluding Hubei). The other 1,900 migrants from Hubei reservoir section were resettled within the province.

1592

Y. Tan and G. Hugo

91.2.3.3 Procedure of GODR Determining eligibility of migrants to be distantly displaced. The procedure used by GODR in both migrant sending and receiving areas involves a series of steps. The first step is to identify the eligible households who must or can be displaced by the GODR. Eligible persons and their households must meet the following requirements, in order of precedence, based on the CWRC’s 1992 survey records of the inventory of physical losses caused by the TGP. They are: • • • • •

rural residents whose houses and farmland will both be flooded; persons whose houses will be flooded; persons whose farmland will be flooded; natural growth in the number of people in the above three categories; and the systematic increase in population from 1992 to 2004.

Official visits and negotiation. Selecting resettlement locations, coordinating migrant sending and receiving areas, and organizing migrant representatives to visit their destination communities are particularly important. To ensure that the process of distant resettlement proceeds smoothly, the TGPCC set out five criteria for selecting resettlement locations: good physical environment, transportation and infrastructure; abundant farmland; high level of economic development; strong leadership at the village and villagers’ group level; and established social practice. It also requires that the conditions of all resettlement locations within a province/municipality be similar for all the GODR exercises. Official visits involve contact, negotiation and visits between the officials of the migrant sending and receiving areas. This process usually begins between late October and mid-November. The group is usually comprised of leaders working in different departments of a migrant sending county and cadres from the towns, villages and villagers’ groups of the sending county. The official visit group would work in the assigned recipient county for 2–5 months or longer. They negotiate the conditions of resettlement locations on behalf of the government and migrants of the sending county. After several rounds of negotiation, the resettlement locations are selected. An agreement on the number of migrants, including where they are from and in which location they are to be resettled, is then signed by both parties. Visits of migrant representatives. This phase occurs between mid-November and March. At this stage resettlement institutions at county, township and village level in the sending areas organize a delegation, composed of a representative (usually the head of a household and usually male) from each eligible migrant family, to visit the distant resettlement locations. Each representative is required to determine a resettlement site, based on the available locations and randomly drawing lots. The representative is also required to sign contracts concerning his family’s removal and on rebuilding houses or purchasing houses from the host people with the township government in the receiving regions. The authorities in the sending and receiving counties will sign agreements on transferring the residence

91

Demographic Impacts of the Three Gorges Dam

1593

registration of migrant households and allocating land to migrants in the host communities. Rebuilding houses. This stage involves the recipient communities allocating land to migrants for house building. Housing construction then begins along with the purchase of available existing houses. The local government is responsible for organizing public bidding for construction, recommending reliable construction agencies to migrants, and inspecting the process and quality of construction. Housebuilding usually takes four months or longer. The compensation migrants received from the government for their loss of original housing and other assets is usually not enough for them to afford the costs in building new houses. Many of them borrowed money from their relatives or friends. Moving migrants out. Migrant families are required to move out of their origin areas before 31 August to ensure that their children are settled in time to attend school at the start of the new academic year in their destinations. This period is an idle season in farming, a period of shifting from the summer farming season to winter farming. Contract farmland for each eligible migrant is allocated within a month after they move into their resettlement sites. Almost all relevant government departments, especially resettlement authorities, transportation (mainly railway, highway, and shipping), and police, are included into the physical removal process to deal with the organization, transportation, safety and services related to the distant removal of the migrants. Resettling migrants. Adjusting farmland from host people or host villages and fairly allocating contract land to eligible migrants is an assurance for the successful displacement in distant resettlement. In 1999 Chinese farmers were given a second term of land use tenure for a period of 30 years, soon after the end of the first term of 20 years of contract land-use tenure from 1978 to 1998. A household is entitled to utilize land, but the land use right is not transferable. In most villages designated to resettle migrants, there is no public land retained after the implementation of the second term of land tenure. The resettlement communities creatively used the “fill-in resettlement” pattern, incorporating “concentrated resettlement” at county and township level with “scattered resettlement” at the village and villagers’ group level. The principle for distributing land to migrants is to ensure that each eligible migrant has a landholding no less than the average for the host people. The measures involved include: • “major adjustment”: breaking down the original land allotment system in a village and redistributing land to every host and migrant household according to the current total population including the migrants; • “minor adjustment”: slightly readjusting the original land relationship of the host residents by allocating a part of the land collected from the host peasants to the migrants; • using part of the retained land, where possible, which has been put aside by the community in a host village for emergency use as contract land for migrants; and • adjusting farmland from the state-owned farms and allocating them to the migrants.

1594

Y. Tan and G. Hugo

Table 91.4 Per capita farmland and area of newly built housing of migrants resettled in 11 provinces 11 provinces receiving TGP migrants

Average farmland in each province (mu)

Farmland allocated to migrants (mu)

Housing area (m2 )

Hunan Jiangxi Jiangsu Hubei Shandong Anhui Zhejiang Shanghai Fujian Guangdong Sichuan Total

0.9 1.0 1.0 1.2 1.3 1.4 0.7 0.3 0.6 0.6 1.6 1.1

2.0 1.8 1.7 1.5 1.3 1.3 1.2 1.2 0.9 0.8 0.7 1.3

34.2 27.9 32.6 55.7 27.7 19.6 34.5 38.7 24.1 19.8 44.1 33.6

Source: TGPCC (2004); NBSC (2005)

On average, each migrant has been contracted 1.3 mu of farmland and has received 33.6 m2 (361.7 ft2 ) living area in their resettlement locations (Table 91.4). A comparison of per capita land of migrants against the average farmland per capita in each corresponding province indicates that migrants in nine of the 11 provinces have been allocated farmland area greater than the averages. The migrants resettled in two provinces (Sichuan and Anhui) have received less farmland than the provincial averages. The majority of housing is concrete/brick structured and storey housing. Compared with their houses in reservoir area, which were mainly built of brick and tile, wood, or earth, the quality of migrants’ new houses in almost all resettlement areas has been enhanced in terms of earthquake-resistance and the level of comfort they provide. Displacement in GODR is rural-to-rural movement in nature. All the rural migrants displaced retain their household registration (hukou) status as agricultural, rather than a direct change of their agricultural residency status into non-agricultural status, despite the fact that some migrant households have been resettled in county city or township settings. The spatial patterns of distant resettlement have dual impacts on the social integration of displaced people. On the negative side, some migrants felt that they were placed in a disadvantageous social position because they regarded themselves as a minority in the host community. Resettlement in a concentrated approach may result in isolation, separating migrants from their host community and thereby reducing their ability to integrate socially. Migrants had to adapt to changes not only in agricultural production measures, but also in the different local languages and culture. On the positive side, they were forced to interact with the host people to build neighborhood relationships and seek assistance. Some groups of migrants (such as the well educated young or those who have relatives and/or friends in the resettlement community) found it relatively easy to integrate into their new community with the progress of the market economy. Yet it was very

91

Demographic Impacts of the Three Gorges Dam

1595

difficult for those who ran businesses before the displacement to initiate new businesses due to the lengthy progress of building a service network and customer base in the new environment. The process of social and economic integration of the new settlers requires some time.

91.3 Moving Towards Developmental Resettlement 91.3.1 Establishing “Aid at the Later Stages” TGP resettlement carries out a “developmental resettlement” policy (State Council, 1993, 2001). This policy supposes that those who are relocated will be assisted in their efforts to improve their former production levels, income-earning capacity and living standards, or at least to restore them to levels preceding the project or before the physical removal. TGP resettlement adopts the principle of “compensation for inundation losses at the early stage (i.e., before and during physical removal) and aid at the later stages (after removal)” (State Counci,l 1993, 2001). The weak basis of industries and a lack of economic development potency are the essential reasons why the “aid at the later stages” approach is crucial for the reservoir area and for migrant individuals. In the Three Gorges reservoir area, about 340,000 rural migrants have been settled via near resettlement schemes. Of these, about 160,000 migrants are at working ages, but some 70,000 persons are surplus labor (Wang & Wang, 2007). The majority of the working-age migrants remain in the reservoir area, while a minor group of them work outside their hometown. At present, 17% of the rural migrants resettled locally live below the national absolute poverty line. In Chongqing 171,800 people who resettled in urban areas depend upon the minimum living subsidy from the social security scheme (CRB, 2008). Assisting livelihood and production reconstruction of the TGP displaced people is being undertaken as a long term political mission at all government levels. Measures of “aid” mainly include: setting up “aid funds,” exemption or reduction of taxes, and preferential policies; arranging industrial projects; organizing partner assistance; nurturing new industries; and providing skills training for the migrants (Fu, 2005). In June 2006, the Development and Reform Commission of the State Council launched a new policy, under which all rural migrants (about 22.9 million persons) produced by the medium or large scale dam and reservoir projects since the 1950s will be financially assisted by the country for a period of 20 years. This scheme commenced from 1 July 2006 for those displaced before 30 June 2006, or from the completion of physical removal for those displaced after 1 July 2006. It is estimated that the bulk of TGP migrants eligible for receiving assistance over a 20year period will total 980,000 persons. Each eligible migrant (holding agricultural registration status) will receive 600 yuan ($90) per annum of direct subsidy from the Ministry of Finance (Chinese government document No. 17, [2006]). The funding will be sourced by the state from requiring the entire society to respond to migrants’ sacrifices, hardships and needs. In the TGP, the “aid” funds were also planned to partly be derived from sales of electricity generated by the TGP. It is planned that

1596

Y. Tan and G. Hugo

0.045 yuan (1 cent) will be derived from the revenue of selling each kilowatt hour of electricity. On average, the “aid” funding from this source is about per capita 392 yuan ($58) a year in the first 10 years beginning in 2003 (Chinese government document No. 43 [2004]). This post-relocation assistance scheme is highly commended by scholars (e.g., Cernea 2007) as an extraordinary policy change, unprecedented in any other developing county.

91.3.2 Strengthening Skills Training It is increasingly difficult for rural migrants to be employed in the conditions of labor over-supply present in both rural and urban areas in the resettlement communities. This is particularly a case in Chongqing reservoir area. A recent survey of the unemployment situations in the cities or towns in the Chongqing reservoir area shows the unemployment rate continued to be as high as 9.3% in 2007 (CRB, 2008). This figure was 2.3 times greater than the national unemployment rate (4.0%) in 2007 (NBSC, 2008). To tackle the current enormous unemployment problems of the displaced people, the local governments in the resettlement communities have launched various training plans to help migrants re-skill themselves and enhance their employability. At the beginning phase (2004–2007) of the training plan, for example, 100,000 migrants in Chongqing were provided with skills training (Wang, 2004). The training program aimed to enable at least one migrant to be educated and employed in non-agricultural jobs for every migrant family by 2007. This target was realized by June 2007. For rural migrants, training focuses on the four leading industrial sectors (citrus plantation, livestock, aquaculture, and tourism) planned for the reservoir area, and based on the increasing demand for the “export of labor.” To meet the demand for labor in other parts (mainly eastern and southern coastal provinces) of the country, skills training mainly lies in the fields of construction and interior decoration, manufacturing, clothing making, and hospitality (e.g., hotel and tourism services). Chongqing treats “export of labor” as a leading sector to fuel its economic development. To optimize results, the training should be more flexible, and responsive to factors such as age structure, gender, knowledge, educational ability, seasons and the practical needs of migrants. In order to help the displaced people reconstruct their livelihoods as quickly as possible, measures are needed to further develop their social capital including efficient and effective government intervention in bringing closure to a rural-urban divide and in providing training modules and financial support to facilitate income generating initiatives.

References Cernea, M. M. (2007). Financing for development: Benefit sharing mechanisms in population resettlement. Economic and Political Weekly, 42(12), 1033–1046. Changjiang Water and Resources Commission (CWRC). (1993). Initial design of the Three Gorges Project: Survey report on the indices of flooding. Prepared by the Changjiang Water and Resources Commission, Wuhan, China (in Chinese).

91

Demographic Impacts of the Three Gorges Dam

1597

Changjiang Water and Resources Commission (CWRC). (1997). Study of the Three Gorges project resettlement. Wuhan: Hubei Science and Technology Press (in Chinese). Chen, G. J. (1987). The TGP area is already overpopulated and local resettlement will be a disaster. Shuitu Baochi (Soil and Water Conservation Bulletin), 7(5), 42–46 (in Chinese). Chongqing Resettlement Bureau (CRB). (2008). 2007 Resettlement work report. Retrieved May 16, 2008, from http://jym.cq.gov.cn/PlanInfo.asp?id=11 Du, Z. H., & Yan, G. A. (1999). Water and soil conservation and environmental improvements in the Three Gorges reservoir area, Changjiang Liuyu Ziyuan Yu Huanjing (Resources and Environment in the Yangtze Basin), 8(3), 299–303 (in Chinese). Fu, Y. Q. (2005). Initial study on the aid for the later stages of the TGP resettlement. Zhongguo Sanxia Jianshe (China Three Gorges Construction). Retrieved March 29, 2008, from http://www.ctgpc.com.cn/sx/news.php?mNewsId=18207 Geographical and Resource Institute of the Chinese Academy of Science (GRICAS). (2000). Study on the resettlement and sustainable development in the Three Gorges reservoir area: Rural resettlement and rural economic sustainable development. Prepared by the GRICAS, Beijing, May (in Chinese). Lu, X. X., & Higgitt, D.L. (2000). Estimating erosion rates on sloping agricultural land in the Yangtze Three Gorges, China, from caesium-137 measurements. Cetena, 39(1), 33–51. Jing, J. (2000). Displacement, resettlement, rehabilitation, reparation and development – China report. City University of New York, Department of Anthropology. Working Paper prepared as a contributing paper to Thematic Review I.3 of the World Commission on Dams. National Bureau of Statistics of China (NBSC). (2005). Statistical yearbook of China 2005. Beijing: China Statistical Bureau Publishing House (in Chinese). National Bureau of Statistics of China (NBSC). (2008). 2007 Statistical bulletin of national economy and social development in China. Retrieved April 16, 2008, from http://www.stats.gov.cn/tjgb/ndtjgb/qgndtjgb/t20080228_402464933.htm Peng, Z. W., & Han, J. (2008). Let migrants become richer, let the Three Gorges be more beautiful. Retrieved April 16, 2008, from http://www.ctgpc.com.cn/sx/news.php?mNewsId=27657 Resettlement Expert Group of the TGP (REG). (1988). Feasibility report on the resettlement scheme of the Three Gorges project. Beijing: Water Conservancy Press (in Chinese). State Council. (1993). Resettlement regulations for the Three Gorges project. (Government document [No. 126] issued by the State Council on 19 August 1993, Sichuan Ribao (Sichuan Daily), 28 August (in Chinese)). State Council. (2001). Resettlement regulations for the Three Gorges project. Government document [No. 299] issued by the State Council on 15 February 2001, Renmin Ribao (People’s Daily), 26 February (in Chinese). Survey Group. (2001). Survey report on the resettlement work in the Sanmenxia reservoir area in Shannxi province. Retrieved December 14, 2002, from http://www.chinawater.com.cn Tan, Y., & Yao. F. J. (2006). Three Gorges project: Effects of resettlement on the environment in the reservoir area and countermeasures. Population and Environment, 27(4), 351–371. Three Gorges Project Construction Commission (TGPCC). (2004). Reports of the TGP resettlement statistics 2003. Official document [2004], Beijing, China (in Chinese). Wang, B. (2004). Skills training has fully started in Chongqing; plans to train 100,000 migrants in the next 4 years. Retrieved January 12, 2008, from http://www.ctgpc.com.cn/sx/ news.php?mNewsId=9486 Wang, B., & Huang, D. (2005). Analysis of environmentally affordable population for sustainable development in the Three Gorges area. Chinese Journal of Population Science, 2, 68–74 (in Chinese). Wang, X. J., & Wang, C. Y. (2007). Research into a demographic model for the migrants produced by the Three Gorges project and digital Three Gorges. Renmin Changjiang (Yangtze River), 38(12), 82–84 (in Chinese). Xu, T. F. (2008). Conscientiously moving reservoir migrants out and assisting them at the later stages. Retrieved May 20, 2008, from http://www.ctgpc.com.cn/sx/news. php?mNewsId=27067. (in Chinese).

1598

Y. Tan and G. Hugo

Zhang, B. X. (2005). Distant resettlement of rural migrants in the Three Gorges reservoir area. Retrieved November 1, 2005, from http://www.ctgpc.com.cn/sx/news.php?mNewsID=14495. (in Chinese). Zhang, J. E., & Xu, Q. (1997). A few important issues regarding the sustainable development in the Three Gorges reservoir area that need to be resolved urgently. Jingji Dili (Economic Geography), 17(2), 54–59 (in Chinese). Zhu, R. J. (1999). Transcript of Premier Zhu Rongji’s speech at the State Council meeting on the Three Gorges project resettlement. In Chongqing Resettlement Bureau (ed.), Guidelines for the distant resettlement of rural resettlers in the Chongqing Reservoir area of the TGP (pp. 1–16). Chongqing, China, Chongqing Resettlement Bureau, Government document (in Chinese).

Chapter 92

Water Worth Gold: The Itaipú Hydroelectric Project1 Melissa H. Birch and Nicolas Quintana Ashwell

92.1 Introduction Construction of what would be the world’s largest hydroelectric facility began in a remote region of South America in 1975. The dam is located on the Paraná River where it forms the border between Brazil and Paraguay (Fig. 92.1). The Itaipú Dam is considered one of the Seven Engineering Wonders of the World (American Society of Civil Engineers 2008). “Mega” by almost any measure, the dam would have an installed capacity of 14,000 MW and an estimated annual output of 66,000 GWh. While the Three Gorges project in China is greater with an installed capacity of 18,200 MW, the power generated by Itaipú, some 93.4 billion kWh will be significantly greater than that produced by Three Gorges Dam. Itaipú generates more electric power than is consumed by the entire country of Paraguay and provides 25% of all the electric power consumed in Brazil, the world’s 9th largest economy. Built at a cost of about $20 billion, the dam is 196 m (643 ft) high (as high as a 65-story building), 7,700 m (25,262 ft) long, and its reservoir covers some 1,350 km2 (517 mi2 ) (Fig. 92.2). Despite the global oil crisis of the 1970s, the economies of both Brazil and Paraguay grew rapidly during the construction of the dam, fueled by the investment associated with the Itaipú project, and the electric power Itaipú produces has enabled Brazil’s continued industrial expansion. The story of this megaproject and its aftermath is the focus of this paper.

92.2 The Role of Large Dams in Economic Development The 20th century saw the construction of a large number of seemingly ever-larger dams, especially in the post WWII period. Rapid economic growth in developing countries resulted in a dramatic increase in demand for food, water and energy, especially in Asia and Latin America. Large dams provided a response to such demand M.H. Birch (B) Center for International Business Education and Research (CIBER), University of Kansas, Lawrence, KS 66045, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_92,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1599

1600

M.H. Birch and N. Quintana Ashwell

Fig. 92.1 Location of Itaipú dam

Fig. 92.2 Aerial view of the spillway and the powerhouse. (Source: Entidad Binacional Itaipú, Press Division)

92

Water Worth Gold: The Itaipú Hydroelectric Project

1601

and offered attractive features for developing countries in terms of employment, irrigation, flood control, and power. By 2000 there were more than 45,000 large dams in over 140 countries (World Commission on Dams, 2000: 8). Nearly 5,000 of these were built between 1970 and 1975, the peak period for dam construction worldwide. While many of those were built in Europe and the US, construction at the end of the 20th century was occurring mainly in developing countries. Hydropower generation in non-OECD countries grew from 29-50% of world production between 1973 and 1996, with Latin America increasing its share by the greatest amount in that period (World Commission on Dams, 2000: 14). Governments in developing countries often see large dam projects as vehicles for regional development and engines of industrial expansion and export growth. Large dams represent an attractive challenge that contributes to nation-building and offers national professionals an opportunity to participate in projects that can demonstrate their skill and stretch their capacity. The imagery of conquering the unknown, civilizing the wild, and controlling the untamed contributes to the idea of modernization, national power and global stature. Thus, the debate over dams is often situated in the broader context of global development, international equity and inter-generational transfers. But a great deal of controversy surrounds large dam projects. Indispensable for raising living standards in developing countries, dams can improve transportation and provide flood control, irrigation, and electric power. Investment associated with construction and operation of large dams creates employment and income with a multiplier effect that extends its impact beyond the immediate project. At the same time, dams change existing physical and social geographies, often irreversibly, causing controversy and consternation. The issue of the costs and benefits of large dam projects is not easily resolved, leading the World Bank and the World Conservation Union to establish the World Commission on Dams (WCD) in 1997. After extensive study, the WCD concluded that the purpose of any dam must be the sustainable improvement of human welfare, and proposed an internationally acceptable set of criteria, guidelines and standards for the planning, design, appraisal, construction, operation, monitoring and decommissioning of dams (World Commission on Dams, 2000). These criteria are based on “values of equity, sustainability, efficiency, participatory decision-making and accountability” (De Francesco & Woodruff, 2007: 10). The central issue in the controversy around large dams centers on the measurement of benefits and costs of such projects. Historically, economic and financial measures such as rates of return, discount rates and sensitivity tests were used to assess the viability of a project, with little regard given to social or environment costs external to the project. The WCD’s analysis of previous dam projects found that often the benefits of a project were overestimated and the costs underestimated (World Commission on Dams, 2000: 130). Many of the large dams constructed in the second half of the 20th century failed to produce the expected benefits in the quantities promised. At the same time, cost over-runs have often been significant, multiplier effects have gone unrealized, and damage to physical environments and local communities has been far more extensive and profound than anticipated. In

1602

M.H. Birch and N. Quintana Ashwell

short, the “magic of the market” has not always materialized when and where it was expected, and the risk of poor performance has been borne by the public sector, with little or no accountability for under-performing projects. The growing prevalence of large dam projects in developing countries adds a layer of complexity to the calculations of cost and benefit. For large projects in developing countries, foreign firms will often play an important role. In fact, with few dams currently being built in the US and Europe, firms located in these countries must find clients in LDCs. U.S. and European governments, anxious to keep skilled workers employed and the tax revenues derived from the high paying jobs and strong corporate profits associated with these firms, are eager to provide financing to developing country governments for engineering, consulting, and technical studies as well as for specialized equipment manufactured in the home country. The potential for conflict of interest looms large in such tied-aid arrangements. At the same time, developing country governments often feel they are being held to a higher standard of transparency, accountability, and environmental compliance than developed country governments were when their megaprojects were built. This paper will examine the impact of the Itaipú project in light of this new thinking on dams some 35 years after construction began. It is an interesting project to examine because the electric power generated by this megaproject was the byproduct of the solution to a problem of international relations. The international relations issues between one of Latin America’s largest economies, and one often reputed to have expansionist tendencies, and one of Latin America’s smallest and poorest ones, provide a fascinating backdrop to the economic and environmental issues. Planning and design choices, population migration and resettlement, and economic and financial impact will all be examined in the following sections. Many of the issues left ambiguous in the Itaipú treaties still complicate transparency and fuel political discussion. As this is being written, the newly elected Paraguayan government has re-opened negotiations with Brazil regarding the price of electric power and the administration of the vast hydroelectric power of the Paraná River.

92.3 The Origins of Itaipú The origins of the Itaipú Dam project are found in a document with an odd name for the beginning of something. The Acta Final, or Final Act, signed on 22 June 1966, was signed by the Ministers of Foreign Relations of Brazil and Paraguay. The Act provided a diplomatic settlement to a nearly century-old boundary dispute regarding the area known as Saltos del Guairá in Paraguay and Salto Grande de Sete Quedas in Brazil. After the War of the Triple Alliance (1865–1870), an 1872 treaty established a commission to demarcate Paraguay’s northeastern boundary with Brazil. However, the commission reached a stalemate some 20 km (12.4 mi) west of the falls when it could not decide which of two forks in the mountain range it was following was the highest. According to the Brazilian interpretation of the international boundary, a dam could be built at the site of the Sete Quedas waterfalls that would lie entirely within

92

Water Worth Gold: The Itaipú Hydroelectric Project

1603

Brazilian territory. Brazilian engineer Octavio Marcondes Ferraz was the designer of the Sete Quedas project, a dam on the Paraná to be built where the river turns south and falls more that 50 m (164 ft).2 It would have an installed capacity of 10 million kilowatts at an estimated cost in 1963 of $1.025 billion. The output of such a dam would have had a ready market in the rapidly growing industrial Center-South of Brazil. But Paraguay disputed this interpretation of the boundary and when Brazilian troops moved into the area in 1965, Paraguay protested. Negotiations between the two countries yielded the Acta Final that provided for the study of the hydroelectric potential “belonging jointly to the two countries” of the Paraná River from the mouth of the Iguaçú River to and including the Saltos del Guairá/Sete Quedas. Indicative of the highly sensitive nature of this issue for both countries, the text of the Acta Final was not made public until June 1973. In 1967 a Joint Technical Commission was created to conduct preliminary feasibility studies and three years later contracts for further study were awarded to two large international engineering companies. The companies identified 10 sites along this stretch of the Paraná River and elaborated 50 different projects from which two were selected as outstanding. The choice between these two projects, Itaipú and Santa María, was made on the basis of cost efficiency. Not incidentally, however, the reservoir created by the Itaipú Dam would flood the disputed territory nearly 200 km (124 mi) upriver near the Saltos del Guairá/Sete Quedas and eliminate the falls forever. Strategic from its inception, Itaipú would forever change the dynamics of international relations in the region as well as the domestic economies of both countries. The Itaipú Treaty, signed in April 1973, created a binational entity owned in equal parts by the state-owned electric companies of Paraguay and Brazil. ANDE and Eletrobrás, respectively, would each contribute $50 million to establish the new firm’s initial capital.3 The binational firm, known as Entidad Binacional Itaipú (EBI) would have a board of directors and an executive committee, each made up of an equal number of Paraguayan and Brazilian representatives. All official documents would be produced in Spanish and Portuguese, but the US dollar would be the accounting currency. When the World Bank and the Inter-American Development Bank were disinterested in financing the Itaipú project, judging it to be vastly disproportionate in scale to the needs of the two countries, EBI went to private capital markets to secure financing for the dam’s construction. The Brazilian government provided a sovereign guarantee to private investors. Fortunately, private sector sovereign lending to Latin American governments was just taking off. At the beginning of the project in 1974, it was estimated that the cost for a dam with 14 turbines would be some $2 billion. A more complete figure for the construction of Itaipú, including the civil works necessary to move personnel and equipment to the site, was $4.2 billion (Debernardi, 1996). The Treaty established that both skilled and unskilled labor, along with materials and equipment, would be used in “an equitable manner,” and materials and personnel would move freely in the area of the dam regardless of their national origin.

1604

M.H. Birch and N. Quintana Ashwell

Fig. 92.3 View of the Penstocks. (Source: Entidad Binacional Itaipú, Press Division)

The installations themselves, however, would have no effect on the determination of the international boundary, which at the site of construction was clear and mutually understood. The concept of “equitable” was less clear. Not defined in the Treaty, it was understood by the Paraguayan public to mean “equal.” Expectations were widespread that Paraguay would contribute 50% of all labor and material for the dam. But the country’s size, in terms of population and economy, compared to the scale of the Itaipú project made that unrealistic, at least in the short term (Quintella, 2008: 287).4 Energy produced by the dam would be divided equally between the two countries and each country would have a preferential right to any power not used by the partner. Nine turbines produce energy at 50 Hz to accommodate the frequency used in Paraguay, while the other nine turbines produce energy at 60 Hz for the Brazilian system. Since Paraguay was not expected to use its half of the energy produced, Brazil pledged to buy all excess power and a facility was build on the Brazilian side to convert the energy ceded by Paraguay to Brazil from 50 Hz to 60 Hz (Nota Reversal 1973: 5). Since the Paraguayan energy grid was already connected to Argentina, and Paraguay had been selling electric power since the 1960s to Argentina, it is not clear why the Itaipú Treaty explicitly excluded third-party sales (Fig. 92.3).5

92.4 Finance and Operation of Itaipú For Brazil, its guarantee of the Itaipú debt added a few million dollars to what would become, during the crisis of the 1980s and 1990s, Latin America’s largest foreign

92

Water Worth Gold: The Itaipú Hydroelectric Project

1605

Table 92.1 Credit Secured by Itaipú Binacional (EOY, 1983) –

–

Amount in US$000

Percent of total debt

–

Total

12, 203, 900

100

By Source and Use of funds

Cash – Brazil Suppliers Credit – Brazil Cash – International Suppliers Credit – International

8, 258, 500

67.7

840, 400

6.9

2, 490, 500 614, 500

20.4 5.0

Source: Itaipú Binacional, Memoria 1983 Table 92.2 Debt of Itaipú Binacional (EOY, 1983) –

–

Amount in US$000

Percent of total debt

–

Total

7, 579, 930

100

By Currency

In Brazilian Currency In US$ In Other Foreign Currency Adjustments∗

4, 108, 656 2, 838, 194 181, 241

54 37 2

451, 839

6

Guaranteed by Brazilian Government Guaranteed by Eletrobrás Other Forms

6, 345, 852

89

70, 593

1

711, 646

10

Eletrobrás Banks in Brazil Banks outside Brazil

3, 473, 439 1, 162, 240 2, 492, 412

49 16 35

By

Guarantora

By Lendera,b

∗ Foreign

exchange and other adjustments on all loans amount for adjustments b Banks in Brazil include foreign banks lending through Brazilian subsidiary, and banks outside Brazil includes Brazilian banks lending through subsidiaries abroad Source: Itaipú Binacional, Memoria 1983 a Excludes

debt. By 1983 Itaipú’s projected cost had grown to $14.2 billion and EBI had contracted or secured credit for up to $12.2 billion (Table 92.1). Almost three-fourths of the funding for the project at this point originated within Brazil. Supplier’s credit for purchases of machinery and equipment in Brazil and abroad amounted to nearly 12% of borrowed funds. At the same time, existing debt in 1983 amounted to some $7.5 billion (Table 92.2). More than half was in Brazilian currency, with the central government of Brazil guaranteeing almost 90% of all loans. Almost half of the funds had been lent to EBI by Eletrobrás, while some 35% had been borrowed from

1606

M.H. Birch and N. Quintana Ashwell Table 92.3 Debt of Itaipú Binacional (EOY 2006)

Creditor

Amount in US$000

% of Total Debt

Eletrobras BIBSa DMLPb FIBRAc Total

19, 633, 631 2, 667 541, 785 38, 943 20,217,026

97.11 0.01 2.68 0.19

a BIBS:

Brazil Investment Bonds do Brasil obligation resulting from restructuring of foreign debt c FIBRA: Fundaçao Itaipú BR de Previdencia e Assistencia Source: Itaipú Binacional, Relatorio (2006) b Banco

abroad, including loans from offshore banking centers. Repayment on much of this debt, both domestic and international, was scheduled to begin in 1984. With power production slated to begin in late 1985, additional financing costs were foreseeable. Over the next 20 years, the Itaipú debt would be restructured and refinanced many times as inflation in Brazil and global financial crises altered conditions in major financial markets. By 2006 the foreign debt had been retired completely, and the remaining debt for the construction of Itaipú, equal to some US$ 20 billion, was internal public debt in Brazil, as shown in Table 92.3.

92.4.1 Price Itaipú began producing electric power for sale in May 1985. Electric power generated by EBI from the Itaipú Dam was to be sold to the national power companies of each country and would feed into the separate national grids. ANDE, the stateowned electric company in Paraguay, and Eletrobrás, the state-owned electric company in Brazil, were thus EBI’s major shareholders and also its major customers. The formula for the price at which this sale would take place was set forth in Annex C to the 1973 Treaty, which stipulates that EBI’s total annual income had to equal the “cost of service” for that year. The total cost of service was defined as the sum of the amounts corresponding to (1) dividends paid to ANDE and Eletrobrás, (2) payment of financial charges and amortization on loans received, (3) royalties paid to the governments of each country (US$650 per GWh generated plus adjustment factor), (4) compensation to ANDE and Eletrobrás for administration and supervision related to Itaipú (US$50 per GWh plus adjustment factor), (5) costs of operation, (6) surplus or deficit from previous years, and (7) remuneration due to Paraguay for ceding energy to Brazil (US$300 per GWh plus adjustment factor). The total charges to the purchasing entities, ANDE and Eletrobrás, had two components: “contracted power” and energy effectively delivered. Contracted power referred to the commitment made by each national electric utility for its energy purchases over a 20 year period, adjusted annually for the following two years. Actual consumption would vary and the difference between total Itaipú production

92

Water Worth Gold: The Itaipú Hydroelectric Project

Table 92.4 Price of electric power

1607

Year

Average Price in US$ per MWh

2002 2003 2004 2005 2006

29.85 23.84 24.47 28.98 29.81

Source: Itaipú Binacional, Relatorio (2006)

and actual consumption, under the terms of the Itaipú Treaty, would be paid by Brazil. The first component of the price (dividends, financial charges and operational costs) is paid by the parties in proportion to the contracted power and the second portion (royalties, compensation to ANDE and Eletrobrás, and Paraguay’s cession of energy) is paid based on the energy generated.6 The average price of delivered energy for the last five years is shown in Table 92.4.

92.4.2 Revenues For each country, the dividends on its investment in EBI provided a new source of income for the government-owned utility, while the royalties provided income for the central government.7 EBI’s payments to the contracting parties (Brazil and Paraguay) are equal, except for the payment due to Paraguay for cession of energy. As seen in Table 92.5, the return on investment for Brazil is small compared to the value of the energy consumed in Brazil. For Paraguay, the revenues generated from the sale of electric power to Brazil would create a significant income stream.

Table 92.5 Gross Income from Itaipú: 1985–2005 Concept

Royalties Energy cession Dividends Administrative & Supervisory Total returns Total purchases of Energy Net income from Itaipú a ECLAC:

Amount in US$000,000

Percent (Avg./Avg.GDP)a

Percent of Gross FDI for the periodb

BR

PY

BR

PY

BR

2, 773.6 − 186.5 209.6

2, 482.1 1, 007.6 164.6 196.7

− 0 − −

− 0.7 − −

− 0 − −

3, 169.7 38, 428.2

3, 851 1, 668.4

0.026 0.315

2.8 1.2

1.4 −

218.6 −

(35, 258.5)

2, 182.6

0.289

1.6

(15.8)

123.9

PY − 57.2 − −

GDP average in 1985–2005 period: in dollars of 2000 Balanza de Pagos: Inversión Directa en la economía declarante para 1985–2005 Source: Itaipú Binacional, Relatorio Annual (2007)

b ECLAC:

1608

M.H. Birch and N. Quintana Ashwell

Table 92.5 provides a clear idea of the relative importance of the revenues from the project. For Brazil, the $3.2 billion in compensation received as royalties, dividends and fees amounts to less than 1% of its total cost of energy purchased from EBI. But for Paraguay, the income derived from royalties, dividends and fees amounts to 2% of average GDP during the period and almost 3% when the payments for cession of power to Brazil are included. In fact, for the 20-year period 1985–2005, the revenues accruing to Paraguay from cession of energy to Brazil alone (an export sale) amounted to $1 billion, a sum equal to more than half of all foreign direct investment received in the same period. From a Brazilian perspective, the financial returns on its investment are low. Carrying most of the debt, its real return on the investment is derived from the supply of power it secured for the future needs of an industrializing economy. For Paraguay, on the other hand, the power is most useful as a non-traditional export. Its challenge is to find the most useful application of those funds for the country’s development.

92.5 The Impact of a Megaproject 92.5.1 Settlement and Migration Given the remoteness of the Itaipú dam site from traditional population centers in both countries, considerable preparation was required before work on the dam itself could begin. The area along the Brazilian side of the river had been the focus of expanded agricultural activity beginning in the 1960s and therefore possessed a reasonable number of small towns and basic infrastructure when Itaipú construction began. Settlement on the Paraguay side was much more recent and, consequently, infrastructure was minimal. With the construction of Itaipú, thousands of workers would be moved to the area. Housing, schools, hospitals, community and commercial centers would be needed. The construction of Itaipú undoubtedly accelerated the process of deforestation and urbanization in the frontier region between the two countries, but it had begun with a series of earlier cooperation agreements between Brazil and Paraguay beginning in the 1940s. These agreements, signed between 1943 and 1956, provided the infrastructure needed to open the region to settlement and modern agriculture. A road from Asunción east to the Brazilian border was built in stages with financial assistance from Brazil. The Friendship Bridge, built in 1956 by Brazil, connected the road to its Brazilian counterpart, providing a vital land connection to a free port given to Paraguay by Brazil at Paranaguá on the Atlantic coast. At the same time, two different colonization schemes were at work to populate the area. On the Paraguayan side, a national program operated by the Instituto de Bienestar Rural (IBR) resettled families from the more densely populated central region around Asunción to the Eastern frontier. Between 1963 and 1973 some 14,000 Paraguayan peasant families were relocated into precarious settlements in the eastern frontier region (Baer and Birch 1984: 786). On the Brazilian side, rising

92

Water Worth Gold: The Itaipú Hydroelectric Project

1609

prices for agricultural land in the state of São Paulo and high prices for soybeans were conspiring to push Brazilian farmers westward into the Brazilian state of Paraná on the border with Paraguay. Rural development agencies in Brazil were available to help with easy credit and agricultural extension services. By the 1970s, Brazilian farmers saw the opportunity to sell land in Brazil and buy larger tracts in Paraguay, bringing with them know-how and the minimum equipment necessary for mechanized agriculture, particularly appropriate for soybean farming (Nickson, 1981: 119). Paraguayan census figures for 1962 reveal that 24,000 people lived in the department (like a US state) of Alto Paraná, the area most proximately located to the dam site. By 1972, the population had increased to 90,800. Toward the end of the Itaipú civil construction period, in 1982, there were 199,644 residents, and in another ten years, the population would reach 406,584. Its capital city, Ciudad del Este, grew from a “few dozen settlers” in 1958 to 222,000 in 2002, making it Paraguay’s second largest city. Looking beyond the borders of this one department, Nickson reports that the population in the whole Eastern border region rose from 160,000 in 1972 to over 600,000 by 1980, in which year there were an estimated 350,000 Brazilians in the region (Nickson, 1982: 16). Looked at somewhat differently, only 18.3% of Paraguay’s population lived in the Eastern border region in 1962, but by 1982 some 27.3% of the population lived there. In 1962, about 40% of the population lived in the minifundia region of central Paraguay, but by 1982 only 34% lived there. “Unlike most other LDCs, Paraguay did not experience a marked urban-rural migration, but instead a rural-rural movement, out of the traditional minifundia regions to the newly opened lands” (Fernández Valdovinos & Monge Naranjo, 2004). Brazilians introduced soybeans into the agricultural scene in Paraguay. From virtually no production prior to the 1970s, soybean production reached 700,000 tons in 1980 making Paraguay the world’s fifth largest exporter (Nickson, 1982: 16). Brazilian planters were followed by large multinational agribusiness companies. Today, soybean production in Paraguay extends beyond the immediate Eastern border region, displacing thousands of small family farmers and adding to the problems of income inequality. By 2008, Paraguay had become the fourth largest exporter of soybeans in the world (New York Times, 2008).

92.5.2 Investment This period of construction and agricultural expansion led to an economic boom in Paraguay. During the 1970s economic growth averaged almost 9% per year, twice the level of the decade before. For the period 1977–1980, annual real growth averaged 11% making Paraguay one of the fastest growing economies in the world at the time. The major construction activities associated with Itaipú took place between 1975 and 1983 and resulted in massive inflows of foreign capital. Between 1977 and 1980 alone, it is estimated that EBI spent some $250 million in Paraguay annually. Such

1610

M.H. Birch and N. Quintana Ashwell

an increase in liquidity naturally resulted in expansionary credit policies and, not surprisingly, a surge in domestic construction which grew at an average annual rate of 23% between 1973 and 1981 (Fernando Valdovinas & Naranjo, 2004). However, additional linkages to the industrial sector were weak. Writing about the impact of the Itaipú Dam, the World Bank (1978) observed: While these new opportunities have led to increased activity and investment, there is evidence that the response of the domestic manufacturing sector has been constrained by limitations in the managerial capacity of the private sector. The existing investment incentive system has not been adequate, by itself, to stimulate new and large undertaking and has resulted mainly in small and scattered investment. . . .The Binational Entity has been reluctant to award large contracts to Paraguayan suppliers in cases where fulfillment of these orders required plant expansion.

The construction of the Itaipú Dam attracted many young workers to the region. At its height in 1978, some 31,300 people were working on the project (Birch 1985: 124). The vast majority was unskilled construction workers used primarily in the civil works, but a smaller number of highly paid professional and technical workers were also needed. The massive inflow of foreign capital and higher incomes resulted in increased inflation and a decline in real wages outside the construction sector. Thus, urban poverty increased while a speculative construction boom transformed the face of the capital city. For Paraguay, with a remarkably low level of poverty until this period, the 1970s ushered in a period of growing income inequality. By 1999 the Paraguayan Household Survey revealed an urban poverty rate of 26.7% and a rural poverty rate of 42%, with 26% of rural Paraguayans in extreme poverty (Fernández Valdovinos & Monge Naranjo, 2004). But after the boom would come the bust. The economy shrank in 1981 and 1982 as the civil works were nearing completion. Unemployment rose from 3.5% in 1981 to 12% in 1983. The construction sector was the most severely affected along with financial services. While economic growth resumed in 1984, it was slower than the rate of population growth resulting in declines in per capita income for the rest of the decade. By 1990 per capita GDP was 1.7% lower than in 1980.

92.5.3 Engineering and Construction As the WCD noted, the engineering and construction of large hydroelectric dams historically has been the province of a small number of multinational firms located primarily in Europe and the U.S. Financing for projects in the developing world has been provided in large measure by the World Bank and other development organizations where donor countries hold a controlling interest. The result has been that highly skilled, high salary engineering jobs stay in the developed world, along with the profits generated from international engagements. In this regard, Itaipú represents something of an anomaly for its time. Financing was obtained not from multilateral development banks but from global financial markets. While technical studies and consulting reports were done by firms from Europe and the U.S., construction was carried out almost entirely by two consortia,

92

Water Worth Gold: The Itaipú Hydroelectric Project

1611

formed by Brazilian and Paraguayan firms respectively. Electromechanical components were produced by another two consortia, ITAMON in Paraguay and CIEM in Brazil. Although some foreign companies participated in the CIEM consortium, 80% of the electro-mechanical equipment for Itaipú was produced in Brazil by the Brazilian subsidiaries (Birch, 1985: 127). As a result, the Itaipú project represented the opportunity for a quantum leap for Brazilian engineering and construction firms (Fig. 92.4). Since at least the mid-1950s when Brazilian president Juscelino Kubitschek promised “50 years of progress in five,” Brazilian engineering and construction firms had been growing in size and sophistication. In the case of the massive Itaipú Hydroelectric Dam, five Brazilian construction firms were pre-selected by Eletrobrás to participate, including the São Paulo firm Camargo Corrêa. Founded in 1939 in the interior of the Brazilian state of São Paulo, the company had gone from paving roads and building airstrips to constructing hydroelectric dams on some of Brazil’s largest rivers. It was involved in the construction of two large Brazilian hydroelectric projects, Ilha Solteira and Jupiá. But Itaipú was 10 times larger than Jupiá and almost 5 times larger than Ilha Solteira, two of Brazil’s biggest projects to date, and the plan was to build Itaipú in the same amount of time. Moreover, the Itaipú project would require enormous investment from the pre-selected companies in specialized equipment (Quintella, 2008: 286–289). Thus, the formation of national consortia helped local firms attain the size needed to undertake a project of Itaipú’s scale. Interestingly, the Brazilian experience with the Jupiá hydroelectric project begun in the mid-1960s served in some important ways as a model for Itaipú. Also located

Fig. 92.4 Schematic of the Itaipú dam showing the dam across the Parana River, the extensive earthworks on the Eastern (Brazilian) side, and the often-spectacular spillway on the Western (Paraguayan) side that allows for diversion of water when the water level in the reservoir is high. (Source: Entidad Binacional Itaipú, Press Division)

1612

M.H. Birch and N. Quintana Ashwell

on the Paraná River, but entirely within Brazil, the Jupiá dam would be built where the river forms the border between the Brazilian states of São Paulo and Matto Grosso. The Jupiá project presented challenges of both construction and financing that were complicated by the bi-state location. In order to gain access to both sides of the river as needed for the Jupiá hydroelectric project, a new public company was formed, jointly owned by the two states. While firms in Matto Grosso were not large enough to undertake the project alone, they worked jointly with the larger and more technically sophisticated Paulista firms, while the State of São Paulo provided the financing, a model remarkably similar to the structure of the Itaipú agreements (Quintella, 2008: 199–239).

92.5.4 Public Finances Since 1985 EBI has paid approximately US$3 billion in royalties to the national treasuries of each country as required by the Treaty. However, the Brazilian government decided in 1991 that some of its royalties should be distributed among state and local governments. Under a new law, Brazilian states and municipalities would receive 45% of royalty income while the federal government would retain 10%, distributed among the Ministry of the Environment, Ministry of Mines and Energy, and the National Scientific and Technological Development Fund. From the share allotted to states and cities, 85% of the amount was paid to those states directly affected by the power plant s reservoir (Piacenti, Ferrera de Lima, Alves, Karpinski, & Piffer, 2003). The remaining 15% is distributed among states and cities affected by reservoirs upstream from the power plant, in consideration of the additional flooding there that helps increase the total energy generated (www.Itaipú.gov.br, 2008). In 1998, Paraguay followed suit and began distributing some royalty income from both Itaipú and a subsequent dam built with Argentina called Yacyretá. Revenues were to be divided among the central government (50%), the departmental governments (10%), the municipalities affected by the construction of the dams (15%), and those not affected (25%).

92.6 Conclusion The WCD study found that competition around alternative uses of water resources can lead to complex issues that “relate to the distribution of power and influence within societies and between countries” (World Commission on Dams, 2008: 2). This, in turn, will affect how choices are made among available options. Large dams, it noted, usually represent major investments, irreversible decisions, and politically charged outcomes. The Itaipú project certainly has all these features. According to the WCD, a central problem in the debate on large dams is that the benefits often accrue to different groups and individuals than those who bear the cost. Greater transparency and broad participation in decision-making and planning are identified by the WCD as vital to mitigate the potentially negative impact

92

Water Worth Gold: The Itaipú Hydroelectric Project

1613

on people and the environment. The political context of Itaipú, however, was anything but transparent. While most dams are devised to solve problems of energy, irrigation or flooding, Itaipú was built to resolve a problem of international relations that had led the two countries to the brink of conflict. Military governments negotiated in secret the content of treaties that would be made public only years later. In this setting, it was difficult for individuals to make rational decisions about their futures. Construction and operation of the Itaipú Dam generated not only electric power, but also a tremendous increase in the movement of people and money. As a result, population centers shifted, transforming the face of what had been a remote area in Paraguay and a frontier region of Brazil. Construction of the dam did not require large scale resettlement of existing populations; instead, it required the attraction of workers and the provision of adequate urban infrastructure in a region that was largely unsettled. In both Brazil and Paraguay, urbanization increased along with mechanized modern agriculture while forested areas receded. Indigenous populations fled or were forced away from the now valuable land near the river. The high rate of income growth during construction represented a unique opportunity for Paraguay to transform its economy and society. Sound macroeconomic management and strong democratic institutions in Paraguay would have undoubtedly produced a different outcome for economic development. At the local, regional or individual level, the distribution of costs and benefits would appear to be much different. Despite the size of the dam and its reservoir, only 40,000 people were relocated to accommodate the project, most of them on the Brazilian side. Itaipú’s impact has been far greater in terms of the new spaces that it opened to settlement and economic exploitation. In the absence of strong national and local institutions, this settlement was largely unmanaged and the process lacked both transparency and equity. Judging from the resulting distribution of populations, it would appear that relatively more prosperous Brazilian farmers displaced poorer and less well-financed Paraguayan peasants on the most desirable land. Paraguayans moved to marginal farming areas and deforestation removed indigenous people from the area or converted them from independent forest-dwellers to passive residents of poorly served reservations. At the national level, the cost of Itaipú was borne by the Brazilian government that provided the initial capital, guaranteed the debt required for construction, and assured the market for the power produced. In return, Brazil derived dividends and royalties, as well a guaranteed source of electric power at an attractive price. The Paraguayan government was also a major beneficiary. It derived dividend and royalties for its initial investment and a guaranteed revenue stream from the sale of electric power to an obligated buyer. The lack of transparency in both countries makes it difficult to account for the use of the royalties and dividends. Signage in various locations would seem to indicate that at least some of the funds have been used for schools, parks, zoos, and buildings associated with the provision of some public services. Both Brazil and Paraguay also benefit from direct social expenditures undertaken by EBI and from the activities of foundations set up in each country that are funded by the binational entity.

1614

M.H. Birch and N. Quintana Ashwell

In calculations of price, local industrial development, particularly for the Paraguayan side, was sacrificed for accelerated development in the Center-South of Brazil. While there has been discussion of attracting electro-intensive industries to Paraguay, the absence of appropriate raw materials and inadequate transportation to and within a landlocked country have made the idea difficult to sell to potential investors. In fact, without sound macroeconomic policy and political stability, it has been difficult to unleash national entrepreneurial spirits, let alone attract foreign investors. In some ways, Paraguayans as a whole can be considered the “affected group” for the purposes of this discussion. The absence of information, a free press and the ability to debate under the Stroessner dictatorship at the time of the decision to build Itaipú virtually guaranteed an inequitable outcome. With the more recent consensus in development circles of the need for equity as a critical ingredient of development, the WCD finds that the old “balance sheet” approach to a discussion of costs and benefits is “unacceptable as it ignores the typical mismatch between the distribution of the gains and losses of a project across different societal groups. Large dams can be seen as an extreme example of this dilemma, as public resourcesboth monies and rivers- are devoted to projects that all too often result in inequitable distribution of costs and benefits” (World Commission on Dams, 2000: 120). The failure to provide adequate time, resources, and information to allow affected populations to participate in the planning for a mega project such as Itaipú was shown by the WCD to adversely affect both costs and benefits. Re-opening the discussion at this point would allow the affected populations to play a more pro-active role in the distribution of costs and benefits. This is the fundamental argument behind the Paraguayan government’s recent initiative to renegotiate the terms of the Itaipú Treaty. Despite strenuous objections from the Brazilian government, the first opposition-party government in Paraguay in more than 60 years took office in August 2008 and has insisted that a binational discussion begin. On 29 September 2008 an official Itaipú Commission composed of representatives of both governments met to discuss renegotiation of the treaty. Of particular interest is the price at which energy will be sold to Brazil and the ability to sell power to third parties. Thus, Itaipú continues to shape politics and international relations in South America’s southern cone, much as the dam continues to reconfigure the ecological and social environment of the region. Acknowledgements Financial support for this research from the US Department of Education is gratefully acknowledged.

Notes 1. The first three words of the title of this paper are taken from the title of a book by Efrain Enriquez Gamón. 1975. Itaipú: Waters Worth Gold (Itaipú: Aguas que Valen Oro). Buenos Aires: Gráfica Guadalupe. It became a common way to refer to the Paraná River and to the Itaipú dam itself. Enriquez Gamón’s book is considered to be the most complete contemporaneous compilation of documents, on the Paraguayan side, related to the formation of the binational entity Itaipú.

92

Water Worth Gold: The Itaipú Hydroelectric Project

1615

2. Ferraz, a former Minister of Transportation and senior executive of the Brazilian power company, CHESF, was an electrical engineer who was involved in the design and construction of the Paulo Afonso Dam, a TVA-like project built in the Brazilian northeast in the early 1950s. 3. The Paraguayan electric company did not have the $50 million for the initial capital of EBI. The funds were lent to ANDE by Banco do Brasil to be paid in 50 years (2023). It was agreed subsequently that the first installment would be due after EBI started to generate revenues (7 June 1985) which amounts to 38 annual installments from 1986 to 2023. 4. In his memoir, Camargo Correa executive Wilson Quintella reports that the call for tender for civil works related to Itaipú specified the Paraguayan contribution at 10%. 5. Power sold to Argentina came from Acaray, a 190 MW dam built in the mid-1960s entirely within Paraguay. 6. All charges are paid proportionally by ANDE and Eletrobrás based on their contracted power and actual demand for electricity, except for the amount due for cession of energy, which is paid exclusively by Eletrobrás. 7. In the 1990s new legislation was introduced in each country that would provide that funds derived from the Itaipú project would be shared more broadly with state, department, and local governments.

References American Society of Civil Engineers. (2008). Retrieved October 17, 2008, from www.asce.org/ history/seven_wonders.cfin Baer, W., & Birch, M. (1984). Expansion of the economic frontier: Paraguayan growth in the 1970s. World Development, 12(8), 783–798. Birch, M. H. (1985). Public Enterprise in Paraguay: The Case of ANDE in Paraguay. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan, University Microfilms. Debernardi, E. (1996). Apuntes para la historia política de Itaipú. Asunción: Editorial Gráfica Continua. Di Francesco, K., & Woodruff, K. (Eds.). (2007). Global perspectives on large dams: Evaluating the state of large dam construction and decommissioning across the world. Report on a Conference held November 3–5, 2006 at the Yale School of Forestry & Environmental Studies. Fernández Valdovinos, C. G., & Monge Naranjo, A. (2004). Economic growth in Paraguay. Washington, DC: Inter-American Development Bank, Economic Social Study Series, RE104-009. Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores de la República del Paraguay.(1973). Letter N.R.5 del 26 de abril de 1973. New York Times. (2008). Difficult road ahead for new Paraguayan leader. Nickson, R. A. (1981). Brazilian colonization of the eastern border region. Journal of Latin American Studies, 13(1), 111–131. Nickson, R. A. (1982). Itaipú hydro-electric project: The Paraguayan perspective. Bulletin of Latin American Research, 2(1), 1–20. Piacenti, C. A., Ferrera de Lima, J., Alves, L. R., Karpinski, C., & Piffer, M. (2003). Apontamentos sobre a Economia dos Municípios atingidos pelas Hidrelétricas de Salto Caxias e Itaipú Binacional. Revista Paranáense de Desenvolvimento, 104, 103–123. Quintella, W. (2008). Memorias do Brasil Grande: a historia das maiores obras do pais e dos homens que as fizeram. Rio de Janeiro: Editora Saraiva. World Bank. (1978). Paraguay: Regional development in Eastern Paraguay. Washington, DC. World Commision on Dams. (2000). Dams and development: A new framework for decisionmaking. London and Sterling, VA: Earthscan Publications. Retrieved October 7, 2008, from www.Itaipú.gov.br. (2008)

Chapter 93

Megadams for Irrigation in Nigeria: Nature, Dimensions, and Geographies of Impacts Adamu I. Tanko

93.1 Introduction Nigeria is one of the West African countries with a current population estimated at close to 150 million. Its size is about 923,768 km2 (353,895 mi2 ) and it has tropical climate, characterized by high temperatures and humidity as well as marked wet and dry seasons and great annual rainfall variations between the coastal south and the semi-arid north. The South has an annual rainfall ranging between 1200 mm (47.2 in) and 2,000 (78.7 in) and the extreme North between 600 mm (23.6 in) and 1000 mm (39.7 in). The hydrology of Nigeria is dominated by two great river systems, the Niger and Benue, and also the third, the Chad systems. With the exception of a few rivers that empty directly into the Atlantic Ocean, most others flow ultimately into either of the two major systems; only a few flow into the Lake Chad in the northeastern part of the country. The Niger and Benue rivers are separated by a primary watershed extending northeast and northwest from the Jos Plateau, which is the main source of their principal tributaries. Northwest of the Plateau lies the elevated, drift covered plains of central Hausa-land, which is drained by numerous streams, all flowing outwards to join the major tributaries. Across the country, the major rivers are the Anambra, Benue, Cross, Imo, Kwa Ibom, Niger Ogun and Oshun (Fig. 93.1). Estimated at about 10.8 million ha (26.7 million acres), these rivers make up about 11.5% of the total surface area of the country. The inland water system includes thirteen lakes and reservoirs, with a surface area of between 4000 ha (9884 acres) and 550,000 ha (1.35 millinon acres), have a total surface area of 853,600 ha (2.1 million acres), which represents about one percent of the country’s total area. They include Lakes Chad, Kainji, Jebba, Shiroro, Goronyo, Tiga, Chalawa Gorge, Dadin Kowa, Bakolori and Zobe. With the exception of Lake Chad, all the lakes are human made as they resulted from

A.I. Tanko (B) Department of Geography, Bayero University, Kano, Nigeria e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_93,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1617

1618

A.I. Tanko

Fig. 93.1 Eleven river basins in Nigeria. (Cartography by Stephanie Shaw, University of Kentucky) [Numbers 1 through 11 are: Sokoto-Rima River Basin, Hadejia-Jama’are River Basin, Chad Basin, Upper-Benue Basin, Lower-Benue Basin, Cross-River Basin, Anambra-Imo Basin, Upper-Niger Basin, Niger Delta Basin, Benin-Owena Basin, Ogun-Oshun River Basin]

the creation of major engineering embankments across natural rivers. Moreover, all these and many others are in the northern part of the country.

93.1.1 Humans and Environment in Rural Nigeria Nigeria is an agrarian society. Over 70% of its population is rural practicing one form of agriculture or the other. The southern part with high forest resources and high annual rainfall amounts specializes in the production of tree, root and tuber crops and also high levels of fishery. The northern part has vast agricultural plains, but less rainfall; it specializes in the production of grain crops, practicing animal husbandry/transhumance and some fishing. These were possible at subsistence levels and only during the rainy season lasting between 4 and 7 months of the year (depending on geographic location, that is, nearness to the southern coast). This situation existed from colonial times when land legislations, “monetization,” and the imposition of taxation led to both the intensification and extensification of agricultural land use for additional cultivation of cash crops (Tanko, 2005).

93

Megadams for Irrigation in Nigeria

1619

At Independence in 1960 the only viable and sustainable source of foreign earnings was the production of primary products such as cash crops including cocoa, cotton, peanuts, rubber, and palm oil for the international market. For the leadership in the country, the first challenge was to ensure the provision of primary infrastructures, especially, electricity, and piped water, and to ensure food security and ways to earn foreign reserves. At that point, Nigeria had only just discovered petroleum products in low commercial quantities. Cultivated parkland during this period was dominated mostly by irrigated land in northern Nigeria that was under permanent cultivation (Tanko, 1999). These areas had high population densities and fallow plots which were reduced drastically by agricultural intensification (Mortimore, 1971). Rural poverty was high as products of the farmers’ labor were channelled, first, towards British industry and, later after Independence, to the creation of the Nigerian bourgeoisie (Main & Cline-Cole, 1987). Export crops from northern Nigerian (mainly peanuts and cotton) were grown by farming households along with food crops only during the rainy period. It was, therefore, easy to observe how the agricultural year was divided into a busy growing rainy season and a slack non-growing dry season between 4 and 7 months during which season the active farmers migrated far distances to sell their labour. Main and Cline-Cole (1987) traced the seasonal movements which often took workers more than 1000 km (621 mi) to docks, plantations, and mines in Lagos (southern Nigeria), Accra (southern Ghana) and the Jos Plateau (central Nigeria). These movements were to supplement their cash incomes and also conserve their food stocks. The government’s attention in the 1960 s began to focus on the substantive challenges of food security and poverty alleviation. Very soon thereafter drought conditions set in during the early 1970 s with the worst level since 1973. This was the era of dam-boom construction projects supported by the World Bank, especially in Africa, but also in many other parts of the world. Governments at both federal and state levels in Nigeria were conscious of the water resource potentials in the different river basins which were identified and demarcated for the country following some comprehensive soil and water resources surveys (Adams, 1985; Adams & Hollis, 1987; Tanko, 1999). Thus the country adopted megadam options which were considered synonymous with development and economic progress as symbols of modernization and humanity’s ability to harness nature. Most importantly, the country accepted that megadams for large scale irrigation projects were Nigeria’s answers to climatic challenge through drought. By 1976 eleven River Basin Development Authorities (RBDAs) were established by Law (Decree No 25).

93.2 Conceptual Framework: Megadams and Rapid Development in Africa The concept of development on the basis of megadam projects began with the Aswan Dam in Egypt in 1902 following Garstin’s hydrological surveys between

1620

A.I. Tanko

1899 and 1903 (Collins, 1990). Some positives of the dam (and also the Aswan High Dam that came to be built later) according to Fahim (1981) included: • the controls of high floods and supplementing low ones; this idea saved Egypt from the monetary cost of having to cover damages from both high and low floods; • allowance for increase in cultivated land area through reclamation, and at the same time increasing crop and production of existing land through conversion from basin to perennial irrigation; • improving the navigability of the Nile from seasonal to year round; • electric power generation, as the dams supply over 50% of Egypt’s electricity consumption, although the dams were constructed primarily not for electricity generation, but for water conservation; and • the lake resources (behind the dams) are potentially of economic value, including for land cultivation and settlement, fishing and tourist industries. Similar to the Nile, many other megadam projects were implemented in Africa. The Awash Valley Authority was established in the pre-revolutionary Ethiopia period of Emperor Haile Selassie in 1954 through the development of four megadams that could provide water for the irrigation of 6 million ha (14.8 million acres) of land near the nation’s capital, Addis Ababa (Winid, 1981). In Kenya too, the idea for rapid development along the Tana and Athi Rivers formed the basis for the construction of Masinga Dam in 1971 (Rowntree, 1990). The Basin of about 132,700 km2 (508,000 mi2 ) contains 62% of Kenya’s population, including the population of Nairobi, the capital. Although failures later accompanied these projects, at first, various levels of successes were pointed out. These were in the key areas of massive crop production, electricity generation, development of eco-tourism, and agro-allied industries. In Nigeria following the economic successes mentioned above, the government mandated the RBDAs to take charge of irrigation planning and development, watershed management, flood and pollution control, fisheries and navigation. This agency was conceived following the popular debate of the late 1970 s that river basin management should have the overriding objective of integrating land and water resources (Newson, 1997). The Authorities were also at first responsible for the coordination and harmonizing activities remote from water resources, including food processing and seed multiplication. This wide range of activities was intended by the federal government to integrate resources in such a way that they could move agriculture forward and better the condition of living in the rural areas (Tanko, 1999). The region where this was significantly practiced was Nigeria’s dry north. Several megadams were constructed in the different river basins. By the time of the Second Development Plan, 1970–1974, the megadam strategy with its large scale irrigation projects had gained a clear focus in various parts of northern Nigeria (Baba, 1989). By the time of the Third Development Plan, 1975–1980, the river basin development was not only accepted, but was viewed

93

Megadams for Irrigation in Nigeria

1621

as a medium of regional planning and resource allocation, as well as for achieving development at the grassroots of Nigerian society. With this second strategy, viz., the World Bank Integrated Rural Development Projects was started. These later came to be known as the Agricultural Development Projects (ADPs). The view of the government of these two strategies as stated in the Fourth Development Plan, 1981–1985 was to: ...promote a more rapid development of the rural areas through sustained effort to raise agricultural productivity and provide basic human needs such as hygienic water supply, health facilities, access roads, electricity, etc. . . . [These strategies] will also help to provide a basis for more geographical spread of physical development throughout the country, and also help to counterbalance the strong trend towards rural-urban migration (Nigeria, 1971: 29).

No doubt both strategies have resulted in some changes among rural northern Nigeria’s environment. Evaluations were carried out differently; each identified both positives or negatives of the projects. This paper revisits/reviews these evaluations with particular emphasis on the environmental impacts as well as the social and economic conditions of communities at both the upstream and downstream regions. The evaluation focuses separately on the conclusions identified during early periods of the projects (1970 s–1980 s) and contrasts them with the present.

93.3 Megadams in Nigeria Rivers in Nigeria have large runoff fluctuations which present a rich runoff in wet season/year and poor in dry season/year. Under this situation, effective surface water use for irrigation, water supply, hydropower, inland fishery, etc., could not be achieved without dams to store rich runoff in wet periods for use during dry periods. Therefore many dams have, therefore, been constructed and are operated by different agencies for various reasons (Table 93.1). Table 93.1 Dams and dam operations in Nigeria Agency

Scale and purpose

River Basin Development Authorities (RBDAs)

Large scale dams for irrigation, of which some have a function of water supply and mini-hydropower Medium and Small scaled dams for irrigation

Ministries of Agriculture and Natural Resources (MANR) States Water Agencies (SWAs) National Electric Power Authority (NEPA) National Electricity Supply Company (NESCO) Agricultural Development Agencies (ADPs) Source: JICA (1995)

Small scale dams for municipal water supply, of which some have irrigation functions Large scale Dams for large scale hydropower generation Small-scale dams for mini-hydropower Medium and Small scale Dams for multipurpose rural water development

1622

A.I. Tanko

The dams are mostly constructed at the sites where rivers flow down on to very gentle slopes and in undulated hilly areas. Often, both dam sites and their reservoirs are situated in areas without proper vegetation cover, hence exacerbating erosion and high sediment transport and leading to sedimentation of the reservoirs. According to the JICA (1995) most of the dams in the country are situated on geologies of basement complex rocks of hard impervious structures and with enough bearing capacity to support dam body and appurtenant structure and present less permeability. However, most seemingly lack adequate safety instrumentation. The dams were planned and constructed mainly with fill type from the viewpoint of topographical and geological conditions and with available embankment materials locally. They are generally designed with low dam height, long dam length and large reservoir capacity and a large reservoir surface area. The Tiga Dam (Fig. 93.2), for instance, constructed in 1975 on the River Kano has a catchment size of 6,641 km2 (2,544 nu2 ) and a total storage capacity of 1,968.0 m3 (69,470 yds3 ) (H-JRBDA, 1995). This ranks it first in the list of dams built for irrigation, and second, only after the Kainji in the whole country. The sizes and dimensions of some the major existing megadams are indicated in Table 93.2. By 1995 there were about 160 notable dams in Nigeria with total active reservoir capacity of 11,200 MCM for irrigation, 900 MCM for water supply and 18,600 MCM for hydropower (JICA 1995).

Fig. 93.2 The Tiga dam – Nigeria’s largest dam for irrigation

93

Megadams for Irrigation in Nigeria

1623

Table 93.2 Features of selected mega dams in Nigeria

River basin

Dam

Sokoto-Rima

Bakalori Goronyo Jibia Zobe Kubli Bubo Mairuwa Bagauda

HadejiaJama’are

Niger

Upper Benue

Tiga Challawa Tomas Magaga KafinChiri KafinZaki Gari Watari Jakara GuzuGuzu RiminGado TudunWada Galala Alau Kontagora Kainji Shiroro Jebba Kagara Omi Zaria Kangimi Tagwai Iku Suleja Usuma TungarKawo Liberty Balanga Y. Gowon Dadin Kowa Gubi Waya Kiri Langtang Tenti Cham

Reservoir Active inflow capacity (MCM) (MCM)

Reservoir Area (Km2 ) Objective

Year completed

760 660 260 240 160 41 24 490

403 933 121 170 62 25.1 5.3 22.14

80 200 26 45 9.4 11.5 1.6 27.

Irri/HP Irri/WS Irri/WS Irri/WS Irri Irri Irri/WS Irri

1982 1984 1990 1983 1992

830 420 59 24 35 1060 120 505 56 22 509 18 46 164 270

1968 900 56.6 17.2 24.6 2500 203 104.55 54.5 21.5 65.0 16.6 20 106 200 11, 500 6050 1000 38 220 29.8 59.3 26.5 36.2 48.5 100 21 15 63 24 1770 35 17 325 3.5 9.8 6.5

178 100 15 3.7 8.4 235 33.2 19.6 16.6 6.4 5.0 3.5 1.1 50 39

Irri/WS/HP Irri/WS Irri Irri/WS Irri/WS UC Irri/WS Irri/WS Irri Irri/WS Irri/WS Irri Irri Irri/WS Irri HP HP HP WS Irri WS Irri/WS Irri WS WS WS Irri/WS WS Irri WS Irri/HP Irri/WS Irri/WS Irri WS HP Irri

1975 1992 1976 1980 1977 1980 1980 1976 1979 1980 1977

40 260 450 1800 33 42 42 260 34 33 86 30 3100 45 29 4480 31 22 20

5.8 25.7 8.0 6.6 5.5 4.3 7.4 8.0 4.0 1.1 11 5.0 300 5.9 4.5 110 0.6 4 1.8

1970

1992 ? 1968 1989 1983 UC UC 1974 1975

? 1984

1987 1988

1982

1624

A.I. Tanko Table 93.2 (continued)

River basin

Dam

Lower Benue Pankshin Doma Ogun-Oshun Ikare Gorge Oyan Asejire Erinle Awon Eleyele

Reservoir Active inflow capacity (MCM) (MCM) 42 21 1020 2250 1860 360 88 17

2.8 30 565 254 30.5 75 8.4 5.5

Reservoir Area (Km2 ) Objective 0.5 2.2 53 40 5.3 16.4 2.0 1.6

WS Irri/WS Irri/WS/HP Irri/WS/HP WS WS WS WS

Year completed

UC 1983 1989

Source: JICA (1995) Note: Where reservoir inflow value is smaller than active capacity value, reservoir inflow is adopted for available reservoir capacity because active capacity is not filled by reservoir inflow. Irri – Irrigation, WS – Water Supply, HP – Hydropower, UC –Under Construction

It is evident that the reservoir water of the dams in north and central Nigeria is mainly for irrigation, while most of the dams in the southern region are used for municipal water supply, fish culture, and mini hydropower.

93.4 Spatio-Temporal Nature and Dimensions of Impacts 93.4.1 Early Impacts Studies on the impacts of dams and their reservoirs, with particular emphasis on changes in the physical environment as well as on the social and economic conditions of those living around the project areas and at the downstream communities, were variously conducted in different parts of Nigeria (Baba, 1975; 1981; D’Silva & Raza, 1980; Mabogunje & Gana, 1981; Olofin, 1978, 1984; Wallace, 1980, 1981). For an explanation of the changes in the physical environment, Chorley and Kennedy’s (1971) argument of change brought about by the impact of human’s intervention on channel morphology due to the production of operational changes in the distribution of energy and mass provided the scheme for the early work applies. Hence, Olofin (1978) identified and interpreted some of the environmental effects of the Tiga Dam and reservoir in the downstream areas of the Kano River basin. These affects included changes in flow stage and quantity, changes in stage on overland processes, changes in discharge on channel morphology, debris storage and the vegetation system. Detailed analysis of lower river stages on valleyside fluvial processes indicated further deepening of the channels, loss of alluvial deposits on the gully floors, and the establishment of dual cycle gully shape (Olofin, 1984). This analysis sounded an early warning to the River Basin authorities in Nigeria that dam intervention would escalate fluvial processes, especially on the valleyside slopes downstream, and that the maintenance of perennial flow in the affected channel would shorten the relaxation time required for a new equilibrium to occur.

93

Megadams for Irrigation in Nigeria

1625

Works on the socioeconomic focused trends in land distribution, income distribution (Baba 1989) and the [under]utilization of land and hence, the shortfall of actual harvest compared with potential harvests for most crops (Etuk & Abalu, 1982). Igbozurike and Diatchavbe (1982) examined the social cost of dam projects. They noted that most of the lands around the project areas were in the hands of land speculators, teachers and civil servants and not in the hands of either the original owners or tenant farmers. This situation meant that small and poor farmers lost ownership through sale, rent and letting out of their farms. This observation was similarly made by Wallace (1980) at the Bakalori Dam project site. The general conclusion was that dam projects at that early time were fuelling the propensity for the rich to get richer and the poor, poorer. To further underscore the implications of the observations and the conclusion, Baba (1989) attempted to draw attention to the fundamentals of the projects, asking why and for whom was the “development?”

93.4.2 Contemporary Impacts The evaluation of impacts of the dam projects from the 1990 s onwards began by identifying the agricultural gains of those projects. Olofin (2000) listed these gains: a. provision of food crop for the local population, b. emphasizing local employment, c. recognizing the rights of displaced persons to land, including communally held lands, d. observing and upholding indigenous culture, e. adverse effect of the environmental flora and fauna, and f. opening newer possibilities of local investments Following earlier conclusions on changing river morphologies and general ecological changes, Tanko (1999) also investigated the groundwater situation, soil characteristics, and condition of vegetation (including weeds) situation in the Kano River Project area. The Project, developed in 1974 was intended to cover at total land area of 64,000 ha (158,000 acres) in two phases as part of Nigeria’s dryland (the Kano Region). The first phase of 22,000 ha (8,450 mi2 ) has been fully developed using the water from the Tiga Dam. This project is considered the most elaborate and successful irrigation scheme in the country. An investigation into the groundwater situation after about 25 years of irrigation in the project area was conducted; it noted how the groundwater rose from less than 6 m (19.7 ft) in 1966/67 (Tahal, 1992; Umar, 1985) to less than one meter of the ground surface (Tanko, 1999). Although NEDECO (1974) provided an explanation for decreasing permeability with increasing depth in the project area, Tanko’s explanations were that the high rise of the perched watertable was due to over-irrigation and high seepage loses in unlined feeder canals and field channels within the irrigation area. The result was salinity and sodicity development in different parts and an invsion of weed species, especially the Typha. While in the late 1990 s Typha had local spread (only

1626

A.I. Tanko

within the waterlogged irrigated soils), the weed has currently spread to take over the agricultural (or fadama) plots in the entire Hadejia-Jama’are River Basin. This basin is one of Nigeria’s most important agricultural basins and currently produces such food and cash crops as sorghum, rice, millet, groundnuts, wheat, cowpeas and vegetables under both upland and irrigated farming. Its size is more than 90,000 km2 (34,479 mi2 ).The farming system, especially the high population density zones including the Kano-Close-Settled Zone (KCSZ), is described as having a very intensive use of the agricultural land. This condition involves the production of [more] food on land already under cultivation (Harris, 1996; Mortimore, 1971). In addition, there is also livestock production, trees which yield fruits, edible leaves for silk, cotton and firewood. Fishing is also an important activity of the people in the basin. It supports more than 15 million people. Part of the basin includes the Hadejia Nguru Wetland, which is the only recognized Ramsar site in Nigeria and a source of water for irrigation and fishing in the northeast part of the country. Using satellite, remote sensing, and GIS technologies, Bird and Tanko (2004) identified that Typha grass poses the major challenge for all water resource management problems in the basin. The grass has invaded both irrigation (including fadama) plots and water bodies (including the Hadejia-Nguru Wetlands). For this reason it causes the blockage of original river channels, thus reducing river flows; consequently the migration/diversion of channels, leading to severe flooding of some areas, still more typha spread and the desiccation of original floodable/fadama plots. The human dimension of this challenge lies in two folds. First, in the upstream location there are issues of landlessness and peasantry due to marginalization of communities within and around the irrigated areas due to land capitalization and speculation. Second, in the downstream location there is a complete reversal of livelihood systems. This happens as water is diverted from areas of water-demand, that is, from areas for irrigation and fishing to areas of less water demand, which are now flooded. A major loss is the loss of wet season upland plots. The herding communities are also affected as they also lost their annual camps sites and as well as their animals’ feed. The years 2002–2006 brought about watershed and water management crises in the basin. Serious agitation for conflicts among communities of farmers, herders and fishermen and women began. In another dimension, the agitations were directed against the upstream communities by the downstream users. Hence, government intervention was necessitated. Before the intervention there were several fragmented, disjoined, and unsuccessful efforts by some local and international NGOs, including the Nigeria Conservation Foundation (NCF) and Joint Wetlands Livelihood (JWL) supported by the Department of International Development (UK-DFID).

93.5 Intervention to Mitigate Negative Impacts Intervention by the Nigerian government began in the form of partnership with NCF and the World Conservation Foundation (IUCN); it was coordinated by the Federal

93

Megadams for Irrigation in Nigeria

1627

Ministry of Water Resources (FMWR). The partnership entitled “Improving Land and Water Resources Management in the Hadejia-Jama’are-Komadugu Yobe Basin – Northern Nigeria” began in May 2005. Its major objective is to improve the land and water management in the Basin, and also to improve the institutional framework for water management within the Basin. Part of the achievement of the initiative has been building and understanding through consensus key water management principles. Secondly, the initiative has established and institutionalized consultations and coordination mechanisms which form a framework for broad-based and informed decision making process as based on agreed upon principles for equitable use and sustainable management of the water resources in the Basin. Several stakeholders have been identified and committees of different water users formed. Moreover, a basin wide stakeholder forum has been formed and with discussions on water allocations and water sharing arrangements being freely made during meetings. The Forum, during one of its 2005 meetings, agreed to the establishment of a Trust Fund that will identify key water management issues and intervene appropriately. At the end of July 2008 the Trust Fund has intervened in 17 key communities within the basin, following the principles of Integrated Water Resource Management (IWRM). It identifies and plans for the key needs of several water user groups and communities in the Basin.

93.6 Conclusions and Recommendations No doubt the idea of megadams came to Nigeria and several other countries in Africa and developing world following World Bank recommendations towards better and quicker infrastructural provisions and massive food production and as well as to guard against the uncertainties of climate. The political leadership in Nigeria accepted the recommendations and implemented them leading to several of the megadams being constructed across many natural river systems. Evaluations of the dams point to both gains and pains. While assessments in the early periods favored their presence for all the gains, severe pains only began to be manifested much later. Some of the other inherent problems of the megadams in the country include the following: a. High capital costs: that megadams and pumping facilities have been constructed with high project cost corresponding to over $US 15,000 per hectare (2.47 acres) (FAO/WB-CP, 1992). In other developing countries, irrigation projects are generally implemented with the costs per hectare less than US$5000–6000 (JICA, 1995), otherwise the project could not attain the economical return for irrigated agriculture. b. Slow development: megadams require a take lengthy time to complete and to achieve the desired irrigated scheme. This leads to very slow results of the target yields designed for the irrigation project c. Resettlement for reservoir and service area: all the megadams in the country required large resettlement for reservoir construction. Moreover, a service area is

1628

A.I. Tanko

required for a large irrigation project which often leads to a loss of assets and very high resettlement costs. Related to these, of course, are extensive environmental impacts. d. Land tenure arrangements: most of the megadam projects have created serious land tenure problems. According to the provision in Nigeria’s Land Use Act of 1979, land holdings by individuals can only be taken away by governments where there is an overriding public interest. However, where such megadams are built on a farmer’s land on condition that fully mechanized farming is to be introduced, justifications for such actions are often difficult to come by. Often this situation leads to serious conflicts. Cases are many where farmers were rendered landless (Jega, 1987; Main & Cline-Cole, 1987, among others) and where government actions led to increased peasantry. With every ecological change, socioeconomic conditions of people are affected. This is clear in the case drawn for the Hadejia-Jama’are-Komadugu-Yobe Basin (HJKYB). Although the government has been quick to intervene, the environment will take several decades to attain a favorable balance. This case is relevant for all the river basins, especially in dryland areas. From the above, it is recommended that similar intervention be made in the remaining 10 River Basins in the country. The lessons learned in the HadejiaJama’are Basin could be replicated. Second, it is relevant to re-emphasize that considering both the ecological and socioeconomic problems caused by the country’s existing megadams, no further construction by an institution and individual should be carried out. Current efforts by the Bauchi State government to be allowed to build the Kafin Zaki dam should be resisted. In cases of pressing needs, small scale options may be allowed instead. Following the holistic manner in which the approach used by which Integrated Water Resource Management (IWRM) evolved; it incorporates the multiple competing uses of water resources within any particular basin. The approach, although generally accepted since the Third World Water Forum (Kyoto, 2003), is not popular in most African countries. The approach could ensure wise water management and provide an effective way to improve quality of life. However, for successful and sustainable implementation within river basins, the following areas are essential: • Restoration and ecology: the purpose is to understand the processes of river channel engineering as it may impact flood control, drainage improvement, maintenance of navigation, reduction of bank erosion, etc. This call is made with the understanding that in the last three decades, these processes have sparked public outcry particularly in the US and Europe, resulting in “river restoration initiatives” (Rahaman & Varis, 2005: 19). This understanding is necessary in order to avoid the kind of environmental degradation that could result due to projects of megadimensions. • Full cost recovery: the application of economic principles to the allocation of water is clearly acceptable. This is prominently developed within the IWRM

93

Megadams for Irrigation in Nigeria

1629

process which calls for improvement of water infrastructure. However, as the implementation of the scheme may entail full-cost recovery, this may clearly handicap a nation like Nigeria that is striving to provide basic needs by subsidizing the basic water infrastructure. An understanding of a local initiative that could ingeniously implement the principle without causing undesirable outcry is important. • Basin Plan Provision: In Nigeria political regions are clearly developed and are very prominent for all planning purposes. Although the River Basins have well been identified and formalized since the 1970 s, no clear mechanism for implementing the concept of river basin management is clearly developed. River basins across different states boundaries often face the challenges of differences in the planning and implementation of land use systems. This situation adds to the difficulties of ineffective local participation, absence of formal agreements/charter on water allocation, limits on pollution etc. Research that seeks to identify how this can be addressed is essential for the successful implementation of the IWRM.

References Adams, W. M. (1985). River basin planning in Nigeria. Applied Geography, 5, 297–308. Adams, W. M., & Hollis, G. E. (1987). .Hydrology and sustainable resource development of a Sahelian wetlands. Report for Hadejia-Nguru Wetland Conservation Project to RSPB. Sandy, England. Baba, J. M. (1975). Induced agricultural change in a densely populated district: a study of the existing agricultural system in Kura district and the projected impact of the Kano River Irrigation Project, Kano State, Nigeria. Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, Department of Geography, Admadu Bello University, Zaria, Nigeria. Baba, J. M. (1981). Large-scale irrigation development in Nigeria: The constraint of labor. The Nigerian Journal of Agricultural Extension, 1(1), 44–57. Baba, J. M. (1989). The problems of rural inequalities on the Kano River project, Nigeria. In K. Swindel, J. M. Baba, & M. J. Mortimore (Eds.), Inequality and development: Case studies from the third world (pp. 140–157). London and Basingstoke: Macmillan. Bird, A., & Tanko, A. I. (2004). Remote Sensing Report. A technical report submitted to DFID, jewel project on the Hedejia-Nguru Wetland. Dutse, Jigawa State, Nigeria. Chorley, R. J., & Kennedy, B. A. (1971). Physical geography: A systems approach. London: Prentice-Hall. Collins, R. O. (1990). The waters of the Nile: Hydropolitics and the Jonglei Canal 1900-1988. Oxford: Clarendon Press. D’Silva, B. C., & Raza, M. R. (1980). Integrated rural development in Nigeria: the Funtua Project. Food Policy, 5(4), 282–297. Etuk, E. G., & Abalu, G. O. I. (1982). River basin development in Northern Nigeria: a case study of the Bakolori Project. Proceedings, Fourth Afro-Asian Regional Conference of International Commission on Irrigation and Drainage, Lagos, Nigeria, 2, 335–346. Fahim, H. M. (1981). Dams, people and development: The Aswan High Dam case. New York: Pergamon. FAO/WB-CP. (1992). Nigeria: Irrigation development projects. (Working Paper 2. Hadejia Jama’are River Basin Water Resources Development, Kano River Project, Nigeria. FAO Investment Center. FAO/CP. Document No. 77/92 CP-NIR 58 WP2). Harris, F. (1996). Intensification of agriculture in semi-arid areas: Lessons from the Kano closesettled Zone, Nigeria. Gatekeeper Series, IIED Publication. No. 59.

1630

A.I. Tanko

H-JRBDA. (1995). Kano River project phase 1: 22,000 Hectares. Progress Report on the HadejiaJama’are River Basin Development Authority, KANO, Nigeria. Igbozurike, M., & Diatchavbe, O. (1982). The social cost of irrigation: the case of Bakolori. Proceedings, Fourth Afro-Asian Regional Conference of International Commission on Irrigation and Drainage, 2, 347–352. Japan International Cooperation Agency, JICA. (1995), The Study on the National Water Resources Master Plan (NWRMP) Sector Report, Vol. 2, Part 1, Federal Ministry of Water Resources & Rural Development, Nigeria. (Note: this report covers the entire country.) Jega, A. M. (1987). The state agrarian reformism and land administration in the Bakolori irrigation project. In M. Mortimore, E. A. Olifin., R. A. Cline-Cole, & A. Abdulkadir (Eds.), Perspectives on land administration and development in Northern Nigeria (pp. 141–152). Kano, Nigeria: Bayero University, Department of Geography. Mabogunje, A. L., & Gana, J. A. (1981). Rural development in Nigeria: Case study of the Funtua integrated rural development project, Kaduna State, Nigeria. Nagoya, Japan: The United Nations Center for Regional Development, UNCRD Project 509/80. Main, H. A. C., & Cline-Cole, R. A. (1987). Land-related processes in peripheral capitalist societies: Metropolitan Kano’s Western Peri-urban Fringe. In M. Mortimore, E. A. Olofin, R. A. Cine-Cole, & A. Abdulkadir (Eds.), Perspectives on land administration and development in Northern Nigeria (pp. 161–180). Kano, Nigeria: Bayero University, Department of Geography. Mortimore, M. (1971). Population densities and systems of agricultural land use in Northern Nigeria. The Nigerian Geographical Journal, 14, 3–16. NEDECO. (1974). Kano River project: Kano project area, Part 1, Soils. Kano, Nigeria: Kano State Ministry of Agriculture and Natural Resources. Newson, M. (1997). Land, water and development: Sustainable management of river basin systems. London and New York: Routledge. Nigeria. (1971). National Agricultural Development. Committee report of the study group on irrigation and drainage. Lagos: Federal Ministry of Agriculture. Olofin, E. A. (1978). Effects of gully processes on farmlands in the Savanna areas of Nigeria – Chalawa Basin Case Study. Kano Studies, NS 1(3), 74–83. Olofin, E. A. (1984). Some effects of the Tiga Dam on valley side erosion in downstream reaches of the River Kano. Applied Geography, 4, 321–332. Olofin, E. A. (2000) The gains and pains of putting a water-look on the face of the Nigerian drylands. Inaugural Lecture Series No. 1 (25 pp). Kano, Nigeria: Bayero University. Rahaman, M. M., & Varis, O. (2005). Integrated water resources management: Evolution, prospects and future challenges. Sustainability: Science, Practice and Policy, 1(1), 15–21. http://ejournal.abii.org Rowntree, K. (1990). Political and administrative constraints on integrated river basin development: An evaluation of the Tana and Athi Rivers Authority, Kenya. Applied Geography, 10, 21–41. Tahal (1992). Feasibility study of Kano river irrigation project Phase II: Tahal Consultants, Lagos, Document No. UNI/238d/MR-TC. Tanko, A. I. (1999). Changes in soil and water quality and implication for sustainable irrigation in the Kano River Project KRP1), Kano State, Nigeria. Unpublished PhD. Thesis, Department of Geography, Bayero University, Kano. Tanko, A. I. (2005). Land tenure arrangements and peasantry in Sub-Saharan Africa: the case in Northern Nigeria. Journal of Social and Management Studies (JOSAMS), 9, 174–195. Special Edition, Faculty of Social & Management Sciences, Bayero University Kano, October 2005. Umar, A. A. (1985). Groundwater monitoring and imbalance in Kano State. Water Resources and Engineering Construction Company (WRECA), Kano State, Nigeria. Wallace, T. (1980). Agricultural projects and land in northern Nigeria. Review of African Political Economy, 17, 59–70.

93

Megadams for Irrigation in Nigeria

1631

Wallace, T. (1981). The Kano river project, Nigeria: the impacts of an irrigation scheme on productivity and welfare. In J. Hayer, P. Roberts, & G. Williams (Eds.), Rural development in Tropical Africa (pp. 281–305). London: Macmillan. Winid, B. (1981). Comments on the development of the Awash Valley, Ethiopia. In S. K. Saha & C. J. Barrow (Eds.), River basin planning theory and practice (pp. 147–165). Chichester: Wiley.

Chapter 94

Ebbs and Flows: Megaproject Politics on the Mekong Philip Hirsch and Katherine Wilson

94.1 Introduction Engineers, development planners and politicians have long dreamed of damming the Mekong. Since the 1950s, designs for a cascade of large dams on the lower half of the river have consumed countless person-months of consultants’ time, cost hundreds of millions of dollars, involved protracted discussions and debates, and generated an elaborate institutional and political framework for negotiation and decision-making. Yet at the end of the first decade of the 21st century, the mainstream of the Mekong outside China continues to flow unchecked. The half-century during which dams have been planned for the Mekong has been a tumultuous one for the people, environment and governments of the region in question. Thinking on large dams at a global level has been no less turbulent during this period. The countries of China, Burma, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam, through which the Mekong flows on its 4,800 km (2928 mi) course from source to sea (Fig. 94.1), have been wracked by internal armed struggles, military conflict at the front line of the cold war, a sometimes uneasy rapprochement, and a rapid, if very uneven, drive to economic development based in part on large scale infrastructure including dams. Dams have been seen as symbols and substance of development and prosperity, as juggernauts riding roughshod over people’s lives, as tamers and as destroyers of rivers, and even as solutions to a rapidly growing regional economy’s energy needs in the context of climate change. In this chapter we trace the ebbs and flows of thinking on Mekong dams through the twin, and intersecting, paths of the region’s geopolitics and ecopolitics. We start with a brief history of the thinking and construction of dams in the Mekong River Basin, including in the Chinese section. We then examine the changing geopolitical context to show how hydro-megaprojects have been hostage to the region’s

P. Hirsch (B) School of Geosciences; Australian Mekong Resource Centre, University of Sydney, Sydney, NSW, 2006, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_94,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1633

1634

P. Hirsch and K. Wilson

Fig. 94.1 Course of the Mekong river

delayed development push, or alternatively construed, how time has been bought for the river and its people by events that stopped immensely destructive projects from proceeding. We follow this by looking at the shifting sands of thinking on the pros and cons of hydropower as an energy source and as a basis for economic development, in a region whose recent history of environmentalism provides an entirely new ground for debate and decision making on large dams. The chapter concludes with a discussion of the intertwined geopolitics and ecopolitics in the Mekong region and of the more general need to contextualize any attempt to understand how the earth – and its rivers – is engineered within the multifaceted and place-specific politics that govern society’s engagement with nature.

94

Ebbs and Flows: Megaproject Politics on the Mekong

1635

94.2 A Short History of Mekong Dams The Mekong is one of the world’s major rivers, rising on the plateau of Qinghai Province in China, flowing half its total length as the Lancang Jiang through Tibet and Yunnan, before passing along the borders and through the territories of another five nations to the Delta in Vietnam and emptying into South China Sea. Human life and livelihoods in the Mekong River Basin have long revolved around the river and its tributaries. Since the 1940s, international attention has been focused on “the possible roles of the river as a servant of man” (White Gilbert, de Vries, Dunkerley, & Krutilla, 1962: 23), implying a different kind of benefit to be sought from the Mekong based mainly on impoundment of water for energy, irrigation and flood control. The vision of dams in the Mekong Basin has progressed in ebbs and flows. The first wave of enthusiasm was directed by the Mekong Committee before progress was slowed by the second and third Indochinese wars (1954–1975 and 1979–1989 respectively). The end of the wars in Indochina brought renewed passion, with dams envisaged as reinforcing the peace. Parallel to the renewed interest in dams and the creation of the Mekong River Commission was a growth in civil society activism against dams. Despite continuing unease surrounding the impacts of dams, governments and private investors alike remain keen to push ahead with their plans to dam the Mekong mainstream.

94.2.1 Plans for the Trunk: The Mekong Cascade In 1955, the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation began its study of the river, producing a reconnaissance report of the Lower Mekong River Basin in 1956. The United Nations Technical Assistance Administration report, headed by General Wheeler of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, was published in 1957. Both these reports relied heavily on foreign expertise to produce visions of Mekong development that were heavily influenced by large scale dam projects in the United States. In 1957, the United Nations established the Mekong Committee, whose member states were Thailand, Laos, Cambodia and South Vietnam. The Committee’s main role was to mobilize international capital for investigations and development. In 1958, within a year of its establishment, the Committee had received US$4 million in contributions including commodities and services (Mekong Committee Secretariat, 1989). The Committee was quick to establish a list of possible projects for investigation and investment. The Mekong Committee Annual Report of 1961 includes a list of possible mainstream projects (Mekong Committee Secretariat 1989), bolstered by the 1962 Ford Foundation report led by Gilbert White. These reports focused on the potential of dams on the Mekong to generate export earnings through the sale of hydroelectricity, improve agricultural output by providing the possibility of irrigation and prevent destructive flooding (White et al., 1962), drawing on grand engineering dreams of the 1950s, notably the U.S. Tennessee Valley experience (Jacobs, 1995). The Mekong Committee approached the Mekong

1636

P. Hirsch and K. Wilson

as a resource that, once tamed, could be used to solve a multitude of the region’s problems. The Committee’s mainstream vision was explored further in the 1970 Indicative Basin Plan, a document intended to provide a more complete view of development for the basin than had been possible in the Wheeler and Ford reports (Jacobs, 1995). The plan estimated the hydroelectric potential of the river and tributaries to be 200 times the production achieved in the 1960s and then detailed a mainstream cascade of seven major dams that would allow this potential to be tapped (Mekong Committee Secretariat, 1989). The Indicative Plan called for investments of about US$12,000 million to complete projects and complementary social programs (Chomchai, 1987) and the Committee received a surge in international funding following its release (Mekong Committee Secretariat, 1989). This funding was for studies, not for implementation of projects, since the region continued to be wracked by conflict, and the framework for cooperation was further hamstrung by the withdrawal of Cambodia from the Mekong Committee in 1975. In 1987 a Revised Indicative Plan anticipated the eventual return of Cambodia, with slightly amended plans for the mainstream “Mekong Cascade” (Fig. 94.2). The cascade scheme was scaled down to reduced resettlement figures as a response to concerns raised as a result of the first Indicative Plan. Nevertheless, restettlement figures from the lynchpin megaproject component at Pa Mong were still over 200,000 people (Mekong Committee Secretariat, 1987), and this was in a new era where such forced displacement was less politically acceptable than it had been previously. Partly as a result, the Mekong Secretariat released a new basin plan in 1994 that re-shaped the original Mekong master plan as a run-of-river cascade of eleven dams on the mainstream of the Mekong from Pak Beng in northern Laos to Kratie in Cambodia (Lang, 2006). These proposed dams were estimated to

Fig. 94.2 The Mekong cascade 1987. The main difference from the 1970 plan was the reduced height of the giant Pa Mong Dam. (Cartography by Dick Gilbreath; adapted from Mekong Committee, 1970. Report of the Indicative Basin Plan for the Lower Mekong Basin. Bangkok, Phnom Penh, Mekong River Commission; and Interim Mekong Committee, 1988. Perspectives for Mekong Development, Summary Report, Revised Indicative Plan (1987) for the Development of Land, Water and Related Resources of the Lower Mekong Basin. Bangkok, Bangkok, Mekong Secretariat)

94

Ebbs and Flows: Megaproject Politics on the Mekong

1637

generate 13,000 MW of electricity, displace 6,000 people and flood 1,900 km2 /734 mi2 (Lang, 2006). The run-of-river concept describes a series of dams where water passes through each reservoir within one to seven days. This means that reservoirs are much smaller and hence resettlement needs are lower. The Mekong Committee’s successor, the Mekong River Commission (MRC), is sometimes seen as a break from the past emphasis on mainstream development. Nevertheless MRC’s first Work Programme, published in 1996, lists three of the eleven mainstream dams studied under the run-of-river scheme – Sambour in Cambodia, Ban Koum on the Thai-Lao border and Don Sahong (Khone Falls) in Lao – as priorities for further investigation (TERRA, 1996). By the late 1990s, however, mainstream projects had faded from view in favor of accelerated tributary development.

94.2.2 Arms and Legs First: Tributary Dams As early as the 1960s, the Ford Foundation report suggested that tributary development might initially be preferable to mainstream dams due to their smaller scale and hence lower investment requirements. Indeed, the Committee pushed ahead with the development of tributary dams, with construction of Nam Pong, Thailand 1966 and Nam Ngum, Laos in 1967 (Jacobs, 1995). Nam Ngum was to be the most important contributor to foreign currency earnings for Laos until 1992 (Jacobs, 1995). Within the next decade, seven tributary hydro-electric projects were in operation: Ubol Ratana (Nam Pong), Nam Pung, Sirindhorn (Lam Dom Noi), Chulabhorn (Nam Phram) in Thailand and Nam Ngum, Nam Dong and Selabam in Lao PDR (Chomchai, 1987). The belief that all hydroelectric, irrigation and flood protection needs could be met by “means of a wise and timely choice of options identified by the long-term planning studies of the Mekong Committee” (Chomchai, 1987: 56) was still very much alive, but the hostilities of the second Indochina war slowed the dam building activities in the Mekong river basin and in particular they kept mainstream dams at the blueprint stage. By the time the Mekong Committee was revived and then transformed into the Mekong River Commission, the constraints on mainstream development had shifted from geopolitical to ecopolitical concerns. As MRC found its feet, at a time when interest in unexploited hydropower potential had burst back into life, there was a spate of hydroelectric project activity from the early 1990s on tributaries. Most of these were in Laos, and most did not get beyond the project identification and “memorandum of understanding” stage. However, several did get the go-ahead, including Theun-Hinboun, Nam Song, Nam Leuk and Xeset, all funded in total or in part through Asian Development Bank loans, and the privately (Daewoo) funded Huai Ho. Nam Theun 2 dam, funded as a public-private partnership with World Bank backing was the most controversial and largest tributary dam (Hirsch, 2002), which got the go ahead after 15 years of controversy in 2004; it was completed in 2009. Pak Mun Dam in Thailand was completed in 1994 with World Bank assistance and had major – and continuing – political fallout due to its impacts on fishing

1638

P. Hirsch and K. Wilson

communities in particular. Yali Falls Dam in Vietnam, on the westward flowing Se San River, was completed in 1996 and had severe downstream impacts in Cambodia (Hirsch & Wyatt, 2004). Dozens more tributary dam sites have been identified in the uplands of Laos, Central Highlands of Vietnam, and increasingly in the northeastern and southwestern uplands of Cambodia.

94.2.3 China First: The Lancang Mainstream Dams China was never invited to be part of the Mekong Committee framework, which was established at the height of the Cold War, and China later chose to stay out of the MRC. As an upstream country, and with a river that it assiduously refers to in international fora as well as domestically by its Chinese name of Lancang Jiang, China has chosen to develop the river unilaterally. A cascade of eight large dams is under construction, with three 1500 MW structures completed since 1994 (Manwan, Dachaoshan and Jinghong). Two of the projects under construction are truly megaprojects. Xiaowan Dam will be nearly 300 m (984 ft) in height (slightly taller than the Eiffel Tower), and Nuozhadu will be even larger in capacity though not as high. Between them, these two dams will have the capacity to impound the best part of the annual flow of the Lanciang Jiang. The Lancang cascade will have a combined generating capacity larger than Three Gorges (Dore & Xiaogang, 2004). None of the planning has been carried out in consultation with downstream countries, and the operational regime of the dams has similarly been unilateral. Downstream droughts and floods have been blamed on China’s dam operation, sometimes validly, sometimes no doubt in error, but in a climate of mistrust and minimal information sharing.

94.2.4 Plus ça Change: Revival of Lower Mekong Mainstream Dams Until about 2005, there were few expectations that the Mekong cascade on the lower part of the river would be revived. Yet, by 2009, lower mainstream dams are very much back on the agenda. A series of 11 large dams is back on the drawing board (Fig. 94.3), and the respective governments have issued clear public statements that they plan to pursue them. MRC has revived its hydropower program, although the extent to which this represents the promotional approach to hydropower of the 1960s compared to a rational decision making framework approach under the guise of Integrated Water Resource Management governance principles is a bone of contention among the myriad players and interest groups in Mekong development. Several factors have brought mainstream dams back into imminence. One is the rising cost of energy associated with oil price rises and accelerated regional demand. Another is the changing economics of dams as the Chinese regulation of the river upstream mitigates the monsoonal variation in flow and allows lower runof-river type structures to operate through a greater period of the year at higher

94

Ebbs and Flows: Megaproject Politics on the Mekong

1639

Fig. 94.3 Dams on the Mekong River and its tributaries, as of July 2008

capacity. A further boost, at least in terms of the political legitimacy of these dams, is their representation as a non-nuclear alternative to greenhouse-gas emitting fossil fuel solutions to rising energy demand. The major dampener on this momentum is the Global Financial Crisis, which has put some projects on hold, due both to the reduced demand projections and the difficulty of raising capital for project construction on regional and world financial markets. The momentum that built until 2008 for privately funded mainstream dams such as Don Sahong, whose investor is a Malaysian corporation based mainly in property development, has been dampened but not stopped.

94.3 The Geopolitics of Dams The Mekong Region’s volatile geopolitics have affected the management and development of this transboundary river in profound ways. Four main periods mark the past half century in terms of geopolitical relations and influences.

1640

P. Hirsch and K. Wilson

94.3.1 "River of Terror and Hope:" The Cold War and the Mekong In December 1968, National Geographic took the Mekong as its cover story, under the banner of “River of Terror and Hope.” Terror and hope represented the Communist menace and dams, respectively, although at the time many of the region’s farmers may have experienced HSBC (Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation) “point of view” advertising-like reversals in these meanings (Fig. 94.4)! The Mekong Committee coincided with the height of U.S. hegemony in the region, and with its fracturing along Cold War fault lines. The United Nations had established the Economic Commission for Asia and the Far East (ECAFE) in 1947, and this body subsequently initiated a series of studies focusing on the development of the lower Mekong (Mekong Committee Secretariat, 1989). By 1954, all the former countries of French Indochina had gained independence (Osborne, 2000). While the withdrawal of colonial powers set the

Terror

Hope

Hope

Terror

Fig. 94.4 National Geographic’s December 1968 cover story, “River of Terror and Hope” (left), graphic representations of the terror and hope. (Source: cartoon reproduced with permission from CSE in India; hands cradling the dam and power lines is property of the author; poster of Communist Indochina set to devour Thailand is from Thongchai Winichakul’s book with University of Hawaii Press – also posted at railway stations in Thailand in the early 1980s; 1945–1974 poster is from Google Images)

94

Ebbs and Flows: Megaproject Politics on the Mekong

1641

scene for the greater integration of works along the length of the Mekong River, a high level of foreign involvement marked Mekong Basin planning from the start. The Mekong Committee, established in 1957, operated under the umbrella of the United Nations, representing the first example of direct United Nations involvement in the continuous planning for an international river basin (Mekong Committee Secretariat, 1989). The Mekong Committee included representatives from South Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos and Thailand (Mekong Committee Secretariat, 1989). It was strongly supported by the United States, France and Japan (Mekong Committee Secretariat, 1989) and hence also played a role in promoting capitalist economic growth in the four riparian countries during the Cold War years. The United States’ interests were particularly firmly asserted by the assignment of an American as administrative head of the Committee (Osborne, 2004). The Committee also played a role in maintaining stable political nations between the four riparian nations through its collaborative, science-based programs (Jacobs, 2002). Because of the armed conflicts leading to Communist victories in Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam in 1975, little was implemented on the ground. Prior to 1975 the Committee had met 69 times (Chomchai, 1987), but neither Laos nor Cambodia nor Vietnam appointed representatives to the Committee in 1976 or 1977 and it went into abeyance. In 1978, Laos and Vietnam re-appointed members to the Committee. However, without representatives from Cambodia, the Mekong Committee was legally not able to implement mainstream projects because under the Joint Declaration of Principles for the Utilization of the Waters of the Lower Mekong Basin (1975) mainstream development required approval from all other basin states (Jacobs, 1995). The Interim Mekong Committee consisting of Laos, Thailand and Vietnam was established in 1978 to allow some progress to continue (Mekong Committee Secretariat, 1989). Mainstream activity was essentially halted during this period and the attention of the Committee turned to national projects and data gathering (Mekong Committee Secretariat, 1989).

94.3.2 Battlefields to Marketplaces: Rapprochement in Indochina By the late 1980s, hostilities in the region had diminished, although the situation in Cambodia was still volatile (Osborne, 2000). In 1988, Thailand’s flamboyant business-oriented Prime Minister Chatichai Choonhavan made his famous call to transform battlefields into marketplaces, which included a regional market in energy generated by the Mekong system’s unused potential. Mekong dams were back on the agenda, now in the name of regional peace and cooperation. Another factor responsible for increased enthusiasm for dam-building in the late 1980s and early 1990s was the economic shift in the riparian states. Since 1986, there had been a policy shift from centrally controlled to market driven economies in Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam (Hirsch, 1996b). Regional governments looking to commodify resources sought to use the Mekong River in ways that would generate foreign exchange, and hydropower operates primarily as a means of valorizing rivers through commodification of water resources (Bakker, 1999). Lao planners

1642

P. Hirsch and K. Wilson

were encouraged to think of their income-poor country’s future in hyperbolic terms such as “the Kuwait of Southeast Asia” or the “battery of Indochina.” An important aspect of Thailand’s foreign policy during this time was the promotion of an integrated regional resource economy through the importing of hydropower from Laos. Many of the prime sites for hydro-electricity generation had already been developed in Thailand. However, Thailand’s growing urban industrial and service sectors had an increasing demand for electricity. In a manner analogous to the logging of forests in Laos and Cambodia for use across the border in Thailand, the environmental costs would be borne by the location of the origin of the resource. By 1995 memoranda of understanding had been signed for the sale of electricity from 23 proposed dams in Laos (Hirsch, 1996b). It was in this political and economic climate that the Mekong River Commission (hereafter MRC) was established following the signing of the Agreement on Cooperation for the Sustainable Development of the Mekong River Basin by Vietnam, Thailand, Cambodia and Laos in 1995 (Hirsch, 1996a). This agreement set out rules for fair use of the basin’s resources and allows for China and Burma to join the MRC later as long as they abide by its rules (Jacobs 2002). The MRC was not under the umbrella of the United Nations as its predecessor had been. Full management responsibility lay with a Council of Ministers of the four member countries (Mekong River Commission, 2005). The fledgling MRC stated its vision: “an economically prosperous, socially just and environmentally sound Mekong Basin” (Mekong River Commission, 2005).

94.3.3 Reaping the Peace Dividend: Entrenchment of Regional Cooperation The increased interest in capitalizing on regional rapprochement saw the establishment of the Greater Mekong Subregion program in 1992 by the Asian Development Bank. It also saw Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia and Burma join ASEAN. The focus for development in the region was very much on economic growth (Cornford & Simon, 2001), and ADB coined the term “reaping the peace dividend” to pour hundreds of millions of dollars into several loans for dams and related infrastructure in Laos and Vietnam (Hirsch, 1999). Despite growing criticism of dam projects, for the poorer riparian nations, dambuilding for generation of hydro-electricity and the resulting foreign exchange was portrayed by ADB and other financial institutions as the only option for national development and economic growth (Bakker, 1999). Unlike MRC, which is limited to the lower four countries, the GMS also incorporates Burma and two provinces of China. The ADB’s early role in the region was to promote economic growth through direct project loans and technical assistance to government utilities, but increasingly it has supported privatization and new forms of regulation to facilitate public-private partnerships (Yu, 2006). Following critique of its infrastructure-driven growth-first approach, rhetoric of the ADB shifted in the 1990s towards poverty alleviation, with the publication of a Poverty Reduction Strategy in 1999 despite a continuing underlying focus on economic growth (Cornford & Simon, 2001).

94

Ebbs and Flows: Megaproject Politics on the Mekong

1643

94.3.4 BOOTing up Dams and the China Syndrome The first decade of the 21st century has seen a fundamental geopolitical shift in two main dimensions. First, the old model of public project financing through loans from multilateral development banks has been largely replaced by private sector projects and public-private partnerships such as build-own-operate-transfer (BOOT) schemes, which have become the preferred model of institutions including the World Bank and Asian Development Bank (Yu, 2006). Second, the major external players have rapidly been overshadowed by China’s global influence that is magnified at a regional scale through its massive aid and investment presence. These two geopolitical shifts are linked in some surprising ways. BOOT relies on private capital to secure equity and loans for the bulk of investment, usually with some government shareholding (25% in the case of Laos’ World Bank-funded Nam Theun 2 and 60% in the case of ADB-funded Theun Hinboun Dams in Laos). The private consortium then builds and manages the dam and retains the profits for an agreed period of time before the dam reverts to public ownership. For example, the Theun-Hinboun dam will be transferred to the Lao PDR government after 30 years (AMRC, 2006). The BOOT concept is promoted by the Banks as bringing in additional funds and as facilitating technology transfer and growth of the local private sector, but no major BOOT project has completed all stages of the cycle and been transferred back to the government (Cornford & Simon, 2001). The banks maintain a role through loans to governments for their share of the equity. Increasingly, however, regional governments are eschewing multilateral bank loans because of conditionalities with respect to environmental and social safeguards, and as new sources of capital become available. European, Australian, North American and Thai commercial banks are behind several of the most recent dam projects to be funded, as are Vietnamese power utilities that now have sufficient financial prowess to raise funds on their own account. However, the key regional financial player is now China and its state-owned power corporations. China is no longer simply a large upstream country building whatever megaprojects it likes on the Lanchang Jiang/Mekong River. Chinese corporations are behind at least four of the dams proposed on the lower Mekong mainstream. They are also financing most of the hydropower projects planned for Cambodia. Because these are state-owned corporations, it is sometimes difficult to separate state and corporate policy, so that these investments are part of China’s wider regional role. They also greatly reduce the influence of traditional donors and loan sources, in turn reducing or shifting the points of leverage that critical players have hitherto employed to influence decisions on megaprojects.

94.4 The Ecopolitics of Dams In the Mekong Region, perhaps more than any other world region defined by a fluvial metaphor, dams are embroiled in complex geopolitical shifts. Parallel to this is a labyrinthine politics of environment that has seen swings back and forth in thinking on hydropower projects.

1644

P. Hirsch and K. Wilson

94.4.1 Dams as Free Energy: Temples to Development In the 1950s and 1960s, dams were symbolically and substantively seen as the path to prosperity through modernization for newly independent countries. India’s first post-independence Prime Minster Jawaharlal Nehru referred to dams as the “temples of modern India.” To the 1980s, some 20% of all World Bank loans globally had gone to large dams. Drawing on the post-Depression Tennessee Valley experience of the United States, and later the post-war Snowy Mountains nation building project in Australia, dam construction was associated with mastery over nature, reaping the free resource of water through megastructures that created employment during their construction and promised permanent harnessing of free energy. For developing countries including Zambia, Egypt, India, China, Brazil and others, major river systems appeared a bountiful resource for development, and for political leaders the kudos of large dams also shored up political authority and bolstered independence through energy self-reliance. It was (and remains) common to see dams portrayed on postage stamps, banknotes and other sites showcasing national symbols of technological and economic prowess. In the Mekong, early estimates of power generation were optimistic. The U.S. Bureau of Reclamation reconnaissance report (1956) estimated that 130 000 kWh/year could be generated from 24 000 MW of installed capacity. The Ford Foundation report estimated that four mainstream sites should be capable of generating 1.5 million kW each, and it linked the power generating capacity to the potential for development of power-intensive industries such as aluminum smelting (White et al., 1962). The 1960s also saw the establishment of agreements for the sale of hydroelectricity generated in Laos to Thailand, such as the Convention of 12 August 1965 (Mekong Committee Secretariat, 1989). Dams were thus seen as important investments to generate economic growth of the Mekong basin. As recently as the early 1990s, the continuing level of detail in planning for the giant Pa Mong Dam shows that the Committee was still committed to the idea of mainstream development (Jacobs, 1995). The Revised Indicative Plan presented the Mekong Committee’s continued view that dams were the solution to multiple problems in the region and that the river was “a huge underused resource” (Mekong Committee Secretariat, 1987). The philosophy of the time is summed up well by the conclusion of the Mekong Secretariat’s own account of its history “Too idealistic? Perhaps. But the original vision still holds true. . .” (Mekong Committee Secretariat, 1989: 83).

94.4.2 Second Thoughts: Dams as Leviathan The Mekong Project, as it was termed by the Johnson administration, was a political project firmly based on the belief that with development would come prosperity that would in turn undermine rural discontent behind leftist insurgencies in Laos, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam. By the time realizing the project became a physical possibility with the end of geopolitical conflict, however, faith in dam

94

Ebbs and Flows: Megaproject Politics on the Mekong

1645

megaprojects had been well and truly shaken. In part this was due to the severe environmental and social consequences of those dams that had been completed in the Mekong and elsewhere, and in part it was based on a sounder scientific and sociological understanding of the destructive and unequal impacts of large dams (Goldsmith & Hildyard, 1984; Hirsch, 1988; McCully, 1996). For many civil society groups, dams had by the 1990s become symbols of gigantism riding roughshod over nature and people’s lives and livelihoods in the name of development – a new leviathan. Growing discontent over dams within civil society in the Mekong kept up with international criticism of big dams. A polarized debate culminated in a major global study under the World Commission on Dams that involved all sides of the debate, and whose report Dams and Development: A New Framework for decision making was released in November 2000 with some scathing critique of dams’ effectiveness in achieving their goals during the past half century (World Commission on Dams, 2000). One of the WCD case studies, Thailand’s Pak Mun Dam, is a site of particular conflict and contestation in the Mekong. In a river system as complex as the Mekong Basin, there are specific risks associated with impacts on downstream environments from hydropower development. Most significantly, dams affect fish migration, breeding and primary productivity as floodplain connectivity to the river is disrupted, in a region where 60% of the rural population’s protein intake comes from fish and in a basin whose freshwater catch is the highest in the world (Osborne, 2000). Without wet season flooding, the productivity of river-bank rice fields in Vietnam and Cambodia declines (Cornford & Simon, 2001). Lower flows during the dry season would also lead to an increase in saline intrusion in the Delta (Cornford & Simon, 2001). A number of Mekong dams have become high profile targets of scientific and civil society objections. In May 2007, for example, 34 scientists sent a letter to MRC and the Government of Lao PDR, describing the impacts of the proposed mainstream Don Sahong dam at the Khone Falls: “the location of this proposed dam is probably the worst possible place to site a 240 MW project since it is the point of maximum concentration of fish migration in the river that supports the world’s largest freshwater fishery” (TERRA, 2007). Academic and civil society studies of the impact of individual tributary dams suggest a range of environmental consequences. Hirsch (2001) also points to dramatic impacts on a local scale, with sudden surges causing child drowning, eroding the river bank downstream and disturbing fish populations from the Theun-Hinboun dam, leading to sharp declines in the fish catches (International Rivers Network, 2008). Hydropower dams also have the political effect of enforcing centralized state control over rural areas (Bakker, 1999). The engineering preference for building dams in areas with steep topography and high rainfall means that dams are often constructed in inaccessible upland areas which are more likely to be home to ethnic minorities (Hirsch, 1999). Critics also point to flaws in the management of social issues such as consultation and appropriate compensation among affected people. Villagers displaced by the Nam Ngum dam, Laos, received no compensation whatsoever (Hirsch, 1996a), and most other projects have seen disputes over the adequacy of compensation and mitigation schemes.

1646

P. Hirsch and K. Wilson

Fig. 94.5 Dam protest in Bangkok

Within the Mekong region, civil society groups in Thailand have led the movement against large dams (Fig. 94.5). Parallel to the release of ever more detailed technical and investment plans for dam-building by the Interim Mekong Committee and then the Mekong River Commission during the late 1980s and early- mid-1990s was an increase in local opposition to dams on the Mekong. This was particularly noticeable in Thailand, where there had been successful opposition to the World Bank-supported Nam Choan Dam in 1988 (Hirsch, 1996b). The Nam Choan dam would have forced the resettlement of 2000 Karen villagers and would also have flooded parts of the Huai Kha Khaeng and Thung Yai wildlife sanctuaries (Rigg, 1991). Access to the media was severely biased with Thai civil servants forbidden from criticizing the dam project (Hirsch, 1988). In this setting, environmentalists were able to mobilize support at the local, national and international levels. There were rallies near the dam site and in Bangkok, editorials were written criticizing the dam in major national newspapers and a petition calling for the cancellation of the project was sent to the Thai Prime Minister. The dam was postponed indefinitely in March 1988 (Rigg, 1991). Following this, there was widespread protest at the proposals of dams at Kaeng Krung, Kaeng Seua Ten and Pak Mun (Hirsch 1996b). In total, four of the five major contested Thai dam projects were postponed and only the Pak Mun dam was built, completed in 1994 (Bakker, 1999). Yet even in those countries where political discourse is much more constrained, notably Lao PDR and Vietnam, there is evidence of discontent at a local level. Hirsch points to vocal expressions of displeasure against Nam Song and TheunHinboun at the village level which never reached mainstream media (Hirsch, 2001).

94

Ebbs and Flows: Megaproject Politics on the Mekong

1647

The process of regionalization has encouraged international players to take a more active role. The campaign against the Theun-Hinboun project included the participation of International Rivers Network, Probe International, FIVAS, Mekong Watch, TERRA and Oxfam Australia (AMRC, 2006), while the campaign on Nam Theun 2 was global in scope (Hirsch, 2002).

94.4.3 Crisis in Dam Funding: World Bank and ADB The emergent ecopolitics of large dams effected a major change in the roles of the two main multilateral funders of these projects in the Mekong. As a response to growing international criticism and lobbying through the U.S. Congress, the World Bank established an Environment Department in the late 1980s that grew rapidly, at a time when the Bank more or less pulled out of funding large hydro-electric projects after embarrassments over abortive efforts at Nam Choan in Thailand, in the Narmada Valley in India, Arun III Dam in Nepal, and bad publicity over its completed dams such as Pak Mun in Thailand. The Environment Department set new criteria for funding dams and other projects, and it also sharpened the Bank’s ability to present projects as environmental in intent. ADB continued to fund several projects in Lao PDR, all of which got embroiled in significant problems and attracted bad publicity and concern among the banks’ major international funders. With global concern for sustainability in the post-Rio era, it became more important than ever to show concern for environmental and social impacts. The first way in which the banks “greened” themselves discursively was to assert sustainability. When the ADB president Tadao Chino opened Theun-Hinboun Dam in April 1998, he stated that it was an “ecologically friendly” project with no need to resettle people. Red rag to a bull, this statement soon led to a barrage of criticism by NGOs and a detailed field-based study on the dam’s devastating environmental and livelihood impacts by the International Rivers Network, a counter-study by ADB, and ultimately an expensive and only very partially effective mitigation and compensation program by the Theun-Hinboun Power Company (Hirsch, 2001). Not to be beaten down, the banks have shifted from pretense that dams can be built with little impact, toward a framing of dams as environmental projects. Dam building advocates suggest that hydropower development can relieve pressure on forests and wildlife exploitation (Yu, 2006). In an interesting twist, the Nam Theun 2 dam which will flood over 400 km2 /154 mi2 was supported by some international conservationists as it would provide protection for the biodiversity of the area by creating a protected area reserve and allowing greater state control to prevent “destructive action” by inhabitants (Bakker, 1999). The World Bank engineered a deal whereby the Nam Theun Power Company will provide one million dollars per annum for upper catchment biodiversity protection. The more significant shift in multi-lateral bank funding has been in mobilizing private finance and providing specialized financial services such as sovereign

1648

P. Hirsch and K. Wilson

risk guarantees. So long as the banks remain involved, they – and the international lobby groups who have seen the banks’ dependence on finance from their own governments as points of leverage – exert some influence over environmental and social safeguards. Increasingly, however, resorting to fully private funding and the rise of China as a source of investment in large dams has sidelined the banks and hence changed the game again with regard to environmental standards.

94.4.4 A New Environmental Imprimatur? Climate Change and Dams The reframing of large dams as environmental projects has a new lease of life in a world of volatile fossil fuel prices and the premium put on non-carbon based sources of energy in a region of rapid economic growth. For some time, dams have been cast as agents of environmental salvation as hydropower was presented as the only feasible alternative to environmentally damaging fossil fuel options (Bryce, 1999). The prospect of carbon accounting and trading regimes combining with certification of hydropower as eligible for Clean Development Mechanism subsidies further boosts the value of this environmental imprimatur. This is despite a continuing debate on the carbon-neutrality of these megaprojects, given their methane emissions and the energy required for the massive construction efforts and associated transport, cement manufacture and so on (Fearnside, 2004). Dams in the Mekong have received another discursive boost from climate change prognoses. Among the projections for the Mekong Region are melting of the Himalayan glaciers that form the headwaters of the Chinese section of the river, and a more sharply peaked monsoon (Chinvanno, 2003). In both cases, dams as compensatory storages bring full-circle the promise of mastery over nature through these megaprojects as salvation for the Mekong countries and their people. The same kind of promise drove the early confidence in dams as salvation from a very different sort of regionally manifested global threat.

94.5 Conclusion Visions of engineering the Mekong through construction of large dams have ebbed and flowed over more than half a century. Thinking and action on these megaprojects have been caught up in a complex evolution of geopolitics and ecopolitics that have regional, but also global and more local linkages. Indeed, one of the reasons that the region has taken on its name after a major river is the metaphoric significance of the Mekong in defining debates over environment and development that in turn help to shape the region’s distinctiveness as an entity – whether it is in its natural bioregional form as the Mekong River Basin, or in its anthropogenic mantle, and wider geographical scope, as the Greater Mekong Subregion associated above all with an infrastructure-driven regional economic integration agenda.

94

Ebbs and Flows: Megaproject Politics on the Mekong

1649

There are two key concluding observations from this discussion. First, megaproject thinking, decisions and outcomes are quite specific to regional politics. Dams have been built around the world, and control over water more generally is an aspect of human society associated with rises and falls of civilizations over the long sweep of history. Yet, the nuance of regional political relations in fields as diverse as geopolitics and ecopolitics defines and helps us understand why a river such as the Mekong, and its tributary system, faces such extraordinary development pressures in a world that elsewhere has been retreating from megaprojects and further “closure” of major river basins (Molle, Wester, & Hirsch, 2007). The second key observation is that geopolitics and ecopolitics are intimately intertwined in the case of Mekong dams. Without the geopolitically generated interruption of the Mekong project, dams would likely have been built on the lower Mekong mainstream during the 1960s and 1970s. Without this interregnum in dam fever, there would also not have been the confluence during the 1990s of a revived modernist agenda dating from the 1960s at a time when environmental challenges to such developmentalism were at their height globally and had achieved a purchase within the region. At the same time, regional relations around MRC and ADB’s various agendas have been constrained and otherwise shaped by the increasingly complex environmental politics of the region. The mutually constitutive influences of international power plays and environmental discourse have thus defined the politics around large dams in the Mekong to produce the ebbs, flows, and numerous eddies that continue to wind their way through an ever unfolding historical course for the river, its region and its people.

References AMRC (Australian Mekong Resource Centre). (2006, July). The Theun Hinboun Project. Mekong Brief Number 3. Bakker, K. (1999). The politics of hydropower: Developing the Mekong. Political Geography, 18, 209–232. Bryce, P. (1999, January–March). Hydropower: A path to sustaibable development? Mekong Update and Dialogue, 2(1), 6. Chinvanno, S. (2003). Information for sustainable development in light of climate change in Mekong River Basin. Proceedings of the Regional Conference on Digital GMS. 26–28 February 2003 (pp. 108–116). Bangkok: Asian Institute of Technology. Chomchai, P. (1987). The Mekong project: an exercise in regional cooperation to develop the lower Mekong basin. In: M. Ali, G. E. Radosevich, & A. A. Khan (Eds.), Water resources policy for Asia (pp. 497–508). Rotterdam and Boston: A. A. Balkema. Cornford, J., & Simon, M. (2001). Breaking the banks: The impact of the Asian development bank and Australia’s role in the Mekong region. Fitzroy: Oxfam Community Aid Abroad. Dore J., & Xiaogang, X. (2004). Yunnan hydropower expansion: Update on China’s energy industry reforms & the Nu, Lancang & Jinsha hydropower dams. Chang Mai, Thailand: M-POWER Working Paper MP-2004-04. Unit for Social and Environmental Research. Fearnside, P. M. (2004). Greenhouse gas emissions from hydroelectric dams: Controversies provide a springboard for rethinking a supposedly ‘Clean energy source, An editorial comment’. Climatic Change, 66, 1–8. Goldsmith, E., & Hildyard, N. (1984). The social and environmental effects of large dams. Wadebridge, UK: Wadebridge Ecological Centre.

1650

P. Hirsch and K. Wilson

Hirsch, P. (1988). Dammed or damned? Hydropower versus people’s power. Bulletin of Concerned Asian Scholars, 20(1), 2–10. Hirsch, P. (1996a). Dams and compensation in Indo-China. In R. Howitt (Ed.), Resources, nations and indigenous people (pp. 212–222). Melbourne, VIC: Oxford University Press. Hirsch, P. (1996b). Large dams, restructuring and regional integration in Southeast Asia. Asia Pacific Viewpoint, 37(1), 1–20. Hirsch, P. (1999). Dams in the Mekong region: Scoping social and cultural issues. Cultural Survival Quarterly, 23(3), 37–40. Hirsch, P. (2001). Globalisation, regionalisation and local voices: The Asian Development Bank and re-scaled politics of environment in the Mekong Region. Singapore Journal of Tropical Geography, 22(3), 237–251. Hirsch, P. (2002). Global norms, local compliance and the human rights-environment nexus: A case study of Nam Thuen II Dam in Laos. In. L. Zarsky (Ed.), Human rights and the environment: conflicts and norms in a globalizing world (pp. 147–171). London: Earthscan. Hirsch, P., & Wyatt, A. (2004). Negotiating local livelihoods: scales of conflict in the Se San River Basin. Asia Pacific Viewpoint, 45(1), 51–68. International Rivers Network. (2008). Theun-Hinboun. Retrieved October 22, 2008, from International Rivers Network. http://internationalrivers.org/en/node/964 Jacobs, J. (1995). Mekong committee history and lessons for river basin development. The Geographical Journal, 161(2), 135–148. Jacobs, J. (2002). The Mekong River Commission: Transboundary water resources planning and regional security. The Geographical Journal, 168(4), 354–364. Lang, M. T. (2006). Management of the Mekong River Basin: Contesting its sustainability from a communication perspective. In T. Tvedt & E. Jakobsson (Eds.), A history of water: Water control and river biographies (pp. 552–580). London: I.B. Tauris. McCully, P. (1996). Silenced rivers: The ecology and politics of large dams. London: Zed Books. Mekong Committee Secretariat. (1987). Perspectives for Mekong development: Revised indicative plan for the development of land, water and related resources of the lower Mekong basin. Bangkok: Interim Committee for Coordination of Investigations in the Lower Mekong Basin. Mekong Committee Secretariat. (1989). The Mekong Committee: A Historical Account (1957– 1989). Bangkok: Mekong Committee. Mekong River Commission. (2005). About the MRC. Retrieved October 21, 2008, from Mekong River Commission: www.mrcmekong.org/about_mrc.htm#MRC. Molle, F., Wester, P., & Hirsch, P. (2007). River basin development and management. In D. Molden (Ed.), Water for food, water for life: The comprehensive assessment of water management in agriculture (pp. 585–624). London: Earthscan. Osborne, M. (2000). The Mekong: Turbulent past, uncertain future. Sydney, NSW: Allen & Unwin. Osborne, M. (2004). River at risk: The Mekong and the water politics of China and Southeast Asia. Sydney, NSW: Lowy Institute. Rigg, J. (1991). Thailand’s Nam Choan Dam project: A case study in the "greening" of South-East Asia. Global Ecology and Biogeography Letters, 1(2), 42–54. TERRA (Towards Ecological Recovery and Regional Alliance). (1996, February). A "shopping list for donors:" The Mekong River Commission launches 1996 Programme. Watershed Issue 2 . TERRA (Towards Ecological Recovery and Regional Alliance). (2007, November). MRC Silent as mainstream dams move forward. Bangkok. Press Briefing. White Gilbert, F., de Vries, E., Dunkerley, H. B., and Krutilla, J. V. (1962). Economic and Social Aspects of Lower Mekong Development. Bangkok, Committee for Co-ordination of Investigations of the Lower Mekong Basin. World Commission on Dams. (2000). Dams and dvelopment: A new framework for decisionmaking. London: Earthscan. Yu, X. (2006). Regional cooperation and energy development in the Greater Mekong Sub-region. Energy policy, 3, 1221–1234.

Chapter 95

Beyond Mega on a Mega Continent: Grand Inga on Central Africa’s Congo River Kate B. Showers

95.1 Introduction Grand Inga is the proposal to generate enormous amounts of electricity from the last set of rapids and waterfalls on Central Africa’s Congo River. Called Inga Falls, they lie only 150 km (93 mi) from the river’s mouth in the Atlantic Ocean. First imagined in 1885, first studied in the 1920s, and first officially endorsed and planned in the 1950s, Grand Inga is another expression of Europe’s long history of energy extraction from the African continent. Colonial governments removed biological energy in the form of crops and timber products at a continental scale, while European merchants before them based much of their trade in human energy – slavery – in the Congo’s estuary. The mid-20th and early 21st century versions of Grand Inga conform to the historical formula of African elites collaborating with European interests for financial gain while ignoring most people’s needs and the environment. The earliest plans for hydropower were predicated on supplying the world’s cheapest electricity to a purpose-built industrial zone in the Congo’s estuary that would produce refined and manufactured goods for export. The commodification of electricity in the 1980s led to electricity itself being the intended export product. Traditional constraints to the development of Grand Inga have been lack of finance for construction, markets for electricity produced, and long distance electricity transmission. Only at the end of the 1st decade of the 21st century did environmental consideration cause modification of the structural plans for – but not rejection of the idea of – Grand Inga. Labeling Grand Inga a mega project is superficially facile. Its proponents predict electricity generation more than twice that of China’s Three Gorges hydroelectric dam. This situates the project within the universe of electricity production, but fails to locate it in physical (engineering or environmental) and economic contexts. Unanswered are several questions: Is Grand Inga physically a mega project with a

K.B. Showers (B) Department of Geography, School of Global Studies, Centre for World Environmental History, University of Sussex, Brighton, BN1 9SJ, UK e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_95,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1651

1652

K.B. Showers

mega dam? How do designs for Grand Inga compare with other hydroelectric generation plants on the African continent and internationally? How can such a large endeavor be financed? And, finally, what are the environmental consequences of the imagined project? Because of its scale and complex intercontinental history, Grand Inga can only be properly understood when considered as a continental as well as a local project, and in the context of Europe’s centuries long relations with energy production and extraction from the African continent. To this end, an overview of the arrival and spread of electricity, with emphasis on hydroelectricity, will be presented. Integrated into the narrative will be key moments in planning for Grand Inga – political, economic and technological. To answer the obvious questions about dam size that will arise from such a continental review, international systems of dam classification will be used to establish what has become normative on the African continent, what a mega hydroelectric plant might be, and whether any exist in Africa. This will provide data for comparison with plans for Grand Inga. Finally, possible environmental consequences of the project will be discussed, concluding with the argument that a project of this scale requires a similarly scaled environmental impact assessment.

95.2 The Mega Continent Both the enormity and diversity of the African continent and its landscape features have long been under-estimated by non-residents – including hydroelectric dam engineers. Africa accounts for 20.4% of the earth’s surface (National Geographic Society, 1990). Its land area of approximately 30,221,392 km2 (11,688,545 mi2 ) is greater than that of China, Europe and the United States combined (Fig. 95.1). Using the most common definition of mega as “relatively large” (Oxford English Dictionary 1971), Africa could be considered to be a mega continent with mega features. Constituted primarily of undulating upland plateaus, it is the driest continent after Australia. Because African environments are dominated by rainfall regimes ranging from sub-humid to hyper-arid, most drainage systems are internal, many are seasonally ephemeral, and very few rivers have outlets in an ocean. But there are some very large rivers. The Nile, draining East Africa with its mouth in the Mediterranean Sea, is the world’s longest, and Central Africa’s Congo River (4,700 km/2,920 mi), which empties into the equatorial Atlantic Ocean, is the second longest. It is also the world’s second largest by flow (42,000 m3 /s, 1,483,230 ft3 /s) after the Amazon. In 1921 the continent was identified as possessing one half of the world’s hydroelectric power potential, with the Congo River basin containing one quarter of it (US Geological Survey, 1921 Pt 2). What makes the Congo unique among the world’s great rivers is the presence of significant rapids and waterfalls so close to its mouth. In the 1,609 km (1,000 mi) of its navigable middle reaches between Kisangani and the cities of Kinshasa (historically Leopoldville; Democratic Republic of Congo) and Brazzaville (Republic of Congo) on opposite sides of the river at Malebo Pool (formerly Stanley Pool), the river’s width varies from 5.6 to 11.3 km (3.5–7 mi). The Lower Congo officially begins just downstream

95

Grand Inga on Central Africa’s Congo River

1653

Fig. 95.1 How big is Africa. (Trustees of Boston University, n.d. and The White Horse Press, Isle of Harris, 2006)

of the Pools, 435 km (270 mi) from its mouth, where the river narrows sharply to channel widths varying from less than 300 to 800 m (984–2,624 ft), and descends 270 m (900 ft) in 350 km (220 mi) over a series of rapids (or cataracts) known as Livingstone Falls. Most of these rapids occur on a straight reach of river. However, as the river drops its final 96 m (315 ft) to sea level, the channel narrows further and its course makes a sharp 180◦ bend, as shown in Fig. 95.2. This is Inga Falls, and it is this unique geomorphic feature that provides the Congo’s greatest hydro-potential – the world’s largest in terms of flow rate. To engineers, the 26 km (16 mi) long curve appears to be two sides of a triangle. They envision adjacent valleys as hypotenuses in which electricity generators could be installed and through which the already confined Congo could be diverted before returning to its normal bed below the falls. This is Grand Inga. It should come as no surprise that as the idea of hydroelectric power generation gained ground, and as Europeans began to explore, claim and extract minerals from the African continent, the Congo River received considerable attention.

1654

K.B. Showers

Fig. 95.2 1890s map of Livingstone falls showing Inga falls curve. (Source: Google Images)

95.3 Coterminous Expansions: Electricity Technology and the Colonization of Africa Between the European discovery of incandescent light in 1600 and the opening of the first commercial American hydroelectric power plant in 1882, European countries explored the African continent and identified its major rivers. In 1885, at the Conference of Berlin, they divided the continent amongst themselves. The same year Ottawa, Canada became the first city in North America to sign a contract for electric lights on all of its streets, and a Belgian noted the hydroelectric potential of the lower Congo River. The next decade saw French and American inventors describe the electrolytic process for separating aluminum from its ore,1 the first commercial alternating current (AC) generator, and the spread across Europe of the Swiss Thury system for long distance direct current (DC), while Britain, France, Germany, Belgium, Spain and Portugal formalized their colonial presence in Africa. In 1895, when French West Africa was consolidated and British East Africa proclaimed, the Electric Light and Power Act, Cape of Good Hope, came into effect and the world’s largest AC generator (500 horsepower or 0.37 MW) was installed at the Niagara Falls, New York, USA hydroelectric plant and supplied current to an aluminum smelter owned by the Pittsburgh Reduction Company (later Alcoa)

95

Grand Inga on Central Africa’s Congo River

1655

as well as to the city of Buffalo’s street car and lighting system more than 20 mi (32 km) away. Both the electrical and colonial eras had begun. Just as in North America and Europe, electricity reached the African continent in the 1880s and 1890s, and thermal power preceded hydropower. Electrical applications expanded rapidly at the southern tip of the continent in the settler Cape Colony2 (South Africa’s Western Cape Province) during the late 19th century, but did not proliferate non-settler West and Central Africa until the early 20th. From 1900 to 1925 the market and demand for electricity grew in colonial Africa, and major technological developments in electricity generation and transmission occurred in Europe and North America. The maximum capacity rose from 5 to 50 MW, and transmission of electricity for distances greater than 200 mi (321 km) became common. Charles A. Pearson’s 1910 turbine gear improvements in England enabled the development of large-scale thermal and hydroelectric generation (Encyclopaedia Britannica 1929). When the 9th generator of Ontario, Canada’s Queenston-Chippewa Power Plant on the Niagara River was commissioned in 1925 for a total of 363.51 MW, the plant became both the largest and the cheapest publically-owned hydroelectric system in the world (Niagara Falls Thunder Valley, 2009). The type of power plant constructed in Africa has always depended upon the availability of fuel. Early, small-scale plants used wood in East and Central Africa, diesel in West Africa, and coal in southern and central Africa. Interest in hydroelectric power increased as coal costs rose, wood supplies ran out and demand exceeded the possibility of establishing and managing plantations to support generators. The simplest hydroelectric plants have what is called “run-of-the-river design.” Plants have this designation if they do not involve storage dams and engineers believe they do not cause appreciable change to river flow The first generation of run-of-the river plants, such as East Africa (Kenya)’s Ruiru (Thika River) and French North Africa (Tunisia)’s Bon Salem, were hampered by unanticipated seasonal and annual changes in flow regimes in Africa’s unstudied rivers (Richards, 1947; US Geological Survey, 1921 Pt II). Although incorrectly simplifying African environments to being universally “tropical,” Bernacsek (1984) commented on the dissimilarity of African rivers to those more familiar to international dam builders. The transferability of scientific and engineering expertise from one to the other environment is low. Engineers with temperate zone experience need to undergo an “‘Africanization’ process in order to design and operate dams in a manner compatible with tropical conditions”. Irregularity of flow can be mitigated by damming a river to provide a storage reservoir. But dam construction is expensive, and the electricity produced cannot be stored. A constant theme in the history of African hydroelectric dam construction was the search for a large enough consumer base to pay for construction costs. The 1895 Niagara Falls plant in the U.S. resolved this problem by signing pre-construction contracts with aluminum and chemical manufacturers in search of cheaper power than what could be generated from coal-fired plants. This set a precedent for large-scale hydroelectric dam finance, and provided a model followed in mineral-rich Africa. While many thermal power plants and small-scale hydroelectric dams were built to serve an existing need, major

1656

K.B. Showers

hydroelectric installations imagined by government officials, water resource surveyors, engineers and members of the international dam construction industry often had to wait until commercial uses (markets) could be found or created to justify and pay for the project. The 1902 completion of the Aswan Low Dam to increase irrigation for British Egypt’s cotton crop prompted European commercial firms (Italian, English) to suggest the addition of hydroelectric generators to supply a fertilizer factory for fixing atmospheric nitrogen (Larkins, 1927; Selous, 1938). The first official proposal in 1912 began a 40 year long discussion that ended when independent Egypt’s Gamal Abdel Nasser signed a contract with the Soviet Union to build the Aswan High Dam in 1956 (after American and British governments withdrew long-standing offers of aid money). In 1914, with no obvious commercial application for electricity, there was little interest in concessions to provide electricity to Kampala Township in the British Protectorate of Uganda. The government dropped the project as being too expensive (Jackson, 1914). African electricity development came about for three major reasons: an amenity (or symbol of modernity) for non-African settlers, a source of power for mines or industry, or as a stimulus for industrial development (Worth, 1998). In most of colonial Africa – French, Belgian, German, English and Portuguese – electricity was not seen as important for African or non-urban settlers’ lives. It was, however, required to power machinery and railroads. The demand for power – and a crucial source of finance for power plants – grew as minerals were discovered by Europeans and mining operations began, often on the site of traditional African Mines. (For discussion and references to the ancient history of African mining and metallurgy, see Showers, 2006 and Stahl, 2005.) It should not be surprising, therefore, to find largescale electricity plants and the origins of electricity grids directly linked to mining and manufacturing centers and railway development. The history of mining (African or European) and railways on the African continent is beyond the scope of this paper, but key dates and places for European mining include the 1883 discovery of silver and lead at Broken Hill, Rhodesia (Northern Rhodesia after 1911; independent Kabwe, Zambia), gold at what became Johannesburg, Transvaal Republic (Gauteng Province, South Africa) in 1885, and the 1906 granting of a 15,000 km2 concession for copper in mineral-rich Katanga, Belgian Congo (Republic of the Kongo, 1960–1964; Democratic Republic of Congo, 1964–1971; Zaire, 1971–1997, Democratic Republic of Congo, 1997 to present, commonly referred to as DRC) 1,700 km/1,056 mi upriver from Inga Falls. Railroads followed mineral discoveries (Parsons, 1982). The Belgians completed a railway line inland along the non-navigable stretch of the lower Congo containing Inga Falls in 1898. By 1904 southern African railways had crossed the Zambezi and reached the southern periphery of Katanga in Northern Rhodesia (Zambia) (Wills, 1967). Extensive mining in the Belgian Congo’s Katanga was marked by the founding of Elizabethville (Lubumbashi) in 1910 and the establishment of the first mine, L’Étoile du Congo (the Star of the Congo) and smelter with 4 water jackets (Birchard, 1940; Everwyn, 1962). Faster, cheaper and more predictable transportation infrastructure made possible mineral processing. World War I had shown the industrial and military (rather than decorative) importance

95

Grand Inga on Central Africa’s Congo River

1657

of aluminum, stimulating interest in British Gold Coast’s bauxite deposits and the Congo’s hydroelectric potential. The appeal of hydroelectricity increased in an era in which European mineral exploitation, industrial development and urban growth created demand. The British Gold Coast Colony government considered a proposal in 1924 to construct a hydroelectric dam at Ajena on the Volta River for an aluminum refinery, and Col. Van Buren made a reconnaissance of the Congo River’s Inga Falls in 1928 (White Paper on the Volta Aluminum Scheme, 1956; L’aménagement hydroélectrique du site d’Inga, 1957). Expanding electricity systems and larger generation plants were constrained by inadequate and increasingly expensive fuel supplies. In the late 1920s Frank Melland urged members of the British Royal geographical Society to make a survey of African waterfalls with a view to supplying hydroelectric power to imagined railway systems (Melland, 1932). Subsequently, colonial governments in the Belgian Congo, Southern Rhodesian (Zimbabwe) and Gold Coast (Ghana) ordered hydropower surveys for the Congo, Lundemfwa, Zambezi and Black Volta rivers (Anderson, Paton, & Blackburn, 1960; Kitson, 1925; L’aménagement hydro-électrique du site d’Inga, 1957; Oliver, 1976), the East African Governors Conference ordered a Report on the Hydroelectric Resources of East Africa (Richards, 1947), and Egyptian engineers were sent by government to make an international hydroelectric study tour based on information supplied by Egypt’s ambassadors abroad (Larkins, 1927). For discussion of the origins of Egyptian engineering and its French developmentalist ideology see Burke (2009). Interrupted by World War II, the expansion of colonial interventions on the African continent was stimulated by the post-war rearmament’s demand for minerals, European reconstruction programs and the associated economic boom in Europe and North America. In the 1950s, at the close of World War II, colonial governments and mining interests greatly increased the hydroelectric capacities of North, East and Central Africa. Construction was continued by independent governments for the next three decades. For both colonial regimes and independent governments, large dams were symbols of a government’s strength as well as essential infrastructure. As symbols they were often contested politically (see Isaacman & Sneddon, 2000; Showers, 1998, 2001). West African dam construction was more closely linked to the independence era that began in the 1960s (see Adams, 1992). More dams were built for water control than hydropower, especially in drier non-coastal West and Southern Africa, and are not considered in this paper’s discussion. Kwame Nkrumah, first president of Africa’s first independent country, Ghana (British Gold Coast), fully embraced modernist development ideas and implemented the colonial era plans for the enormous Aksombo dam on the Volta River. Grandiose colonial plans for a series of small dams on the lower Congo River culminating in a single dam across the entire river at Inga Falls (Grand Inga) began to be implemented by the independent government of Zaire. With the commissioning of the first two “small” dams, Inga I (1972) and Inga II (1982), Inga Falls became the second largest source of hydropower on the African continent (Deepalsing & Deva, 2006). To appreciate the extent of dam construction and the scale of intrusion they represent in African landscapes, regional and continental comparisons are useful. The best publically available listing of dams with locations and some properties is

1658

K.B. Showers

Table 95.1 Chronology of hydroelectric dams with hydroelectric generation capacitya Number of dams closed per decade (121 total) Regionb

1920s

1930s

1940s

1950s

1960s

1970s

1980s

mid 1990s 2000s

North West East and Central Southern Totals

1 2 2 0 5

4 1 1 0 6

1 1 1 0 3

8 2 15 0 25

6 8 6 0 20

5 5 17 2 29

3 14 7 4 28

2 0 2 0 4

1 0 0 0 1

a Continental

nations only this and following tables, only continental nations are considered. North Africa consists of Algeria, Libya, Morocco, Tunisia and Egypt; West Africa: Benin, Burkina Faso, Cameroon, Chad, Côte d’Ivoire (Ivory Coast), Gambia, Ghana, Guinea Bissau, Guinea, Liberia, Mali, Mauritania, Niger, Nigeria, Sierra Leone, Senegal, and Togo. East and Central Africa, following colonial groupings, includes Angola, Central African Republic, Congo Republic, Burundi, Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), Djibouti, Ethiopia, Equatorial Guinea, Eritrea, Gabon, Kenya, Malawi, Somalia, Sudan, Tanzania, Rwanda, Uganda, Zimbabwe and Zambia. Southern Africa includes Botswana, Lesotho, Mozambique, Namibia, Swaziland, and South Africa Source: Data from Aquastat (2006)

b In

the Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) of the United Nations database called Aquastat (http://www.fao.org/landandwater/aglw/aquastat/damsafrica/index.stm. Accessed 8 October 2009). Its self-described incomplete list of African Dams contains 1357 entries for 35 continental countries, but only provides partial information for many dams. Of the total, 136 listed as having hydroelectricity as a function, 121 include dates of closure or commissioning. Analyses of these data can also provide a continental perspective from which to consider the various plans for Grand Inga. In this paper, all DRC dams were counted as hydroelectric dams. The historical spread of dams with hydroelectric power generation capabilities is illustrated in Table 95.1. The dams have been grouped according to the decade in which they were reported to have been closed, or commissioned, rather than the date at which the reservoir created behind them filled. Although the data set from which this table was constructed is far from complete, the trends in regional construction by decade are consistent with the historical review just presented.

95.4 Dams, Large Dams and Mega Dams What, exactly, is a mega dam, have any been built in Africa, and how do plans for Grand Inga compare? Dams have traditionally been categorized and compared by the height of their wall, volume of water stored, or surface area of the stored water, depending upon their intended use. There is no consistent relationship among these variables – a high dam wall in a narrow, deep gorge could produce a reservoir with a very large volume but small surface area, while the same dam in a gorge of a different shape or extent could produce a lower volume reservoir with much

95

Grand Inga on Central Africa’s Congo River

1659

larger surface area. The number of dams in a given size category thus depends upon which characteristic is evaluated. The literature on dams is not consistent about which measure is of greatest significance. While convention dictates consideration of small, medium large and major, with mini and micro at the small end, the meaning of “mega” has not been officially defined in the dam literature. In the dictionary the term mega has two definitions. The first is “relatively larger,” but the second is “one million times larger” (Oxford English Dictionary, 1971).

95.4.1 Classifying African Dams by Physical Characteristics To clarify the nature of dam construction on the African continent, and to begin to understand the meaning of “mega,” African dam data have been tabulated according to the parameters conventionally used in dam descriptions, and are presented below. To maintain consistency with sources and minimize confusion, the original units of measure are retained and worked with. Conversions to equivalent values in other systems (English for metric, or metric for English) are indicated below the table, or in parentheses in the explanatory text. Wall Height

The most widely used system for dam classification is that of the International Commission on Large Dams (ICOLD). Dams are sorted by the height, in meters, of their wall (from foundation to crest), as shown in Table 95.2. ICOLD does not define the term “mega”, but ten times the size of a large dam has been used as a definition by some in the NGO community. This coincides with the ICOLD definition of a “major dam”, and conforms to the first dictionary definition of mega. Only one of the 129 hydroelectric dams for which wall height was available in the Aquastat list did not fulfill the criteria of a large dam. The 11 highest large African dams with electricity generation capabilities are shown in Table 95.3. Although these are all significant intrusions in their landscapes according to the ICOLD classification system, by wall height only two, Kenya’s Turkwel and Mozambique’s Cahora Bassa (colonial name Cabora Bassa), could be classified as major, or NGO defined mega dams. Table 95.2 ICOLD Classification by dam wall height Category

Height m∗

Reservoir capacity m3

Small Medium Large Large Major

<10 10–<15 15–<150 5–15 >150

Not part of definition Not part of definition Not part of definition and >3 million∗∗ or ≥25 km3∗∗∗

∗ <33 ∗∗∗

ft; 33–<49 ft; 49–<492 ft; 16–49 ft; >492 ft; ∗∗ >106 million ft3 ; ≥882,866,668,025 ft3

1660

K.B. Showers Table 95.3 African large hydroelectric dams ≥ 100 m in height Height

Dam name Bine El Ouidane Kariba Akosombo (main) Moulay Youssef High Aswan Cabora Bassa Shiroro Turkwel Hassan 1◦ Kiambere Sidi Said

Year closed Country

River

m

ft

Storage (million m3 )

1953 Morocco 1959 Northern/Southern Rhodesia 1965 Ghana

El Abid Zambezi

133 128

436 420

1, 484 188, 000

Volta

134

440

147, 960

1969 1970 1974 1984 1991 1986 1987 2003

Tessaout Nile Zambezi Kaduna/Dinya Turkwel Lakhdar Tana Moulouya

100 111 171 125 155 145 112 124

328 364 561 410 509 476 368 407

197 162, 000 39, 000 7 1, 645 273 585 400

Morocco Egypt Mozambique Nigeria Kenya Morocco Kenya Morocco

Source: Data from Aquastat – List of African Dams with Height ≥ 85 m

Table 95.3 also provides the water storage capacity of the reservoirs. The amount of water stored behind walls of similar heights varies considerably. Clearly dam wall height is not correlated with reservoir storage capacity. While dam wall characteristics are of interest to engineers, ecologists and social scientists are more concerned about the size of the reservoir created, which will be determined by a stream’s flow regimes and the topography of an area as well as by the dam wall height. Classification systems based on reservoir size have considered both the total volume of water stored (m3 ), or surface area (km2 ) at Upper Storage Level (USL). Reservoir Volume, or Storage Capacity

If a major/mega dam wall is ten times that of a large dam’s wall, could a mega dam be defined as having a reservoir ten times greater than that of a large dam’s, or 30 million m3 (1059.4 million ft3 )? Such a definition would identify 85 hydroelectric dams on the Aquastat list as “mega” in size, ranging from 30 million m3 (1059 million ft3 ) (Morocco’s Al Thelat, Lao River) to 162,000 million m3 (5,720,965 million ft3 ) (Egypt’s High Aswan Dam, Nile River). ICOLD engineers expanded their definition of ‘major’ to include reservoirs with storage capacity of ≥25 km3 (25,000 million m3 or 882,866,668,025 ft3 ) (McCully, 1996; Schwartz, 2005). Further refinement is required to understand the idea of “mega” in an African context. Table 95.4 provides the results of grouping these major/mega hydroelectric dams into categories of those with reservoirs ten times, one hundred times and one thousand times greater than ICOLD’s definition of large, as well as those ≥ the ICOLD definition of major. One million times greater conforms to the second dictionary definition of mega, but is too large to be useful. Dams are listed by year of

95

Grand Inga on Central Africa’s Congo River

1661

Table 95.4 Chronology of African mega hydroelectric dam reservoir capacity (85 dams) Date dam closed/commissioned for each category of reservoir sizea

Region North

West

East and

10–100× ICOLD large 30 million m3 –<300 million m3

100×–1,000× ICOLD large 300 million m3 –<3,000 million m3

100×–ICOLD large – <major 3,000 million m3 –<25,000 million m3

1935, 1954, 1954, 1954, 1955, 1963, 1969, 1969, 1981, 1986, 1990 1964, 1964, 1966, 1969, 1979, 1983, n.d. 1924, 1954, 1954,

1953, 1967, 1972, 1973, 1979, 1979, 1981, 2003

1933, 1996

1970 Egypt, Nile R., 162,000

1959, 1971, 1974, 1982, 1984, 1988

1968, 1972, 1980, 1983, 1984, 1987, 1988 1937, 1966, 1978,

1965, Ghana Volta R., 148,000

Central

1974, 1975, 1980, 1988

Southern

1983, 1985, n.d., n.d., n.d.

1925, 1964, 1960, 1966, 1971, 1973, 1974, 1980, 1987, 1991, n.d. 1959, 1976, 1988, n.d., n.d., n.d., n.d., n.d., n.d., n.d., n.d., n.d.

1980

none

≥ICOLD major ≥25,000 million m3

1959, N&S Rhodesia Zambezi R., 94,000

1974, Mozambique Zambezi R., 39,000

a 106

million ft3 –<1,059 million ft3 ; 1.059 million ft3 –<10,594 million ft3 ; 10,594 million ft3 – 105,909ft3 –<882,866,668,025 ft3 ; 882,866,688,025 ft3 Data source: Aquastat (2006)

closure/commissioning (official commencement of electricity generation) to provide a chronology of reservoir growth. The table shows that mega reservoirs (defined as 10 times the size of large) have been built since the mid-1920s, and that by the mid-1950s, much larger reservoirs than this minimum criteria for mega were common. Although 30 dams closed between 1924 and 2003 produced reservoirs ten times larger than the ICOLD large category, another 37 had storage capacities between one hundred and 1000 times greater, and a further 18 more than a thousand times greater. It is obvious that the simple rule of “10 times as large” is grossly inadequate for identifying the largest dams in terms of reservoir capacity. Application of the second dictionary definition of mega (1 million times larger than large is too large. ICOLD’s definition of major only recognizes only the five largest as major dams: Côte d’Ivoire’s Kossou, 4 mega dams: Mozambique’s Cahora Bassa (colonial name Cabora Bassa), Zimbabwe/Zambia’s Kariba, Ghana’s Akosombo and Egypt’s High Aswan. The first of these, Kariba, was commissioned in 1959. When all dams, rather than just those with hydroelectric capability, are considered, the number of African dams with very large reservoirs increases. The FAO Water Development and Management Unit’s Aquastat list identified 51 of the 1164 dams for which reservoir data were available with reservoirs exceeding 1,000 million m3 (35,314 million ft3 ). Twenty-one were multi-purpose dams with electricity

1662

K.B. Showers

Table 95.5 Dam classification by reservoir surface area

Category

km2 at USL∗

Minor Small Medium Large Major

0.010–0.999 1.0–9.99 10.0–99.9 100–999 ≥1000

∗ USL

= upper storage limit; 0.004–0.386 mi2 at USL; 0.386–3.857 mi2 at USL; 3.861–38.571 mi2 at USL; 38.610– 385.716 mi2 at USL; >386.102 mi2 at USL mi2 at USL Source: Bernascek (1984)

Table 95.6 Chronology of African large and major dams by surface area∗ Region

Large 100–999 km2 at USL

Major ≥ 1000 km2 at USL

North

1933

West

Total 1 1959,1980,1982,1984, 1984,1987,1988,1988

1970 (6,500 km2 ,/2510 mi2 , Egypt, High Aswan Dam, Nile River) Total 1 1965 (8,482 km2 /3275 mi2 Ghana, Akosombo Dam, Volta River) 1972 (1,780 km2 /687 mi2 Côte d’Ivoire, Kossou, Bandama River) Total 2 1959 (5,100 km2 /1969 mi2 N/S Rhodesia, Kariba Dam, Zambezi River) 1966 (2,330 km2 /900 mi2 Sudan Roseires Dam, Blue Nile River) Total 2 1974 (2,660 km2 /1027 mi2 Mozambique Cabora Bassa Dam, Zambezi R.) Total 1 6

East and Central

Total 8 1925,1937,1960,1964,

1973,1974,1980 Total 7 Southern

1959,1976

Totals

18

Total 2 ∗ 39–<386

mi2 ; (≥386 mi2 ) Source: Categories from Bernacsek (1984); Data from Aquastat (2006)

generation capability, 16 were strictly for hydropower, and 10 only for irrigation. Eight of the 51 had capacities exceeding 10 billion m3 (35,3,000 million ft3 ) and two greater than 100,000 million m3 (3,531,467 million ft3 )- High Aswan and Akosombo. Reservoir Surface Area

FAO’s fisheries analyst G.M. Bernacsek (1984), more interested in fish habitats, classified reservoirs by their reservoir surface area at upper storage level (USL) (Table 95.5). Using the very limited data base available in 1984 – 231 dams (non-hydroelectric as well as hydroelectric) – Bernacsek identified 23 large and 9 major dam reservoirs, ranging from the 1,260 km2 (486.5 mi2 ) surface area of Nigeria’s Kainji

95

Grand Inga on Central Africa’s Congo River

1663

Table 95.7 Summary: Number of African mega dams by classification system∗

Region

Dam wall height1 > 150 m

Capacity > 30 million m3 (# of dams)

North West

0 0

22 21

East & Central Southern

Turkwel

23

Cahora Bassa

16

Surface area3 ≥ 1,000 km2 at USL (dam names) High Aswan Kossou Akosombo Kariba Roseires Cahora Bassa

1 ICOLD

official definition; (> 492 ft) 10 × ICOLD definition; > 1,059 million ft3 3 Bernascek 1984 (FAO) category; (≥ 386 mi2 )

2 Using

dam on the Niger River to 8,270 km2 (319.3 mi2 ) of Ghana’s Akosombo dam on the Volta River. When Bernacsek’s categories were applied to the Aquastat list of hydroelectric dams, 18 large and 6 major dams were identified, as presented in Table 95.6. Large dams by this measure were built from the 1930, and major, or mega, dams since 1959 – most between 1966 and 1972. An ICOLD classification of reservoir surface area was not found. Dam Categorization Summary

Table 95.7 provides a summary and comparison of the three ways to classify a dam discussed in the preceding paragraphs. It is easy to see that the number of dams that can be called “mega” depends upon the chosen measurement – there are between 2 and 82 major or mega hydroelectric dams on the Aquastat list. This suggests that single-factor classification systems are inadequate for large interventions in ecosystems which affect more than one dimension of space or time; that the term “mega” needs a consistent and rigorous definition; and, possibly, that humans have devised technological capabilities that exceed the idea of hugeness encapsulated in the mid-20th century idea of “mega.”

95.4.2 Classifying Grand Inga How do the long-simmering plans for Grand Inga compare with the apparently normative approach to African rivers discussed above? Designs have called for a 205m (673 ft) dam wall that will produce a 15 km (9 mi) long reservoir. There are no published estimates of reservoir storage capacity, or volume. The Secretary General of the World Energy Council, Gerald Ducet, a major promoter of the project, evaluated the project’s size in an international and intercontinental context. The dam would be “substantial, but not among the world’s highest” and “the 15 km long reservoir pales into insignificance in comparison with the Three Gorges Dam project in China and the Volta River scheme in Ghana” (Grand Inga Comes One Step Closer, 2008). While a 205m (673 ft) dam wall would not be the highest on earth, it would surpass Cahora Bassa by 34m (112 ft), more than twice the value for a high dam wall, and

1664

K.B. Showers

exceed the continent’s highest dam wall, Lesotho’s Katse at 185m (607 ft) by 20 m (66 ft) – more than the equivalent of one large dam by wall height. The proposed Grand Inga dam wall would certainly be a mega structure. No classification systems for reservoir length could be found, so it is difficult to discuss the comparative significance of a 15 km (9 mi) reservoir. Certainly this would not be one of the longest. The 1959 damming of the Zambezi at Kariba gorge created the world’s largest man-made lake. When filled in 1963, Lake Kariba was approximately 280 km (175 mi) long with maximum widths of 32 km (20 mi). This was surpassed in the late 1960s by the Akosombo Dam’s Lake Volta, on the Volta River, measuring 400 km (250 mi) long. In contrast, China’s Three Gorges Dams is expected to produce a lake with a length of 500–600 km (310–372 mi). In this context, a 15 km (8 mi) long reservoir would be small. However, it is useful to remember that the Zambezi, Volta and Yangtze were dammed as they flow through deep gorges whose walls could contain the rivers’ waters. In contrast, the Congo derives its enormous hydropower potential from the unique geomorphic narrowing of its channel as it descends from an undulating continental plateau. Because the Congo’s equatorial location means that its flow regime does not have large seasonal variation, a non-storage, “run-of-the-river” design was used. Dam designers assumed that only a “small” reservoir would result. But hydroelectric dams are not built for competition in dam measurement contests; they are built to produce electricity.

95.5 Mega-Hydroelectric Dams The best way to compare hydropower plants’ electricity production is through the summary statistic of installed capacity, expressed in megawatts (MW), since actual production is a function of management, maintenance and other factors. According to the Standard handbook of power plant engineering (Elliott, Chen, & Swanekamp, 1998), there is no standard size classification system for hydroelectric plants – designations vary from country to country. The one that is widely cited and published is actually better suited for small-scale power evaluation, since its emphasis is on the low ranges. The five categories are micro (<1,000 kW), mini (1–5 MW), small (5– 20 MW), medium (20–50 MW) and large (>50 MW) (Elliott et al., 1998; Satluj Jal Vidyut Nigam Ltd, 2009). ICOLD defines major as > 1000 MW, or 1 GW (gigawatt) (Schwartz, 2005). No comprehensive list of African hydroelectric dams classified by installed capacity could be located, and this information is not included in the Aquastat dam database. A literature review produced a data set of installed capacity at commissioning for 21 hydroelectric plants in operation before 1960. Table 95.8 summarizes these best available data. The power plants have been listed by year of dam closure/commissioning in the categories of the classification system described above (the numbers have been altered to avoid overlapping values). Thirty-eight percent (8) were micro plants (primarily run-of-the-river) built between 1911–1958. All of the small plants (24%) were built in the 1950s. Over the years, many plants have been upgraded with additional generators sets. It is important to note that “installed capacity” is not synonymous with generator capacity. A relatively large installed

95

Grand Inga on Central Africa’s Congo River

1665

capacity can result from a series of relatively low-rated machines. This was true of the two largest of the dams in the large category, Owen’s (Nalubaale) Falls and Kariba, thus placing them in the mega category of 10 times large. Over the years, many plants have been upgraded with additional equipment. It was the 1959 Kariba Dam that announced the beginning of a new era of hydroelectric power plant construction. Although it created the largest man-made lake in the world, its dam wall (128 m/420 ft) did not exceed Morocco’s Bine El Ouidane (133 m/436 ft). Kariba’s significance came from having demonstrated for the first time that power generated at a remote site could be transmitted to distant users. Six 111 MW generators on the south bank supplied 666 MW power to the mines, industries and capital cities of then Southern and Northern Rhodesia (Zimbabwe and Zambia) more than 550 km (342 mi) away. This feat was celebrated in publications of the time – a map of England shows the 330 kV transmission system superimposed on a map of Britain, with Kariba dam at Liverpool, Southern Rhodesia’s capitol, Salisbury (Harare), at London, and the southern industrial city Bulawayo at London’s southeastern tip, Falmouth. Stretching north from Liverpool the equivalent of Northern Rhodesia’s capitol, Lusaka, is in northern England’s Penrith and the Kariba grid’s northern terminus in the Copperbelt town of Kitwe coincides with Aberdeen in Scotland (Federal Power Board, 1959). Kariba demonstrated a technological advance that allowed the separation of the production and consumption of electricity. From then on, large dam construction

Table 95.8 Chronology of African dams’ installed capacity before 1960 Closing/commissioning date and installed capacity, MW Micro <1 MW

Mini 1–4.9 MW

Small 5–19 MW

1911 Tunisia (Bou Salem) 1910s Angola (Katumbela) 1910s Kenya (Tana River) 1926 Egypt

1925 Zambia (Mulungushi) 1929 Nigeria (Tenti) 1941 Ethiopia (Abu Samuel)

1951 Congo Rep. 1954 Guinea (Djoué) (Grandes Chutes) 1954 Angola (Mabubas) 1954 Rwanda (Mukungwa) 1955 DRC

(El-Faiyum Oasis) 1950 DRC (Bia) 1953 DRC (Delcommune) 1956 DRC (La Marinel) 1958 DRC/Rwanda (Ruzizi I) Source: Literature review ∗ Currently Nalubaale Falls

(Tshopo) 1958 Zambia (Mita Hills)

Medium 20–49 MW

Large >50 MW 1930 DRC (Mwadingusha) 1955 DRC (Zongo) 1954 Uganda (Owen’s Falls∗ ) 1959 N&S Rhodesia (Kariba)

1666

K.B. Showers

could be financed by more distant markets. Research and development emphasis focused on electrical, rather than construction, engineering to increase transmission distances. Technological advances in transmission (a Swedish thyristor valve) made possible Africa’s first ICOLD major dam by electricity generation: the 2,225 MW (2,225 GW) Cabora Bassa Dam downstream of Kariba. After it was commissioned in 1974, the dam supported the colonial Mozambique government financially and the Apartheid South African with power when electricity generated on the lower Zambezi River, near the Indian Ocean was generated and sold to Pretoria, South Africa 1,400 km (870 mi) inland. In the late 20th century, extensive, interconnected regional power grids and electricity transfer systems were created in South and North America by linking large hydro power sites and distant electricity grids, such as Itaipú Dam on the Paraguay/Brazil border (1984: 2,000 MW with 785 km/488 mi + 805 km/500 mi transmission lines) and the 1986 James Bay project in Quebec, Canada (10,800 MW with a 4,800 km/3,000 mi network of transmission lines). China’s Three Gorges project is expected to produce 18,000 MW with 850 km/528 mi transmission lines. These are dwarfed by predictions of Grand Inga’s 39,000 MW with transcontinental power lines. Technological improvements facilitated a shift in thinking from single power plants to the potential of grids. No classification system exists for hydroelectric plants in terms of their transmission lines.

95.6 Resurgent Grand Inga 95.6.1 Regional Grids Kariba and Cabora Bassa’s demonstration of viable long distance electricity transmission across African savanna and dry forest landscapes encouraged the first consideration of using the Congo River’s Inga Falls for regional, rather than local/national power generation. Earlier in the colonial era, detailed plans had been made for a series of small dams at Inga Falls, culminating in Grand Inga. Elaborate plans were made to construct an “African Ruhr Valley” in the Congo estuary for European refineries and factories using cheap electricity to produce export crops during the 1950s. This local use of Inga’s hydropower would relieve the power shortage being experienced by manufacturers in Europe (for detailed review, see Showers, 2009). The idea of an African Ruhr Valley left with the Belgian colonial government, but the lure of Inga Falls remained. Regional, rather than local, use began to be imagined as long distance transmission technology evolved. A dam called Inga I, was built under the reign of Mobuto Sese Seko (when DRC was called Zaire and the Congo River the Zaire River) in the adjacent Nkokolo (formerly Van Buren) valley through which some of the Congo River was diverted. Commissioned in 1972 with 351 MW, it supplied the mines of the Copperbelt 1,700 km (1056 mi) to the east. In 1982 a second “small” dam, Inga II (wall height of 40 m/131 ft), was commissioned downstream from Inga I with 1,424 MW installed capacity (Fig. 95.3). Together, these dams constituted Africa’s second largest source of hydropower.

95

Grand Inga on Central Africa’s Congo River

1667

Fig. 95.3 Inga I and II Dams in Nkokolo valley. (Source: Google Earth)

In 1974 Electricité de France (EDF) produced a study for diverting the entire river through generators – the old Grand Inga plan – but it was not acted upon. The idea persisted, however, and was included in Apartheid South African engineer Henry Oliver’s survey of regional hydroelectric sources for constructing a “panAfrican grid.” Such a regional grid could “export and import electricity on the best use or most economic basis” (Oliver, 1976: 26) – which meant increased supplies for the industrial South African economy. A regional grid would address two of South Africa’s major constraints: power and water. The plan would not only increase its electricity supply, but also conserve water. Imported electricity could replace that generated from conventional water-intensive coal-fired electricity generation plants. Oliver’s 1976 proposal to link existing grids and extend them with new sources and transmission lines is shown in Fig. 95.4. Regional opposition to the Apartheid state ensured this version of regional interconnection did not happen. But the idea of long distance transmission at a continental scale from Inga Falls was kept alive by Egyptian engineers. When the Inga-Katanga transmission line was opened, it was the world’s longest. Egyptian electrical engineers, who had gained experience from planning and constructing the High Aswan Dam (1954–1970), approached the Zairean government to explore the possibility of meeting Egypt’s policy of grid interconnections as a source of electricity supply by extending a transmission line from Inga Falls to Egypt (Showers, 2009). In 1988 they submitted a joint funding request to the African Development Bank (ADB) for a feasibility study that included “tapping points” for the nations crossed by the proposed transmission line – Central African Republic, Chad and the Sudan (Abaza, 1994).

1668

K.B. Showers Spain

Turkey

Europe Tunisia

Morocco

Israel Palestine Jordan

Iraq

Algeria Libya

Western Sahara

Egypt

Arab Mashreq

Mauritania Mali Senegal The Gambia Guinea Bissau Guinea Sierra Leone Liberia

Niger

Eritrea

Chad Sudan

Burkina Faso Nigeria Cote D'Ivoire

Cameroon

Ghana Benin Togo

Djibouti Ethiopia

Central African Republic Uganda

Equitorial Guinea

Gabon Rwanda Democratic Republic of the Congo

Republic of the Congo Cabinda

Angola

Somalia

Kenya

Burundi Tanzania

Malawi

Zambia

Proposed Electric Corridor Zimbabwe Botswana

Madagascar

Mozambique

Namibia Swaziland 0

500 mi

Lesotho 0

500 km

Republic of South Africa

Fig. 95.4 Proposed Pan-African electricity grid

The idea of Grand Inga had also remained alive in the world of electrical engineering. At a 1992 conference in Paris, Dr. Luigi Paris and Dr. Nelson De Francis proposed that electricity generated from Grand Inga could be supplied to Europe as economically as electricity from European coal-fired or nuclear power plants (Hammons, Falcon, & Miesen, 1992). The ADB-funded pre-feasibility study of the “Egyptian Inter-connector” began the following year (Abaza, 1994). It was carried out by EDF (France) and Lahmeyer (Germany), assisted by two African consultancy groups, BETEC of the DRC and Electrical Power Systems Eng. Co (EPS) of Egypt (World Energy Council, 2003).

95.6.2 Commodified Electricity While Grand Inga was being revived in the engineering world, electricity itself was undergoing redefinition. Once accepted as an aspect of public goods and services for

95

Grand Inga on Central Africa’s Congo River

1669

social and economic benefit, electricity was transformed by neoliberal economics into a commodity, or private asset, governed by market forces for private profit. Electricity was increasingly seen as a product to be produced, valued, exported and speculated upon – a new kind of “cash crop” that changed perspectives on investment in significant-scale energy projects, including the large civil engineering costs associated with hydroelectric power dams. In order for electricity to be bought and sold, there had to be interconnected electricity grids and market structures. The Southern African nations, led by a new post-Apartheid South African government, began constructing bureaucratic entities and legal agreements to facilitate regional electricity trade. In 1995 the Southern African Power Pool (SAPP) was created with encouragement of the World Bank (Elmissiry, 2000), followed by a spot market in electricity. Two years later the results of the Zaire-Egypt Interconnector study were published, advancing Grand Inga to the pre-feasibility stage. Grand Inga became central to international discussions of regional power pools and continental interconnections – and energy trading (Hammons et al., 1997; Showers 2009; Sparrow, Bowen, &Yu, 2005; Tshombe, Ferreira, & Uken, 2007). In 2001 the African Union adopted the New Partnership for African Development (NEPAD) which listed Grand Inga as a priority project.

95.6.3 Grand Inga, Africa and Europe The historical problem of markets for Grand Inga’s electricity was solved by High Voltage Long-Distance (HVDC) transmission technology, regional power pools and the proposed continental grid. By the early 1990s, HVDC lines could transmit electricity for about 6,500 km (4,039 mi), and HVAC (High-Voltage Alternating Current) lines for 4,800 km (2,983 mi) (Hammons, 1992). Grand Inga’s electricity would be transmitted for very long distances to distant consumers along “export corridors” or “electricity highways.” Interconnections between North African grids and those of Spain (1997 marine cable between Morocco and Spain via Gibraltar), Italy (planned Tunisia-Sicily undersea cable) and Jordan meant that not only could African commercial electricity demand be met, but Europe and the Middle East could also be supplied, as shown in Fig. 95.5. Grand Inga’s power has never been considered for rural electrification and domestic use. It has only ever been intended for areas of high commercial demand – large cities and industrial areas – and for production of an export commodity. The cost remained substantial. South Africa’s international electricity company Eskom Enterprises formed a consortium to build Grand Inga. Formed in 1999 when South Africa’s public utility was privatized, Eskom Enterprises soon became Africa’s largest electrical utility company – and one of the largest in the world – responsible for managing hydroelectric dams throughout the continent (Ashe, 2002). Chairman Reuel Khoza proposed Inga as an opportunity for Africa to “lift its people out of poverty and deliver sustainable development” and as a beneficial “green” investment opportunity for industrial nations, since it would qualify under the Kyoto carbon-trading schemes (ENS, 2005). In 2007 the Africa-EU Strategic Partnership Agreement and the EU Renewable Energy Policy gave new impetus to

1670

K.B. Showers

Grand Inga, as plans were made for biennial Africa-EU ministerial meetings and the construction of an Electricity Master-Plan for Africa to promote energy interconnections between Africa and the EU (African Union. . ., 2008). In the same year the African Development Bank announced a grant for power development that included a feasibility study of Grand Inga with an environmental impact statement to be completed by 2010 (Ndaba, 2007). Supported by NEPAD, and under the auspices of the southern African regional organization SADC, the utility companies of Angola, Botswana, DRC, Namibia, and South Africa formed the Western Corridor Project (WESTCOR) in 2003 (Energy Information Administration, 2006). Its sole purpose was to “harness the water resources of the Congo river at Inga” for power production. Two years later these national companies each invested US$100,000 in the new WESTCOR Joint Venture Corporation with initial responsibility for feasibility studies and transmission lines. The CEO, a South African Engineer, also served as the South African utility’s representative.

95.6.4 Mega Costs Grand Inga’s enormous cost – initially estimated at US$ 50,000 million – seemed less impossible in the early 21st century than when first contemplated in the mid-20th. A consortium of oil companies paid US$627 million in 2006 for the right to explore Canada’s Orphan Basin in the deep sea off the coast of Newfoundland and Labrador. Each test well, when drilled, could cost US$50,000 million – the

Fig. 95.5 Proposed Grand Inga electricity corridors (“highways”). (Source: Inga Hydroelectric Facility. Energy Information Administration, Department of Energy, USA. http://www. eia.doe.gov/emeu/cabs/inga.html)

95

Grand Inga on Central Africa’s Congo River

1671

estimated price of constructing the Inga dam – with no guarantee of finding oil (CBC, 2006). In contrast, Grand Inga’s generation was certain. Not only could the cost of Grand Inga be seen to be consistent with what globalized corporations were accustomed to paying for energy exploration and production, but also the demand for electrical power was expanding continentally and inter-continentally. Finally, growing acceptance of the seriousness of climate change and disinterest in changing existing industrial societies’ domestic or corporate energy consumption patterns made large sources of non-carbon dioxide emitting hydroelectricity appear attractive. The World Energy Council joined with African interests to promote Grand Inga. In April 2008 it sponsored a “How to make the Grand Inga hydropower project happen for Africa” forum in London. As reported in International Water Power and Dam Construction (Grand Inga Comes One Step Closer, 2008), the participants included African power company executives, Congolese ministers and representatives of the World Bank, International Finance Corporation and the European Investment Bank. Review of all studies and predicted costs had produced a revised estimate of US $ 80,000 million – US $ 40,000 million for dam and reservoir infrastructure and a further US $ 40,000 million for transmission infrastructure. Whether or not this represented a “mega” cost, it would certainly be the most expensive infrastructure project in African history. A three phase approach was formulated in hopes of obtaining sufficient funding to enable construction to begin as early as 2014, and initial electricity transfers between 2020 and 2025. The first phase would involve mobilizing “wide ranging” international support so that a feasibility study could be undertaken; a project framework would be established in the second phase, so that a third phase could concentrate on actual fund raising.

95.7 Environmental Consequences Proposers and supporters of the project have long argued that social and environmental consequences would be slight. The land around Inga Falls was believed not to have substantial human settlements, and a large impoundment was not imagined. Mr. Vika diPanzu, Chief Executive Officer of the DRC’s electricity company SNEL (Société National d’Électrique) stated in his Power Point Presentation entitled “The Grand Inga Power Project” The environment impact assessment study of the project has shown that there would be no major impact neither on the ecosystem or the human factor. . .. The flooding of a certain number of houses when the Inga reservoir is created will necessitate implementation of an operation to move the population concerned.. . . The greatest impacts [on the natural environment] are created by the deforestation in the row of the lines. (diPanzu undated)

Criticism, largely from the NGO community (publicized by the International Rivers Network – IRN- and some journalists), raised concerns not only about displaced people, but also about threats to biological diversity posed by the reservoir and unidentified consequences for aquatic ecosystems up- and downstream of the dam. Specific concerns were not raised because environmental assessments had not been implemented in this largely unstudied region.

1672

K.B. Showers

Despite a history of contestation between environmental activists and engineers, it was environmental reality that finally destroyed the 80-year-old dream of a dam called Grand Inga. When engineers from WESTCOR diverted their attention from electrical and construction challenges to actually look at topographical maps, they realized that a dam across the largely unincised Congo River would inundate all low-lying areas in the catchment, creating a massive lake that would flood two major cities: Kinshasa (DRC) and Brazzaville (Congo Republic) about 260 km (162 mi) upstream. In addition, the river contained so much sediment that simple calculations showed that a dam would become “packed.” Finally, as the dam reduced the Congo’s flow, salt water from the ocean would intrude upstream for 50 km. causing “irreversible environmental harm to all living matter and organisms at the river mouth” (Naidoo, 2009: 3). Sobered by this “common sense appraisal,” the engineers concluded that “much of the river must flow as naturally as possible, keeping the impact on the environment to an absolute zero.” Instead of one Grand Inga Dam, they proposed “storage for those times when the river flow is much higher than normal constant flow” and “develop[ing] the concept of Grand Inga Cascades” (Naidoo, 2009: 3). Grand Inga Cascades would use the same water several times before returning it to the river. Chief Engineer and CEO of WESTCOR, P. Naidoo, asserted that “with sound engineering, much more output can be extracted with no impact on the environment” (Naidoo, 2009: 3). While attention to environmental interactions resulted in the death of a Grand Inga Dam, the dream of Grand Inga as a huge source of power did not die. It remains central to all plans for continental grids and the marketing of electricity as a commodity continentally and inter-continentally. These, in turn, are fundamental to all major proposals for regional and continental development. Continued environmental vigilance is required. Unrecognized, and therefore undiscussed, are the unique and important linkages between the Congo River and the equatorial Atlantic Ocean, and their relationships to global carbon and water cycles (Showers, 2009). The Congo River influences both surface the deep sea waters more than 700 km (435 mi) from its mouth (located at 6.05 S, 13 E). Design drafts of the replacement Grand Inga Cascades have not been published, so the extent of river disruption is impossible to gage. But any disruption of flow will certainly have consequences far out to sea, and perhaps, of global importance. Relations between the Congo and its very large estuary (145 km long/90 mi, 10 km/6 mi wide at its mouth) conform to textbook descriptions of river function and conventional arguments against dams (see Davies & Day, 1998; World Commission on Dams, 2000). Proponents countered that the absence of large human populations, a delta, and distinct seasonal flow regimes – as well as a run-of-the-river design – removed most concerns. Overlooked is the fact that the Congo actually has a very active delta – it is simply submerged far out to sea. An enormous submarine canyon beginning 30 km (19 mi) upstream in the estuary continues 730 km (454 mi) into the Atlantic Ocean, ending in a 300,000 km2 (115,830 mi2 ) fan on the deep ocean floor (the Angola abyssal plain) (Heezen & Menzies, 1964; Braga et al., 2004; Khripounoff et al., 2003). Varying from 3 km (1.9 mi) width and 400 m (1312 ft) depth near the river’s mouth to 15 km (9 mi) wide and 1,300 m (4,265 ft) depth at

95

Grand Inga on Central Africa’s Congo River

1673

the continental shelf break, the Congo Canyon (globally oriented east-west around 6 S) descends to approximately 5,000 m (16,404 ft). The fan (the Congo cone) has channels which have been traced for 900 km (559 mi) (Normark & Carlson, 2003; Rojas, 2007). This enormous, complex and little understood geomorphic feature is unique among the earth’s submarine canyon and fan systems in that it provides a direct – and active – link between terrestrial ecosystems and the deep sea as solid organic material is transferred from the river and estuary out through the canyon towards the delta (Braga et al., 2004; Normark & Carlson, 2003; Shepard & Emery, 1973). Effects of the river’s substantial sediment loads have long been noted – the LuandaSão Tomé undersea cable broke 34 times between 1887 and 1937 at depths of 500 m (1,640 ft) and 3,200m (10,499 ft); shipping lanes have required constant dredging; and Inga I and II turbines suffer from scour (Heezen & Menzies, 1964). A longhypothesized “turbidity event” in the canyon was finally documented in March 2001 when research equipment at a depth of 4,000 m (13,123 ft) registered velocities and collected samples showing massive transmission of sediments and organic matter in a “cloud of particles” for several days, distributed over 13 km (8 mi) of ocean floor outside the canyon (Braga et al., 2004; Khripounoff et al., 2003). The event demonstrated that “terrestrial carbon in turbid underflows cannot be neglected in the carbon budget of the whole Congo-Angola margin” (Khripounoff et al., 2003). The source of this essential carbon is the Congo River and its estuary. Biological activity associated with “abundant tree leaves and rich fauna” was noted in a trawl 150 mi (241 km) off the cost at a depth of 2,200 fathoms (4,023 m/13,199 ft) (Heezen & Menzies, 1964), and “anomalies” in the deep ocean thought to signify biological activity have been measured over an unexpectedly large area (Braga et al., 2004). On the surface, Congo River water extends into the Atlantic Ocean in an ever widening plume that has been measured seasonally 800 km (497 mi) offshore. Its biological activity as expressed in chlorophyll-a production by phytoplankton is clearly visible in satellite imagery, as shown in the monthly composite maps of Sea-viewing Wide Field-of-view Sensor (SeaWiFi) of the equatorial Atlantic Ocean for 2001 presented by Pérez, Fernández, Marañón, Serret, and García-Soto (2005). Phytoplankton growth – and death – is central to global carbon balances. Carbon sequestration occurs when phytoplankton die and sink to the ocean floor, to remain undisturbed. The function of the equatorial Atlantic is crucial in all calculations of global carbon budgets and, thus, climate function and change. Since the plume of the world’s largest river, the Amazon, which also empties into the equatorial Atlantic, is pushed northward into the Caribbean Sea by ocean currents, the significance of the Congo plume should not be underestimated. This thin layer of low salinity water on the ocean’s surface has, compared to other tropical rivers, high levels of phosphorus and iron which are essential for marine life (Crossland, Crossland, & Swaney, 2006). It also contains relatively elevated levels of dissolved organic carbon (DOC), carbonic acid (H2 CO3 ) and silicon dioxide (SiO2 ) which are important for phytoplankton growth. In addition to these conventionally studied nutrients, Congo River water is also super-saturated in oxygen, an element that can limit aquatic growth (Coynel Seyler, Etcheber, Meybeck, Orange, 2005; Crossland et al., 2006; Probst et al., 1992). The unusual super-saturation in

1674

K.B. Showers

oxygen is a direct result of traversing the long stretch of rapids culminating as Inga Falls. In the context of growing awareness of the significance of the Congo for largescale surface and deep Atlantic Ocean processes, plans to divert, store or otherwise intervene in Lower Congo River dynamics are truly alarming. Both engineers and dam opponents agree that, whether mega or not, structures in rivers trap suspended material and release “sediment starved water” known to be highly erosive (Morris & Fan, 1998). Reducing the Congo’s sediment will decrease the estuary and plume’s phosphorus and iron contents, since these elements are bound to particles, as well as some organic matter. What will be the consequences for the Congo canyon, fan, and plume? Could lower levels of phosphorus and iron affect biological production of the Congo plume? Could this affect the ability of the Atlantic Ocean to be a carbon sink? Could the albedo and/or heat exchanges of the eastern Congo, Guinea and Angola basins be modified? The Congo River water deprived of its descent over rapids will be an oxygen-poor river, and a river deprived of its “higher than normal constant flow” would have a reduced plume. What would the associated loss of oxygen mean for estuary and ocean biogeochemical processes? Could oxygen deprivation reduce productivity or create a “dead zone” – in which waters are so depleted of oxygen that they can no longer support marine life? Finally, how would any proposed reduction or alteration of the Congo’s flow – such as storing “higher than normal constant flow” – affect the transmission of terrestrial sediments to the Angola abyssal plain? Could the mechanisms of transporting turbidity events in the submarine canyon be affected in any way by changes in the Congo River’s properties or flow regime?

95.8 Beyond Mega The twentieth century saw a rapid rise in technology’s ability to affect larger areas over longer distances, as well as the number of biogeochemcial systems simultaneously. With each increase in dimension came an increase in complexity in terms of interactions between human beings and the environment. In popular parlance, mega was a term that expressed the idea of larger-than-large, larger than local, size almost beyond human ability to imagine. In 1939, the American Hoover Dam on the Colorado River was the world’s largest, creating a 640 km2 (248 mi2 ) lake behind its 726 ft (221 m) high wall, with an installed capacity of 704.8 MW. At that time mega’s dictionary definition of 1 million times greater than expected was almost unimaginably enormous; ten times the size of large seemed a more manageable definition. No one had flown to the moon. In 1953 Morocco’s Bine El Ouidane’s 133 m (436 ft) high dam wall became Africa’s highest, and the 1959 closure of Kariba Dam created the largest man-made lake in the world, with a surface area of 5,200 km2 /1969mi2 , and volume of 188,000 million m3 /6639 ft3 . Mega was a mid-century term to describe a scale larger than expected/normal, larger than large, larger than local.

95

Grand Inga on Central Africa’s Congo River

1675

While this meaning may have been adequate for most European and North American experiences, it quickly proved inadequate on the African continent, where dams proliferated, ever larger structures were built, and, almost unnoticed by the educated northern hemisphere elite who control international discourse, reservoirs exceeded 100 times mega. Analysis of reservoir capacities in this paper shows the inadequacy of the concept of mega by any definition. To follow mathematical logics, it might be appropriate to introduce the term “giga,” which means 109 , or 10 followed by nine 0’s, or 1000 million in American English, when discussing reservoirs. This is already used for the vast increase in electricity generation capacities that exceed the convention of megawatts (MW). A gigawatt is 1,000 megawatts, so Grand Inga’s estimated 39,000,000,000 watts, or 39,000 MW reduces to a more manageable 39 GW. What would constitute a giga reservoir? A thousand times a mega defined by volume? Length? Surface area? Introducing the idea of a “giga” dam – or any other term to describe increases in physicality – neatly avoids the question of significance. What is the true meaning of these size increases, beyond the excitement of engineering achievements? With each increased dimension, more systems are disrupted, if not obliterated. Interconnected biological, hydrological, geological, and chemical systems and cycles interact locally, regionally and/or globally, creating a planet conducive to human life. As human capacity to intervene has increased spatially and temporally, humans have separated themselves from other organisms that manipulate and co-create the environment in which they live. Humans have gained the ability to obliterate entire ecosystems over very large expanses, and to set in motion sequences of events with very long term consequences, and in distant locations – seemingly without noticing, and certainly without accepting responsibility. What phrase can be used to describe such interventions? And how can they be analyzed? In mid-twentieth century simplicity, the idea of an environmental impact assessment of a landscape intervention seemed a radical challenge to technological prowess. Battles were fought to save or protect species, and from this the idea of environmental conservation was reduced to a series of checklists. Once the list of endangered species was agreed upon, all that remained was to protect them – or a shred of habitat for a minimal population’s survival. The idea of protecting entire ecosystems and ecosystem function receded until reclaimed by environmental economists’ ideas of valuing identified “environmental services” – and protecting them. Once again, the environment was reduced to a checklist. The hollowness of the list approach is frighteningly evident when larger-thanmega projects are considered. Clearly the world’s second largest river by flow is not only deeply involved with the function of its terrestrial drainage basin (watershed), but less obviously fundamentally important to the Atlantic Ocean into which it empties. What name could be given to a project that requires an impact analysis ranging from terrestrial flora and fauna (including humans) to the deep ocean floor and the global carbon cycle? Who could carry out such an investigation, and who would be able to read and comprehend such a report? Do we dare ignore the linkages because they are too complex and difficult? The scale of possible consequences

1676

K.B. Showers

suggests that we cannot. Argument has been made in the past that sacrificing a local ecosystem could be justified for some “greater good” defined by an economic analysis. But how can one make such an argument when what is potentially sacrificed are elements vital to the balancing of planetary systems? Grand Inga is far beyond the scale of a mega project. It exists in a realm of human escapism, in which technology allows postponement of accepting – and addressing – consequences of lifeways and logics of economics, the ultimate social construction. Perhaps it could be said that it resides in the “hubrisphere” and belongs to the category of “hubris” projects, those which require far more than local funding, materials and expertise for implementation and which have consequences that are extensive in space and time, and particularly those affecting boundaries between, or interactions among, atmospheric, aquatic and terrestrial systems and spaces. Hubri projects already exist; Grand Inga shows that there are no limits to imagination.

Notes 1. Although this reduced the cost of aluminum production significantly, aluminum production was still expensive because 10–12 kWh was required to produce a single pound (Muller, 1945). 2. To maintain historical continuity, contemporary names will be used throughout, with current names in parentheses.

References Abaza, M. (1994). Africa-Europe electrical interconnection and prospects of world-wide interconnections. Minister of electricity and energy, Arab Republic of Egypt, CIGRE Keynote Address, Paris, 28 Aug 1994. Retrieved November 8, 2009, from http://www.nokraschy.net/AfricaEauope_Interconnection.pdf Adams, W. M. (1992). Wasting the rain: Rivers, people and planning in Africa. Minneapolis, VIC: University of Minnesota Press. African Union. (2008). African union commission and European commission launch an ambitious Africa-EU energy partnership. Memo/08/555. Brussels. Retrieved September 8, 2008, from http://europa.edu/rapid/pressReleasesAction.do?reference=MEMO/08/555 Anderson, D., Paton, T. A. L., & Blackburn, C. (1960). Zambezi Hydroelectric development at Kariba, first stage (Paper No. 6479). In commonwealth relations office and commonwealth office: Economic relations divisions I and II and successors: Registered files. Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland. Kariba Dam and other hydroelectric projects. Kew, UK: Public Record Office DO 189/36. Aquastat. (2006). The African dams database notes and references. Aquastat geo-referenced database on African dams, 5 April 2006. Rome: Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) of the United Nations. Retrieved October 8, 2009, from http://www.fao.org/landandwater/ aglw/aquastat/damsafrica/index.stm Ashe, B. (2002). Eskom’s reach in Africa, 16 August 2002. EarthLife Africa eThekwini. Eskom’s African privatization footprint 2000–2002. CorpWatch: Holding Corporations Accountable website. Retrieved April 21, 2009, from http://www.corpwatch.org/article.php?id=3529 Bernacsek, G. M. (1984). Dam design and operation to optimize fish production in impounded river basins (based on a review of the ecological effects of large dams in Africa). CIFA Technical

95

Grand Inga on Central Africa’s Congo River

1677

Paper 11. Appendix. Register of African Dams and Reservoirs. Rome: FAO. Retrieved October 15, 2009 from http://www.fao.org/docrep/005/AC675E/AC675E03.htm Birchard, R. E. (1940). Copper in the Katanga region of the Belgian Congo. Economic Geography, 16(4), 429–436. Braga, E. S., Andrié, C., Bourlès, B., Vangriesheim, A., Baurand F, Chuchla R. (2004). Congo river signature and deep circulation in the eastern Guinea Basin. Deep Sea Research Part I: Oceanographi Research Papers, 51(8), 1057–1073. Burke, E., III (2009). The transformation of the middle eastern environment 1500 B.C.E. to 2000 C.E. In E. Burke III & K. Pomeranz (Eds.), The environment and world history (pp. 81–117). Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. CBC News. (2006). All industry eyes will be on N.L.’s Orphan Basin oil e4xploration. Radio-Canada.ca 31 July 2006. CBC.ca. Retrieved April 21, 2009, from http://www.cbc.ca/ news/story/2006/07/31/orphan-basin.html Coynel, A., Seyler, P., Etcheber, H., Meybeck, M., Orange D. (2005). Spatial and seasonal dynamics of total suspended sediment and organic carbon species in the Congo River. Global Biogeochemical Cycles, 19, GB4019. Crossland, J. L., Crossland, C. J., & Swaney, D. P. (2006). Congo (Zaire) river estuary, Democratic Republic of the Congo. Retrieved April 21, 2009, from http://nest.su.se/mnode/ Africa/Congo/Congobud.htm Davies, B. R., & Day, J. (1998). Vanishing waters. Cape Town: University of Cape Town Press. Deepalsing, R., & Deva, N. (2006). Report on the problematics of energy in the ACP countries. Committee on economic development, finance and trade. ACP-EU joint parliamentary assembly, 20 February 2006. Retrieved April 21, 2009, from http://www.acpsec.org/ en/jpa/vienna/603562EN%20Report%20on%20Energy.pdf diPanzu, V. (n.d.). The grand inga power plant project. Power point presentation by SNEL chief executive officer. Retrieved October 3, 2010, from http://www.sapp.co.zw/ documents/TheGrandIngaProject.pdf Elliott, T. C., Chen, K., & Swanekamp, R. C. (Eds.). (1998). Standard handbook of power plant engineering. New York: McGraw-Hill. Elmissiry, M. (2000). The Southern African power pool and its impact on billing and metering. Metering Africa. In: Proceedings of Africa 2000 conference and exhibition, Nairobi, Kenya. Retrieved June 20, 2006, from http://www.esi-africa.com/last/ESI42000/42000_034_1.htm Encyclopaedia Britannica. (1929). Turbine: Steam. Encyclopedia Britannica (14th ed.). 22, 574–580. Energy Information Administration. (2006). Southern Africa SADC. Electricity. Country analysis briefs. Department of Energy, U.S. Government. Retrieved April 21, 2009, from http://www.eia.doe.gov/emeu/cabs/SADC.html ENS. (2005). Congo River hydro plan gains momentum, 25 February 2005. Retrieved April 21, 2009, from http://www.ens-newswir.com/ens/feb2005/2005-02-25-02.asp Everwyn, G. (1962). Which way in Katanga? African Affairs, 61(243), 149–157. Federal Power Board. (1959). Annual report and accounts for the year ended 30th June 1959. Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland. Salisbury, Rhodesia. In Rhodes House, Oxford University ref. 740.14 s.37/1958/59. Grand Inga Comes One Step Closer. (2008). International water power and dam construction, 18 June 2008. Retrieved October 23, 2009, from http://www.waterpowermagazine.com/ storey.asp?StoryCode=249970 Hammons, T., Falcon, J., & Miesen, P. (1992).Remote renewable energy resources made possible by international electrical interconnections: a priority for all continents. Retrieved April 21, 2009, from http://www.geni.org/globalenergy/library/geni/PowerGeneration/ remote-renewable-energy-international-electrical-connections-a-priority-for-all-continents/ index.shtml Hammons, T. (1992). Remote renewable energy resources. IEEE Power Engineering Review, 12(6), 3–25.

1678

K.B. Showers

Hammons, T. J., Taher, F., Gulstone, A. B., Blyden, B. K., Johnston, R., Isekemanga, G., et al. (1997). African electricity infrastructure, interconnections and exchanges. IEEE Power Engineering Review, 17(1), 6–16. Heezen, B. C., & Menzies, R. J. (1964). Congo submarine canyons. AAPG Bulletin, 48, 1126–1149. Isaacman, A., & Sneddon, C. (2000). Toward a social and environmental history of the building of Cahora Bassa Dam. Journal of Southern African Studies, 26(4), 597–632. Jackson, F. J. (1914). The governor to the secretary of state, 7 January 1914. No.43. In Further Correspondence [1914] relating to Concessions in Nyasaland, Uganda and the East African Protectorate, Colonial Office 1915, page 50. Kew, UK: Public Record Office CO 879/115/1. Khripounoff, A., Vangriesheim A., Babonneau, N. Crassous, P., Bennielou, B., Savoye, B. (2003). Direct observation of intense turbidity current event in the Zaire submarine valley at 4000 m. water depth. Marine Geology, 194, 151–158. Retrieved April 28, 2009 from http://www.ifremer.fr/docelec/notice/2003/notice1419-EN.htm Kitson, A. E. (1925). Outline of mineral and water power resources of the gold coast of British West Africa. Gold coast geological survey bulletin No. 1. [HMSO?] Gold Coast Survey. L’aménagement hydro-électrique du site d’Inga. (1957). La Libre Belgique, 14 April 1957, p. 11. In Kew, UK: Public Record Office FO 371/125403. Larkins, L. B. S. (1927). Memorandum on the Aswan scheme. Part II – 1904–1927. Included in memorandum of the Aswan scheme, 1938. Kew: Pubic Record Office FO 371/21993. McCully, P. (1996). Silenced rivers: The ecology and politics of large dams. London: Zed Books. Melland, F. (1932). The natural resources of Africa. Journal of the Royal African Society, 31(123), 113–132. Morris, G. L., & Fan, J. (1998). Reservoir sedimentation handbook. New York: McGraw-Hill. Muller, C. (1945). The aluminum monopoly and the war. Political Science Quarterly, 60(1), 14–43. Naidoo, P. (2009). New strategies for harvesting large scale bulk energy from the Congo River without a conventional dam. Presented at IEEE PES general meeting, Calgary, Canada, July 2009. National Geographic Society. (1990). National Geographic Atlas of the World. Washington, DC: National Geographic Society. Ndaba, D. (2007). Big backing for Inga generation and transmission study. Craemer Media’s Engineering News Online, Sector Focus. 26 January 2007. Retrieved April 27, 2009, from http://www.engineering news.co.za/article/big-backing-for-inga-generation-and-transmissionstudy-2007-01-26 Niagara Falls Thunder Alley. (2009). History of power. Retrieved November 8, 2009, from http:// niagarafrontier.com/power.html Normark, W. R., & Carlson, P. R. (2003), Giant submarine canyons: Is size any clue to their importance in the rock record? Geological Society of America Special Paper 370. spe370-10. Oliver, H. (1976). Great dams in Southern Africa. Purnell: Cape Town. Oxford English Dictionary. (1971). Mega. Oxford English Dictionary, Compact Edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Parsons, N. (1982). A new history of southern Africa. London: Macmillan. Pérez, V., Fernández, E., Marañón, E., Serret, P., & García-Soto, C. (2005). Seasonal and interannual variability of chlorophyll a and primary production in the Equatorial Atlantic: In situ and remote sensing observations. Journal of Plankton Research, 27, 189–197. Retrieved April 27, 2009, from www.plankt.oupjournals.org Probst, J. L., Nkounkou, R. R., Krempp, G., Bricquet, J. P., Thiébaux, J-P., Olivry, J-C. (1992). Dissolved major elements exported by the Congo and Ubangi Rivers during the period 1987– 1989. Journal of Hydrology (Amsterdam), 135(1–4), 237–257. Richards, R. V. (1947). Report on the hydroelectric resources of East Africa. London: HMSO. Rojas, R. (2007) Over 5 years of CRX at INTEC.Q.J. (INTEC Eng) Q4:1,5. Retrieved April 29, 2009, from http://www.intecengineeering. Com/news/journals/QJ4_07.pdf

95

Grand Inga on Central Africa’s Congo River

1679

Satluj Jal Vidyut Nigam Ltd. (2009). Frequently asked questions: What is the classification of hydro projects based on installed capacity? Retrieved October 17, 2009, from http://sjvn.nic.in/faq.asp#f3 Selous, G. H. (1938). Memorandum on the Aswan scheme. Part I – 192801938 (February). In Foreign Office: Political Documents: General Correspondence from 1906–1966. Political: Egyptian: Egypt and Sudan. Kew: Public Record Office FO 371/21993. Schwart, M. L. (2005). Encyclopedia of coastal science. Dordrecht: Springer. Shepard, F. P., & Emery, K. O. (1973). Congo submarine canyon and fan valley. AAPG Bulletin, 57(9), 1679–1691. Showers, K. B. (1998). Colonial and post-Apartheid water projects in southern Africa: political agendas and environmental consequences (Working Paper No. 219), African Studies Center, Boston University. Boston: Boston University African Studies Center. Showers, K. B. (2001). Dams and power in southern Africa. In C. Miller, M. Cioc, & K. B. Showers (Eds.), Water and the environment since 1945: A cross-cultural perspective (pp. 236–241, Vol. 7). History in Dispute Series. Detroit: St. James Press. Showers, K. B. (2006). A history of African soil: Perceptions, use and abuse. In J. R. McNeil & V. Winiwarter (Eds.), Soils and societies: Perspectives from environmental history (pp. 118–176). Cambridge: White Horse Press. Showers, K. B. (2009). Congo River’s Grand Inga hydroelectricity scheme: Linking environmental history, policy and impact. Water History, 1(1), 31–58. Sparrow, F. T., Bowen, B. H., &Yu, Z. (2005). The future of SAPP, WAPP, CAPP and EAPP – with Inga. IEE PES GM 2005 Panel Session, Paper05GM0597, 12–16 June 2005, San Francisco. Retrieved April 28, 2009, from http://ieeeplore,ieee.org/stamp/ stamp.jsp?tp=&arnumber=1489398 Stahl, A. B. (2005). African archaeology: A critical introduction. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Tshombe, L. M., Ferreira, I. W., & Uken, E. (2007). NEPAD vision and the INGA hydroelectric scheme. U.S. Geological Survey. (1921). World atlas of commercial geology: Part II. Water power of the world. Washington, DC: US Government Printing Office. White Paper on the Volta Aluminum Scheme. (1956). Appendix I. Volta River Project, vol.II. Appendices to the report of the Preparatory Commission. London: HMSO. Rhodes House (Oxford University):722.14 s36v.2 Wills, A. J. (1967). An introduction to the history of Central Africa (2nd ed.). London: Oxford University Press. World Commission on Dams. (2000). Dams and development: Framework for decision-making. London: Earthscan. World Energy Council. (2003). The potential for regionally integrated energy development in Africa: A discussion document. WEC work programme 2002–2004. London: World Energy Council. Retrieved April 28, 2009, from http://www.gm.undp.org/Reports/ The%20Potential%20for%20energy%20devt%20in%20Africa.pdf Worth, D. (1998). Lighting the darkness: The gas supply industry in 19th century Cape Town and its role in the formation of an industrial landscape. Retrieved April 28, 2009, from http://industrialheritagesouthafrica.wordpress.com/gas-and-grain/lighting-the-drakness/

Part XII

Military, Security, and Risk Landscapes

Chapter 96

America’s Military Footprint: Landscapes and Built Environments within the Continental U.S. William W. Doe III and Eugene J. Palka

96.1 Introduction America’s military landscape has evolved over the past 230 years of the country’s history, beginning as coastal defenses and outposts on the frontier, to becoming major military installations that are small, self-contained municipalities. The term “military lands” includes all land within the “fenceline” of a military installation, to include two primary areas: (1) the cantonment – the built up component or “city” that houses and supports military personnel and their families – larger cantonments can support more than 50,000 government employees, military personnel and their families, and (2) the range and training complex – consisting of live-fire ranges, bombing ranges and maneuver areas for training and testing of personnel, units and equipment. Military lands comprise a unique component of the federal land management system in the U.S. These lands currently occupy more than 30 million acres, or approximately 1.3% of the total land base in the U.S. and approximately 4.6% of the federal lands in the U.S. (Doe, 2008). However, beyond their significance to the national landscape in time and space, these lands are undoubtedly the least understood, and the most contested, of all federal lands. In many ways they represent a “footprint” of our country’s land expansion westward and reflect the changing paradigms of how the government employs its military forces. U.S. military lands have historically been controlled by the four Armed Services (Army, Air Force, Navy and Marine Corps) in the fifty States and territories. These lands consist of both deeded ownership from the federal government and lands that are “withdrawn” by Congressional approval from the overall federal land inventory. Typically, withdrawn lands are provided to the military for a period of 25–50 years and occupy lands in the Western U.S. and Alaska transferred from other federal agencies such as the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) and the U.S. Forest Service. These military lands can be renewed with approval from Congress and

W.W. Doe III (B) Warner College of Natural Resources, Colorado State University, Ft. Collins, CO 80523, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_96,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1683

1684

W.W. Doe III and E.J. Palka

upon completion of a complete environmental review. Although the military may train on other public lands (both state and federal) and less frequently, private lands, for short periods of time or for one-time use, these lands are not included in this overview. Additionally, formerly used lands that have been returned to the public or private sector are similarly not included. Over their history, and particularly in the past fifty years, military lands have been contested, both in the U.S. and in other countries, by the public, local governments and other interest groups. Consequently, they have generated varying social discourses about their legitimacy, control of space, and related land use issues within surrounding communities. These issues and discourses will be discussed later in this chapter. This chapter describes the evolution and spatial extent of America’s military lands and discusses the local and regional impacts of these installations as megaprojects within the federal land system in the U.S. While we acknowledge the U.S. military footprint in other countries (totaling approximately 700,000 acres), and recognize their associated impacts on natural, built and human landscapes around the world, that topic is beyond the scope of this chapter. Additionally, we will not consider the footprint of American battlefields from the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, which reveal the impacts of military activities of the past, but are nevertheless an integral part of the government’s enduring military megaproject.

96.2 Historical Background The evolution of America’s military lands began in the late 18th century and early 19th century when the Army built a series of strategically located forts along the coasts and inner waterways and rivers of the eastern states, as far west as the Mississippi River, to protect against foreign and internal attacks. One example, still an active military installation today, was the fortress built on the Hudson River at West Point, New York, which later became the site for the establishment of the U.S. Military Academy in 1802 and is currently the home for 4,400 cadets, staff, faculty and families (Fig. 96.1). Army troops were first deployed westward and “garrisoned” in 1845 at the outbreak of the Mexican-American War, prior to major westward expansion by settlers. The beginning of the Indian Wars in 1860 in the Great Plains brought numerous troops to Kansas and the Rocky Mountain states (Fig. 96.2). By the conclusion of the Civil War, the federal Army had grown significantly and troops were stationed throughout the Southern states, as well as throughout the Midwest and West (Fig. 96.3). From 1850 to 1895, a pattern of Army frontier forts was established across the plains, interior West and coastal West to support the migration of settlers along established trail systems and the building of the continental railway system. Today, many of these original forts, such as Fort Larned, Nebraska, Fort Laramie, Wyoming and Fort Union, New Mexico, are national historic sites managed by the National Park System, for public access and historical remembrance (Figs. 96.4 and

96

America’s Military Footprint

1685

Fig. 96.1 U.S. military academy, West Point, New York. (Painting by Seth Eastman, oil on canvas, 1875)

Fig. 96.2 Army troop deployments in the U.S., 1860

96.5). Many of these other original fort locations became major population centers a century later, such as the city of Fort Collins along the Front Range of Colorado. The period 1900-1950 witnessed a significant expansion of military lands in the U.S., particularly to mobilize and train land-based and air-based forces (Army, Army Air Corps and Marine Corps) for combat in the European and Pacific Theaters of WWI and WWII. Two examples of this expansion were lands acquired to support the Louisiana Maneuvers in the southeastern U.S. in preparation for the land

1686

W.W. Doe III and E.J. Palka

Fig. 96.3 Army troop deployments in the U.S., 1867

Fig. 96.4 Current photograph of the remnants of Fort Union, NM, an historic western Army fort

battle in Europe, and General Patton’s armored warfare training exercises in the Mojave Desert prior to WW II, as part of the Army’s Armor Warfare Center in the Mojave Desert (along the intersection of the State boundaries of California, Arizona and Nevada). The Louisiana Maneuvers occupied 2.2 million acres of land and more than 56 million acres (twice the current Department of Defense landholdings) were used by General George Patton and his Armored Corps for tank training in anticipation of deployment to North Africa and Europe (Doe, Hayden, & Lacey,

96

America’s Military Footprint

1687

Fig. 96.5 Current photography of the remnants of Fort Laramie, WY, an historic western Army fort

2007). Numerous base camps were established throughout the Mojave Desert and small towns began to grow around them (Fig. 96.6; Bischoff, 2008). The Mojave Desert today remains an important place for Army desert training, although the amount of land has been significantly reduced. The footprint of many of the original Army camps established prior to and during WWI and WWII remain active installations today, to include Fort Bragg (North Carolina), Fort Benning (Georgia), Fort Campbell (Kentucky), Fort Hood (Texas) and Fort Carson (Colorado). During WWII, the military built significant cooperative relationships with other federal land management agencies, particularly the U.S. Forest Service. Military training in federal forests dates back to WWI with the activation of Camp Shelby in Mississippi within the DeSoto National Forest. In 1941, Fort Polk, Louisiana was established within the Kisatchie National Forest for jungle warfare training and Camp Hale was established in the White River National Forest of Colorado for military training in mountaineering and cold weather survival skills. Camp Hale became the home for the famous 10th Mountain Division during WWII. Similarly, the Marine Corps established the Mountain Warfare Training Center in the Humboldt-Toiyabe National Forest in 1951 to train personnel headed to the Korean War Theater. The post–WWII era saw a continuation of the establishment of permanent military installations throughout the U.S. in order to support the increasing size of the Armed Forces. This growth responded to the need to train and test with longrange weapons systems and missiles, and to provide increased mobility for armored vehicles and massed formations of troops. During this era significant developments occurred with respect to Air Force and Naval bases to support the arsenal

1688

W.W. Doe III and E.J. Palka

Fig. 96.6 Map of the Armor Warfare Center Maneuvers in the USA, 1940s (Bischoff, 2008) (Reprinted with permission of Statistical Research, Inc.)

of modernized weapons systems associated with the Cold War. Many of the lands acquired during this period, particularly for the U.S. Air Force, remain amongst active military installations today to include major bases such as Little Rock AFB (Arkansas) and Edwards Air Force Base (California), as well as the U.S. Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado. During this early to mid period of the 20th century, there was little public involvement in the military’s land acquisition process. Military land transactions were generally handled through administrative actions linked to national security concerns. It was not until the late 1950s that land conflicts began to emerge and more policy driven guidelines were established by the federal government. These conflicts were driven by Department of Defense expansion plans to acquire an additional 13 million acres in western states (Crotty, 1995). Between 1945 and the early 1970s Congress allocated more than $100 billion dollars for western military installations, making the military-industrial complex the biggest business in the West during this period (Nash, 1999). In the mid 1950s, Congressman Clair Engel of California, in response to these increased demands by the Department of Defense (DoD) for land,

96

America’s Military Footprint

1689

convened the first hearings, known as the Engel Hearings, to address withdrawals of land from the public domain. The eventual outcome of these hearings was the establishment of the Engel Act of 1958, which established a key principle that DoD withdrawals of areas in excess of 5,000 acres required an Act of Congress, with the attendant public hearings (Wilcox, 2007). In short, this Act brought to a close the earlier eras in which military land transactions were conducted without public scrutiny. In the late 1970s and 1980s two landmark decisions arose regarding the military footprint. The first, in 1979, occurred when the Carter Administration announced a plan to build the Intercontinental Ballistic Missile (ICBM) MX system on a racetrack encompassing some 25 million acres in the Great Basin region of Nevada and Utah (Crotty, 1995). This plan was opposed by private landowners, federal land management agencies and environmental groups and was defeated after the 1980 Presidential election, when Ronald Reagan became President and opted for the deployment of MX missiles in retrofitted silos, due to the enormous costs of the racetrack option and the significant opposition in the West. The second, in 1986, was legislation named the Military Lands Act (PL 99-606) authorizing DoD several large land withdrawals in the West, but limiting these withdrawals to fifteen years and requiring the preparation of extensive Environmental Impact Statements (EIS) (Wilcox, 2007). It was also during these decades when the American public became more aware of environmental issues and the toxic legacy left behind from munitions and chemical production during the earlier War periods, as well as the Vietnam Conflict. In the wake of increasing environmental pollution and the awakening of the American consciousness and activism towards environmental protection, the passage of numerous environmental laws in the 1970s set the tone for many of the military land responses and issues in the decades ahead. Perhaps most significant was the National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA) of 1970, which required all federal agencies, including the Department of Defense, to conduct detailed environmental impact assessments and studies of potential projects or activities that might harm environmental resources. In addition to NEPA, such laws as the Endangered Species Act (ESA), Clean Water Acts, Clean Air Act and amendments, and many laws to protect cultural, archaeological and Native American sites, mandated that DoD incorporate environmental planning, management and stewardship into its way of doing business. Professional environmental staffs were increased at many installations to implement and manage these requirements.

96.3 The Current Military Footprint Today, there are over 3,700 locations (installations) where the military manages land in the fifty states. Figure 96.7 depicts the distribution of 200 of the largest installation locations, totaling approximately 18 million, or 60%, of the total existing military land inventory. The ownership is depicted for all four Armed Services. From the pie charts at the bottom of the Fig. 96.7 it is evident that the Army manages the largest percentage of lands, with approximately 51% of the 30 million acres, while

1690

W.W. Doe III and E.J. Palka

Fig. 96.7 Geographical distribution of major military lands in the U.S., 2009

the Air Force manages about 38% of the inventory and the Navy/Marine Corps approximately 11%. Today’s military lands represent the DoD’s platforms for training, testing and power projection of forces from the United States to theaters of operation abroad, in support of the war against global terrorism or to undertake other national security and humanitarian related missions, such as disaster response to hurricanes, tsunamis and earthquakes (Doe, Bailey, Harmon, King, & Palka, 2006). While the total footprint remains approximately the same as it did during the Cold War era, several large installations have been closed or realigned under the congressionally mandated Base Realignment and Closure process (BRAC), including several Air Force bases and Fort Ord in California, Chanute AFB in Illinois and Pease AFB in New Hampshire. These former military lands have in most cases been transferred to state and county governments and developed for commercial use. However, in cases involving highly toxic sites or ammunition plants, the lands have been permanently closed to public access.

96.3.1 The Army’s Bootprint As the nation’s primary ground combat force, the Army must be capable of conducting prompt and sustained operations in all types of terrain and operating environments, across the entire spectrum of conflict. Intensive and realistic field

96

America’s Military Footprint

1691

training and testing, under conditions that replicate the variety of physical landscapes and potential threats to be encountered, remains a cornerstone of Army warfighting readiness (Shaw, Doe, Palka, & Macia, 2000). Technological advances in equipment and weapons, and corresponding changes in doctrine and tactics, have dramatically increased the Army’s space requirements for training. Moreover, the proliferation of regional and world threats has enlarged the geographical extent of potential Army deployments and operations (Shaw, Doe, Palka, & Macia, 2005). Thus, of all the military services, the Army has the largest requirement for land to provide the maneuver space, ranges and munitions impact areas necessary for the conduct of training and testing. Within the current military land inventory the Army is responsible for approximately fifteen million acres of federal lands – or half of the total Department of Defense land inventory. Army installations are geographically distributed throughout the continental United States, Hawaii and Alaska, representing a variety of landscapes and environmental conditions that are found throughout the rest of the world. Although the Army utilizes additional lands and training areas overseas in Korea, Germany, Italy, Kuwait and other allied countries, Army lands within the fifty United States represent the major land assets for training and testing. From a readiness perspective, these lands, and their associated physical attributes (e.g., terrain, vegetation and climate), can be viewed as “operational analogs” for potential areas of conflict where the Army may be deployed to fight a major theater war or participate in security, stability and support operations (Doe & Bailey, 2007). The projected redeployment of many Army forces from abroad in Germany, Iraq and other countries back to the United States and the recent “Grow the Army” initiative to increase the size of the active duty force, will require additional space on current installations in the U.S. For example, Fort Bliss, Texas and Fort Carson, Colorado are increasing by over 10,000 soldiers (in addition to their family members) each in the next two years, as forces previously stationed in Europe return to the U.S. These troop increases are being supported by massive construction projects on these installations for barracks, motor pools and family housing. These population increases are also causing a surge in local housing markets and economies. Concurrently, these installations are building large-scale renewable energy facilities (e.g., solar, landfill gas, and wind) as the Obama Administration stimulates this energy sector and the DoD seeks energy independence from local power and electrical grids.

96.3.2 The Army’s Training Lands Army installations can be subdivided into two major parts: (1) ranges, training and testing lands and (2) the cantonment area. The largest proportion of an installation is typically devoted to the training and testing missions, since extensive area is required to support firing of weapons systems, maneuvering of tracked and wheeled vehicles, tactical training, and other operational activities. The cantonment area houses the installation’s military population and family members and the majority of the infrastructure to support maintenance, logistics and command and control of the military units.

1692

W.W. Doe III and E.J. Palka

There are more than one hundred major (50,000 acres or larger) Army installations currently managed by the Active Army, Reserves and Army National Guard. Over fifty of these contain troop concentrations and land sufficient to support large scale training and testing activities. Notable concentrations of major active Army installations exist in the Southeast (Fort Benning, GA; Fort Bragg, NC; Fort Gordon, GA; Fort Jackson, SC; Fort Polk, LA; Fort Rucker, AL; Fort Stewart, GA), the Southwest (Fort Bliss, TX; Fort Hood, TX; Fort Huachuca, AZ; Fort Sill, OK; Yuma Proving Ground, AZ; White Sands Missile Range, NM), and the West (Fort Carson, CO; Pinon Canyon Maneuver Site, CO; Fort Irwin, CA; Fort Lewis, WA; Yakima Training Center, WA). Additionally, the Army has three major installations (Fort Greely, Fort Richardson, Fort Wainwright) in Alaska and two major installations (Schofield Barracks and Pohakuloa Training Area) in Hawaii. The sizes of today’s major Army installations vary considerably, ranging from approximately 25,000 contiguous acres (100 km2 ) to as many as 2 million contiguous acres (8,500 km2 ) (Doe, 2008). The largest Army installations with land available for training and testing are found in the southwest and far western regions of the country. These include Fort Bliss, TX, and White Sands Missile Range, NM (separate installations joined by a common boundary), comprising approximately 3.2 million acres, and Yuma Proving Ground, AZ, a weapons, equipment and vehicle test site in the desert, comprising approximately one million acres. The Army’s largest installation dedicated to large-scale, mechanized, force-on-force exercises is Fort Irwin, CA, covering approximately 755,000 acres in the Mojave Desert (Doe, 2008). There is a synergistic relationship between the Army’s training to fight in varied operating environments in the U.S., and its success once it is deployed to a particular region of the world. As shown in Table 96.1, the Army’s U.S. land inventory represents analogs to potential areas of conflict where the Army may be deployed to conduct real-world missions. Figure 96.8 illustrates the locations of thirty-one major Army installations superimposed upon a map of ecoregions in the U.S., as described by Robert Bailey’s World Ecoregional Classification System (1998). Bailey’s system delineates and describes contiguous areal extents with common climate and vegetation characteristics across continents, which also exhibit similar landforms, soil, flora, fauna, and ecological succession. Thus, it enables geographical and environmental comparison of Army training and testing lands throughout the United States with regional areas abroad where Army forces may be deployed operationally (Doe & Bailey, 2007). As shown in Table 96.1, some critical shortfalls such as humid tropical lands, exist within the Army’s current land inventory. The lands used for training in Hawaii and Puerto Rico are not representative of climax tropical rainforests and are limited both in scale and due to environmental protection requirements. The diversity and extent of lands managed by the Army requires them to exercise proactive environmental stewardship to sustain these resources as an essential component of its readiness posture (Shaw et al., 2000). This management and stewardship imperative will be discussed later in this chapter.

96

America’s Military Footprint

1693

Table 96.1 Analogs of Army installations and world-wide operational areas Conflict-operational area

Ecoregion (Bailey’s classification)

Iraq, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan

Tropical/Subtropical Desert

Iran, Somalia

Tropical/Subtropical Steppe

Korea

Hot Continental

Haiti Panama, Nicaragua Rwanda Philippines, Indonesia Bosnia, Kosovo

Savanna, Rainforest Savanna, Rainforest Savanna, Rainforest Savanna, Rainforest Mediterranean

Fig. 96.8 Ecoregional distribution of Army lands in the U.S.

Army installation analogs Fort Irwin, CA Fort Bliss, TX Yuma Proving Ground, AZ White Sands Missile Range, NM Fort Huachuca, AZ Fort Hood, TX Fort Sill, OK Fort Campbell, KY Fort Knox, KY Fort Drum, NY Fort Leonard Wood, MO None None None None None

1694

W.W. Doe III and E.J. Palka

96.3.2.1 Cantonment Areas Large military installations are essentially mid-size cities. Military installations are generally comprised of two basic components: a training (or operational) area and a cantonment area. The former includes firing ranges, maneuver areas, impact areas, landing zones, air strips, and other land parcels and facilities designed to support individual and unit training and preparation for operational missions. As shown in the examples of Fort Bliss, Texas and Fort Hood, Texas (Fig. 96.9), the cantonment area on an installation is relatively small, with the training/testing lands accounting for the overwhelming majority of acreage included within the boundaries of any installation. The cantonment area is often referred to as the “garrison” area. This is the built-up area of the installation and is designed to house and support military personnel and their families, as well as the logistics, maintenance, and operational facilities to support the various subordinate units that are assigned to the installation. The cantonment area is the “downtown” of the Army “post” or the Navy, Air Force, or Marine “base.” Within this densely populated life support area, one observes schools, one or more post (or base) exchanges (similar to large department stores), a commissary, service stations, numerous shops and fast-food establishments, movie theaters, craft shops, hospitals, a post office, an assortment of administrative buildings, and recreational facilities to support service members and their families (Fig. 96.10). Additionally, one would encounter various types of structures designed to house organizational units, their vehicles, aircraft, ships, weapons systems, and equipment. Motorpools, maintenance shops, warehouses, aircraft hangars, communications facilities, etc., surround the headquarters and barracks of the subordinate units assigned to the installation.

Fig. 96.9 Cantonment and training areas on Fort Bliss (left) and Fort Hood (right), Texas

96

America’s Military Footprint

1695

Fig. 96.10 Fort Lewis cantonment area

Just as a small town or city has basic infrastructure, so does every military installation. Power generating facilities, recycling centers, water treatment plants, transportation assets, etc., are all integral parts of the “main-post” or “main-base” area, commonly referred to as the cantonment area. The size and extent of the cantonment area corresponds to the size of the major unit and/or the variety of organizations and functions assigned to the installation. Post or base resident populations may range in size from a few hundred to over

1696

W.W. Doe III and E.J. Palka

84,000 in the case of the Navy’s Naval Station Norfolk (Military Times, 2009) or 91,00 in the case of the Army’s Fort Benning, Georgia (Military Times, 2009). During the work day, post or base populations swell in numbers based on the influx of civilian employees from neighboring communities. Although each of the military services has slightly different facilities to support their specific mission, the cantonment areas are all very similar with respect to the layouts and functions that they perform. The planning, design and construction of military installations is a multibillion dollar business supported by many commercial engineering firms who have a close relationship to the military-industrial complex. Standardized designs are often implemented to optimize use of space and to keep the military and civilian functions of a fort or base separate. The design of family housing and schools engenders a close-knit neighborhood and community that supports the service members and the constant deployments and stresses that can accompany military life. Living in “base housing” as a “military brat” brings fond memories to those who grew up in these safe, fenced and protected enclosures and neighborhoods. (Note: Both authors spent considerable portions of their youth and adult lives with their families living on military installations – Dr. Doe grew up as an Air Force brat living in the northeast, southeast and overseas in Italy, and then as an Army officer lived on installations in New York, Kansas and California, as well as in Germany. Dr. Palka lived with his family on installations as an Army officer in Georgia, New York, Kentucky, Kansas and Alaska. Both authors and their families recall these military neighborhoods as significant to their upbringing, values and life-long friendships.)

96.4 Managing the Military Footprint 96.4.1 The Environmental Stewardship and Sustainability Imperative Military lands in the U.S. have become increasingly valuable, not only for their primary mission in support of national defense, but for their unique ecological value as well (Doe, Shaw, Bailey, Jones, & Macia 2005; Doe, Hayden, & Lacey, 2007). For example, the management of threatened and endangered species and their habitats on military lands has become a focal point of natural resources management at such installations as Fort Bragg, NC; Fort Benning, GA and Fort Polk, LA (for the endangered red-cockaded woodpecker), Fort Irwin, CA (for the desert tortoise) and in Hawaii for several endangered plants. This reality is somewhat counterintuitive to the general public, who generally envision these lands as “wastelands of destruction,” impacted by maneuvers, unexploded ordnance, munitions waste and other fragments of military activities. Indeed, some portions of these military lands, particularly the live-fire impact areas for ranges, are heavily impacted and contain dangerous and toxic constituents from munitions. However, these designated “sacrifice areas” represent only a small fragment of the overall military land inventory.

96

America’s Military Footprint

1697

Significant proportions of military lands in the U.S. remain minimally disturbed from their pre-military occupation state, and often represent the most undisturbed ecosystems in a region, particularly in areas where residential, commercial and industrial development have largely altered the landscape. One example is Fort Carson, Colorado in the city of Colorado Springs. When it was first established in the 1940s, Fort Carson was geographically separated from the city, then a budding community of 50–75,000. Today, the fenceline of Fort Carson is surrounded by commercial and residential development as Colorado Springs has grown to the second largest city in the State, with a population of over 350,000. Consequently, many military lands have become, through somewhat unintended consequences, sanctuaries for hundreds of threatened and endangered species of flora and fauna. In comparison to other large federal land management agencies with much larger acreages, including the Bureau of Land Management, U.S. Forest Service, U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service, and the National Park Service, Department of Defense lands contain a much larger population and proportion of threatened and endangered species, which are regulated under federal environmental laws (Stein, Scott, & Benton, 2008). Thus, the management of military land must not only support military use, but account for species conservation and other multiple uses, such as forestry, grazing, and recreation. In order to accomplish this multi-dimensional land management stewardship, military installations employ numerous research and support organizations and programs, staffed by federal environmental professionals at all levels of the organization (Doe, Shaw, Bailey, Jones, & Macia, 2005). This effort is supported by environmental consultants, academic researchers and non-profit organizations. One example of these land management programs is the U.S. Army’s Integrated Training Area Management (ITAM) program, conceived in the mid-1980s by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, under the auspices of the Corps’ Construction Engineering Research Laboratory (CERL) in Champaign, Illinois. The ITAM program provides land management professionals to manage training land resources, including inventorying and monitoring of vegetation and soils, rehabilitation and repair of damaged lands, and geographic information systems mapping and modeling. Additionally, through ITAM and other educational awareness programs, the Army has formulated broad and encompassing educational and operational directives and programs to provide soldiers and unit leaders – those who actually conduct military operations – with an understanding of environmental stewardship principles and applications, and their relationship to military readiness. As examples, all military units have established training practices and protocols for the clean-up of spilled fuel or oils. Military motor pools now contain designated locations for recycling of materials. Soldiers are provided information cards on threatened and endangered species (even “playing cards” have been developed for this purpose). More recently the U.S. military has embraced “sustainability” as an overarching concept for managing its installations, including both the cantonment and training areas. Most notable, have been significant initiatives within the cantonment to incorporate sustainable design into construction of buildings, including LEED (Leadership in Environmental Engineering Design) standards. Additionally,

1698

W.W. Doe III and E.J. Palka

the U.S. military has become a federal leader in renewable energy development, including solar and wind projects. This development not only reduces overall energy requirements and the installation’s carbon footprint, but also provides energy security in the event of catastrophe or loss of conventional power sources. Beyond its own fence line, many installations have led community and regional sustainability initiatives involving water and energy conservation, transportation alternatives and waste management (Davis, 2009). Two Army installations of note in this regard are Fort Lewis, Washington (adjacent to the city of Tacoma) and Fort Carson Colorado (adjacent to the city of Colorado Springs), both of which have established sustainability forums with local municipalities and governments to address water conservation, energy and transportation needs.

96.4.2 Emerging Military Footprint and Megaproject Issues Despite the many successes and strides noted by the military in moving towards a sustainable land and installation management concept, the military’s footprint is not without controversy. The management of species and other resources mandated by law has often come into conflict with military training needs. Examples of these conflicts abound, sometimes resulting in the closure of critical training ranges and assets or producing legal actions against the military. One of the more noteworthy cases was the closing of a critical multi-purpose firing range at Fort Bragg, NC in the late 1980s when the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service successfully stopped Army use due to violations of the Endangered Species Act for the red-cockaded woodpecker. In Hawaii, a newly constructed firing range was never opened when an endangered plant was discovered during a biological survey. Many military lands, which were initially very rural and distant from large communities, are now surrounded by development – both residential and commercial. This has created additional land use conflicts with surrounding communities. In the late 1990s the term “encroachment” was defined by the Department of Defense as “the cumulative result of any and all outside influences that inhibit normal military training and testing” (U.S. Government, 2003). These influences included noise complaints, zoning regulations, safety concerns for landing aircraft and munitions firing, and other issues. Encroachment issues initially resulted in a “we versus they” mentality that put the military and its surrounding neighbors at odds. However, in the past five years an era of some cooperation has emerged on “both sides of the fence.” The military, other federal agencies, non-profit organizations and local landowners have begun to creatively address and resolve encroachment issues through “land use partnerships and collaborative collaboration.” These strategies employ many different approaches such as alignments, easements, buffer zones, and zoning regulations. For example, the Army Compatible Use Buffer (ACUB) program, allows the military to expend funds through non-profit organizations to support non-development of lands from private land owners surrounding an installation, thus reducing the potential for noise, dust and other impacts on the installation’s neighbors. Many of these strategies have emerged as communities grow and military land use becomes

96

America’s Military Footprint

1699

more constrained, and as some communities are threatened by base closure and realignment (BRAC). Buffer areas have recently been established adjacent to Fort Carson, Colorado and Fort Riley, Kansas through collaborative conservation. The successful implementation of these strategies is paramount if military lands and communities are to coexist for the future.

96.5 Conclusion America’s military footprint has been evolving for more than 230 years. Billions of dollars have been invested in this mega-engineering project that can best be conceptualized as a network of hundreds of military installations throughout the continental U.S., Alaska, and Hawaii. While providing for the common defense and designed to protect U.S. interests at home and abroad, this enduring mega-project remains inextricably linked to the country’s political, legislative, economic, and social affairs, and so it continues to change through space and time. The physical, environmental and socio-economic relationships between the national military footprint and its surrounding communities have become a key land use issue in the latter half of the 20th century and into the 21st century. The trans-boundary effects of encroachment both by the military and neighboring communities requires new ways of looking at the military installation in the context of local and regional space, communities and ecosystems. Solutions to these problems must be addressed in a more comprehensive fashion across administrative and jurisdictional boundaries. The anticipated re-stationing in 2010–2012 of thousands of U.S. forces from abroad back to home installations in the U.S. will increase the need for cooperation. Base Realignment and Closure (BRAC) legislation enacted by Congress means that some communities will see increased military growth and expansion, while others will see relocation of forces and closure of military facilities. In both cases, there will be significant impacts on the local economies. Thus, a new era for assessing the military’s footprint as part of the federal land megaproject in the U.S. is evolving. How this footprint will be sustained in the future is uncertain. Regardless, there remains a clear and future need for the military to use and maintain these lands in the U.S. for continued training and testing to support the national defense mission.

References Bailey, R. G. (1998). Ecoregions: The ecosystem geography of the oceans and continents. New York: Springer. Balbach, H., Goran, W., Doe, W., & Latino, A. (2008). “U.S. military installation land management history,” Militarized landscapes conference, University of Bristol, UK, 3–7 September 2008. Bischoff, M. C. (2008). The desert training center/California-Arizona Maneuver area, 1942–1944: Historical and archaeological contexts, (Technical series 75; 145 pp). Tucson, AZ: Statistical Research. Crotty, W. (1995). Post-cold war policy: The social and domestic context (429 pp). Chicago, IL: Nelson-Hall.

1700

W.W. Doe III and E.J. Palka

Davis, A. D. (2009). Beyond an ‘inconvenient truth’: The army’s march towards operational sustainability. Army Magazine, April 2009, 27–32. Doe, W. W., III (2008). “The evolution of a land stewardship environmental ethic in U.S. army leaders and soldiers: Historical, educational and operational contexts,” Militarized landscapes conference, University of Bristol, UK, 3–7 September 2008. Doe, W. W., & Bailey, R. G. (2007). Military operating environments: An ecoregions framework to characterize U.S. army testing and training lands as operational analogs, Contract report, CEMML, Colorado State University, September 2007. Doe, W. W., Bailey, R. G., Harmon, R. S., King, W. C., & Palka, E. J. (2006). Natural environments for testing and training: Developing geographic analogs for an expeditionary army. 25th Army Science Conference, Proceedings, Orlando, FL. Retrieved November 2006, from http://www.asc2006.com/orals/OO-04.pdf Doe, W. W., R. B. Shaw, R. G. Bailey, D. S. Jones, & T. E. Macia (2005). U.S. army training & testing lands: An ecological framework for assessment. In E. J. Palka & F. A. Galgano (Eds.), Military geography from peace to war (pp. 395–415). New York: McGraw-Hill. Doe, W. W., Hayden, T. J., & Lacey, R. M. (2007). Military land use: Overview of DoD land uses in the desert southwest, including major natural resource management challenges. Invited paper, Proceedings from the DoD strategic environmental research & development program (SERDP) workshop – southwest region threatened, endangered, and at-risk species workshop: Managing within highly variable environments, Tucson, AZ, 22–26 October 2007. Military Times Media Group. (2009). Installations worldwide: 2009 guide. Springfield, VA. Nash, G. D. (1999). The federal landscape: An economic history of the twentieth century west (214 pp). Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona Press. Shaw, R. B., Doe, W. W., Palka, E. J., & Macia, T. E. (2000). Sustaining army lands for readiness in the 21st century. Military Review, LXXX(5), 68–77. Shaw, R. B., Doe, W. W., Palka, E. J., & Macia, T. E. (2005). Training a global force: Sustaining army land for 21st century readiness. In E. J. Palka & F. A. Galgano (Eds.), Military geography from peace to war (pp. 379–394). New York: McGraw-Hill. Stein, B. A., Scott, C., & Benton, N. (2008). Federal lands and endangered species: The role of military and other federal lands in sustaining biodiversity. BioScience, 58(4), 339–347. U.S. Government Accounting Office. (2003). DOD approach to managing encroachment on training ranges still evolving. GAO-03-621T. 2 April 2003. Wilcox, W. A., Jr. (2007). The modern military and the environment: The laws of peace and war (179 pp). Lanham, MD: Government Institutes Press.

Chapter 97

Constructing the Border Wall – The Social and Environmental Impacts of Border: Mexico-U.S. Border Policy Lauren Martin

97.1 Introduction As of 23 October 2008, the United States has built just over 370 mi (595 km) of fencing along its 1952 mi (3141 km) boundary with Mexico (U.S. DHS, 2008b). Mandated by Congress in the 2006 Secure Fence Act, this phase represents just over half of the 700 mi (11,216 km) of new fencing to be completed by December 2008. A combination of 10- to 18-ft (3.0–5.48 m) mesh fencing, 3- to 5-ft (0.91– 1.52 m) vehicle barriers, moveable fencing, and patrol roads, “the border wall” winds through flood zones, protected ecosystems, habitats of endangered animals, properties of U.S. citizens, national parks, urban areas, and indigenous lands. Requiring the largest border enforcement budget in U.S. history, numerous private and federal actors, and the reshaping of the physical landscape, “the border wall” is a megaengineering project with political aims and diverse consequences. The wall has required a combination of localized engineering strategies, often completed at a fast pace with little testing in local conditions. In its first year, new fencing segments caused three floods during two severe weather events, illustrating the wide range of unforeseen consequences and “negative externalities” of megaengineering projects. As some Texas residents continue to fight fence construction on their land, and the Organization of American States (OAS) evaluates the wall’s human rights implications, it is clear that constructing “the border wall” is more than an engineering challenge (OAS Inter-American Committee on Human Rights, 2008); it represents a concerted political effort to “re-border” the U.S.-Mexico boundary through a combination large-scale engineering projects and surveillance.1 Aimed at securing the southern U.S. border in its entirety, the combination of these seemingly “local” projects constitute a major engineering project that introduces a durable presence of law enforcement in new areas of the borderlands. The “building up” of the border wall comes at a time when border maintenance, immigration and citizenship are considered matters of national security and

L. Martin (B) Department of Geography, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_97,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1701

1702

L. Martin

are surveilled through databanking and profiling technologies far from any territorial borders. For example, security studies scholars have pointed out how the “social sorting” function of borders now operates through databanking technologies, allowing airlines and security personnel to exclude individuals based on their risk categorization (Amoore & de Goede, 2008; Bigo, 2002, 2007; Coleman, 2007; Lyon, 2003; Salter, 2006; Walters, 2006). Biometric databanking allows federal, state, and local law enforcement to check immigration status more easily than in the past, which has allowed the exclusionary aspects of border enforcement to operate far from the international boundary itself (Amoore, 2006; also Bigo, 2002, 2007; Coleman, 2007; Walters, 2006). Trans-boundary travelers and migrants are now evaluated prior to leaving their country of origin, on the basis of more intense surveillance than has been possible in the past. Combined with sweeping changes in the jurisdiction of executive agencies, these changes in immigration and border strategy have reconfigured the spatiality of “the border,” embedding it in a complex system of risk and vulnerability analyses and security practices. These policy changes are part of ICE’s strategy to both “expand the border outward” and intensify expulsions from inside the U.S., which has led some to argue that the border is now everywhere (Coleman, 2008). How do we understand the border wall’s impact on the physical landscape in the context of this “deterritorialization” of border enforcement? Engineering projects re-order the physical landscape to enable the better management of environmental processes, and in turn these projects reconfigure human relationships with the environment, institutions, and each other. As such, they cannot be divorced from the political discourses that justify them. In the case of northward migration from Central and South America, hydrological metaphors dominate academic, policy, and popular media representations of migration, depicting transnational mobilities as “floods,” “flows,” “tides,” and “waves.” These metaphors work to depersonalize and dehumanize the individuals migrating, erasing the political conditions that lead to migration in the first place. Thus, many in the U.S. understand the southern boundary as a highly permeable frontier, a disorderly, “out of control” space (Nevins, 2002). The border region is therefore understood as a territorial problem for U.S. sovereignty and security, which closes down discussions addressing the causes or administrative processes of immigration. So while many other mega-engineering projects seek to augment (with varying degrees of success) human life by controlling “natural processes,” the construction of the border wall changes the physical landscape in order to control the mobility of humans in the borderlands. But if the border is portable, and is never fully “located” at the boundary itself, what role does fencing construction, surveillance, and policing along the boundary play? Fencing was initially intended to create a material disincentive for migrants attempting to cross into the U.S., and while border crossings do tend to decrease in areas with fencing, they displace crossings to more remote areas, ironically increasing criminal activity on the border by making migrants more reliant on coyotes to cross in remote areas (Nevins, 2007; Nuñez-Neto & Kim, 2008). Acknowledging this tendency, Customs and Border Patrol (CBP) and Immigration

97

Constructing the Border Wall

1703

and Customs Enforcement (ICE), combine fencing with ground sensors, floodlighting, patrolling, guard towers, and video surveillance to slow border crossers and channel them into heavily surveilled and patrolled areas (Hostelge, 2008). The construction of border fencing has gone hand in hand with the construction of new detention centers and the emergence of transportation networks operated solely for the confinement, management, and expulsion of unauthorized border crossers. Here migration’s hydrology becomes less metaphorical, as the same concrete, steel, and engineering techniques that direct rivers, dam reservoirs, and irrigate agricultural lands are used to channel, detain, and divert “flows” of migrants. Redirected into remote, rural areas by border fencing, border-crossers caught by CBP are detained in prisons and jails before being processed for deportation. In addition, the Secure Border Initiative, described in more detail below, compares border enforcement to hunting, ending the so-called “catch and release” policy for a “catch and return” policy that aimed to detain and deport all undocumented migrants from the U.S. The fortification of the physical landscape of the borderlands is linked, therefore, to a series of examinations, interviews, and hearings that code unauthorized border crossers with administrative, legal, and medical discourses. Constructing hundreds of miles of fencing through diverse cultural, political, and ecological landscapes, erecting border walls represents an attempt to “engineer” the racial, cultural, and political landscapes of American citizenship as much as an attempt to control territory. As the most visible and highly publicized component of homeland security and border enforcement efforts, fencing strategies also symbolize the U.S. federal government’s proficiency (or, to critics, lack thereof) at securing the American public from harm (Andreas, 2000). For Newman (2006), the reproduction of symbolic borders between groups of people and material practices of border policing are best captured as interdependent bordering processes. The manipulation of the physical landscape to install fencing and surveillance technologies works to order the Mexico-U.S. boundary region as a site of territorial exclusion. The installation of fencing and different surveillance equipment projects along the boundary should be seen as distinct spatial strategies, each aimed at fixing the territorial boundary through the physical exclusion of non-citizens in different ways. Yet these spatial strategies are localized in the backyards of border residents and in ecologically fragile areas, creating a scalar disjuncture between border policy-making decisions and the sites of implementation (Coleman, 2005). Together, however, these practices order the movement of people and things in particular ways. Thus, fence construction works to materialize discourses that frame transnational migration as a security problem, a policy change that affects people and places far beyond the specific location of the border wall itself. Analyzing fence construction as a megaengineering project, this chapter shows how the construction of walls along the U.S.-Mexico border not only transforms of the physical landscape but also naturalizes the U.S. federal government’s power to create both territorial and political exclusions. This chapter reviews the localized impacts barrier construction at the MexicoU.S. boundary, showing how a single engineering endeavor can create a diverse

1704

L. Martin

range of social, political, economic, and ecological consequences. I first provide a very brief historical review of the creation of the Mexico-U.S. border in order to contextualize the contestations of wall construction on political, legal, and ecological grounds. The second section analyzes the legislative and policy changes that mobilized state resources for border enforcement. The third section describes materials and technologies used to “build up” the border and the estimated costs of these projects. The fourth section analyzes the impacts of border “hardening” on, first, human rights in the borderlands and, second, changes in the geomorphology and ecology of the borderlands, especially in protected areas. I close the chapter by arguing that because border enforcement is perceived as benefitting “the nation” as a whole, and the wall’s negative impacts are localized and dispersed throughout the communities along the border, there is a scalar disjuncture between project’s perceived costs and benefits that enables the federal government to ignore them. Still under construction as of this writing, the economic, social, political, and environmental consequences of border fence construction demand systematic study and will provide important contributions to our understanding of the effects of mega-engineering projects around the world.

97.2 “The Border Crossed Us:” A Very Brief History of the Mexico-U.S. Border The area through which the U.S.-Mexico boundary passes has a long and rich history, and for most of this time, the area has been unfenced, unpatrolled, and unregulated. The historical geography of this region is beyond the scope of this chapter, but a few points are necessary to contextualize current struggles over fencing and surveillance technologies. Following Texas’ secession from Mexico in 1836 and the U.S.-Mexican War ending in 1848, over half of Mexico’s territory, 1.5 million km2 (574,650 mi2 ), was ceded to the U.S. in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. Encompassing roughly the same land area as Western Europe, the treaty granted the U.S. parts of Kansas, Colorado, and Wyoming and Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, Utah, and California in their entirety. 100,000 Mexicans and 200,000 indigenous people were absorbed with this massive land transfer. In the 1853 Gadsden Purchase, the U.S. purchased more land from Mexico south of the Gila River, establishing today’s Arizona and New Mexico southern boundaries. Neither Mexican nor Anglo residents took American integration and settlement lightly, and Mexican and indigenous residents contested the white ascendancy that accompanied the new boundary well into the 20th century. Using both legal and illegal coercive strategies, Anglo-Americans divested Mexican-Americans of their landholdings, usually consolidating this land into massive livestock ranches. In 1859 and again in 1915, Texas Mexicans led violent raids against Anglo residents in response to these legal manipulations and the massive loss of property (Dunn, 1996: 7–9). In retaliation, the Texas Rangers engaged in violent repression against Mexican Americans, and the first deployment of active duty National Guard and Army troops

97

Constructing the Border Wall

1705

Oregon

Minn.

Wisconsin

South Dakota

Idaho Wyoming

Iowa Nebraska

Nevada

Illinois

Utah Colorado California

Kansas

PACIFIC

Arizona

Oklahoma

New Mexico

OCEAN

Missouri

Arkansas

Miss. Texas Louisiana

Republic of Texas 1836-45 annexed by U.S. 1845 a fC lf o

M E X I C O

l i fo

Mexican cessation, 1848

Gu

Disputed area: claimed by Texas 1836-45 claimed by U.S. 1845-48

rni a

Gadsden Purchase, 1853

0

G ulf 250

miles

of M ex i c o

Fig. 97.1 Phases of U.S. acquisition of Mexican land. (Cartography by Dick Gilbreath)

was deployed to establish order. By 1900 the violent retaliation had largely pacified Mexican-Americans in the southwestern U.S. Thus, the initial “pacification” of the border region entailed the violent, quasi-militarized dispossession of racially defined groups, establishing the “American” boundary as a symbolic boundary between white and non-white groups (Fig. 97.1). Yet while Mexican and indigenous people struggled against Anglo-American racial discrimination, they also moved rather freely throughout the border region until recently. Fostering cultural and economic ties, this mundane cross-border traffic has defied attempts to characterize either side of the political boundary as truly “Mexican” or “American.” When the Immigration Act of 1924 established the first Border Patrol, Mexico-U.S. boundary operations were oriented towards the exclusion of Asian migrants and controlling illicit alcohol smuggling, not the prevention of border crossings from Mexico. During the Great Depression, for example, US immigration officials performed massive deportations, only to bring thousands with the 1942 Bracero program to supplement the war-time labor shortages. In combination with Jim Crow laws that prevented Mexicans from buying property in white-dominated towns, this “revolving door” immigration policy prevented Mexican Americans and Mexican migrants from gaining economic and political capital in the Southwest. From its inception, therefore, U.S. border enforcement policies have been intimately tied to the management of the labor supply through immigration limitations, the use of militaristic tactics to police Mexicans and Mexican-Americans in the

1706

L. Martin

U.S., and the disenfranchisement of non-white Americans in the Southwest (Dunn, 1996; Nevins, 2002). Beginning in 1978, border policy shifted from limited physical presence on the actual boundary and a pattern of labor recruitment and deportation to a territorial emphasis on the criminality of border crossers policy and their implicit threat to white America. The current combination of militaristic surveillance and policing can be traced to anxieties over a brown-skinned, Spanish-speaking “American Quebec,” spurred in part by a vocal Chicana/o civil rights movement in the 1960s and 1970s and the subsequent increased visibility of Mexican-Americans in the southwestern U.S. A recession, rising unemployment, and the highly publicized arrival of 125,000 Cuban and 40,000 Haitians in 1980 destabilized the dominant “imagined community” of white, Anglo America and created a perceived crisis of nation-statehood. In 1986 Congress responded to this perceived denographic crisis with the Immigration Reform and Control Act (IRCA) which mandated a closed border and the end of the underground migrant economy (Pub. L. 99-603). IRCA created, on the one hand, an amnesty program that legalized migrants living the U.S., but increased funding for detention facilities, surveillance technologies, fencing, roads, and border policing, on the other hand. Executed through cooperative agreements between Departments of Defense, Justice, and the Treasury, IRCA’s border policy quietly undermined posse comitatus, the statute limiting the role of the military in domestic policing (Coleman, 2005; Dunn, 1996). In 1990 the Immigration Act increased funding for Border Patrol agents, expanded categories of “excludable aliens,” limited migrants’ judicial appeals, and awarded arrest power to the INS, at the same time as it promoted family reunification and employment-based migration (Pub. L.101–649). And in 1996 the Illegal Immigration Reform and Control Act (IIRIRA) codified the INS’ Southwest Border Strategy, described below (Pub. L. 104–208). IIRIRA greatly expanded the categories of excludable persons, granted INS officers authority to order removals, and streamlined the removal process, effectively removing judicial oversight from the immigration enforcement process. Thus, immigration legislation in the 1980s and 1990s framed immigration and border enforcement as intertwined issues of criminality and national security, necessitating enforcement-led strategies. By increasing funding and resources for border policing, CBP and INS became a significant material presence in the borderlands. After IIRIRA added resources to immigration and border enforcement, the field was relatively unchanged until the 2003 Department of Homeland Security Act, which reorganized enforcement operations and codified border security as a homeland security priority.2 In 2005, however, two pieces of legislation changed the face of border security. First, the REAL ID Act expanded the Secretary of Homeland Security’s waiver authority to “all legal requirements necessary to ensure expeditious construction” of security barriers (Pub. L. 109–13; Nuñez-Neto & Kim, 2008: 7). Second, the Secure Fence Act amended IIRIRA and mandated the construction of 850 mi (1,368 km) of fencing, although this was later amended to “not less than 700 mi (1,127 km) of fencing” (Pub. L. 109–367). Further, 370 mi (595 km) of the border were deemed “priority areas,” and were to receive new fencing by December 2008. As this brief historical review shows, the Mexico-U.S. boundary has long served as a staging ground for federal security efforts (Andreas,

97

Constructing the Border Wall

1707

2000) and a symbol of a particular imaginary of American identity (Nevins, 2002). Anxieties about racial, linguistic, and cultural identity led to calls for increased border security, but until recently, these enforcement strategies remained focused on specific urban areas. These legislative changes shifted emphasis from high-volume border crossings to the whole border and devoted unprecedented resources to the policing of this border. Thus, urban border fencing became a strategy for the entire border region, a mega-engineering project in its own right. The cursory overview provided above is meant to show that efforts to distinguish between “Mexican” and “American” territory has long been contested by the people living in the region, showing that “the border” has never really been a settled, established entity. In part, it is the continual flux and indeterminacy of the border region that has provided justification for an increasingly rigidified boundary; in order for the border to be in force, it must be continually reproduced through policing and exclusion practices. Infrastructure is a nominally durable enforcement strategy, built to stand in for the physical presence of border patrol officers and to ensure the border’s reproduction in the future. Providing what CBP calls “persistent impedance,” fencing and walls serve three purposes: (1) they represent the range of policing, surveillance, detention, and deportation practices aimed at unauthorized bordercrossers and in doing so they (2) aim to deter migrants from crossing into the U.S. and (3) legitimize the federal government as the purveyor of “security.” The visuality and stark physicality of fencing, in particular, fuses the exclusionary symbolism of the border to the physicality of forcible exclusion. As Andreas argues: “Border enforcement is about deterrence, but it is also about propping up state claims to territorial authority and symbolically reaffirming the traditional political boundaries of an ‘imagined community’ ” (Andreas, 2000: 143). In the context of post-9/11 border enforcement, counter-terrorism, national security, and the protection of “us” from “them” offered a new sense of urgency and nearly unassailable justifications for the expansion of coercive power at the U.S.-Mexico border (Grundy-War & Schofield, 2005). This expression of sovereign power is literally concretized in the border wall, in this case revealing how large-scale engineering projects can be used to establish the regimes of control (of nature, space, or citizenship) that they also represent.

97.3 Constructing the Border A series of immigration and border enforcement bills augmented investments in border infrastructure and fostered new levels of cooperation between the Department of Defense and the border enforcement. Culminating in IIRIRA in 1996, INS border enforcement strategy focused on “prevention through deterrence” (U.S. INS 1996; also see Sundberg & Kaserman, 2007). Beginning in 1978, seven mi (11.26 km) of 10-ft (3.04 m) chain link fencing was installed in El Paso, San Diego, Yuma, and Tuscon sectors. These were eventually upgraded to 10-ft (3.04 m) corrugated steel walls, and in 1991 to welded panels of surplus steel and military landing mats left over from the Gulf War (Dunn, 1996: 66; Fernandes, 2007). As today, early fencing projects were accompanied by helicopter and small aircraft surveillance, footfall ground sensors, and the expansion of detention centers for apprehended migrants.

1708

L. Martin

Between 1978 and 1988, the INS added twenty helicopters, 278 night vision scopes, in addition to night vision goggles, infrared scopes, and remote imaging technologies. Ground sensors were expanded and upgraded, as was low-light-level television surveillance. Other communications and surveillance projects were developed with the U.S. Army, Air Force, and Federal Aviation Administration (Dunn 1996: 44). Twenty-two border patrol stations were built, and INS’s budget allocations grew dramatically, paralleled only by post-9/11 increases in border enforcement. In 1989 the Joint Task Force 6 (JTF-6) was formed at El Paso’s Fort Bliss and armed forces were enrolled in a permanent cooperative relationship with the INS. Aimed at drug trafficking, the majority of support entailed “operational” missions, largely ground reconnaissance missions used as much to detect unauthorized border crossings as to locate illicit drugs. While new building projects were the most visible evidence of this cooperation, engineering and construction, constituted only 10% of the JTF6 missions (Dunn, 2001: 70). This signaled an unprecedented role for the armed forces in the policing of U.S. territory. Extending the paramilitary legacy of border pacification, the Mexico-U.S. boundary has, therefore, long been a site where geopolitical, military, and domestic policies intersect. In the 1990s border patrol operations across the borderlands became more integrated, as enforcement strategies were bundled and implemented throughout the region. This Southwest Border Strategy entailed four phases of Border Patrol staffing, technology, and infrastructure increases in all 9 southwest sectors, the northern border, and coastal borders. Beginning with El Paso’s Operation Holdthe-Line in 1993, the Border Patrol deployed law enforcement and surveillance resources at popular points of entry, displaying a “show of force” intended to dampen unauthorized border crossings (Andreas, 2000: 92). From 1994 to 1998, fencing increased from 19 mi (30.5 km) to more than 45 mi (72.4 km), including a 20-ft (6.09 m) cement and metal wall topped with razor wire in Nogales, Arizona (Fernandes, 2007). As the JTF-6 assisted with previous construction efforts, the Armed Forces and National Guard assisted the INS with construction projects in 1990s, as well (Andreas, 2000). The strategy successfully reduced attempted border crossings in El Paso and the effort was expanded to the San Diego sector with Operation Gatekeeper in 1994 (see Nevins, 2002 for a detailed account). In 1995 Operation Safeguard began in Nogales, Arizona (expanded to Douglas and Naco in 1999), and in 1997 Operation Rio Grande was implemented in Brownsville, Texas (Fig. 97.2). IIRIRA granted the resources necessary for this series of “operations” and, specifically mandated the construction of 14 mi (22.5 km) of triple-layered fencing in the San Diego sector (Table 97.1). The Sandia National Laboratory had recommended additional layers of fencing, patrol roads and floodlights to detect and delay crossers long enough for Border Patrol officials to apprehend them (Nevins, 2002; Nuñez-Neto & Kim, 2008; Fig. 97.3). This triple fencing was to stretch from the Pacific Ocean westward, but the California Coastal Commission halted construction at Smuggler’s Gulch, arguing that the Border Patrol’s plans to fill in the canyon with 2 million cubic yards of dirt was environmentally unsound. By 2000, however, USBP and its armed service counterparts had constructed a total of 73 mi

97

Constructing the Border Wall

1709

Utah

Nevada

Colorado Kansas

California El Centro

Yuma

San Diego

Tucson

X XX XXX

X

X XXXXXX

Tijuana

XX XX

XX

XX

El Paso XX

XX

Marfa

Tucson XX

XX

XX

X XNogales XX Douglas X XXXX XX XXXX

XXXXXX X X

X

Aqua Prieta

X

El Paso

XX

Nogales

Tucson

Oklahoma

New Mexico

Arizona

San Diego

Texas

Ciudad Juárez

Del Rio

Marfa

Border patrol sector name

Del Rio

Border patrol sector boundary Proposed barrier

Laredo

X

XXXXXXXXXX

Ciudad Acuña

XX X

Existing barrier

XX

XXXXXXXXXX

0

250

X XX XX

X

Nuevo Laredo

XXX X XX

XX X X

Matamoros

Brownsville X

X

miles

Rio Grande Valley

Laredo

Fig. 97.2 Existing and proposed fencing projects along the Mexico-U.S. border. (Cartography by Dick Gilbreath) Table 97.1 Costs of border fence from 1997–2008 in millions of dollars 1997 1998 1999 2000 2001 2002 2003 2004 2005 2006 2007 Funded through Department of Defense Funded through Secure Border Initiative

5

4

3

4

5

5

4.7

4

N/A

3.5

N/A

198

427

Note: Some areas, such as San Diego/Tijuana have multiple layers of fencing. These layers are counted as individual segments in this table. Pedestrian and vehicle fencing are included together Source: Nuñez-Neto and Kim (2008); U.S. GAO (2009)

(117.5 km) of fencing, and the implementation of the Border Strategy has stalled in its second phase (U.S. GAO, 2001). Border enforcement had seen steady increases in funding and decreased border crossings in targeted areas, but each decrease in border crossings was followed by an increase in crossings in a neighboring sector. The short term, localized effectiveness of fencing provided some justification for its expansion, under the assumption that with enough fencing, border crossers will be sufficiently deterred. Under the Department of Homeland Security, the Southwest Border Strategy’s “prevention through deterrence” doctrine was infused with unprecedented funding levels, allowing DHS to coordinate border, drug, and immigration enforcement with more federal agencies and armed service support than in the past. Called the Secure

1710

L. Martin

Fig. 97.3 Border Fence, Lighting, and Patrol Roads. (Source: Jay Johnson-Castro)

Border Initiative (SBI), this multi-agency strategy to “secure America’s borders and reduce illegal immigration” increased detention and deportation rates, particularly of Central and South Americans (U.S. DHS 2008a). In addition, SBI included interior immigration enforcement and contract with the Boeing Corporation to develop SBInet, a complex of surveillance technologies used to detect foot and vehicle traffic along the border (U.S. GAO, 2008). While not departing significantly from pre9/11 border policy discourses and enforcement practices, SBI did signal three major changes to border enforcement. First, the initiative began unprecedented cooperation between federal agencies who had previously been antagonistic, federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies (see Coleman, 2007). Second, DHS made wide use of contracts with private security and technology firms, where it had previously relied upon the military for construction and technology implementation. This shift dramatically increased the cost of security, since surplus materials, JTF-6 and other military labor was not charged to USBP, but used for training exercises or otherwise included in Department of Defense funding (see Table 97.1; Nuñez-Neto & Kim, 2008). Third, Secretary of Homeland Security Chertoff used his waiver authority to suspend 37 local and federal regulations to build the more than 700 mi (1126 km) of fencing mandated by Congress in the Secure Fence Act (Table 97.2, Fig. 97.4). Current border construction projects signal, therefore, a larger reconfiguration of relationship between domestic law, homeland security priorities, and U.S. territory, leaving large areas of the United States without recourse to the protections traditionally offered by judicial and legislative oversight of the executive branch.

97

Constructing the Border Wall

1711

Table 97.2 Regulations and laws waived by homeland security secretary Chertoff 2006–2008 National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA) Administrative Procedure Act (APA) Administrative Procedure Act (APA) American Indian Religious Freedom Act (AIRFA) Antiquities Act Archaeological and Historic Preservation Act (AHPA) Archaeological Resources Protection Act (ARPA) Arizona-Idaho Conservation Act of 1988 Clean Air Act (CAA) Comprehensive Environmental Response, Compensation, and Liability Act (CERCLA) Coastal Zone Management Act (CZMA) Eagle Protection Act Endangered Species Act (ESA) Farmland Protection Policy Act (FPPA) Federal Grant and Cooperative Agreement Act of 1977 Federal Land Policy and Management Act (FLPMA) Federal Land Policy and Management Act (FLPMA) Federal Water Pollution Control Act (Clean Water Act) Fish and Wildlife Act of 1956 Fish and Wildlife Coordination Act (FWCA) Historic Sites, Buildings, and Antiquities Act (HSBAA) Migratory Bird Treaty Act (MTBA) Military Lands Withdrawal Act of Multiple Use and Sustained Yield Act of 1960 National Forest Management Act of 1976 National Historic Preservation Act (NHPA) National Park Service General Authorities Act National Wildlife Refuge System Administration Act Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) Noise Control Act (NCA) Otay Mountain Wilderness Act of 1999 Religious Freedom Restoration Act Rivers and Harbors Act of 1899 Safe Drinking Water Act (SDWA) Section 102(29) and 103 of Title I of the California Desert Protection Act Sections 301(a)-(f) of the Arizona Desert Wilderness Act Sections 401(7), 403, and 404 of the National Parks and Recreation Act of 1978 Sikes Act Solid Waste Disposal Act (SWDA), as amended by the Resource Conservation and Recovery Act (RCRA) Wild and Scenic Rivers Act Wilderness Act Source: Nuñez-Neto and Kim (2008)

97.4 Impacts of the Mexico-U.S. Border Wall As evidence of these new spatialities of sovereign power in the U.S., new sections of the border wall are having significant impacts on land and people of the borderlands. The costs of recent border infrastructure projects demonstrate something of the scale

1712

L. Martin

Nevada

Utah

Colorado Kansas

California El Centro

Yuma

San Diego

Arizona Tucson

REAL ID Act

El Paso REAL ID Act REAL ID Act

Tucson

Border patrol sector name

Oklahoma

New Mexico Marfa

Texas Del Rio

Border patrol sector boundary XXXXXXXXXX

Existing barrier

XXXXXXXXXX

Proposed barrier

Laredo

Rio Grande Valley

0

250 miles

REAL ID Act

Fig. 97.4 Border areas affected by REAL ID act waivers. (Cartography by Dick Gilbreath)

of these changes. From 2006 to 2009, Congress allocated over $3.6 bill for SBI projects, $2.4 billion of which was directed towards the completion of 670 miles of fencing (U.S. GAO, 2009). By comparison, border fence projects were allocated $35 mill per year from 1997 to 2007 (see Table 97.1; Nuñez-Neto & Kim, 2008: 21). Border patrol staff increased from 9,902 to over 17,000 between 2002 and 2008.3 Pedestrian fencing (Figs. 97.5 and 97.6) can cost $400,000 to $15 mill per mile to build and $600,000 per year to maintain, while vehicle fencing costs from $200,000 to $2 mill per mile and $300,000 per year to maintain (U.S. GAO, 2009; NuñezNeto & Kim, 2008). More complicated sections of the fence, such as the Smuggler’s Gulch section described in more detail below, cost upwards of $9 million per mile. It is clear, then, that the scale of federal government intervention has shifted from localized, sector-specific strategies to a trans-continental construction project. The magnification of wall construction and enforcement activities have changed the social, political, and physical geographies of the borderlands, the full impact of which is just beginning to unfold. Chertoff’s use of waivers to complete wall construction virtually suspended certain laws for U.S. citizens along the border. Beyond the localized effects of the wall itself, which I review below, the border wall has led to a reconfiguration of executive power, law, and citizenship. Thus, while DHS and CBP argue that the benefits of wall construction accrue to the nation as a whole, the negative consequences remain localized. In the closing section, I argue that this scalar disjuncture between the costs and benefits of wall construction reveal certain ambiguities in the effectivity of the wall, and bear further investigation. Here I review the consequences of wall construction for ecologically sensitive areas and the human rights of borderland residents, beginning with the wall construction’s impacts on this physical landscape.

97

Constructing the Border Wall

1713

Fig. 97.5 Example of pedestrian fencing, Arizona. (Source: Jay Johnson-Castro)

Fig. 97.6 Border wall construction along levees in Rio Grande River Valley, Texas. (Source: Jay Johnson-Castro)

97.4.1 Environmental Effects of Border Construction Prior to the passage of the REAL ID Act, DHS was required to comply with state and federal laws and regulations for construction projects. The National Environmental

1714

L. Martin

Protection Act (NEPA), for example, requires impact assessments and community involvement, as well as changes to initial plans in response to challenges to proposed projects (Pub. L. 101–619). With expanded waiver authority, however, DHS Secretary Chertoff was able to override court orders, lawsuits, and impact reports, since the REAL ID Act allows only constitutional challenges to DHS plans. That is, DHS border projects are exempt from oversight, except in cases where citizens’ constitutional rights are directly threatened. The Supreme Court is then the only court who can hear challenges to different projects, and to date, the Court has chosen not to hear any challenges. This means that there are no built-in accountability mechanisms, which leaves discretion over these projects solely in the hands of the DHS Secretary. As Fig. 97.4 shows, REAL ID ACT waivers were issued to fill Smuggler’s Gulch, for fence construction in Arizona’s Barry M. Goldwater Range (adjacent to the Cabeza Prieta National Wildlife Refuge), for vehicle fencing in the San Pedro River (the last free-flowing river in the Southwest), and 15 ft (4.57 m) steel barrier along the river’s edge. Critics argue that the fencing will disrupt the movement of wildlife around and through these areas, including the use of the San Pedro River (Sierra Club, 2008). In addition, the Rio Grande River Valley, emptying into the hurricaneprone Gulf of Mexico, is protected by a series of levees (Fig. 97.6). According to local reports, the Department of Homeland Security has destabilized the levees in order to build the wall and has built walls directly atop the levees in some places. Local residents expressed widespread concern, since construction began during hurricane season and Hurricane Dolly made landfall in the south Texas area (e.g., Summy, 2008).4 Governmental and non-governmental stakeholders have predicted that widespread environmental harm will result from the form and location of fencing projects, but with judicial oversight waived, these laws are effectively suspended in these areas of the borderlands. The detrimental effects are, however, already in evidence, as I show in two brief examples here. 97.4.1.1 Smuggler’s Gulch, California As mentioned above, San Diego’s triple fencing project, authorized in the 1996 IIRIRA, was halted by the California Coastal Commission at Smuggler’s Gulch. The gulch is a steep canyon formed by two mesas, includes California’s last salt marsh, and is home to over 350 bird species (Sierra Club, 2008; Fig. 97.7). To complete its fencing project, INS proposed to fill Smuggler’s Gulch by leveling the tops of the two mesas and in-filling the canyon with 2.1 million yards3 of dirt; together, leveling and filling the area would require moving 5.5 million yards3 of earth (California Coastal Commission, 2003: 7). The California Coastal Commission (CCC) was able to halt construction because INS and USBP did not provide sufficient evidence that less intrusive alternatives would prevent INS from securing the area. The CCC argued that INS’ proposal would cause “significant adverse effects” to the area’s Multiple Species Conservation Program, the Tijuana River National Estuarine Research Reserve, endangered species, multiple wetland and upland habitats, public recreation areas and other public benefits (California Coastal Commission, 2003: 2). The Commission’s primary concern was that the movement of this massive quantity

97

Constructing the Border Wall

1715

Fig. 97.7 Construction filling in Smugglers’ Gulch, California. (Source: Jay Johnson-Castro)

Fig. 97.8 Mesh fencing with Debris-Filled Grates, Hidalgo County, Texas. The high water mark reached seven feet. (Source: U. S. Department of the Interior, 2008: 11)

1716

L. Martin

of earth would cause erosion that would substantially change the ecosystem surrounding the gulch. In September 2005, DHS Secretary Chertoff announced that he was making use of the REAL ID Act’s waiver authority to suspend NEPA and related regulations in order to complete the fence. Begun in July of 2008, construction continues as of this writing and promises to dramatically reshape the topography of the area. More than any other area, Smuggler’s Gulch demonstrates how fence construction is changing legal, political, and physical processes in the borderlands. 97.4.1.2 Fence-Induced Flooding On 12 July 2008 a severe thunderstorm delivered two in (50.8 mm) of water in 90 min to the Lukeville, Arizona, area creating flash flood conditions. This area has a 5.2 mi (8.36 km) fence, constructed adjacent to the Organ Pipe National Monument, on land set aside for road construction. This section of the fence cuts across four washes, thereby segmenting the Monument’s upstream watershed. The fence’s particular design had two major effects on water flow. First, the fence included grates in drainage areas that were intended to allow flash flood waters to dissipate. Sediment and debris piled up almost instantly, however, acting as dams. Flash flood conditions prevented Border Patrol officers from removing the debris, which they had promised to do in the event of severe weather (Fig. 97.9). Second, as with most areas of the new fencing, the 15 ft (4.57 m) mesh fencing sits atop deeper cement foundations. The concrete foundations prevented subsurface waterflow, which exacerbated the flood. In short, the fence became a dam. When the waters subsided, sediment and debris had washed out the 45-ft (13.7 m) patrol roads adjacent to the fence and nearly covered the drainage grates, the streamflow had scoured the foundation of the

Fig. 97.9 Mesh fencing, after debris was cleared. Taken at the same location as Fig. 97.8. Comparison shows that debris was piled at least 2 ft (0.6 m) high at the grates. (Source: U.S. Department of the Interior, 2008: 11)

97

Constructing the Border Wall

1717

fence, eroding the earth around the fence, which will ultimately have to be repaired. In addition, the backup caused significant changes in flows and composition of the washes flowing towards the wall (National Park Service, 2008). Thus, the specific design and materials of the fence created new hazards by creating flood conditions where mitigation strategies already existed. If this example is any indication, the design of fencing will have lasting impacts on the geomorphology of fenced areas.

97.4.2 Human Rights in the Borderlands 97.4.2.1 Migrant Deaths As mentioned above, the Southwest Border Strategy aimed to deter border crossers by forcing them into difficult terrain. Essentially, this strategy assumed that migrants and drug traffickers operated as rational economic actors and that forcing migrants into more remote areas would create sufficient disincentives to migrate or traffic drugs. As the INS admitted later, they had completely underestimated the migrants’ determination to reach the U.S. (Nevins, 2007; U.S. GAO, 2001). While apprehensions remained more or less level across the border as a whole, migrant deaths increased dramatically (Table 97.3). Between 1998 and 2001, exposure to heat and drowning caused 59% of reported deaths, indicating that the INS’ border strategy had only pushed border crossers into more extreme conditions, rather than deterring their entry (GAO, 2001: 25). Ironically, the increased risks of border crossing has resulted in an increase in illegal border activity, as border crossers more often rely on coyotes for assistance. Fencing and enforcement thereby have increased both the financial cost of migration and the physical risk involved. Because the rise in border deaths has been directly linked to increased urban enforcement in the Southwest Border Strategy, many have argued that the federal government may be held responsible for these deaths (Cornelius, 2001). 97.4.2.2 Property and Indigenous Rights DHS’ suspension of environmental and property rights under the REAL ID Act led the University of Texas’ Working Group on Human Rights and the Border Wall to charge the agency with violating (1) the right to property and equal protection of landowners living in the borderlands; (2) its obligations to consider harm to the environment in public projects; and (3) indigenous communities’ legal recognition,

Table 97.3 Reported number and causes of death along Mexico-US Border, FY 1998–2005

Reported Deaths

1998

1999

2000

2001

2002

2003

2004

2005

254

241

372

328

322

334

328

472

Note: There are persistent problems estimating migrant deaths along the border, since these numbers rely upon bodies being found and reported as migrants (see U.S. GAO, 2006; RubioGoldsmith et al., 2007) Source: U.S. GAO (2006, p. 42)

1718

L. Martin

right to property, protections under past treaties, and right to natural resources critical to their ways of life (Working Group, 2008).5 In essence, the Working Group argued that the waivers suspended regulations that usually require the federal government to engage with local property owners, natural resources managers, and international regulations, amounting to the illegal seizure of property. In addition, the waivers allowed DHS to pursue construction without publicizing its plans or public comment periods, making the precise location of the fencing difficult for the public to ascertain. DHS offered $4,000–10,000 for the land on which the fence and patrol road would sit, but did not offer compensation for lands made inaccessible to their owners (Gilman, 2008).6 Deducing proposed fence locations from landowners approached by DHS, the Working Group found that the wall would bisect the property of many landowners, cutting them off from herds and grazing lands on which they relied for income in some cases. Indigenous peoples were similarly affected, as the wall would prevent the freedom of movement they were guaranteed under binational agreements and negatively impact the natural resources on which they depend for both cultural and economic livelihoods (Guzman & Hurwitz, 2008). In addition, a demographic study of property owners receiving fencing bids showed that fencing segments passed only through lower-income areas, forming a discontinuous wall (Wilson et al., 2008). Questioning the both the racial and class bias of the federal governments choices and the efficacy of a segmented wall, the Working Group argued that DHS failed to meet its obligations to borderland residents and, therefore, its obligations under international human rights agreements.

97.5 Conclusion What does border fencing mean when dozens of domestic laws and regulations must be suspended in order for them to be constructed? Rather than sealing U.S. territory from illegal incursions, the process of constructing the border fence has proliferated zones of extra-legality, where some U.S. residents find themselves without access to information, grievance procedures, and more or less stripped of the rights afforded to citizens who do not live near the boundary (Hyndman & Mountz, 2008). From DHS’ perspective, the waivers apply to particular stretches of territory, not citizens, and are necessary to ensure the sovereignty of the U.S. These waivers do not, in theory, prevent residents from exercising their rights, but they do negate any specific, place-based or territorial rights residents may claim. The construction of the border wall appears, therefore, to have dramatically reconfigured the relationship between law, the federal government, and citizens. The “uniquely American freedoms” supposedly secured by border enforcement may actually be diminished in the process of securing them. Just as enforcement escalations in the 1980s and 1990s led to increased illegal activity throughout the borderlands, it appears that building the border wall diminished citizens’ access to a host of legal procedures. Thus, homeland security practices may create the conditions of insecurity they are engineered to prevent (Bialasiewicz et al., 2007).

97

Constructing the Border Wall

1719

In addition to this paradox, “illegal immigration” is perceived, on the other hand, as a threat to “every facet of our society – security, education, social services, and health care” (Pryce in Coleman, 2008: 5). That is, the problem of immigration is represented as an assault on the services that guarantee the survival of U.S. citizens. Yet, the border wall impacts the mobility, property, and livelihoods of people living near the border in myriad ways. The localized and individualized effects of border enforcement infrastructure are borne disproportionately by communities in the borderlands, while the Department of Homeland Security announces the completion of each section of fencing as a victory for the U.S. as a whole. Border enforcement remains, as Andreas (2000) argued, an important “stage” for the performance of state power. But as Coleman (2005) argues, the borderlands operate in this way precisely because policy-makers imagine it as an open terrain and develop policies without consideration of its social, economic, political, or geomorphological particularity. It is the scalar disjuncture, therefore, between “national” policy discourses and mega-engineering strategies that marginalizes the political claims of borderlands residents. Thus, analyzing the legal, political, and ecological ramifications of the U.S. border wall reveals much about how the Department of Homeland Security and border policy-makers understand the spatiality of state power. Building the border wall both exercises and asserts the territorial claims of the U.S. federal government, revealing how mega-engineering projects can also be nation-building projects. Heeding Coleman’s call for a more nuanced approach to the complexity of border issues, close study of U.S. re-bordering strategies can contribute much to our understanding of mega-engineering projects more broadly. As I have tried to show, the effects of the scalar disjunctures between “national” and “local” demand detailed investigation, and I offer three suggestions here. First, David Harvey’s notion of “accumulation by dispossession” offers a way of capturing the contradictory appropriation of land from lower income property owners, on the one hand, and the expanded use of private contractors for border infrastructure and technology projects, on the other (Harvey, 2005). The demographic study by Wilson et al. (2008) provides a provocative starting point for historical geographies of race, place, and land ownership in the borderlands. Private security and construction firms now have a global reach, taking over many traditionally state-owned enterprises like post-conflict reconstruction, public health provision, and utilities. Analyzing how mega-engineering projects, like the U.S. border wall, transfer land – and therefore wealth – from one group to another offers a window on emerging relationships between state and non-state actors. Second, political ecologists have much to offer the study of the governance of public lands and protected areas in the context of the REAL ID act. In particular, the effects of fencing and increased human traffic on endangered species demands further study. The environmental-legal geography may become a complex mosaic, in which different laws, regulations, and agencies govern different protected areas, with drastic effects on the borderland ecologies. In addition, the legal wrangling around border wall construction demonstrates how “national security” policy has trumped a long tradition of species protection law. Secretary Michael Chertoff has repeatedly opposed “the habitat

1720

L. Martin

of a lizard” against the safety of the entire U.S. population, which minimizes the scale of the impacts (e.g., Tuscon Citizen, 2007). Yet as Sundberg and Kaserman (2007) show, “protected lands” and care of the environment are often conceived as “American” values, used to differentiate those who belong on the U.S. side of the border from those who do not. Focusing on the intersections between social, political, and environmental geographies, research on the border wall demonstrates how national security is reconfiguring human-environment relationships and, therefore, the living of life in the borderlands (see Brunn, Watkins, Fargo, Lepawsky, & Jones, 2000). Third, it is important to analyze how different communities contest mega-engineering projects. As this chapter has attempted to show, the effects of mega-engineering projects are often experienced individually yet culminate in collective, international campaigns. As the OAS’ evaluation of the wall’s human rights implications demonstrates, local contestation often “jumps scales” to an international audience to demand their rights. Traditional studies of border policy have focused on just those “national” discourses that neglect the ways in which those policies materialize as localized sets of practices. As wall construction continues, megaengineering remains a critical process through which U.S. territory, nation, and security are imagined and materialized, revealing how social and environmental engineering remain interdependent processes.

Notes 1. In December 2008 border fence construction stalled due to doubts about the structural integrity of particular segments (Garay, 2008; Rio Grande Guardian, 2008). As of this writing, construction continues, and this paper addresses construction projects in progress in December 2008 to best of my ability. 2. U.S. Border Patrol was integrated into the new Department of Homeland Security as Customs and Border Patrol (CBP). Immigration and Naturalization Services was divided into Immigration and Customs Enforcement, which shares border enforcement responsibilities with CBP, and Citizenship and Immigration Services (CIS), responsible for the administrative processing of immigration documentation. 3. These figures include the Canadian-U.S. border, as well. 4. As of November 7, 2008, DHS has halted construction in three areas of the fence due to concerns about the fence’s structural viability (Garay, 2008; Rio Grande Guardian, 2008). 5. These allegations were heard by the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights of the Organization of American States in Washington, D.C. on 22 October 2008. 6. DHS’ offers are based on the market value of the land and the size of the land to be condemned. Compensation therefore varies widely.

References Amoore, L. (2006). Biometric borders: Governing mobilities in the war on terror. Political Geography, 25, 336–351. Amoore, L., & de Goede, M. (2008). Transactions after 9/11: the banal face of the preemptive strike. Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, 33, 173–185. Andreas, P. (2000). Border games: Policing the U.S.-Mexico divide. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

97

Constructing the Border Wall

1721

Bialasiewicz, L., Campbell, D., Elden, S., Graham, S., Jeffrey, A., & Williams, A. (2007). Performing security: The imaginative geographies of current U.S. strategy. Political Geography, 26, 405–422. Bigo, D. (2002). Security and immigration: Toward a critique of the governmentality of unease. Alternatives, 27, 63–92. Bigo, D. (2007). Detention of foreigners, states of exception, and the social practices of control of the banopticon. In P. K. Rajaram & C. Grundy-Warr (Eds.), Borderscapes: Hidden geographies at territory’s edge (pp. 3–34). Minneapolis, VIC: University of Minnesota Press. Brunn, S., Watkins, J., Fargo, T., Lepawsky, J., & Jones, J. 2000. Towards a geopolitics of life and living: Where boundaries still matter. In H. N. Nicol & I. Townsend-Gault (Eds.), Holding the line: Borders in a global world (pp. 381–399).Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. California Coastal Commission. (2003). Staff report and recommendation on consistency determination. San Francisco, CA: California Coastal Commission. Coleman, M. (2005). U.S. statecraft and the U.S.-Mexico border as security/economy nexus. Political Geography, 24, 185–209. Coleman, M. (2007). Immigration geopolitics beyond the Mexico-U.S. Border. Antipode, 39(1), 43–76. Coleman, M. (2008). Between public policy and foreign policy: U.S. immigration law reform and the undocumented migrant. Urban Geography, 28(1), 4–28. Cornelius, W. (2001). Death at the border: Efficacy and unintended consequences of US immigration control policy. Population and Development Review, 27(4), 661–685. Dunn, T. (1996). The militarization of the U.S.-Mexico border, 1978–1992. Austin, TX: University of Texas at Austin Press. Dunn, T. (2001). Waging a war on immigrants at the U.S.-Mexico Border: human rights implications In P. Kraska (Ed.), Militarizing the American criminal justice system: The changing roles of the armed forces and the police (pp. 65–81). Boston: Northeastern University Press. Fernandes, D. (2007). Targeted: Homeland Security and the business of immigration detention. New York: Seven Stories Press. Gilman, D. (2008). Background and context. Resource document. Working Group on Human Rights and the Border Wall. Retrieved November 17, 2008, from http://www.utexas.edu/law/ academics/centers/humanrights/publications/Background_and_Context.pdf Garay, A. (2008). Border patrol halts building of 3 border wall. Resource Document. Associated Press. November 7, 2008. Retrieved November 17, 2008, from http://www.chron.com/ disp/story.mpl/ap/tx/6101451.html Grundy-War, C., & Schofield, C. (2005). Reflections on the relevance of classic approaches and contemporary priorities in boundary studies. Geopolitics, 10, 650–662. Guzman, M., & Hurwitz, Z. (2008). Violations on the part of the United States Government of Indigenous Rights Held by Members of the Lipan Apache, Kickapoo, and Ysleta del Sur Tigua Tribes of the Texas-Mexico Border. In Working Group on Human Rights and the Border Wall. 2008. Obstructing human rights: The Texas-Mexico border wall. Submission to the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights, June 2008. Retrieved November 17, 2008, from http://www.utexas.edu/law/academics/centers/humanrights/publications/TexasBorderWall.html Harvey, D. (2005). The new imperialism. New York: Oxford University Press. Hostelge, S. (2008). Longer, taller fencing gives illegal migrants a higher hurdle. Resource document. The Arizona Republic. Retrieved November 13, 2008, from http://www.azcentral.com/ arizonarepublic/news/articles/2008/11/13/20081113borderclimb1113.html Hyndman, J., & Mountz, A. (2008), Another brick in the wall? Neo-refoulement and the externalization of asylum by Australia and Europe. Government and Opposition, 43(2), 259–269. Lyon, D. (2003). Surveillance after September 11th. Cambridge, MA: Polity Press. Nevins, J. (2002). Operation Gatekeeper: The rise of the  Illegal Alien and the making of the U.S.-Mexico boundary. New York: Routledge.

1722

L. Martin

Nevins, J. (2007). Dying for a cup of coffee? Migrant deaths in the U.S.-Mexico border region in a neoliberal Age. Geopolitics, 12(2), 228–247. Newman, D. (2006). The lines that continue to separate us: Borders in our ‘borderless’ world. Progress in Human Geography, 30(2), 143–161. Nuñez-Neto, B., & Kim, Y. (2008). Border security: Barriers along the U.S. international border. Washington, DC: Congressional Research Service Organization of American States Inter-American Commission on Human Rights. (2008). Webcast of Public Hearings, 133rd Period of Sessions, October 22, 2008. Resource document. Retrieved November 17, 2008, from http://www.oas.org/oaspage/videosasf/ 2008/10/CIDH5_texan_border.wmv Rio Grande Guardian. (2008). Cuellar: CBP halts border fence construction in three valley segments. 7 November 2008. www.riograndeguardian.com Salter, M. (2006). The global visa regime and the political technologies of the international self: Borders, bodies, biopolitics. Alternatives, 31, 167–189. Sierra Club. (2008). Sierra Club Border Policy Campaign: Unprecedented power for a political appointee: The REAL ID Act waiver. Resource Document. Retrieved November 4, 2008, from http://arizona.sierraclub.org/border/realid.asp Summy, K. R. (2008). Open letter to Texas politicians. Resource document. No border wall coalition. Retrieved November 17, 2008, from http://notexasborderwall.blogspot.com/ 2008/09/texas-politicians-ignoring-danger-that.html Sundberg, J., & Kaserman, B. (2007). Cactus carvings and desert defecations: embodying representations of border crossings in protected areas on the Mexico-U.S. border. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 25, 727–744. Tuscon Citizen. (2007). Chertoff favors border fence over ‘habitat for a lizard.’ October 12, 2007. Retrieved February 2, 2009, from http://www.tucsoncitizen.com/altss/printstory/border/65671 U.S. DHS. (2008a). Secure border initiative. Resource document. Department of homeland security. Retrieved October 29, 2008, from http://www.dhs.gov/ximgtn/programs/editorial_ 0868.shtm U.S. DHS. (2008b). The Southwest border fence. Resource Document. Department of Homeland Security. Retrieved November 2, 2008, from http://www.dhs.gov/xprevprot/programs/borderfence-southwest.shtm U.S. Department of the Interior. (2008). Effects of the international boundary pedestrian fence in the vicinity of Lukeville, Arizona on drainage systems and infrastructure, Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, Arizona. Ajo, AZ: National Park Service. U.S. Government Accounting Office. (2001). INS’ southwest border strategy: Resource and impact issues remain after seven years. GAO-01-842. Washington, DC. U.S. Government Accounting Office. (2008). Secure border initiative fiscal year: 2008 expenditure plans show improvement, but deficiencies limit congressional oversight and DHS accountability. GAO-08-739R. Washington, DC. U.S. Government Accounting Office. (2009). Secure Border Initiative Fence Construction Costs. GAO-09-244R. Washington, DC. U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service. (1996). Building a comprehensive border enforcement strategy. U.S. Department of Justice, Immigration and Naturalization Service, Washington, DC. Walters, W. (2006). Border/control. European Journal of Social Theory, 9(2), 187–203. Wilson, J. G., Benavides, J., Reisinger, A., Lemen, J., Hurwitz, Z., Spangler, J., et al. (2008). An analysis of demographic disparities associated with the proposed U.S.-Mexico border fence in Cameron County, Texas. Resource Document. Working Group on Human Rights and the Border Wall. Retrieved November 17, 2008, from http://www.utexas.edu/ law/academics/centers/humanrights/publications/TexasBorderWall.html Working Group on Human Rights and the Border Wall. (2008). Obstructing human rights: The Texas-Mexico border wall. Submission to the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights, June 2008. Retrieved November 17, 2008, from http://www.utexas.edu/law/academics/ centers/humanrights/publications/TexasBorderWall.html

Chapter 98

The Engineering of Detentional Landscapes: Australia’s Asylum Seeker Island Prisons Nancy Hudson-Rodd

For those who’ve come across the seas We’ve boundless plains to share; With courage let us all combine To Advance Australia Fair Advance Australia Fair (1974) We will decide who comes to this country and the circumstances in which they come (former Australian Prime Minister, John Howard, Coalition election campaign launch, October 2001)

98.1 Introduction Peoples’ courage and fairness in welcoming all who seek a new life in Australia is praised in the words of the country’s national anthem stated above. Yet harsh policies and practices of the Australian Government under the guise of border protection in the late 20th and early 21st centuries denigrate the courage of children, women, and men who arrive by boats seeking asylum. The government claims to secure Australia from “invasion” by “unauthorized boat arrivals,” “illegal migrants,” “unlawful non-citizens,” “undocumented foreigners,” “smugglers,” and “queue jumpers.” Australia has denied the security and human rights of people who have fled persecution and traveled in dangerously crowded fragile boats to reach mainland. This chapter is an exploration of extreme measures which the Australian government has implemented under the guise of national border security. Fear of national vulnerability is not unique to Australia, but in the example of Australia, a continental island with no shared national borders, this fear is acute as demonstrated by uniquely stringent measures of border security. Australia employs a universal visa system whereby all visitors and permanent migrants to Australia, except New Zealanders, must apply for a visa with conditions appropriate to their stay.

N. Hudson-Rodd (B) Honorary Research Fellow, School of Psychology and Social Science, Edith Cowan University, Perth, WA, Australia e-mail: [email protected] S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_98,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1723

1724

N. Hudson-Rodd

The focus of this chapter is on the uniquely harsh treatment for those who arrive by boats and seek asylum. The Australian Government radically engineered the social landscape through introduction of a raft of laws which deny the human rights of asylum seekers. Most dramatically the physical borders of Australia were altered by excising over 4,000 islands from Australia’s asylum regime under the Migration Act of 1958. All “aliens” arriving on excised Australian islands waters, or intercepted in the waters around these islands are denied mainland access for visa application process and review. Australia is the only developed nation which practices mandatory detention of all children, women, and men seeking asylum. Physical engineering of the landscape to achieve these state goals include the design, construction, and private operation of extra-territorial island prisons specifically for asylum seekers. Australia has regarded refugees and asylum seekers as potential threats to national security and implemented laws and policies which deny human security of people seeking refuge. As signatory to the Refugee Conventions the Australian government is morally and legally obliged to respond to refugees and those who seek asylum in accordance with these Conventions. Despite international obligations, asylum seekers arriving by boat have been denied their rights. The poor Pacific island nations of Nauru and Papua New Guinea have been paid to detain asylum seekers. A high security prison was constructed on Australian excised Christmas Island specifically for asylum seekers. International companies profit from out-sourcing of Australian national responsibilities. Human rights groups have strongly criticized Australia’s treatment of asylum seekers. The protection of universal human rights must become the guiding principle for asylum seekers and refugees in the contemporary political context.

98.2 International Refugee System The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR Report (2008a, 2008b: 16) identifies a 31.7 million “total population of concern” including 11.4 million refugees and 740,000 asylum seekers. In 2007 more than 14 million people worldwide fled their homes because of war and persecution. A growing number of individuals seeking asylum outside their country are held for years in “detention camps” often in border regions. The term “warehoused” refers to populations greater than 10,000 who have been segregated and restricted to life in these camps and deprived of basic UN Convention rights lasting five years or more. As of 31 December 2004, almost 8 million people had been “warehoused” for ten years of more. The vast majority of this group, almost 7 million, had been “warehoused” for a decade or more (USCRI, 2005, Table 98.1). Wealthy nations use policies designed to limit the number of refugees that enter their territories claiming they have limited resources, or refugees will be unable to integrate, or that some other country has prime responsibility. Some countries claim ethnic or religious conflict, national security, or upsetting the population balance due to lack of tolerance among citizens. Politicians appear to believe that being tough

98

The Engineering of Detentional Landscapes

Table 98.1 Number of unauthorized boat arrivals

1725

Year

Number of arrivals

1997–1998 1998–1999 1999–2000 2000–2001 2001–2002 2002–2003 2003–2004 2004–2005

157 926 4, 175 4, 137 3, 649 0 82 0

Source: DIAC, 2005, Fact Sheet 7. Managing the Border. Immigration Compliance 2004–2005

on refugees makes their own populations feel more secure. Whatever the reason for non-admittance, refugees are denied their internationally recognized human rights living in desperation in refugee camps or in detention centers where they are unable to move, to work, or to enjoy any freedoms (Hudson-Rodd, 1997). The international community fails to equitably share the burden of assisting asylum seekers. In 2001 Iran hosted over 1.4 million Afghan refugees, many of whom had been there for 20 years, as well as a further 500,000 Iraqi refugees from the early 1990s. At the end of 2007 Pakistan hosted the largest number of refugees, more than 2 million residing in that country, followed by Syria (over 1.8 million), and Iran (approximately 964,000). In 2007 the largest country of origin for refugees was Afghanistan (3.1 million), with Iraq the next largest (2.3 million), followed by Colombia, Sudan, Somali, and Burundi (UNHCR, 2008: 8). Poor developing countries host the vast majority of the world’s refugees and asylum seekers. Nations with per capita incomes of less than $2,000 per year, for example, Chad, Tanzania, India, and Pakistan host more than two thirds (71%) of all refugees. Nations, such as Lebanon, Iran, Venezuela, and Thailand with per capita incomes from $2,000 to $10,000 host almost one-quarter (24%) of the world’s refugees. Nations with over $10,000 per capita income, like Norway, Italy, Australia, Germany, U.S., and the United Kingdom, host just 5% of the world’s refugees (USCRI, 2006: 13). The international community fails to adequately assist the poorer countries that host most refugees, even though refugees are a global legal responsibility. Iran received only US$12 per refugee from the global community in 1999. Pakistan received US$17 per refugee. These countries continue to suffer from the economic and social costs of hosting so many asylum seekers and displaced persons. Without international help it is increasingly difficult to continue helping refugees. In contrast, Australia since 2001 has spent $2 billion on infrastructure, building detention centers, and maintaining offshore detention and processing centers for fewer than 2,000 asylum seekers. The decisions by wealthy countries to close their doors to asylum seekers exacerbates the situation with more people trafficking and people smuggling because refugees are forced to use all avenues possible to escape persecution. An examination of the number of asylum applications received by 50 industrialized nations between 2003 and 2007 gives an indication of how Australia, the

1726

N. Hudson-Rodd

U.S. and European Union countries compare. The U.S. had only one asylum seeker per 1,000 inhabitants, the average in 42 member states of the European Union was 1.8 asylum seekers per 1000 inhabitants, and less than 1 person (0.8) asylum seekers per 1000 residents in Australia (UNHCR June 2008: 8). Over the last five years, asylum applications in industrialized countries have more than halved. Decreased asylum applications may indicate improved conditions in some of the countries of origin of asylum seekers. A more likely reason for decreased applications (UNHCR 18 March 2008) is the introduction of restrictive policies in some industrialized countries discouraging asylum seekers from applying. Tough asylum policies have been criticized by UNHCR which has repeatedly expressed concern that the drive to keep the number of asylum seekers as low as possible denies refugees being given the protection they need. My research investigates ways in which Australia ignores responsibilities of protection to people who arrive by boat seeking refuge. Strong border protection policies deny refuge to asylum seekers castigated for being “illegal migrants,” or “suspected terrorists,” or “undocumented foreigners,” or treated as criminals and held in extraterritorial island detention. Article 14 (1) of the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights states that “everyone has the right to seek and to enjoy refuge in other countries and asylum from persecution.” The 1951 United Nations Conventions relating to the Status of Refugees and the 1967 United Nations Protocol Relating to the Status of Refugee Convention form the international framework detailing the responsibility of nations towards refugees. Asylum seekers or refugees must not be punished or discriminated against for the way in which they have entered a country in which they want to seek asylum. Article 31 (1) states that: The Contracting States shall not impose penalties, on account of their illegal entry or presence, on refugees who, coming directly from a territory where their life or freedom was threatened in the sense of Article 1, enter or are present in their territory without authorisation, providing they present themselves without delay to the authorities and show good cause for their illegal entry or presence.

Signatory to the Refugee Conventions, U.S. and Australia are morally and legally obliged to respond to refugees and to those who seek asylum in accordance with the Refugee Conventions. Despite these international obligations, asylum seekers arriving by boats to these countries have been denied their rights. Following attacks on 11 September 2001, the U.S. government for the first time explicitly embraced a policy of refugee deterrence aimed to prevent “unauthorized arrivals by boat and to deal harshly with those who defy the ban” (Newman, 2006: 70, 74). Asylum seekers in small boats, spotted with sophisticated help of aircraft and boat patrols, are intercepted by the U.S. Coast Guard, forced back to country of origin or taken to Guantanamo Bay, not recognized as U.S. territory, where the American government seeks resettlement in a third country. By March 2002 there were 300 detainees from 33 countries. Clive Stafford Smith (2007) a human rights lawyer described the fenced asylum seekers’ camp, guarded by US marines armed with machine guns. In a state of squalor, people lived in tin-roofed huts, surrounded by vermin. As many as 400 soldiers in full riot gear have conducted pre-dawn raids on these asylum

98

The Engineering of Detentional Landscapes

1727

seekers. Individuals from Haiti live in the world’s first and only detention center for “refugees” with HIV run as a maximum security centre by private prison companies. Asylum seekers are hidden in detention on the Leeward side of Guantanamo Bay in the “Migrant Operations Centre,” around the corner from Camp Delta/GTMO on the windward side. All are held as prisoners with no access to justice. Forty Haitian and Cuban refugees now live in the Camp. The Pentagon plans a permanent detention center. President Obama promised to close Guantanamo Bay prison where over 200 men have been held without trial for up to six years. There is no mention of closing the asylum seeker detention center (Dastyari, 2008). Similarities exist between the United States and Australian governments’ treatment of people arriving by boat seeking asylum post 11 September 2001. The Department of Defense (Commonwealth of Australia, 2002: 4–5) in support of the US “war on terrorism” increased border protection and enforced migration laws. “Illegal immigration arrivals” became the focus with major air and sea patrols across Australia’s northern approaches to deter and prevent “people smugglers from illegally landing people in Australia”. Men, women and children fleeing persecution and war in Afghanistan and Iraq were pushed back or held indefinitely as prisoners behind razor wire in offshore detention camps. Construction of a high security detention complex on Christmas Island began to be run on a privatized prison model. Guided by Robert Sack’s (2003) geographical guide to the real and the good, this research is informed by international obligations to human rights, placed within a context of global pluralism and recognition of universal human dignity. Detention Centers on Guantanamo Bay (Cuba) and Christmas Island (Australia) are highly efficient, technically secure places designed to deny men, women, and children access to the environment of social contacts and legal rights. The prison models make it exceedingly difficult, dangerous, and sometimes impossible for the detained asylum seekers to be aware of the world. Instrumentally efficiently built to restrict movement, detention centers are impermeable, impenetrable and isolating, surrounded by concrete stanchions supporting electrified barbed wire fences, and monitored by guards. These centers restrict human interaction, reduce or eliminate sensory feelings of light, sound, variety and environmental awareness. Offshore island prisons are used to detain people seeking asylum while international companies profit from the national government outsourcing its responsibilities. Islands as extraterritorial spaces outside normal life have long been used to detain outsiders, dissenters, individuals who challenge mainland authority. Those who challenged repressive apartheid regimes of South Africa and authoritarian rule in Taiwan were punished and exiled from their homes to prisons on Robben Island in the Atlantic Ocean and Green Island in the Pacific Ocean. Both islands are now historical monuments to freedom of expression, the human spirit of resistance to regimes that would deny human rights. Robben Island honors Nelson Mandela’s courageous struggle for human rights, freedom and “triumph of human spirit over enormous hardship and adversity” (Robben Island Museum, 2008). The Human Rights Monument on Green Island, Asia’s first monument to human rights, remembers the many individuals tortured, held in isolation, forced to labor, for speaking

1728

N. Hudson-Rodd

and writing against martial law. People now seeking help, courageously fleeing persecution, threaten authority of national governments.

98.3 Australia’s Asylum Policy Australia, at enormous human costs to asylum seekers, economic costs to the country’s citizens, and in denial of basic human rights, uses islands to prevent persons fleeing persecution from arriving on the mainland. The fundamental basis for Australia’s asylum policy is the Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees, first signed in Geneva in 1951. According to Article 1 A (2) 1951 of the Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees, the legal definition of refugee is: Owing to well-founded fear of being persecuted for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group or political opinion, is outside the country of his nationality and is unable or, owing to such fear, is unwilling to avail himself of the protection of that country; or who, not having a nationality and being outside the country of his former habitual residence as a result of such events is unable, or, owing to such fear, is unwilling to return to it.

Assistance in interpreting the definition in the Refugee Convention comes from policy guidelines such as the Handbook on Procedures and Criteria for Determining Refugee Status (1992), issued by the UNHCR Executive Committee. In general, a refugee is a person who has already been officially assessed as satisfying the international definition of a refugee, either by UNHCR or a national government. In contrast, an asylum seeker is a person who has not yet been officially recognized as a refugee, but who is applying to have her/his status as a refugee recognized under the international definition. Two key provisions of the Refugee Convention are the definition of a refugee and the non-refoulement clause which prevents a refugee from being returned to a territory where his/her life or freedom would be threatened (Article 33). Central to the protection of human rights is this idea that no person should be returned to a place where their fundamental rights are threatened. The principle of nonrefoulement in refugee law was created with the memory of refugees, Jewish and other asylum seekers being turned away before and during the Second World War and denied protection by countries of first asylum with serious consequences. To prevent such a situation ever happening again, the Refugee Convention was created to require countries to provide protection to refugees physically on their territory. The federal government, at great human, economic, and social costs, has gone to extraordinary lengths to prevent, deter, and restrict people seeking asylum on the shores of Australia, thereby avoiding Australian asylum process. Australia allocates 12,000 places per year for people seeking protection through its humanitarian program. An “offshore” humanitarian program gives visas to two main groups of people, refugees and those who enter under a Special Humanitarian Program (SHP). The SHP established in 1981 gave sanctuary to people who suffer

98

The Engineering of Detentional Landscapes

1729

from discrimination and gross human rights violations in their home countries, but whose persecution is not severe enough to be recognized as a refugee under the Convention. These entrants with close ties with relatives in Australia must be sponsored by an Australian citizen, permanent resident or by an organization based in Australia. In 1991 a Special Assistance Category was created to help those fleeing civil conflict, but not necessarily in fear of persecution as defined under the Convention. Refugees are identified by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) and referred to Australia for resettlement. These people are given permanent residence and provided with full settlement services including social security, education, family reunion, work, language training and re-entry to Australia if they travel overseas. Most refugees admitted to Australia to take one of the 12,000 (DIMC, 2008) yearly allocated places that have been carefully selected as part of organized resettlement programs. The second part of Australia’s humanitarian program involves “onshore refugees” granting protection visas to people who claim refugee status after their arrival within Australia by air or sea. Most arriving by air have valid student or tourist visas or other short term visas. Some may apply for refugee status. A smaller number of people enter Australia by boat without visas and seek protection as refugees. These asylum seekers, the only refugees Australia is obliged by international law to provide protection, are accused of having no documentation, labeled as “unauthorized irregular migrants” and held indefinitely in detention centers until proof of refugee status is determined or deported from Australia. In 1996 the Australian government linked the “onshore” and the “offshore” programs thereby reducing the number of “offshore” refugee visas issued for every protection visa offered to an “onshore” asylum seeker creating a two-tiered system. Australia was criticized for creating categories of refugees with different entitlements causing confusion, labeling “offshore” refugees as deserving of help with full rights while “onshore” refugees were treated as “queue jumpers,” criminals deserving fewer rights (Refugee Council of Australia, 2002). Most refugees admitted to Australia between 1993/1994 and 2007/2008 were part of the organized resettlement programs run by the UNHCR and not spontaneous asylum seekers who claimed protection once inside Australia (Table 98.2). In response to small increases of onshore boat refugees between 1996/7 and 1999/2001 Australia enacted several measures to prevent asylum seekers in boats reaching the mainland. Legislative changes were made with the Border Protection Legislation Act 1999 which altered the original Migration Act 1958. These changes made to improve border control further limited access for asylum seekers for refugee procedures. It is not an offense to come to Australia and seek refugee status. Australia has obligations under the Refugee Conventions to consider all claims by asylum seekers for refugee status. The Australian government used language to denigrate asylum seekers calling them “unauthorized boat arrivals,” enacted legislation to tighten borders, armed the coast guard to aggressively intercept boats, and formed regional agreements to hinder the free movement of people seeking asylum.

1730

N. Hudson-Rodd

Table 98.2 Refugee humanitarian program, visas by category 1993/1994 to 2007/2008

Year

Special Offshore humanitarian refugee program

Special assistance category

Temporary Onshore humanitarian refugee concern

1993/1994 1994/1995 1995/1996 1996/1997 1997/1998 1998/1999 1999/2000 2000/2001 2001/2002 2002/2003 2003/2004 2004/2005 2005/2006 2006/2007 2007/2008

4,300 3,990 4,640 3,330 4,010 3,990 3,802 3,987 4,160 4,376 4,134 5,511 6,022 6,003 6,004

5, 800 5, 500 6, 900 3, 700 1, 820 1, 190 649 879 40

1, 890 1, 480 1, 200 2, 250 1, 590 1, 830 2, 458 5, 577 3, 885 866 788 895 1, 272 1, 701

2, 500 3, 680 3, 500 2, 580 4, 640 5, 350 3, 051 3, 116 4, 258 7, 280 8, 297∗ 6, 755∗∗ 6, 836 5, 275 5, 026

164 6 3 2 17 14 38 84

Total 14, 490 14, 470 16, 250 11, 900 12, 060 11, 360 9, 960 13, 733 12, 349 12, 525 13, 851 13, 178 14, 144 13, 017 13, 014

∗ Includes

1,900 onshore East Timorese and 31 others onshore; ∗∗ Includes 148 visas to East Timorese and 22 others onshore Sources: DIMIA, 2003: 29; DIMA Fact Sheet 60; DIMC Fact Sheet 60

98.4 Australian Border Protection Tightens Border protection expresses a clear exclusionary policy aimed at keeping Australia free of asylum seekers. Recent laws build on the 1992 administrative decision taken by the federal government to place all asylum seekers who arrived on Australian shores by boat in mandatory detention, a system of prison-like camps, until their claims for refugee status had been assessed (McMaster, 2002). During the early 1990s, a relatively small number of asylum seekers arrived by boats coming from China or Southeast Asia. From 1999 Indonesian fishing boats carried people to Australian offshore islands in the Indian Ocean. These asylum seekers were fleeing Middle Eastern or Central Asian tyrannies of Iraq, Iran, and Afghanistan. About 4,000 refugees landed in 2000 with another 4,000 arriving in the first eight months of 2001. All people were sent to the already established system of mandatory detention camps in Australia. From 1996 onwards the Australian government urged Indonesian and Malaysian governments to tighten controls on potential asylum seekers passing through their countries. A formal agreement was reached with Indonesia to deter, intercept, and detain asylum seekers leaving for Australia. Indonesia, significant for its geographic closeness to Australian territories of Christmas Island (about 340 km from Indonesian island of Java) and Ashmore Reef (about 150 km (211 mi) from the Indonesian island of Roti) is not party to the Refugee Convention. They have not established institutions or procedures for assessing and granting refugee status. Indonesia is a poor country dealing with many internal governance difficulties, for

98

The Engineering of Detentional Landscapes

1731

example two major separatist movements in Aceh and West Papua, over one million people internally displaced, and reconstruction after the devastating Tsunami of 2004. Preventing asylum seekers leaving Indonesia by boat for Australia was not an Indonesian priority. Under a regional arrangement Australia paid Indonesia to seek out, intercept and detain asylum seekers blocking their sea flights to Australia. Indonesia permitted Australia to intercept and force back to Indonesia, any boats caught in Australian waters (Mason, 2002: 5). The International Organization for Migration (IOM) is paid to interview the detained asylum seekers and inform them of their options. If people agree to return home Australia pays for their trip. Those who want to make a refugee claim are referred to UNHCR for assessment and resettlement. The persons who prove refugee status wait in detention until a Refugee Convention signatory country agrees to accept them. In out-sourcing its responsibilities, Australia pays Indonesia to capture asylum seekers, pays IOM to run the detention centers and uses the UNHCR as a contractor to process asylum claims. Australia enacted (8 December 1999, No 160) Border Protection Legislation Amendment Act 1999 (An Act to Provide Enhanced Protection for Australia’s Borders and for Related Purposes) aimed to stop and deter ships carrying asylum seekers from reaching Australia. The Act enhanced rights of Australian authorities to board and search ships and aircraft in Australia’s territorial sea, in both the “contiguous” and “exclusive economic zones” and on the high seas. It encouraged “hot pursuit” in ships and airplanes, and boarding of ships. The use of “necessary and reasonable force” was to be used when arrests without warrant were made for all persons who had “committed, are committing, or attempting to commit a crime” as defined by the officer. Customs officers were now permitted to carry and use firearms and other defense equipment. In contravention of international immigration law, the Act allowed customs officers to move, seize, and destroy ships, if they appeared unseaworthy or posed threats to navigation, safety, property, or environment. Asylum seekers apprehended en route were brought to the mainland and placed in detention while their refugee claims were considered. But asylum claims were barred for people who could have had access to protection in any country (“safe third country”) other than their original country. The 1999 Act deemed Australia “not to have protection obligations” to anyone who failed to take “all possible steps” to find refuge in any country in which the person spent seven or more days while en route to Australia. Most asylum seekers turned back from Australia in October and December 2001 were still detained in Indonesia five years later. Held by the IOM, processed by UNHCR, and paid for by the Australian government, over 100 asylum seekers from Afghanistan, Iraq and Iran were impounded in detention camps around Indonesia in Bogor, south of Jakarta, on the islands of Lombok and Mataram (Fig. 98.1). These people had been intercepted or towed back into Indonesian water by the Australian navy. Some had successfully landed on Australian soil in Ashmore Reef, but were forcibly removed by the Australian forces. Conditions were atrocious in Indonesian camps with stories of children, men, and women on hunger strikes. On

1732

N. Hudson-Rodd

Fig. 98.1 Island locations for Australia Asylum seeker detention. (Map by Bernard Shaw, Western Australia, 2009)

the 8 January 2004, a plea from 67 Afghan asylum seekers fleeing Taliban violence, and held on Lombok Island since 2001, reached refugee advocates in Australia. This letter was printed by Melbourne Independent Media Centre (Takver, 2004).

Dear Sir/Madame, As it is clear, that we Afghan Refugees were attempting to seek asylum in Australia but unfortunately the navy forces of Australia pushed us back to Indonesia on October 2001 till our cases can be processed by UNHCR. Now it is more than two years that no solution is there for our desperate life. UNHCR does not care about us and other countries also accept refugees through recommendation of UNHCR. On the other hand the situation of Afghanistan is going to be worsened. U. N. Secretary-General Kofi Annan warned yesterday (7 January 2004) that the peace process in Afghanistan has reached a “critical juncture” and warned violence could disrupt upcoming elections. In the last two years we have sought all possible ways of solution for our stateless condition but none of them worked, after all these struggle, only one way is left, the last one and the most pathetic one, that you can think how difficult is to sew the lips and choose the way of death cautiously, because if we are not heard and humanitarian organizations do not pay attention to our request then we will simply die. Therefore, four Afghan Refugees sewed their lips and some other have gone on hunger strike in protest that why UNHCR does not accept us as refugee, why we have been kept deprived of our human rights for years. Stranded Afghan Refugees Lombok, Indonesia

98

The Engineering of Detentional Landscapes

1733

98.5 All at Sea: Asylum Seekers Held Hostage On 26 August 2001, a Norwegian container ship, the MV Tampa rescued 438 people whose boat, the Palapa, was sinking in the ocean 75 nautical miles north of Australia’s Christmas Island and 246 nautical miles from the nearest Indonesian port. By the end of the day, the children, men and women, mostly Hazara from Afghanistan had safely boarded the Tampa licensed to carry only fifty people. Captain Arne Rinnan headed for Christmas Island, Australian territory. Recognizing that several people were sick he radioed for medical help. The Australian Government denied medical help, firmly advised the Tampa to sail to Indonesia, and refused permission to land on Christmas Island (Mares, 2002: 122–123). The Tampa anchored off Christmas Island just outside Australian territory. After two days Captain Rinnan worried, for the safety of sick people on board, including three pregnant women and a person with a broken leg, sailed into Australian waters towards the Christmas Island port. The Australian government threatened Captain Rinnan with people smuggling charges. When four nautical miles from shore, the Australian government gave orders for forty-five Special Air Service (SAS) troops to board, take control of the vessel and prevent any people from disembarking. Christmas Island port was closed and barriers erected to stop the Tampa from docking (Rodd, 2007: 40–45). The Australian government, in a frenzy of diplomatic activity refused to give refuge to people seeking asylum and offered financial incentives to nations who would create a system of detention camps to hold all asylum seekers trying to reach Australia. Indonesia flatly refused to take more asylum seekers. The newly independent nation of East Timor refused. New Zealand rescued 150 asylum seekers, mostly families, women and children, who were rapidly resettled in New Zealand following confirmation of refugee status. The Australian government offered to lift economic sanctions imposed after a Fiji Island military coup in 2000 if the nation took in asylum seekers. Fiji’s Great Council of Chiefs rejected the offer. Tiny Tuvalu Island agreed to take the asylum seekers, on condition that Australia grant visas to Tuvalu citizens who were being made homeless by rising ocean tides that were engulfing the Pacific atoll resulting from global warming. Australia refused this request. Papua New Guinea, a former Australian colony, and Nauru, a tiny bankrupt Pacific island nation desperately wanted Australian aid. They agreed to establish detention camps. Asylum seekers were finally transferred to an Australian naval frigate, HMAS Manoora, and taken to the tiny bankrupt island of Nauru and Manus Island in Papua New Guinea (Marr & Wilkinson, 2003). During the voyage from Christmas Island to Nauru, a second boat the Aceng was intercepted by the Australian military. All passengers were transferred to the HMAS Manoora. UNHCR initially agreed to process Tampa passengers, but decided not to continue with any additional claims once Australia made clear that Australia would deter all future asylum seekers arriving by boats to Manus or Nauru Islands.

1734

N. Hudson-Rodd

98.6 Australia’s Pacific Solution: Awash with Inhumanity Exactly one month after the Tampa event, the Australian government enacted a complex series of enforcement and deterrence measures to ostensibly further prevent the entry of asylum seekers by boat on Australian shores and to protect the territorial sovereignty of Australia. Agreements were made with Papua New Guinea and Nauru to detain all boat people seeking asylum in Australia. Two major legislative initiatives including seven bills comprise the 27 September 2001 Border Protection Act (Validation and Enforcement Powers) and the 20 June 2002 Migration Legislation Amendment (Further Border Protection Measures) Bill. Australian Government through these acts began in 2001 to excise islands from being part of Australian territory for purposes of the Migration Act. By 2005 over 4,000 islands were excised or removed from the migration definition of Australian territory (Fig. 98.2). The “excised offshore places” included: Ashmore and Cartier Islands in the Timor Sea; Christmas and Cocos (Keeling) Islands in the Indian Ocean; all islands that form part of Queensland, north of latitude 21ºS; all islands that form part of the Northern Territory, north of latitude 16ºS; all islands that form part of Western Australia north of latitude 23ºS; the Coral Sea islands Territory; any other external Territory prescribed by regulation or any island of a State or Territory which is prescribed; an Australian sea installation; and an Australian resources installation (Department of Immigration and Citizenship, 2007). If a boat carrying asylum seekers lands on one of these thousands of islands off the mainland coast, people on board are deemed not to have reached Australia. “Non-citizens, who make contact with these places, become persons to whom normal rules do not apply-at least as far as domestic law is concerned” (Taylor, 2005: 59). Maritime patrols of Australian coast guard or navy vessels forcibly prevented the mainland arrival and landing of boats carrying asylum seekers under Operation Relex between 2001 and 2003. Under a new regional Pacific Solution, passengers of intercepted boats not returned to Indonesia were transferred by Australian Defense Forces to small island states of Nauru, or Manus Island, Papua New Guinea, where they were immediately detained. An agreement signed between the Nauru and Australian Governments ensured the Nauru Government was paid the costs of visas for entry of asylum seekers, for the sole purpose of being detained. The Australian Government paid the International Organization for Migration (IOM) to manage detention centers on Nauru and Manus Islands and to cover the costs of accommodation, processing, and incentives (Table 98.3). Another US$75 million/year was budgeted between 2002 and 2006 for activities in other Pacific Island countries to prevent asylum seekers from reaching mainland Australia (Amnesty International, 2002). The cost of this extensive scheme to keep asylum seekers out of Australian mainland was disproportionate to the size of the problem. An amount of $159 million was provided in the 2001–2002 Additional estimates for “offshore asylum seeker management” (Table 98.4). In the 2002–2003 Budget a total of $353 million was allocated for “unauthorized boat arrivals,” including $138 million for a purpose built detention center on Christmas Island.

The Engineering of Detentional Landscapes

Fig. 98.2 ÜNHCR map of “Australia’s Excision Zone” (Source: UNHCR, 2003)

98 1735

1736

N. Hudson-Rodd

Table 98.3 Expenditure on offshore asylum seeker management on Nauru and Manus Island to end May 2002

Departmental Costs Escorting/Guarding IOM UNHCR Other Total

Nauru $Million

Manus island $Million

2.5 0.9 31.3 0.7 0.2 35.6

1.5 0.1 19.0 0 0 20.6

Source: Senate Legal and Constitutional Legislation Committee, August 2002, Examination of Budget Estimates 2002–2003: Additional Information Volume 4, Immigration and Multicultural and Indigenous Affairs Portfolio, Answers to Questions on Notice 116: 1134 Table 98.4 Estimated expenditure for offshore asylum seeker management 2001/2002

Nauru Manus Christmas Island Cocos Island Regional Cooperation ∗ DIMIA costs Total

Budget $Million

Actual expenditure $Million

70.0 42.5 36.6 7.6 0.5 2.0 159.2

48.4 29.4 20.5 5.6 5.9 1.1 110.9

∗ DIMIA = Department

of Immigration, Multicultural and Indigenous Affairs Source: DIMIA, 2002, Answers to Questions on Notice, Canberra. 4 October

Asylum seekers lodging applications from these islands were denied access to the Australian refugee system. Many laws do not apply to them. For example, people seeking asylum will have their applications processed within 90 days on Australian mainland. Asylum seekers on Nauru or Christmas Islands can be held indefinitely. Lodging and processing applications can take months. Individuals are denied access to basic rights, legal representation, translators, refugee advocates, the media, community groups and Australian public and human rights organizations. When refugee status of these asylum seekers has been determined, the Australian Government seeks another third country to accept the people. These actions are in direct denial of Australia’s international responsibilities as agreed in the 1951 Refugee Act according to international law commentators (Coombs, 2005: 3). Between 2001 and 2007, 1,547 people, the majority being Afghans and Iraqis, were taken to Manus and Nauru Islands where twenty-three babies were born. Detained asylum seekers were severely isolated from access to Australian lawyers, medical care, journalists, and human rights advocates with restrictions on entry (Table 98.5). Official permission to visit asylum seekers in Nauru was often denied. The cost of travel was also prohibitive ($5000 Melbourne/Nauru return airfare). The Department of Immigration besides obstructing asylum seekers’ access to legal

98

The Engineering of Detentional Landscapes

1737

Table 98.5 Detainees on Nauru and Manus island 2001–2007 Nationality Afghan Bangladeshi Iranian Iraqi Pakistani Palestinian Sri Lankan Stateless Turkish TOTAL

Returned voluntarily

Resettled refugees

Resettled non-refugees

420 4 16 24 6

329

36 3 1 37 1

3 623 2 21 2 4 2 986

4 8 482

Total 786∗ 7 20 684 9 21 6 4 10 1, 547

∗ 1 deceased Source: DIMA Fact Sheet No. 76, August 2007

advisors, used interpreters speaking different languages, inadequately researched refugee claims, and mistreated unaccompanied minors as adults (Parliament of Australia, 2003). Isolated conditions and harsh treatment of people were detained as if they were criminals in island detention centers were described as being inhumane and overcrowded, had inadequate medical care, experienced abuse by guards, and suffering from extreme heat and cold. Psychiatrists working for the International Organization for Migration (IOM) warned of desperate asylum seekers at high risk of committing suicide and reported instances of hunger strikes. A Commonwealth Australian Senate Committee (September 2003) noted that over 260 people including more than 70 children had been locked up and isolated in inhumane conditions for over two years in Nauru detention. Claims of refugee status were often denied adding to feelings of hopelessness (Table 98.6, Fig. 98.3). The Australian Government disclosed an agreement with the United States (Hart, 2007) to exchange refugees detained on Nauru and Manus Islands with 200 Cuban and Haitian refugees held at Guantanamo Bay. This expensive program designed to deny “people-smugglers and unauthorized boat arrivals” their rightful place as

Table 98.6 Outcome of processing of offshore entry persons 16 September 2002 Nationality

Refugee

Not Refugee

Number of persons

Iraq Afghanistan Other Nationality Otherwise Finalized Awaiting Outcome Total

524 133 44

90 569 19

701

678

614 702 63 35 81 1, 495

Source: Commonwealth of Australia, October 2002: 7

1738

N. Hudson-Rodd

Fig. 98.3 Location of detention centers in Australia and offshore Islands. (Source: Australian Human Rights Commission, 2004: 3)

refugees in Australia and United States, bargained human lives for tough border protection policies. The Australian government turned its attention to the construction of a high security detention prison on Christmas Island.

98.7 Christmas Island: Criminalizing Asylum Seekers Christmas Island, 28,000 km (17,398 mi) northwest of Perth, Western Australia, 380 kilometers south of Java in the Indian Ocean is home to 1200 people of Chinese, Malay and Caucasian heritage. The 135 km2 (51.7 mi2 ) island is jungleclad mountainous consisting mainly of limestone with volcanic rock. More than 60% of the island is national park with one of the world’s largest and most diverse land crab populations. The Christmas Island Permanent Immigration Reception and Processing Centre (Detention Centre) was constructed on a relatively flat 30 hectare (74.1 acre) piece of land in the remote northwest tip of the island (Fig. 98.4). It occupies former mining leased land resumed by the Commonwealth from Phosphate Resources Ltd in 2002. The Department of Immigration announced a competition for design and construction of a new detention center with a capacity of 800 to “advance the quality and style of detention facilities in Australia”. What would be an advanced design for a detention center? What qualities were sought by the government? Who would decide? Architecture translates an understanding of human life into a three dimensional form. It should aim to dignify human life. The design of buildings to imprison asylum seekers abuses the dignity of human life. Glen Murcutt, distinguished Sydney based architect, citing the

98

The Engineering of Detentional Landscapes

1739

Fig. 98.4 Alcatraz down under: Christmas island detention center. (Source: SafeCom Organisation, www.safecom.org.au/alcatraz-downunder.htm)

Australian government’s denial of the rights of people fleeing persecution to seek asylum and the inhumane practices of mandatory detention, refused to participate in the design and construction of a prison for their arbitrary imprisonment (Farrelly, 2002). Companies with experience in prison design and high security specialties built the detention center costing $400 million for construction with additional $66.6 million to support infrastructure (Tuckey, 2002). The Phillips Conwell Smith architectural firm with 25 years experience in building prisons was awarded the contract. The firm boasted “fully welded, stainless steel door control covers held in place so they are virtually indestructible” to ensure a high security Christmas Island Detention Centre. Steelfinne Fabrications Pty. Ltd, a major supplier for prisons and police stations was contracted to supply and install secure doors, frames, locking systems. Global Solutions Australia (GSL), a wholly owned subsidiary of Global Solutions Limited was chosen to run Christmas Island Centre. This private security company with a global reach in prison management is the longest-serving contractor for immigration detention and removal centers in the UK (GSL Global, 2008: 1). GSL Australia’s major ongoing contracts with Australian Commonwealth and State Governments include management of detention facilities throughout Australia, the maximum security prison in Victoria, low to medium security prisons in South Australia, forensic psychiatric facilities in Victoria and Tasmania, prisoner transport, court security, and electronic monitoring services in Victoria and South Australia. The companies’ most remote location, “a small tropical island in the middle of the Indian Ocean,” is a hardship post for GSL staff as “workers find the remoteness of Christmas Island and unfamiliar experience of living on a small island difficult to come to terms with” (GSL Global, 2008: 2). Asylum seekers are intercepted on the water, prevented from reaching mainland Australia, captured by Australian defense forces, transported to a high security

1740

N. Hudson-Rodd

prison run by private prison corporation, on remote Christmas Island legally excised from Australian mainland. Major problems with outsourcing detention management to private companies are that the corporation can withhold information from the public claiming commercial confidential reasons. Public scrutiny of the centre operations is minimal and accountability for the treatment of people detained is limited. The asylum seekers have no independent access to legal, social, medical, community groups. Preventing human rights of asylum seekers to flee persecution, move freely, and seek refuge in Australia was the major aim of the Australian government. Protection of migration patterns of crabs was a priority. Environmental concerns about prison construction were carefully considered by the government. Thirty tunnels ($30,000/tunnel) for red crabs along the main road to the Detention Centre were built to prevent harm during migration season (ABC, 2002). Boasting care for the environment and wildlife, the government denied independent observers of the detention project. The following center design documents were some of the 187 plans leaked by architects to human rights groups in during October and November 2006. Original construction designs highlight management areas of solitary cells for isolation, perimeter electric fences, hundreds of movement detectors, security cameras under eaves, on roofs, and in each room. CCTV is linked to a remote control room in Canberra, Australia’s capital. Detainees wearing electronic ID tags have every movement photographed and monitored. A hospital area with an operating theatre indicates that people held in detention were not to be removed even for hospital care. Architects’ drawings stipulated areas designated for locking up mothers, babies and small children, including a nursing and diaper changing area. No Australia law makes it illegal to lock up children, babies, and their mothers in detention centers. There is no time limit for the detention of children and mothers (Australian Human Rights Commission, 2007) (Fig. 98.5). A nine minute video documenting construction (23 April 2007) of the Detention Centre, Building Our Alcatraz: The Christmas Island Detention Centre thought to be made by Boulderstone Construction Company appeared on YouTube (www.safecom.org.au/we-tube-too.htm#christmas-island). Visits to the area were restricted until a new Government invited fifty community members from human rights groups, UNHCR, Ombudsman, and refugee advocates to visit the Christmas Island Complex (13 August 2008). Passports are needed as Christmas Island is an Australian excised area, a five hour flight from Perth. The high level of security was visible with cages, wire covered windows, bolted down furniture. Two high fences, the second one electric, circle the perimeter of concrete and steel building resembling a large cage. Children and mothers will be locked inside the rooms dedicated to holding them. The following photos were taken by members of human rights groups 13 August 2008 (available at www.safecom.org.au/xmas2008visit.htm) show the level of steel mesh, isolation, and prison environment (Figs. 98.6, 98.7, 98.8, and 98.9). After a tour of the Detention Centre, these groups: A Just Australia, Amnesty International Australia, Asylum Seeker Resource Centre, Asylum Seekers centre of NSW, Victorian Foundation for Survivors of Torture, Immigration Advice

98

The Engineering of Detentional Landscapes

1741

Fig. 98.5 The Babies Compound: Details of Child Care, Education Units (Source: Honeywell 01/06/05, SafeCom Organisation Western Australia, www.safecom.org.au/ alcatraz-downunder.htm)

Fig. 98.6 Caged area for “detainee relaxation”

and Rights Centre, Jesuit Refuge Service Australia, and the Refugee Council of Australia, wrote (15 August 2008) to the Minister for Immigration and Citizenship (Crikey, 2008) stating that “immigration facilities including the vastly expensive centre are a product of excision,” an “unfair and harmful policy” denying asylum

1742

N. Hudson-Rodd

Fig. 98.7 Caged lights

Fig. 98.8 Entrance

seekers entitlement to “applications for protection determined under the procedures that apply on the mainland” to ensure that those in need of protection are not returned to countries where they would face torture or death. Concerns were expressed about the design of a “high security, prison-like character of the new

98

The Engineering of Detentional Landscapes

1743

Fig. 98.9 Christmas Island CCTV security room

facility” with “very expensive security systems” in an “extremely harsh and stark environment to detain people seeking asylum.” The group suggested “many better uses for the $400 million” for construction cost and “additional millions” for upkeep and operating and the severe human costs, “damage to people’s mental and physical health by detaining them in a high security detention centre” intensified by the lack of services including “torture trauma counseling and expert legal advice.”

98.8 Conclusion The Australian government deters, intercepts, and detains boat-arriving asylum seekers on offshore, extraterritorial islands, in detention camps, outside Australian legal systems. Islands historically have been spaces of incarceration. The island could be viewed as metaphor for prison. Islands are cut off from mainland and, therefore, used to exclude and isolate individuals from everyday life. Governments have for centuries used islands as offshore sites to detain political dissidents, authors, indigenous leaders, and prisoners of conscience. Detaining asylum seekers, children, women, and men in offshore detention centers is a modern form of government sanctioned inhumanity. Refugee numbers within the Pacific region are small in relation to those in Asia and African regions. Yet Australia under the Pacific Solution allocated hundreds of millions of dollars to detain a small number of asylum seekers from the Middle East and Central Asia in internment detention camps in Nauru and Papua New Guinea. Pacific regional nations have limited funds to deal with tens of thousands of refugees and internally displaced people from conflicts in West Papua, Fiji, Solomon Islands, and Bougainville. Australia’s refugee policy shows no concern for the development of neighboring Pacific nations, obsessed only with Australia’s interests. The establishment of detention centers on two former colonies of Australia raises legal and

1744

N. Hudson-Rodd

territorial questions. Nauru is not signatory to the 1951 Refugee Convention. Papua New Guinea has signed the Convention, but with significant reservations. Australia’s Pacific Solution breaches the Constitutions of both countries which prevent arbitrary detention and provisions for the right to a lawyer for detainees. These human rights have been denied asylum seekers on Nauru and Manus Island. UNHCR has explicitly stated that Australia’s policy on detention of refugees on Nauru and Manus Island is a breach of its international human rights obligations. Australia’s policies challenge spatial, legal, and temporal meanings of national borders. Australia presents a different geographical and political context than European, North American, Asian nations with multiple shared and contested borders over which migrants/ asylum seekers move. Vast expanses of oceans surrounding Australia’s continental island form a natural moat. In a technical sense the policing of these watery borders may be a more feasible logistical engineering feat than patrolling road and rail border crossing, blocking high mountainous passes, or constructing solid walls and electric fences. The excision of islands and reefs from the zone of migration zone was one way in which Australia attempted to preemptively block movement of asylum seekers. For the purpose of protection of national borders, Australia excised, “ex-isled” its own territory legally cutting-off over 4,000 islands disowned for the purposes of seeking asylum. In the 21st century, the wealthy democratically elected government of Australia denies asylum seekers the human right of seeking refuge. Individuals forced from their lands fleeing torture, conflict, arrest and harassment for religious or political beliefs become homeless and defined as invaders, seek asylum and refuge elsewhere. Refugees challenge the idea of nation state. They are figuratively and physically wanderers, border persons, trying to enter another country. If not excluded or confined they appear to threaten and perforate the territorial integrity of Australia. Under the ostensible guise of securing their borders, Australia engineered its own social and physical landscapes and that of regional neighboring nations. Islands are places where the state extends its mainland power outside any limits. Asylum seekers arriving by boat are made prisoners in offshore islands, placed outside the benefits of mainland Australian life. Islands are places where the law acts through force, but where the law has no protective power for those detained. Asylum seekers exist in detentional limbo of indefinite sentencing separated from legal, political, social, economic life. They are caught in a temporal void. The right to liberty is a fundamental right, recognised in all major human rights instruments, both at global and regional levels. The right to seek asylum is equally recognised as a basic human right. The act of seeking asylum can therefore not be considered an offence or crime. Considerations should be given to the fact that asylum-seekers may have already suffered some kind of persecution or other hardship in their country of origin and should be protected against any form of harsh treatment. As a general rule, asylum seekers should not be detained (UNHCR, 1996: 3).

The severity of Australian practices in detaining children, men, and women indefinitely held in camps run by private security corporations was made public by several reports. After inspecting mainland Australian detention camps, Louis Joinet, head of the United Nations Working Group on Arbitrary Detention (UNHCR, 2002),

98

The Engineering of Detentional Landscapes

1745

declared he had not seen a more gross abuse of human rights in over 40 inspections of detention facilities around the world. The Australian system combining mandatory, automatic, indiscriminate, and indefinite detention without real access to court challenge is practiced by no other country in the world (Millet 6 June 2002). The UN Working Group stated that conditions of detention centers resembled prisons with razor wire, electric fences, permanent supervision, handcuffing of detainees escorted outside the centre, even escape from a centre constituted a criminal offence. The harsh environment resulted in many instances of self-harm of children and adults held in these centers. The private prison company GSL transporting “asylum detainees” between two mainland detention centers breached human rights under Articles 7 and 10 (1) of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR). GSL staff used excessive force to push individuals into a van. Each person was held in a tiny separate steel compartment, unable to stand, lie down, or sleep, denied water, and suffered in high temperatures with no air-conditioning. GSL staff driving the van watched detainees on CCTV but ignored their cries for help. The Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission (HREOC, 2007) found GSL subjected asylum detainees to degrading treatment, ignored dignity of the human person and deprived them of their liberty. A newly elected Labor government promised humane treatment of asylum seekers. It ended the Pacific Solution Policy and closed detention centers on Nauru and Manus Islands. Chris Evans, Minister of Immigration and Citizenship described in New Directions in Detention: Restoring Integrity to Australia’s Immigration System (July 2008) “Australia’s national interest demands continued efforts to prevent people-smuggling to our shores”. He affirmed strong border control to prevent potentially large numbers of “unauthorized arrivals” coming to Australia due potentially to “massive displacement of persons in the Middle East and Asia caused by conflict and natural disasters” and “well-established people-smuggling operations”. The Labor Government increases financial assistance to four SEA countries to deter, detain, and prevent people leaving by sea for Australia. The asylum seeker deterrence policy includes: extensive border patrol by Defense, Customs and other law enforcement agencies; excised architecture of offshore islands; non-statutory processing of “unauthorized arrivals” at excised places on Christmas Island; mandatory detention of all “unauthorized arrivals” (Evans, 29 July 2008). Asylum seekers are not criminals. They have committed no crimes. But they are effectively criminalized. Christmas Island, far away from public scrutiny, is Australia’s highest security complex of steel, mesh, and electric fences, a technoengineered electronic monitoring of detainees with remote cameras recording every movement. With no access to courts, lawyers, media, and public gaze, asylum seekers are at the mercy of the private security guards. Asylum seekers held as criminals on Christmas Island are antithetically denied safe refuge. Christmas Island Detention Centre is a dehumanizing prison environment designed by architects experienced in prison construction and run by a private corporation specializing internationally in operating prisons and immigration detention and removal centers. Australia acting in its “national interest” pays neighboring Southeast Asian governments not signatory to the UN Refugee Conventions to deter and detain asylum

1746

N. Hudson-Rodd

seekers en route to Australia. The Australian government ignores national interests of regional governments while refusing to protect rights of people seeking asylum. The right to seek and enjoy asylum is guaranteed by a range of international instruments to which Australia is a party. These include the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (Article 14), the Vienna Declaration and Program Action adopted by the World Conference on Human Rights, the Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees (Articles 26 and 31), the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (Articles 9 and 16), and the International Convention on the Elimination of all Forms of Racial Discrimination (Article 5). Australia’s twin policies of mandatory detention and the denial of the right to seek asylum effectively breach all of the obligations assigned by these instruments. On fourteen occasions over the past decade (1998–2008), the UN Human Rights Commission made adverse findings against Australia for immigration detention violations of the prohibition on arbitrary detention in Article 9 (1) of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. The United Nations Committee Against Torture (29 April 2008) raised concerns and objections to Australian Government practices which include mandatory detention of asylum seekers in an offshore, high security prison on Christmas Island. Australia has transformed the physical, legal, and social landscapes of its own territory and that of other countries. This pragmatic approach has denied human dignity and respect for human freedoms. The engineering of detentional landscapes is a destructive limitation on human varieties of life. Acknowledgements I acknowledge the work of Western Australian Project SafeCom Inc. In its opposition to Australian Government mandatory detention of asylum seekers and refugees and of restrictions on their freedoms and dignity, it contributes to national debates on human rights. I appreciate Stan Brunn’s encouragement, support, and valuable critique for my research. Alan Rodd, I thank for his careful reading, questioning and suggestions.

References ABC Radio Broadcast. (2002). Christmas Island detention centre. 4 June. Retrieved July 30, 2008, from www.islandcare.org.ex/Earthbeat.htm Amnesty International Australia. (2007). Christmas Island looks and feels like a prison. Retrieved November 6, 2008, from www.amnesty.org.au/refugees/comments/16449/ Report 12 March. Australian Human Rights Commission. (AHRC). (2004). A last resort? National inquiry into children in immigration detention. Sydney: AHRC. Australian Human Rights Commission. (2007). Immigration detention centres. Sydney: AHRC. Retrieved December 4, 2008, from www.humanrights.gov.au/human_rights/immigration/ idc2007.html#3 Commonwealth of Australia. (1999). Border protection legislation amendment act 1999 (An act to provide enhanced protection for Australia’s borders and for related purposes). [No 160]. 8 December. Canberra. Commonwealth of Australia: Department of Defence. (2002). Year in review: Review by the secretary and the chief of the defence force. [Defence Annual Report 2001–02]. Canberra: Department of Defense. Commonwealth of Australia: Department of Immigration and Citizenship (DIMC). (2008). Fact sheet 60, Australia’s refugee and humanitarian program. Retrieved March 1, 2009, from www.immi.gov.au/media/fact-sheets/60refugee.htm

98

The Engineering of Detentional Landscapes

1747

Commonwealth of Australia: Department of Immigration, Multicultural and Indigenous Affairs (DIMIA). (2002). DIMIA Annual Report 2001-02. Canberra: Australian Government. Retrieved February 23, 2009, from www.immi.gov.au/about/reports/annual/2001-02/report16.htm Commonwealth of Australia: Department of Immigration, Multicultural and Indigenous Affairs (DIMIA). (2003). Population flows 2002–03: Immigration aspects. Canberra: Australian Government. Commonwealth of Australia. (2002). Legal and constitutional references committee, migration zone excision: An examination of the migration legislation amendment (Further Border Protection Measures) Bill 2002 and Related Matters. October. Canberra: Department of the Senate. Commonwealth of Australia. (2004). The Auditor-General (Audit Report No. 54, 2003-04), Management of the detention centre contracts-part A, Performance Audit, Department of Immigration and Multicultural and Indigenous Affairs, Canberra: Australian National Audit Office. Retrieved February 2, 2009, from www.anao.gov.au Coombs, M. (2005). Excising Australia: Are we really shrinking? (Research Note No. 5, 2005–06). Laws and Bills Digest, Section, Parliament of Australia, Parliamentary Library. 31 August. Canberra, ACT. Retrieved December 12, 2008, from www.aph.gov.au/library Crikey. (2008). Christmas Island detention centre is not cool. 18 August. Retrieved from March 2, 2009, from www.crikey.com.au/Politics/20080818-Christmas-Island-detention-centre-is-notcool Dastyari, A. (2008). The detained refugees Obama will not free. The Melbourne Age. 24 November. Retrieved November 26, 2008, from www.theage.com.au/action/printArticle?id=299131 Evans, C. (2008). New directions in detention- restoring integrity to Australia’s immigration system. National Press Club. Canberra: Australian National University. 29 July. Retrieved March 9, 2009, from www.rac-vic.org/html/08-07-29-new-direction.htm Farrelly. (2002). The moral of the storey. Sydney Morning Herald. 15 June. Retrieved August 21, 2008, from www.smh.com.au/articles/2002/06/14/1023864346225.html GSL Australia Pty Ltd. (2008). GSL Australia corporate profile. Retrieved July 29, 2008, from www.gslpl.com.au/about_us/gsl_corp_profile.lr.pdf Hart, C. (2007). Cuban refugees may arrive soon. The Australian, 22 May, 6. Hudson-Rodd, N. (1997). Quest for a humane world. The Indian Ocean Review, 10(4), 15–20. Human Rights Equal Opportunity Commission (HREOC). (1998). Those who’ve come across the seas: Detention of unauthorised arrivals (11 May). Sydney: HREOC. Human Rights Equal Opportunity Commission (HREOC). (2007). HREOC Report No. 39 Complaint by Mr. Huong Nguyen and Mr. Austin Okoye against the Commonwealth of Australia (Department of Immigration and Citizenship, formerly the Department of Immigration and Multiculture and Indigenous Affairs) and GSL (Australia) Pty.. Sydney: HREOC. Retrieved February 20, 2009, from www.hreoc.gov.au/legal/HREOC_reports/hrc_report_39.html Mares, P. (2002). Borderline. Sydney: University of New South Wales Press. Marr, D., & Wilkinson, M. (2003). Dark victory. Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Mason, J. (2002). Paying the price: Australia, Indonesia join forces to stop “irregular migration” of asylum seekers. Refugee Reports, 22, 8. McMaster, D. (2002). Asylum seekers: Australia’s response to refugees. Melbourne, VIC: Melbourne University Press. Millet, M. (2002). Worst I’ve seen says UN asylum inspector. The Sydney Morning Herald, 6 June. Retrieved August 17, 2008, from www.smh.com.au/articles/2002/06/05/1022982721514.html Newman, K. (2006). The U.S. and the Caribbean. In J. van Selm & B. Cooper (2006). The new “boat people”: Ensuring safety and determining status (pp. 70–79).Washington, DC: Migration Policy Institute (MPI). Parliament of Australia. (2003). The Senate Inquiry into the Administration and Operation of the Migration Act 1958. Table 3.6. Retrieved July 10, 2008, from www.aph.gov.au/Senate/ committee/legcom_ctte/migration/report/c03.htm

1748

N. Hudson-Rodd

Refugee Council of Australia. (2002). Submission to the 2000–01 Refugee and humanitarian program size and composition review: Views from the community sector. Retrieved August 17, 2006, from www.refugeecouncil.org.au/html/resources/subhumanpro.html Robben Island Museum. (2008). Retrieved August 12, 2008, from www.robben-island.org.za/ default.asp Rodd, C. (2007). Boats and borders: asylum seekers and elections, 1977 and 2001. In D. Lusher & N. Haslam (Eds.), Yearning to breathe free: Seeking asylum in Australia (pp. 35–47). Sydney: Federation Press. Sack, R. (2003). The geographical guide to the real and the good. New York: Routledge. Safe Com Project Incorporated, Western Australia. Retrieved August 25, 2008, from www.safecom.org.au/association.htm Smith, C. S. (2007). Bad men: Guantanamo and the secret prisons. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson. Takver. (2004). Plea for help from Afghan refugees in Indonesia: Refugees/Asylum seekers stranded in Indonesia have started a hunger strike to attract attention to their claims. Melbourne Independent Media Center 11 January. Retrieved March 1, 2009, from http://melbourne.indymedia.org/print.php?id=60155 Taylor, S. (2005). Sovereign power at the border. Public Law Review, 16(1), 59. Tuckey, W. (2002). $41.3 million funding to support new detention centre. Minister for Regional Services, Territories and Local Government, media release, 14 May. Retrieved July 30, 2008, from www.infrastructure.gov.au/department/statements/2002_2003/media/wt02_budget United Nations Committee Against Torture. (2008). Committee against torture begins review of report of Australia. United Nations Press Release, 29 April. Retrieved September 18, 2008, from http://persbericht.nl/en/2008/04/29/R059.htm UNHCR. (2003). Äustralia’s Excision Zone. Maps from the UNHCR Mapping Unit, 1 November. Geneva: UNHCR. Retrieved September 10, 2010, from www.unhcr.org/3fd0b8c54.html UNHCR. (1996). Guidelines on detention of asylum-seekers. Geneva: UNHCR. UNHCR. (2002). Report of the working group on arbitrary detention. Geneva: UNHCR. UNHCR. (2006). 2005 Global refugee trends: Populations of refugees, asylum-seekers, internally displaced persons, stateless persons, and other persons of concern to UNHCR. 9 June. Geneva: UNHCR. Retrieved December 1, 2008, from www.unhcr.org/cgibin/texis/vtx/events/opendoc.pdf?tb1=STATISTICS&id=4486ceb12 UNHCR. (2008a). 2007 UNHCR Statistical yearbook: Trends in displacement, protection and solutions. December. Geneva: UNHCR. UNHCR. (2008b). Asylum levels and trends in industrialised countries, 2007. 18 March. UNHCR: Geneva. Retrieved December 3, 2008, from www.unhcr.org/statistics/STATISTICS/ 47daae862.pdf U.S. Committee for Refugees and Immigrants (USCRI). (2004). Warehousing refugees: A denial of rights, a waste of humanity. Special Edition World Refugee Survey 2004, pp. 38–56. Retrieved November 20, 2008, from www.refugees.org/data/wrs/04/pdf/38-56.pdf

Chapter 99

“Alcatraz in the Sky”: Engineering Exile in a Virginia (USA) Prison Matthew L. Mitchelson

99.1 Introduction Standing at the James Walker Robinson Memorial Scenic Overlook in Wise County, Virginia, can be a humbling experience. The overlook offers a remarkable view of the iconic Powell Valley. After his visit to Powell Valley, journalist Joseph Hallinan was moved to describe the “vast panorama” as “a putting green for giants” (2003: 202). Hallinan’s allusion to a golf course is instructive. Like a golfcourse, the beauty of this setting can easily overwhelm the senses. It can be difficult to see the subtle, and even the not-so-subtle, human alterations that have produced the landscape before you (Lewis, 1979; Mitchell, 1996; Schein, 1997). Consider two such alterations, both at least partially visible in Fig. 99.1. First, access to the overlook itself required a feat of megaengineering, premised upon the design and construction of roads and bridges across the mountains of southwestern Virginia. For example, the bridge in Fig. 99.1 traces back to an exstensive and intensive road-building project, the Appalachian Development Highway System. Second, and more importantly for the purposes of this chapter, if you go to the end of the overlook and look straight ahead at sundown, you can just make out the lights at Wallens Ridge State Prison some 10 mi (16 km) away. After sundown, those same lights dominate the top of the viewshed for miles. Those lights shine on one place within the vast, fundamentally geographic, megaengineering project around which this chapter centers: mass-imprisonment and the engineering of exile. My goal in this chapter is to address two questions. First, how did a prison come to be constructed on a mountaintop? Second, what can this “Alcatraz in the sky” (Hallinan, 2003: 207) teach us about mass imprisonment more broadly? This chapter proceeds in two parts. In the first section, the material production of Wallens Ridge State Prison is considered through its siting process and construction, and through its relation to nearby Red Onion State Prison. In the second section, the social production of these prisons is treated through a broader contextualization of the space

M.L. Mitchelson (B) Department of Geography, University of Georgia, Athens, GA 30602, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_99,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1749

1750

M.L. Mitchelson

Fig. 99.1 View from a scenic overlook in Wise County. Wallens Ridge stands at the center

within which these prisons function. Empirically, this paper draws from field work and direct observation during the spring of 2009 and, more extensively, from the print newspaper archives of The Coalfied Progress in nearby Norton, Virginia. The study area is much larger than it may first appear. Although the fortresslike nature of the built environment suggests fixity, prisons hold host to a variety of surprsingly fluid and dynamic geographic scales (Martin & Mitchelson, 2009). Figure 99.2 maps several of the places and areas that interact most overtly with Wallens Ridge State Prison. Of course, the physical location of the prison itself is crucial and, as will be explained, so is that of nearby Red Onion. Both prisons are located completely within Wise County. However, a host of other actors, governments, institutions, and areas were (and still are) involved in the production of these prisons, notably: Appalachia (i.e., the region as it is formally defined by the Appalachian Regional Commission); the state of Virginia; Virginia’s Department of Corrections; Virginia’s Department of Transportation; Dickenson County, Virginia; the independent city of Norton, and the towns and cities of Pound, Big Stone Gap, Wise, and Clintwood.

99.2 The Material Production of Wallens Ridge and Red Onion 99.2.1 A Tale of Two Prisons? In several ways, Wallens Ridge is a twin facility. Red Onion State Prison is located on the other side of Wise County, some 30 mi (48 km) away. Both are high security,

99

“Alcatraz in the Sky”

1751

Fig. 99.2 Map of the Wallens Ridge state prison study area

men’s-only facilities. Financially, both projects were enabled by the same Virginia Department of the Treasury bonding package (Holyfield, 1995g). Different firms managed the prison sites: Brown and Root of Richmond, Virginia was the Red Onion site contractor; Gilbane Building of Laurel, Maryland, was the Wallens Ridge contractor. Yet, although separate contractors managed the two prison sites, materials and supply purchases were combined. The same integrated engineering/architectural firm oversaw both projects from afar, and the facility designs are virtually identical (Holyfield, 1995b). That firm, Daniel, Mann, Johnson & Mendenhall (DMJM), has since been rebranded under its Los Angeles-based parent company’s name as Aecom Technology (Adelson, 1993; Aecom Technology, 2009). The firm has also produced “twinned” facilities in Illinois. Aecom designed the maximum-security prototype for the state of Illionois in Thomson, which was replicated in Grayville the following year (Aecom Technology, 2009). Thus, while this chapter is primarily focused on Wallens Ridge, in what follows I note those instances in which the two prisons’ histories overlap meaningfully. For example, the editors of The Coalfield Progress declared that “1995 was the year of the prison project in southwest Virginia” under the headline “Two prisons break ground” (1995: 8). At that point, both prisons had been years in the making, and, both prisons were several years away from completion. As the following sections will demonstrate, these projects were fraught with a variety of challenges. Thus, building these prisons required “engineering” beyond its most conventional meaning. While the work of professional engineers certainly played important roles in the process, I want to expand the meaning of engineering herein as I intend to account for the literal engineering, design, and construction processes, and, also, the

1752

M.L. Mitchelson

intimately related procurement of funds and political maneuvering that ultimately led to these prisons’ completion. Therefore, in order to understand how it was that I came to find Wallens Ridge State Prison on a southwest Virginia mountaintop in the spring of 2009, we should explore promises made in the fall of 1992.

99.2.2 Announcing Red Onion State Prison In November of 1992, O. Randolph Rollins, then Virginia Secretary of Public Safety, announced that a prison was coming to southwest Virginia. Three hundred jobs were expected and “everything you need to run a little city” would have to be designed and built (Lester, 1992b, 1992c). The coal-based economy of the region had experienced waves of disinvestment, and residents were hungry for jobs. Prison sitings routinely encounter resistance – prisons are often undesirable “neighbors,” and locals often resist having them “in their backyards” (i.e., NIMBYism, or, Not In My BackYard). However, this project was initially well-received. Local support for the project would remain high for years. While there were some vocal critics, popular support was overhemingly in favor of welcoming the state’s prison system to Wise County (Ramsey, 1995). Secretary Rollins was quoted as saying The Department of Corrections usually encounters significant and strong opposition. Here it was just the opposite. . . it’s really good to come to a community such as yours where there’s a united voice saying ‘come on down, be our neighbors’. (Lester, 1992c)

That day’s editorial ran under the headline “Hard work makes prison dream reality” (Editors of The Coalfield Progress, 1992). What was this hard work, and who had done it? In this particular instance, the work involved successfully negotiating between the Virginia Department of Corrections, who would build the prison, and the Pittston Coal Group, who owned the land on which the prison was to be built. In order to move negotations to this point, it had required the considerable efforts of local leaders. One of those leaders was none other than James Walker Robinson, for whom the Powell Valley overlook was renamed, and who Secretary Rollins acknowledged as a main liason between state and local actors (Lester, 1992c). Other key players included: Delegate Ford Quillen; Pittston vice-president, John Bryan; and Jack Rose and Gary Dingus, who had initially approached Bryan about the land. In effect, these local leaders persuaded Pittston’s executive leadership to transfer the deed for their 375 acre (152 ha) property on Red Onion Mountain to the state of Virginia. This partially explains how, somewhat remarkably, Red Onion State Prison was built on top of a 16 acre (6.5 ha) surface coal mine reclamation. However, in 1992 the construction process was far from complete; it was only just beginning.

99.2.3 Engineering Infrastructure The summer before Secretary Rollins’ announcment Thompson and Litton, Inc., a southwestern Virginia engineering firm with an office in Clintwood, was commissioned by Wise and Dickenson counties, who contibuted $35,000 and

99

“Alcatraz in the Sky”

1753

Fig. 99.3 The costly road to Red Onion State Prison winds up and around the mountain for several miles, at a 10% grade in some places

$15,000, respectively, to conduct a site evaluation of the Red Onion Mountain parcel (Lester, 1992a). That evaluation determined the prison’s eventual footprint. However, engineering access to that footprint was a much more challenging process (Fig. 99.3). The estimated cost of building roads to the prison, from the routes proposed by Thompson and Litton, ranged from $3.3 to $4.5 million (Lester, 1992a). Early estimates suggested that it would cost $700,000 just to get construction vehicles on site (Thomason, 1992). It was also clear that funding the prison’s sewer and water were lest costly, but equally pressing, concerns. The necessary improvements to Pound’s sewer system would cost $1.4 million, and improvements to Clintwood’s water management would cost $1.5 million (Thomason, 1992). Just three months after the “prison dream” was announced, the bi-county prison committee was $250,000 short (Thomason & Ramsey, 1993). Within one year, however, local officials attracted a remarkable pool of financial resources to fund the earliest stages of the prison project. A block grant was awarded to Pound and Wise County for the full $1.4 million and the state awarded a $1 million grant to Clintwood and Dickenson County (Lester, 1993b). These funds would address the water and sewer concerns. A $500,000 Appalachian Regional Commission access road grant was procured (Thomason, 1992). In combination with other funds, including coal and gas severance tax funds (Lester, 1993a) and a Farmer’s Home Administration loan (Thomason & Ramsey, 1993) were both being considered; they would address the issue of access. Financing for the physical construction or improvement of the necessary infrastructure seemed to be in place when the deed transfer stalled (Lester, 1993b).

1754

M.L. Mitchelson

99.2.4 Engineering One Groundbreaking The seemingly straightfoward deed transfer was complicated, legally and economically. Because of the prevalence of mineral resources on much of the parcel, the land transfer bore the risk of a mineral rights infringement. In May of 1994, for example, Koch Carbon Company sued the state of Virginia for millions, alleging that the presence of Keen Mountain State Prison compromised their operations (Lester, 1994c). Keen Mountain is in adjacent Dickenson County, and these legal proceedings would likely have been on the minds of Virginia’s Board of Corrections members when they voted (5–3) against the land transfer that same month (Lester, 1994d). Second, politically, Virginia was about to experience a gubernatorial transition. Governer-elect George Allen, a notoriously “tough on crime” politician was about to take office. His commitment to Red Onion State Prison, which was to be the state’s first “supermax” facility was pivotal. After the Board of Corrections voted down the transfer in May of 1994, Governor Allen replaced seven of the eight members. Allen accepted the deed in June in front of more than 100 local officials and well wishers (Lester, 1994d). Thus, after several false starts and the establishment of a mutuallyagreed upon “no-mining buffer zone” that mitigated mineral rights concerns (Lester, 1994a), the Red Onion State Prison project seemed poised to break ground. Both symbolically and in practical terms, it is crucial to note, for both the succesful siting of Red Onion and, soon thereafter, Wallens Ridge, that one of Governor Allen’s appointees to the Board of Corrections was Dickenson County leader Jack Rose. Rose, who had approached Pittston Coal years before, was at once a visible and vocal advocate for Allen’s positions on crime and the “economic diversification” of southwestern Virginia via prison building (Jeff Owens, 1994). Direct linkages, both formal and informal, between a local coalition of leaders and the extensive resources of the state proved to be a necessary link between “the prison dream” and its realization.

99.2.5 Announcing Wallens Ridge (?) Wallens Ridge, high above the town of Big Stone Gap, first appeared on the Department of Corrections’s map in 1994. The land, owned by the town’s Housing and Redevelopment Authority, had been targeted for development for 20 years (Holyfield, 1995f), including as a failed bid to recruit a Federal Bureau of Prisons facility in 1989 (Holyfield, 1995d). Town manager George Polly held meetings in October of 1994, investigating the possibility of attracting a second prison to Wise County (Holyfield, 1994b). Jerry Kilgore, Rollins’ replacement as Secretary of Public Safety under Allen, seemed optimistic that a new state facility could be built quickly, because so much of the necessary infrastructure was already in place (Holyfield, 1994a). That December, Big Stone Gap’s Mayor James Helsey publicly wished that the Virginia Department of Corrections would “put something in the region’s Christmas stocking” (Holyfield, 1994c), and Kilgore responded in kind by signing a land option on the 150 acre (61 ha) parcel atop Wallens Ridge.

99

“Alcatraz in the Sky”

1755

Over the next few months, however, a series of questions were raised at the state level that appeared to jeopardize the project’s progress. Virginia’s state prisons are currently designated using one of eight security levels which are used in part to determine a prisoner’s institutional assignment (Virginia Department of Corrections, 2009a). The first question concerned the eventual facility’s security level: would the Wallens Ridge parcel support a medium security facility? Core samples suggested that the land would by ideal for a maximum-security facility (Holyfield, 1995e), which would be lighter than the medium-security facility that was initially announced. The second question concerned the parcel’s size, and the maximumsecurity facility would also be more compact. Local political aligment appeared to be strong enough to overcome the change, but, by moving “up” in security classifications, building costs ran the risk of becoming prohibitively expensive. At this same time, the Red Onion project was encountering problems of its own. What Jerry Kilgore described as “unexpected soil problems” on Red Onion Mountain would require a multi-million dollar “dynamic soil compaction” process (Lester, 1995b), and the state appeared to waver in its commitment to the Red Onion project. Political controversey erupted locally, as local officials and the press feared the worst. The town of Pound had already incurred $150,000 in debt to that point (Ramsey, 1995), and town Supervisor Edgar Mullins said “it looks like we’ve thrown [the money] down a rat hole” (Lester, 1995d). Twelve Dickenson County officials traveled to the state capital and met with Governor Allen to plead their case for continuing the Red Onion project (James Owens, 1995). For a short time, it appeared as if the Red Onion project itself, always intended to be a “supermax” (minimum-security) facility, could even be moved across the county to Wallens Ridge (Holyfield, 1995c).

99.2.6 Engineering Two Groundbreakings Two conditions proved pivotal in making 1995 “the year of the prison project” in Wise County. First, in the case of the Red Onion project, heated politics presented the project in partisan terms. Fearful of appearing “soft” on crime, this eventually mobilized overwhelming support and, subsequently, funding was approved at the Virginia House and Senate levels by votes of 95-5 and 38-1, respectively, in April of 1995 (Lester, 1995c). In a sense, the Red Onion project’s success brought the Wallens Ridge project back to a critical juncture, because the cumulative price tag for the Red Onion project, after resolving the soil-related problems, increased nearly 50% over the earliest estimates (Lester, 1995b). Wise County was looking like a very expensive place for the state to build a prison. But Chuck Miller, chair of the Housing and Redevelopment Authority made an interesting proposal: the housing authority would be the prison’s “developer” and the state would take over maintenance and operation upon its completion (Holyfield, 1995a). The town would finance the project by issuing tax exempt municipal bonds; the state would “lease-purchase” and, eventually, own the facility. Locally, the suggestion drew upon a successful precedent; Big Stone Gap had used the same method

1756

M.L. Mitchelson

to finance its city hall. Amidst promises of a $70 million facility, 425 jobs, $13 million in annual payrolls, and the possible local trickle-down effects of $18 million in annual operating expenses, Miller’s plan was met with nearly unanimous popular support (Holyfield, 1995c). At the state level, Miller’s proposal was very well received. Instead of the capital outlay required to build, maintain, and operate two “supermax” facilities, the state would be able to make $6-7 million installments on the Wallens Ridge facility. Within months, ground was broken at both sites (Holyfield, 1995b). As the Powell Valley High School band played atop Wallens Ridge, Ron Angelone, Director of the Virginia Department of Corrections, promised 250 locals, “We are doing things on a fast track, not on the Red Tape Express” (Lester, 1995e).

99.2.7 Building the Prisons As Angelone and Kilgore toured the Red Onion site in March of 1996, the dynamic soil compaction project was in progress (Lester, 1996c; Zipper & Winter, 1997). Crews were working two 12-hour shifts, seven days a week. Fifteen-ton weights were hoisted 70 ft (21 m) as many as 19 times in some locations across the 9 acre (22 ha) building footprint; when released, the weights exerted between 900 and 1,500 pounds-per-square-foot (43,000 to 71,820 pascals) of contact pressure on the ground below (Zipper & Winter, 1997). Next, a 15-ft (4.6 m) surcharge of soil and rock materials was applied for three months (and then removed) as an additional test of subsurface stability, and additional work (e.g., grading and erosion control) brought the site-preparation costs for Red Onion to nearly $9 million. Across the county, the skyward summit of Wallens Ridge was being flattened, with as much as 35,000 yards3 (26,760 m3 ) of soil and rock removed in one day (Smith, 1996f). Before construction could begin, a $17 million “cut/fill” process took place and 2.3 million yards3 of rock were excavated (Caldwell, 1997; Gilbane Building, 2007). Once “cut,” most of the excavated materials were then used to “fill” new roadways and the building’s footprint. During a tour of the region, Governor Allen was asked to detonate an explosion that local officials dubbed “The Last Blast” (Smith, 1996a). After turning 17,000 square yards of mountain into removable rubble, Allen said “I’ve never been able to blow up a mountain. I also never had this much fun with firecrackers” (Smith, 1996a). In all, the site-preparation process shortened the peak of Wallens Ridge by 323 ft (100 m) (Hallinan, 2003) and drastically reconfigured the Powell Valley’s viewshed, even before the lights went up. Soon thereafter, 10 high mast towers, each suspending six 1,000-watt high-pressure sodium lamps above the prison and valley below, were lit (Fig. 99.4; Smith, 1996e). As the costly and intensive groundword was being completed, two job seminars hosted by the Virginia Department of Corrections and Red Onion’s contractor (that is, Brown and Root of Richmond) called for the next round of laborers: carpenters, masons and cement finishers, electricians, plumbers and pipefitters, sheet metal workers and welders (Lester, 1996b). Although so much of the prisons’ construction can be traced to distant firms, DMJM in California and Gilbane in Maryland, for example, the laborers who physically worked on the prison’s construction were predominately local. In fact, maximum local participation was written into the mission

99

“Alcatraz in the Sky”

1757

Fig. 99.4 High-pressure sodium lamps that light Wallens Ridge are visible for miles

statements of both prisons (Smith, 1996c). Local firms, such as Tuck Engineering and Thompson and Litton, engineered much of the sites’ infrastructure, from retention ponds to water and sewage systems, and inspected the projects (Smith 1996d). And an on-site batch plant hired dozens of explicitly local workers to fabricate and outfit the cells at the Red Onion site. During “peak manpower” the projects were supported by hundreds of workers, 90% of them local (Ramsey, 1996). Unlike the prisons themselves, the cells were small, two men would share an area just over 7 by 13 ft (2.1 by 3.9 m), but there more than 1,400 of them. Prefabricated modules with two fully wired and plumbed cells per module were built nearly 400 m (640 km) away in Petersburg before being transported across the state and up Wallens Ridge. Identical modules were fabricated and outfitted on site at Red Onion in order to avoid trucking expenses and due to limited road access (Ramsey, 1996). By the end of 1996, all but 40 cells were set (Smith, 1996e), and both projects were nearing completion. But, the state kept Wallens Ridge empty. State-level projections were wrong; there weren’t enough Virginia prisoners to populate the prisons (Hallinan, 2003; Tate & Smith, 1997). Kilgore said “here we have a state-of-the-art facility. . .that is doing nothing. It is like having a new car and making the payments on it but not driving it” (Smith, 1998). But, from where would prisoners come?

99.3 The Social Production of Wallens Ridge and Red Onion Both prisons form part of spectacular landscapes, and, being present in these places, the built environment can dominate your attention. However, no landscape is only local (Mitchell, 2008). Wallens Ridge and Red Onion, like all correctional facilities, are at the center of a complicated migratory network. Prisoners most often

1758

M.L. Mitchelson

come from a distant, socially marginalized and spatially concentrated population (Wacquant, 2001). Further, prisoners overwhelmingly return home after their release (Petersilia, 2003). So, while building Wallens Ridge and Red Onion had so much to do with two Wise County mountaintops, these sites alone can tell us very little about the geographic processes that ultimately completed this production process. Every bit as important as concrete and barbed wire, particular categorizations and social relations proved crucial to the prisons’ completion.

99.3.1 The Idea of the Prisoner The idea of the prisoner’s crime often captures the imagination and creates a powerful punitive response. For example, a report from the (premature) groundbreaking at Red Onion in 1994 reads as follows: “Some didn’t want another prison in southwest Virginia because they thought it would be too far for visitors,” Allen said, prompting peals of laughter from the crowd. “That was kind of my reaction, too,” he said. “The inmates should have thought of that before committing a crime” (Lester, 1994d). Thus, it was well understood that the prisoners would come from elsewhere. For example, while Big Stone Gap officials were debating whether or not to pursue a maximum-security facility on Wallens Ridge, they raised concerns “about a large number of prisoners’ families moving into the area and negatively impacting the community” (Holyfield, 1995e). Calls for a means to incapacitate “the most violent, dangerous long-term inmates” (Lester 1996a) were being made before the prisons were completed. Yet, there were not enough of these prisoners in Virginia to fill the facilities. In a strange ideological sleight of hand, it seems as though the built environment preceded the social conditions, the “crime and punishment,” within which it was ostensibly designed to operate. Before the first prisoner arrived, for example, recently hired Wallens Ridge Chaplain Donald Neace said “these are people who are classified as ‘the worst of the worst’” (Kennedy, 1999). The ideological fit was natural enough: bad people in a bad place. The undergirding philosophy of the very worst prisoners getting their “just desserts” in these facilities was not necessarily in line with the still-unfolding actualities, however.

99.3.2 Actual Prisoners In the late 1990s, the Virginia Department of Corrections was confining prisoners under contract from Michigan, Iowa, Vermont, and Delaware at a rate of $62 per inmate each day (Ramsey, 1999). So, there was ample precedent for “importing” prisoners to their facilities. Shortly before the prison’s completion, it was believed that federal prisoners from the soon to be closed Lorton facility in Washington, D.C., would be confined atop Wallens Ridge (Ramsey, 1999). The Lorton facility was some 400 mi (640 km) away, ironically, just a few miles from the location where all 704 of the Wallens Ridge State Prison prison cells had been prefabricated.

99

“Alcatraz in the Sky”

1759

A Washington Post report suggests that the 900 prisoners confined on Wallens Ridge in 2001 were from Virginia, Wyoming, and New Mexico. Later reports confirm that additional prisoners came from Hawaii and the U.S. Virgin Islands, and, for a time, Wallens Ridge confined prisoners from Connecticut (Virginia Department of Corrections, 2006; Zielbauer, 2000). Following the death of multiple Connecticut inmates, and, more visibly, following an American Civil Liberties federal civil rights lawsuit (that is, Joslyn v Armstrong), investigations of mental health conditions by the Connecticut Office of Protection and Advocacy for Persons with Disabilities, and protests by families of Wallens Ridge prisoners (American Civil Liberties Union, 2001), Connecticut’s prisoners left Wallens Ridge State Prison. And, according to the Virginia Department of Corrections, “the [out-of-state inmate revenue] in FY 2005 [that is, $3,744,588] decreased significantly from that in FY 2004 ($21,092,668) as a result of the departure of inmates from Connecticut” (Virginia Department of Corrections, 2006). A Connecticut plaintiff’s attorney, Antonio Ponvert III, remarked “it’s an unbelievable and outrageous shell game, with inmates’ lives at stake” (Timberg, 2001). Today, there are more than 2,000 prisoners in the two facilities, Wallens Ridge operates at full capacity; Red Onion operates at roughly 75% of capacity, many of these prisoners are from hundreds of miles away (Virginia Department of Corrections, 2009b, 2009c). The prison is an inaccessible place (Fig. 99.5) for a host of reasons, and it is difficult to retrace the day to day happenings in any carceral setting. In addition, it is not uncommon for tragedies within a prison to result in a fiercely polarized pair

Fig. 99.5 Boundary of the Red Onion State prison property. Note the gun tower at the photograph’s center

1760

M.L. Mitchelson

of stances. On the one hand, “pro-prison” sympathizers write off the deaths as part of the sentence; “they’ got what they deserved.” On the other hand, “pro-prisoner” sympathizers project structures of abuse racism onto locals – many of whom they will never encounter, most of whom harbor no such hatred. Regardless of what did or did not happen within the walls of Wallens Ridge or Red Onion, there can be little doubt that imprisonment entails far more than simple economics (i.e., a system of exchange): culture, sense of place, and power are processes that are always at work behind the razor-wire-lined fence. Most importantly, imprisonment entails the lives of human beings. So, when someone like Ron Angelone says “prisons are an economic development program” (Smith 1996b), who is that message targeting?

99.3.3 The Indirectly Incarcerated: The Prison Labor Market I have heard it said that correctional officers often serve multi-year sentences; the only difference is that theirs are served in 8-h shifts. These are not easy jobs. Ron Angelone goes so far as to say that working in a prison is “like one of us suddenly dropping what we’ve been doing and deciding to become an astronaut” (Lester, 1996a). Yet the prisons’ job fairs drew thousands of applicants (Mays, 1997). Worried that boosterish locals might be siting the Wallens Ridge prison over optimistically, the Deputy Director of the Virginia Department of Corrections, noting that the turnover rate for correctional officers during their first two years was nearly 18%, warned “it’s not all wine and roses” (Holyfield, 1995c). Convincing workers in these localities that prison-based jobs are economic goods to be sought after and fought for is a tactic that was highly effective in Wise County, and appears to work equally well in other geographic contexts. So, in the name of “developing” a place, the lives (and possible rehabilitation) of the incarcerated are replaced by the idea of the prisoner. When people like Ron Flanary, executive director of a Southwestern Virginia Planning Commission says of Red Onion’s future prisoners “They’re always going to be there. They’re not going anywhere” (Thomason & Ramsey, 1993) he is talking about a faceless “they,” an abstraction. And, trading in abstractions is much different, than consciously trading in the lives of real human beings. Thus, when the idea of the prisoner has firmly taken hold, the resulting vantage point may view the prison in stark economic terms, particularly under the pressures exerted by uneven development. “I find it professionally appealing because there ain’t too many alternatives,” [Flanary] said of prison development. “If we don’t take advantage of it from an economic development standpoint, I’m afraid we’ll go to hell in a handbasket. I’ll be that blunt” (Lester, 1995f). This is not to suggest that the people of southwest Virginia are immoral. And, this is not to say that people in particular places will do anything to attract prisons per se. For example, Big Stone Gap Mayor James Hensley said “A prison’s not my first choice. I would rather see General Electric, but we have been kidding ourselves too long. We’re not going to get that. Maybe if we get [the prison], it can lead to

99

“Alcatraz in the Sky”

1761

other things” (Holyfield, 1994a). In the summer of 1995, as the state of Virginia was formally launching the Wallens Ridge and Red Onion projects, the citizens of Wise County were actively opposing the siting of a third prison in their county on moral grounds. This third prison, unlike the strongly supported Wallens Ridge and Red Onion projects, was to be owned and operated by a private prison company. Board of Supervisors Chairman Sam Church, for example, said “I believe it’s morally wrong for a company to profit from the incarceration of people” before a “packed” meeting (Lester, 1995a). So, while the idea of a private prison was morally repuslive, four private prison firms tried, unsucessfully, to locate in Wise County, public prisons were publicly celebrated. For example, two of the principal actors in the Wallens Ridge siting, George Polly and Charles Miller, were co-awarded the town’s Citizen of the Year Award for 1995 (Smith, 1995).

99.4 Conclusions or New Beginnings? Thus, rather than concrete conclusions, I will offer some questions here that I hope additional scholars might find worthy of consideration. First, in light of what seems to be such a remarkably complex and contradictory setting, it seems reasonable to ask: what does this story about a Wise County mountaintop tell us about the country in which you find it? Second, what kind of possible future is Wise County teacher Sue Bentley hinting at when she says, “I just want to know why you can afford to build new prisons but can’t afford to build better schools” (Lester, 1994b)? Third, and perhaps most urgently, is Sister Beth Davies (Congregation of Notre Dame), a longtime resident of Wise County, right when she argues that “building more prisons to fight crime is like building more graveyards to fight terminal disease” (Lester, 1995f)?

References Adelson, A. (1993). A new field for a firm of architects. The New York Times, June 5, A39. Aecom Technology. (2009). Markets/services: Justice. Retrieved May 23, 2009, from http://www.dmjmhn.aecom.com/MarketsAndServices/38/91/index.jsp American Civil Liberties Union. (2001). Bowing to ACLU lawsuit, CT officials will move prisoners out of notorious Virginia “Supermax”. Press Release. Retrieved May 2, 2007, from http://www.aclu.org/prison/conditions/14757prs20010724.html Caldwell, K. (1997). Building Virginia. Virginia Business Magazine, 12(9), 7. Editors of the Coalfield Progress. (1992). Hard work makes prison dream reality. The Coalfield Progress, November 3, A14. Editors of The Coalfield Progress. (1995). Two prisons break ground. The Coalfield Progress, December 26, A8. Gilbane Building. (2007). Criminal justice: Virginia department of corrections: Wallens ridge state prison, Big Stone Gap, VA. Retrieved December 31, 2007, from http://www.gilbanebuilding. com/regions/proj_list_midatlantic.aspx Hallinan, J. T. (2003). Going up the river: Travels in a prison nation. New York: Random House.

1762

M.L. Mitchelson

Holyfield, I. (1994a). Infrastructure helps town in race for new state prison. The Coalfield Progress, December 15, A2. Holyfield, I. (1994b). Site targeted for possible location of new state prison. The Coalfield Progress, November 10, A7. Holyfield, I. (1994c). Virginia announces prison plans for Big Stone Gap. The Coalfield Progress, December 22, A1. Holyfield, I. (1995a). Big Stone Gap bonds may fund prisons. The Coalfield Progress, February 23, A1. Holyfield, I. (1995b). Big Stone Gap prison ceremony set Oct. 16. The Coalfield Progress, September 26, A9. Holyfield, I. (1995c). Crowd endorses Big Stone Gap prison. The Coalfield Progress, March 21, A1. Holyfield, I. (1995d). Meeting to provide prison details. The Coalfield Progress, March 9, A4. Holyfield, I. (1995e). Prison may be converted to maximum security unit. The Coalfield Progress, February 9, A5. Holyfield, I. (1995f). Public meeting to precede council prison bond vote. The Coalfield Progress, March 2, A9. Holyfield, I. (1995g). Treasury approves funding on prison. The Coalfield Progress, August 17, A1. Kennedy, L. A. (1999). Neace assumes role as prison chaplain. The Coalfield Progress, April 6, A2. Lester, J. (1992a). Higher prison road cost expected. The Coalfield Progress, November 13, A1. Lester, J. (1992b). Most prison jobs require high school education. The Coalfield Progress, November 3, A1. Lester, J. (1992c). Rollins praises locals, Pittston for prison effort. The Coalfield Progress, November 3, A5. Lester, J. (1993a). No road budget if county uses severance funds. The Coalfied Progress, January 19, A1. Lester, J. (1993b). Prison deed transfer still stalled. The Coalfield Progress, December 30, A1. Lester, J. (1994a). Governor arrives today; may accept deeds to prison. The Coalfield Progress, June 9, A1. Lester, J. (1994b). Prevention needs attention speakers say. The Coalfield Progress, September 27, A1&7. Lester, J. (1994c). Prison land transfer resolution reached. The Coalfield Progress, June 7, A3. Lester, J. (1994d). State finally owns bi-county prison site. The Coalfield Progress, June 14, A4. Lester, J. (1995a). Citizens attack private prison in Wise County. The Coalfield Progress, September 12, A2. Lester, J. (1995b). Fight pledged for max, or med, prison at Red Onion. The Coalfield Progress, February 16, A1. Lester, J. (1995c). Full funding for Red Onion in place following session. The Coalfield Progress, April 11, A3. Lester, J. (1995d). Officials choose sides over prison bill language. The Coalfield Progress, February 21, A1. Lester, J. (1995e). Officials gather for prison ceremony. The Coalfield Progress, November 2, A1. Lester, J. (1995f). Price of prisons; capitalize on economic opportunity, some say, but others are troubled. The Coalfield Progress, July 13, A1. Lester, J. (1996a). Appropriations committee tours prison site, park. The Coalfield Progress, September 19, A1. Lester, J. (1996b). Corrections, contractor to hold job seminars. The Coalfield Progress, May 16, A4. Lester, J. (1996c). Prison ‘footprint’ apparent on site; work progress. The Coalfield Progress, March 26, A1. Lewis, P. F. (1979). Axioms for reading the landscape: Some guides to the American Scene. In D. W. Meinig (Ed.), The interpretation of ordinary landscapes: Geographical essays (pp. 11– 32). New York: Oxford University Press.

99

“Alcatraz in the Sky”

1763

Martin, L., & Mitchelson, M. L. (2009). Geographies of detention and imprisonment: Interrogating spatial practices of confinement, discipline, law, and state power. Geography Compass, 3(1), 459–477. Mays, K. (1997). Prison’s job fair attracts record crowd of potentials. The Coalfield Progress, November 6, A8. Mitchell, D. (1996). The lie of the land: Migrant workers and the California landscape. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Mitchell, D. (2008). New axioms for reading the landscape: Paying attention to political economy and social justice. In J. L. Wescoat & D. M. Johnston (Eds.), Political economies of landscape change (pp. 29–50). New York: Springer. Owens, J. (1994). Rose backs Allen crime positions, will continue to push for southwest. The Coalfield Progress, June 5, A1. Owens, J. (1995). Prison money invested may not be lost. The Coalfield Progress, February 23, A5. Petersilia, J. (2003). When prisoners come home: Parole and prisoner reentry. Oxford : Oxford University Press. Ramsey, O. D. (1995). Already $150,000 in debt, Pound still hopes for prison. The Coalfield Progress, February 21, A1. Ramsey, O. D. (1996). On-site precasting provides jobs. The Coalfield Progress, March 18, A4. Ramsey, O. D. (1999). Inmates will begin arriving in April. The Coalfield Progress, March 4, A2. Schein, R. H. (1997). The place of landscape: A conceptual framework for interpreting an American scene. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 87(4), 660–680. Smith, H. W. (1995). Polly, Miller, Tri-State Rug win Gap’s annual awards. The Coalfield Progress, February 20, A3. Smith, H. W. (1996a). Allen visits Appalachia, Wallens Ridge on regional tour. The Coalfield Progress, July 2, A2. Smith, H. W. (1996b). Angelone stresses prisons’ positives. The Coalfield Progress, June 27, A4. Smith, H. W. (1996c). Builder for prison wants to maximize local participation. The Coalfield Progress, March 7, A4. Smith, H. W. (1996d). Prison contractor plans March job fair. The Coalfield Progress, January 18, A3. Smith, H. W. (1996e). Wallens Ridge prison site now closed to public access. The Coalfield Progress, December 12, A7. Smith, H. W. (1996f). Workers begin pouring footers at Wallens Ridge prison site. The Coalfield Progress, July 25, A8. Smith, H. W. (1998). Wallens Ridge delayed; Red Onion on track. The Coalfield Progress, February 26, A1. Tate, S., & Smith, H. W. (1997). Construction, hiring unaffected by delaying opening of prisons. The Coalfield Progress, February 18, A2. Thomason, K. (1992). Revenue sharing a funding option for prison route. The Coalfield Progress, December 3, A1. Thomason, K., & Ramsey, O. D. (1993). Prison sewer costs growing; Officials advise loan needed. The Coalfield Progress, January 26, A1. Timberg, C. (2001). Connecticut pulls prisoners from Wallens Ridge. The Washington Post, July 25, B01. Virginia Department of Corrections. (2006). Out-of-state inmate revenue. Retrieved May 3, 2007, from http://www.vadoc.virginia.gov/about/facts/financial/2005/05outofstate.pdf Virginia Department of Corrections. (2009a). Institutions by security levels. Retrieved May 23, 2009, from http://www.vadoc.state.va.us/facilities/security-levels.shtm Virginia Department of Corrections. (2009b). Red Onion State prison. Retrieved May 26, 2009, from http://www.vadoc.state.va.us/facilities/western/redonion/default.shtm Virginia Department of Corrections. (2009c). Wallens Ridge state prison. Retrieved May 26, 2009, from http://www.vadoc.state.va.us/facilities/western/wallens-ridge/default.shtm

1764

M.L. Mitchelson

Wacquant, L. (2001). Deadly symbiosis: When ghetto and prison meet and mesh. Punishment and Society, 3(1), 95–134. Zielbauer, P. V. (2000). Prisoner’s death renews call to stop exporting Connecticut convicts. The New York Times, April 7, B5. Zipper, C. E., & Winter, S. (1997). Stabilizing reclaimed mines to support buildings and development. Blacksburg, VA: Virginia Cooperative Extension.

Chapter 100

An Environmental History of the French Nuclear Complex at La Hague Laurent Bocéno

100.1 Introduction In northwest France, on Le Cotentin peninsula, in La Hague canton,1 there is a particular place that, for the last fifty years, has been the subject of controversy. The controversy is not about the nuclear power station,2 but about the reprocessing plants for the nuclear fuel byproducts of nuclear power stations. After a short presentation of the region, I will discuss the installation of the reprocessing plants along with the methods used by the French authorities in order to install the reprocessing plants before entering further in the specific connections that tie the nuclear industry so much with the professionals as with the residents of the area, among others which raise sanitary controversies. Finally the article discusses the relation to nuclear energy and the institutionalization of the incorporation of pathological relations.

100.2 The Birth of Nuclear Energy in La Hague 100.2.1 What is La Hague? Historically, the first nuclear processing plant opened in La Hague region in 1966. It is an important time for this area that tries to make the link, through the maritime space of the English Channel, between France and the coasts of England, Cornwall and Ireland (Fig. 100.1). For centuries, the residents of this land have lived from agricultural farming and animal husbandry. La Hague is a coastal region of boscage (mixed terrain of woodlands and pasture) sprinkled with small parcels of land where the development of new agricultural techniques is difficult because they are not effective. The few rural inhabitants in the region did not adopt the latter techniques. In 1975, the population density was 40 people per km2 (14.5 per mi2 ) L. Bocéno (B) Department of Sociology, Center for the Study and Research on Risks and Vulnerabilities, University of Caen-Lower Normandy, Caen, France e-mail: [email protected] S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_100,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1765

1766

L. Bocéno

Fig. 100.1 Location of Le Havre nuclear reprocessing plant. (Cartography by Dick Gilbreath)

ENGLAND London Portsmouth

E

nne

Cha nglish

La Hague

l

Cherbourg

Paris

Caen Rennes

FRANCE 0 0

150 km 50

100 150 mi

Fig. 100.2 Coastline of La Cotentin Peninsula

and there were fewer than 6,000 people in the territory of which the social history will be sketched. Some rural inhabitants fished also, but this remained only a supplemental activity. All these practices have, in a way, helped to isolate La Hague whose autonomous residents lead a relatively autarkic life, in hamlets rather than villages, which is at odds with modern urban development. Besides, the notion of the peninsula defining the whole of the départment of La Manche introduces a connection between land and sea which seems to have a strong influence over the local social organization and that is even more significant for La Hague which is situated in the department’s extreme northwest where nothing seems to destabilize the rhythm of local life (Fig. 100.2). When the residents want to leave the rural life and the agriculture, they tear themselves from the rural culture and turn to the open culture of the closest town, Cherbourg, which has housed a military port and an arsenal for almost 200 years.

100

An Environmental History of the French Nuclear Complex at La Hague

1767

Until the 1960s, this was almost the only possibility to leave the countryside and it was in this period of time that things rapidly evolved in the region. Thus, between 1955 and 1960, the residents of La Hague did not anticipate what was going to happen when they saw the engineers come to inspect their region. The engineers explained that they were certainly going to build a factory. Maybe it would be a cookware factory or a plastics factory. Nevertheless, the residents would later know that the project had already been defined; it was the installation of the first regional factory for the treatment of radioactive combustible waste (Fig. 100.3).

Fig 100.3 Satellite image of the Le Havre plant. (Source: “Satellite imagery courtesy of GeoEye. Copyright 2009. All rights reserved.”)

1768

L. Bocéno

100.2.2 How the Authorities Proceeded In what seemed to be a kind of French tradition linked to political centralism, the decision to construct the UP2 factory (Plutonium 2 Production Factory) was made by the political authorities who informed neither the residents nor the mayors of the local municipalities. The latter received a summons from the national police in order to assist at a meeting at the Beaumont-Hague city hall where they learned about the construction project of the plutonium production factory intended for army use. From this military orientation onward, the factory was classified information as “secret defense” [literally a secret related to national security, the second highest secret classifications]. To decide, the authorities relied on the Commission for Atomic Energy (CEA).3 The CEA originally held the majority share of what became an industrial site endowed with several radioactive material processing plants under the name COGEMA4 ; the CEA holds also the majority in the financial arrangements in AREVA NC, the present site manager. The official decree launching the construction work was given in 1961, the work started immediately. The authorities, via the CEA, did not communicate the reasons for the location of the military-industrial project but the agreement was justified by two important reasons for waste management: first, the site had a geologic base that reduced the risks linked to earthquakes and second, strong ocean currents pass along the coasts of La Hague [more on this later]. Of course these were the physical determining elements, but it is difficult not to consider as equally decisive the expectation of a weak opposition on the part of the population that was supposed to be disinclined to protest. In short, solidity, the system of dispersion of radionuclides and the passivity of the population drove the beginning of the construction of a factory that was to replace the processing plant in Marcoule, built in 1958, on the south of France. In 1962 with the beginning of the work, began a period of land inflation affecting the plots and moors of La Hague. Indeed, the CEA bought land at the highest price to avoid the expropriation procedures that eventually bribed the residents, renowned for being austere, uncommunicative and rarely mobilized in collective action. Almost 200 ha (494 acres), some of which were unused, were acquired next from about 300 land owners. It was a defining moment in the evolution of a traditional rural local society who saw new individual strategies develop. For those who had always been residents, the future opened itself to choices made possible by the profits gained from the land sales to the CEA: either the people left their farms for good and became uprooted people forced into a form of cultural exile, or they modernized their farms which allowed a less radical break with tradition, but made them enter nonetheless definitively into modern agricultural farming. Several people kept their small farms and become employed in the factory because a fixed salary allowed them to preserve an, always uncertain, rural activity prone to seasonal variation and diseases. With the CEA’s atomic factory under construction, it was called “the large building site” (Zonabend, 1989: 10). There was no consultation with the population or democratic debate. Besides, the project was classified as “secret defénse” until 1971, the date at which the industrial activity came under civilian responsibility.5

100

An Environmental History of the French Nuclear Complex at La Hague

1769

The taxes were maybe of great benefit to the local communities and residents who saw their infrastructure improve radically and very quickly with the contribution of an important financial godsend. This financing helped to maintain the important low level of social protest toward the installation of the nuclear industry. Other pacification methods were used by the developers: the local officials were taken on visits to the Marcoule site, one of the first French reprocessing plants, so that they could see for themselves the lack of danger or consequences to the environment. Admittedly, the developers were excellent trip organizers because the officials returned enchanted by their visit. The formula was very effective, the developers continued making trips, this time for those with moral authority and the very influential people in the region: the priests. Representatives of the Roman Catholic Church returned from Marcoule delighted and gave sermons in favor of nuclear energy. Nuclear energy profoundly changed the local society of La Hague as much as its physical nature. The ancestral La Hague region no longer exists because it had entered into the era of progress in constructing a nuclear destiny on one side, with the reprocessed spent nuclear fuel in the plant but also with the waste that the industry cannot make disappear: the final waste remains, the rest of the rest. The first step toward nuclear energy was made; it is said that the operation could follow: La Hague would welcome the radioactive waste. The mayor of Diguleville, a small community in La Hague, accepted the waste and the construction on 12 ha (29.6 acres), for the “Channel Storage Center” designated to store low-grade radioactive waste. The Storage Center, managed by ANDRA,6 saw the accumulation of radioactive waste begin in 1969 and stop in 1994.7 Although it is rather recent, the Storage Center now makes up a part of La Hague’s long term history and reinforces its place in the future. Thanks to this decision, La Hague is under narrow surveillance for three centuries to come (Fig. 100.4).

100.2.3 An Important Demographic Evolution The social structure was modified internally but also by the recruitment of trained and qualified professionals that the developer could not find within the region itself. New groups arrived and thus it was necessary to build new infrastructure and facilities such as housing and schools. The canton of La Hague, which lost residents, where the population practicing traditional farming was aging, saw itself confronted with an important demographic evolution with the arrival of a young and diversified population. To estimate the population movements, it is necessary to consider the 3,000 employees needed to run the first plant, UP2, and the second plant on the site UP3 (1981). In addition to these employees, it is estimated that 5,000 workers were present to perform the construction work. Sometimes, the population of the villages effectively doubled in a few years. In the apartment buildings that spatially and socially reorganized the villages, one finds the lowest level of hierarchy of the nuclear industry, while the top of the hierarchy settled in the surrounding towns. This new population is quantitatively numerous and qualitatively at odds with a traditional social equilibrium marked with a high

1770

L. Bocéno

Fig. 100.4 The Le Havre reprocessing plant

percentage of residents linked to farming, workers, some military people and other traditional notables of the French countryside. The new arrivals were mostly managerial staff, chemists, or other scientists and it seemed that their assimilation would be without conflict, but also without acculturation, either in the villages or in the surrounding areas. As far as the physical environment is concerned, the construction plans respected the ancestral surroundings as much as could be done. Thus many areas were protected by administrative decisions, particularly regarding the maritime boundary where all around the plant the coast has maintained a traditional aspect. All seemed in place for social life to follow its course and to go along normally in La Hague. In the presence, or in the economic shadow of the plants, hidden in a moor that reminds one of the Irish coasts, we will also observe the close social relationships at play that developed there (Fig. 100.5).

100.3 Short Sociological History To live in La Hague, we have seen, is to live with nuclear energy. Independent of the reality of contamination or of radiation exposure produced by the local industries, it means maintaining a real or symbolic relationship with nuclear energy. Since the establishment of atomic technology, the conditions of life have changed. The individual and community conduct of the residents takes shape on a cloth stained by the atom that appears in shadow theatres, social relationships. This is the ghostly position that we wish to evoke after outlining a socio-historic framework essential

100

An Environmental History of the French Nuclear Complex at La Hague

1771

Fig. 100.5 Rural landscape surrounding Le Hague plant

for understanding, because it is not possible, in a sociological approach of daily life, which integrates the internalization of the dangers, to avoid the generated information which plays a large part of that daily life.8

100.3.1 Nuclear Energy, France and La Hague While we have already described one part of the nuclear presence in La Hague, it is not possible to continue this discussion without revisiting the global framework of French politics and to provide some determining elements in order to catch the always special relationships that the residents of La Hague maintain with this environment symptomatic of technological progress. In France, the reactions sparked by the use of nuclear energy, whether civil or military, have not posed major problems for the governments since the end of WWII. In 1945, General de Gaulle created the CEA, already mentioned, and named as its director a major researcher, Frederic Joliot-Curie, who was a communist.9 In France, several sudden bursts of protestors accompanied the legitimatization of nuclear energy which embodied the country’s independence and thus political power: military independence at the end the second World War marked by Nagasaki and Hiroshima; energy independence in the face of oil crises; technological independence with control of the production process and processing of radioactive materials; finally, economic independence with the sale of electrical energy form the nuclear power plants and nuclear combustible waste reprocessing plants.

1772

L. Bocéno

100.3.2 Nuclear Energy and the Nation Form a Whole In the second half of the twentieth century, nuclear energy was foremost a military assurance so that France could claim great power status and keep its place on the Security Council of the UN.10 Then it also became important with the evolving international relations, an assurance for economic even ecological independence as it indeed covers a large part of the country’s energy production. As for its waste, the nuclear technology waste does last, as at the turn of the century, it starts after a military period, then an economic one, an ecological career and would, according to numerous official (i.e., French and American Presidential) and industrial11 discussions, help humankind to fight against the threatening greenhouse effect and its consequences. In order to be thorough, and describe the relationship between the residents of the département de La Manche and nuclear energy, it is necessary to add that the département officially welcomed on land and not far at sea, five sites that could be considered equipped with nuclear energy (1) in the Beaumont-Hague canton, the radioactive material reprocessing plants, UP2 and UP3, belonging to AREVA NC; (2) still in the Beaumont-Hague canton, the Channel Storage Center that holds the low grade radioactive material managed by ANDRA (this site is attached to the reprocessing plant) in Flamanville; (3) on the coastal side, about 15 km (9.3 mi) south of La Hague, the nuclear power plant belonging to EDF12 ; (4) 20 km (12.4 mi) to the east, the military arsenal at Cherbourg-Octeville where the nuclear propulsion submarines are made and kept; and (5) to the west, the fosses des Casquets,13 a coastal trench nearby the Casquets islands where in the 1950s, the British authorities dumped a good deal of barrels containing radioactive waste. It is worth noting that in addition to the potential to broadcast information about the radioactive activity of the sites, others also make it their goal to bring such information to the attention of the authorities and the nuclear opposition (these are often the first to inform the local population). In the case of the sites that are not officially identified, they receive temporary surveillance while the flasks14 are moved to the boats for the port in Cherbourg-Octeville, on the trains going to the Valognes train station or on the platforms connecting the terminals to the reprocessing plants. While politically accepted at the national level, nuclear energy was established in the département La Manche over the course of the 1960s. This was a period of major changes for the residents of a region devoid of important industries. We have already shown how the development of the sites, called the “Big Construction Sites” caused social transformations. The local labor population comes principally from small farmers, adhered tightly to the industrial project (Fig. 100.6). This time was one of demographic intermingling with the arrival of outside workers. In this region where the residents have long resisted the calls of industry and productivist agriculture, the transformation toward modernity was accomplished with the help of nuclear energy, the flagship of national high technology and a symbol of the anticipation of the twenty-first century, certainly at this moment distant, but it carried many hopes.

100

An Environmental History of the French Nuclear Complex at La Hague

1773

Fig 100.6 Dairy farming on La Cotentin Peninsula

The general debate of nuclear energy use was pursued on worldwide and national scales and, both in France and abroad, nuclear energy and La Hague were often synonyms. The semantic connection is just as much an important issue for the residents as for the traditional activities of the region that found itself associated with the nuclear industry. In order to avoid any stigma associated with the region, it was necessary to rename their local agricultural and aquaculture products in a different way. Thus, butter from “La Hague” became butter from the Saire Valley, which is also a region in the La Manche department but in the opposite geographic tip to the East; lobsters from the region are sold under the label of the neighboring French region, la Bretagne, to be accepted at national and international markets.15 At the same time, the nuclear industry also showed its capacity to influence the social, economic and political organization. For example, COGEMA, the industrial entity, on April 1 1997, could convene 48 local officials, among them the representative of the canton in the General Council,16 because they were also employees of the local nuclear industry. At that moment, these political representatives were (in)formed by their employer, and received information that other local representatives did not have. They became the partners of the industry more than the representatives of the French population. In this complicated setting, many controversies marred the establishment of industrial nuclear energy. The recent history of the area with its residents and “their” nuclear energy forms a complex whole like the watch that became known as the “Viel affairs”.

1774

L. Bocéno

100.4 Nuclear Proximity and the Epidemiological Controversies of Leukemia in La Hague The Viel affair began for the public in December 1995. At that date, the French journal of popular science Science and Life had an article on the front page with a sensational title, “An upsetting investigation; Nuclear energy and cancer.” The phrases were topped off with a snazzy page setting presenting the French metropolitan territories glowing red and at the center was the three bladed symbol used to warn of the presence of radioactivity. In the issue, there was a section with three articles with evocative titles: “Too much leukemia” for the first, “Proven with three methods” for the second, and the third “La Hague, instructions for use.” The tenpage section opened with an aerial cut out photograph of the reprocessing plant at La Hague. With the help of diagrams and three maps of the region, the first two articles illustrate the work conducted by J.-F. Viel. The articles’ conclusions seemed without appeal and emphasized that, for those under twenty-five years living in close proximity to the reprocessing plants, the number of cases of leukemia was higher than expected. The third article succinctly described the industrial activities of the reprocessing plant and the cycle of the nuclear waste. A little over a year later, in January 1997, a British scientific medical journal The British Medical Journal, an authority on the matter, published the results of another investigation of J.-F. Viel. It was about the conclusions of an epidemiological study (Pobel & Viel, 1997: 101–106) financed by INSERM (National Institute of Health Studies and Medical Research) and carried out by the university in the La Hague region, which showed the significant relationship between several local social practices (frequent trips to the areas’ coasts and beaches, ingestion of local fish and seafood) and incidences of leukemia in young children. As a result of the partial publication of results of the study, a great deal of emotion was felt in the Lower Normandy region and particularly in the North Cotentin area. The media, inclined towards sensationalism, sent journalists to the area to interview the authorities and the scientists. Contradictory commentaries competed on television and in written press. Those for and against nuclear energy mobilized themselves. Locally, the entrepreneur invalidated the study’s conclusions, the employees through the voice of the trade union representatives on the sites defended their livelihood, the officials supported France’s pro-nuclear orientation and the environmentalist groups denounced the use of nuclear energy. Everyone was playing the role it was expected to play. The discursive confrontation between all these actors made it difficult to find a clear approach to the situation. The residents of North Cotentin and, in a more sensitive way, those from La Hague were confronted with a situation that combines objective reality and subjective reality that never emerges in autonomous temporalities because they opened in a strong dialectical dynamic. We would like to introduce several elements of this dynamic in order to support the interest that exists in analyzing the contradiction presented by the univocal construction of local realities of life weighed against various phases of socialization such as the internalization and interpretation of events. These conditions make it

100

An Environmental History of the French Nuclear Complex at La Hague

1775

possible to understand the construction of the social connections to the work both in and around La Hague. Through this analysis of the contradictions, it is, for example, possible to understand how it is done, socially, that is, the usage of biological presuppositions concerning the residents of La Hague, heirs of the Vikings, the legendary Nordic conquerors from whom they would have inherited a great resistance that can be applied to the nuclear risk. To live in La Hague, administratively and geographically, is to exist in proximity to the reprocessing plants and other sites listed as nuclear in nature. It is to build and support social relationships with other people, with the institutions. Similarly, it is in internalizing and socializing the elements of the environment in order to suit it that one becomes a resident. One cannot socially be a neighbor to someone or something if one is ignorant of the existence of that person or object. This person or object must be objectified and thus expressed in order to acquire the social dimensions that identify them. These conditions make it possible to internalize one’s environment. The need to put the nuclear site at a distance is seen in all the interviews we obtained17 and they are not only concerned the geographic dimension, but also cultural, economic, and political spheres when several elements mixed, notably philosophic, historic, sociological and anthropological. To distance oneself is not only to join in a dynamic of growth of the space between nuclear energy and oneself; this may also be to attempt to reduce it and to bring it closer. What is important is to define the adequate distance, that which allows one to build in integrating the constraints and the hazards without too many shocks or then to build up a defense arsenal in order to be able to live in this margin which is never fixed, but is always evolving. From this point of view, the conceptions of spatial proximity are very heterogeneous and remind one of a territorial definition whose measures are flexible because they are subjective. “We are far from La Hague!” asserts a nurse who lives in Tourlaville, at the entrance of Saire Valley, 25 km (15.5 mi) east of Cherbourg18 around the reprocessing plants where her father works. When she talks of the distance between her house and the industry in question, she certainly considers the geographic measure, but even more so her position in a symbolic world separated into two relatively opposed entities. “Here, the area is organized, the farmers keep the land, whereas on the other coast. . .the people do the same over there but the people don’t speak, they don’t like outsiders. . .”. On the one hand, to the west, La Hague, exposed to the vastness of the ocean with its storms and the Raz Blanchard, a violent ocean current that often torments boats with its wild landscape covered with moors, bramble and wild grasses, where austere uncommunicative and hostile people would live, and on the other hand, to the east, the Saire Valley (where the nurse lives), a well-organized countryside where the sea and the land, two suppliers of food and life, would be tamed and maintained by generous farmers and fishers; such is the contrast that we suggest (Fig. 100.7). Nature and culture were called in as reinforcements to symbolize two rural spaces. The proletarian urban life of the Cherbourg-Octeville community became, in some ways, a frontier town since it is beyond “the other side.” To the west, threat and

1776

L. Bocéno

Fig. 100.7 Rugged and bleak coastal landscape near the reprocessing plant

disorder; to the east confidence and organization; between the two, is a reassuring and protective industrial modernity with its hospital where the woman quoted above, studied. Another issue concerns the physical dimension of distance more particularly: a resident of Saire Valley who is a salaried worker employed at COGEMA in La Hague estimates that, kept at a distance, nuclear energy poses no danger, “nuclear energy in La Hague; it is not serious, but it is important that the project to store the waste at Barfleur fails because otherwise my house would be between the two sites”.19 The fear of being surrounded is not a small one but it is more a question of the security of the transportation of the radioactive material which necessarily passes very close to his house in order to be deposited at the storage site. As a professional, he feels responsible for his safety. This puts the social constraints into perspective. He considers his work at the nuclear power site a result of a balanced choice, rational and reasonable, and that the daily pendular movement between his home and his work is a choice within his own power to make. On the other hand, he notes that the connection of radioactive materials to his house, with a reduced distance, is no longer under his control, and that in this case, he can no longer mobilize his authority or his technical know-how. In practical terms, he fears a transportation accident that he cannot control and which would lead to radioactive cargo turning over close to his home.

100

An Environmental History of the French Nuclear Complex at La Hague

1777

The individual sees that his private sphere is threatened by a radioactive intrusion of which he has no measure of control. In a case of this nature, it is the mobilization, by the authorities and public powers with the means and professional competencies, especially reserved for public domain, that are about to threaten and overcome his privacy. This radioactive intrusion is, consequently, difficult to control because the resources of the individual are not adequate, and he is not a professional. If he is an expert in radioactivity, it is at the plant, and not at his home, where he is socialized in a familial group, which stipulates certain social behaviors and bans others. If there is confusion between the two spaces, the hegemony of the public sphere will trump that of the private. This breeds distortion and will thus lose its special features. It is an intolerable situation because it signifies the loss of intimacy, autonomy and individual identity. The growth of the nuclear risk outside its rightful limits and outside of the dedicated industrial zones is where the eventuality of nuclear risk will penetrate changes in the private sphere and the relationship to the risk. The result is that the views of the individuals are confronted.

100.4.1 Nuclear Energy, Private Space and the Public Domain A resident near the reprocessing plants in La Hague, a woman, who was also a cleaning agent, told of an incident that gave evidence of the evolution of the issue: I went to work as usual. I clean the offices. But, one morning I found myself facing a barrier that blocked the passage into the area. I went to find out about it and someone told me that the day before, there was a fire in a room that stored contaminated cloth and that the radioactive fumes contaminated the place where I worked. They checked me out and I was contaminated. They made me take a shower immediately, they cleaned my car and then I went home. But, no one went to see my husband who had used my car in the meantime to go grocery shopping and sat in the radioactive dust. No one came to verify if my house was radioactive, the same house I went back to the day before because no one said anything to me.

She continued: One day my cows’ snouts and heads were black up to their eyes. It was like soot. My neighbor was gone and had left her windows open during the day, her paintings and wall papers were all black. The police came but they did nothing. But at my house, no one even came. Thus, no one knew. I cleaned and we drank the milk from my cows that ate the black grass.

This passage reminds one of how daily life can be pathogenic. The traditional use of the environment or common objects reminds one to the Chernobyl situation (Bocéno, 2005). In this example, the initiative to manage the danger was left to the woman. The technological events that the nuclear surveillance authorities classify as an “incident” to better isolate and deal with them in the industrial space are, by way of paradoxical consequences, reworked into the private family space which illuminates another social meaning. Oftentimes the representative authorities of the institutions and industries, using moralistic strategies, denounce individuals’ practices and behaviors as incriminating

1778

L. Bocéno

in order to limit their rightful responsibility. Nonetheless, the fact remains that in so doing, they reinforce, despite some confusion, a separation between the private and public spheres and make it more difficult for the private sphere to accept the domination, as a matter of security and expertise by the public sphere while the latter reserves the exclusive rights of preventive, surveillance, security and repair interventions on behalf of the manufacturing world. In the preceding examples, the lack of information about the exposure of employees indicates a weakness in the intervention plans concerning unforeseeable consequences and foreseeable accidents, which occur in the zones not dedicated to radioactive activities, that is to say, the zones not operationally invested in the production process. But, as for the information concerning the cloud at Chernobyl (Bocéno, 2005), the absence of accurate information rested, in large part, on the ideology of limits and boundaries and over a problem of territorial responsibility that could be summarized by the words of a radiation control technician: “We are responsible for what happens around us and for what is produced in the industrial process prescribed by us.” This largely simplifying proposition allows for the exclusion of a good number of situations from the domain of responsibility: the husband was not employed by COGEMA, thus he is not included in the group of people to be supervised. The failure of information is in this case, a strategy by the industry and the authorities differs in their search for the “non-event.” It would require long and expensive protocols to be able to describe all the possible cases of routine behaviors that could become pathogenic in case of contamination of a place or object. Besides the willingness by the industry to control the fire described above as an example of something occurring in a routine setting, so far from normality and also posing no risk of danger reminds us of the eventual health consequences that link industrial production procedures to individual management decisions, whether by a person, her or his family, and those around her/him. In this type of situation, the eventual recourse from the industry will be difficult, tedious and impossible to see except from an association of victims, like the contemporary experience of professional and nonprofessional exposure to asbestos. In excluding the physical and social environment of its own organizational system, the nuclear industrial apparatus limits the territory of security that highlights the burden and weakens the domain of responsibility. Certain employees attempt to control the temporary tendencies of nuclear energy that interfere with their lives and to leave remnants in the private sphere. A selftaught COGEMA executive, father of two, defends the nuclear industry against “the political attacks against a controlled technology”, and supports nuclear energy outside the private sphere: “Through working in the radioactive zone, I am certain to be supervised regularly by the doctor. If I have a problem, I want it to be an occupational disease. It is for the children.” This is also the operator who, working for years on an interim basis at the COGEMA site and conscious of his precarious status, anticipated his last assignment: “When I’ll be too worn down to work over there, I’ll be laid off. I’ll go to the doctor for an evaluation of my injuries. When I came, I was in good health. But now, I have a lot of health problems. They have to pay, I want financial compensations.”

100

An Environmental History of the French Nuclear Complex at La Hague

1779

These are two different social and cultural positions, but the same interest is to avoid individual responsibility for the eventual health consequences of professional exposure and to see that his records are kept for institutional treatments, that is, to be sure they remain “a collective project of civilization” which specifices his presence in the radioactive zone considering that it was “necessary to be there if you wanted to order people around and if you wanted to show them how to work properly.” For him, to work was not only to actively participate in the production process; it was – above all – to respect the rules as they alone can guarantee safety. He indicated that, “the particular nature of the nuclear industry in comparison to metallurgy lies in the safety rules. The culture of the nuclear industry is a safety culture. It is necessary that the employees acquire this safety culture.”

100.5 Sociopathologies Resulting from the Internalization of the Nuclear Industrial Culture The output, atavism of the scientific organization of labor as being an inseparable partner of productivism, is thwarted by its encounter with nuclear energy research, which in the laboratories, developed practices for the safety of the operators. The respect for specific procedures imposed a new perception of time and profoundly modified the relationship to work. No longer is one’s work capacity exchanged only for a salary, but it also includes the estimation of exposure to insidious and intangible nuclear risks, that only safety measures and personal protections are made visible. The costs of the pathology are therefore built into the salary20 (the maximum acceptable amount of exposure is specified in collective labor agreements) but only in terms of immediate and demonstrable health risks, not in terms of consecutive doses of radiation, which have potentially differing effects on health matters or life expectancy. Still, this does not mean that the production relations disappear and people just hang around. The clash between the traditional industrial culture and, its heir, the nuclear energy business culture, has not been reconciled without difficulties and paradoxes because the latter most often rejects the uniqueness of its profession. Indeed, despite the will to break with an imaginary industry built around masculine strength, sweat, dirt, noise, and heat, and flaunting itself as the result of insight, neatness, hygiene, silence and mastery of energy, the nuclear industry has not achieved its fantasy to create the new worker. This worker would abide by the laws of a practice where the threat does not tolerate such sins because these infringements inevitably play a part in all human activities, “When one leaves the zones, one should control oneself, hands feet etc.. . . One should wash and continue to monitor. . . But the bus is about to leave, and you need to catch it, so as there is no compulsory control, you get on the bus” admits a COGEMA worker. “My brother in law has to stop at the contamination checkpoint. In case of a problem, he was washed.” But, “it is always OK,” remarked a worried woman. These common infractions might seem benign because they are related to classic social practices. Nevertheless, they lead to their share of anxiety and cautious

1780

L. Bocéno

behavior: “My husband doesn’t work in the zone. He never brings home the leftovers from his lunch pail because he never knows if the food was contaminated.” “The danger doesn’t come from La Hague, but from what comes out with the guys: the well made tools, instead of throwing them away like waste, the guys brought them home. . .It’s in the homes of the people that it is dangerous.” Individual transgressions, or as we saw at the time of the research on Chernobyl, incidents could become accidents which would not be without consequence outside the protective fences of the industrial sites, “Someone discouraged the workers from having sexual relations with their wives. . .” “The cars were cleaned after the nuclear dust clouds passed but it was not about the ones at Chernobyl.” “My wife died of cancer, it was probably me who brought home the dust. . .” a COGEMA technician reflected gravely. “Anyway, they do what they want,” asserted an interim COGEMA employee from Saire Valley before concluding, “When we absorb a dose of radioactivity, we’re tainted.” More than feeling the threat or the feeling of the danger is the transformative certainty of the rotting pathology that one will contract here as much as it demonstrates an average consciousness of the internalization of the industrial logic displayed in the environmental pollutants which are full of so many latent social pathologies becoming sociopathologies incorporated into everyday facts of life. These problems could, thus, be considered growing institutions. Zonabend (1989: 157) linked deteriorization and stains, which belong to the list of contamination that she differentiates from the list of radiation exposure that refers to strength and cleanliness. Certain transgressions are linked to professional work, the repetition of procedures and to routine. Others are conscious and accomplished with a precise objective: that of acquiring a particular status, that of heroes who are able to overcome community rules regardless of the danger. These behaviors, classics in industrial history, have often been valued, at least through toleration, by business people and managerial staff, because they often ensure increased productivity in allowing the workers, who will be the solely responsible in the event of an accident, to neglect the security rules. In the reprocessing plants in La Hague, the workers who take liberties with the security rules are, in a fatalistic way, a mix of war, history and industry, called “Kamikazes.” They build a part of their identity through a pattern of risk taking, “We know them well, they are always ready, they scare people.” “I refuse to work with a Kamikaze, they put their head on the block but also others’ heads.” Following the example of the selected wizard that do not make any claim, the Kamikazes are spotted and well known in the social world of industry. In La Hague, Zonabend distinguishes the Kamikazes from the category of shareholders. The Kamikazes take and look for risks; the shareholders weigh the risks. She also sees a different professional enrollment and recounts a story: “You find the Kamikazes for the most part in the mechanical area of the plant because in the plants there is a sense that they have to get the job done. In the chemical area, there is a different sense of being (. . .) In the mechanical area, the operators will demand a bonus. The chemists will discuss for months ways to renovate a building or how to obtain rest periods. These are two ways to see the differences” (Zonabend, 1989: 152). The separation into professional sectors is not only geographical. It is also the result of different educational tracks. The Kamikazes often are those who, in school,

100

An Environmental History of the French Nuclear Complex at La Hague

1781

were already the “grease monkeys,” the mechanics have stained hands, marked by heat or from dirty work with grease or lubricants; they repair things. The workers in the chemical sector are clothed in immaculate white shirts; they prepare things. But the classification never seems to go as far as to the denunciation of competent services. The employees are able to contain, in the end, the activities of the “deviant ones” within impassable limits because they are colleagues and submited to the same law. It is here, as much as the new fantastic accounts of the technicians’ abilities, even more those of the scientists, who seek to master this frightening source of energy that is nuclear energy. The social containment of the excess failed on at least one occasion when an employee consciously radiated a colleague by placing a radioactive object in the victim’s personal vehicle. Outside of the category of professional sociopathology due to the valorsiing challenge of danger (Kamikazes), one can also point to deliberate illegal acts through misappropriation or infringement of safety rules with the intent to harm others. This last occurrence also unveiled the fragility of the security systems built to protect the industry against the foreseeable not the unthinkable. These same systems have paradoxically shown their effectiveness in detecting external nuclear incidents like the one at Chernobyl. Many workers at the reprocessing plant scoff at, between anxiety and feeling of security, the behavior of the French authorities on the subject of accurate public information. After the catastrophy at Chernobyl, a couple of pensioners were eager to explain: “The public does not know what is happening in La Hague. The proof is that during the explosion at Chernobyl, all alarms sounded21 in La Hague and no one knew. If we knew it, it was because one of our sons worked at the reprocessing plant.” Here, the information diffused between zealots and beginners symbolically cements a social identity, often threatened by the publicity and negative stigma linked to the location of the nuclear industry. The nuclear business culture, combined with an experienced workforce in charge of safety, seems like a pledge to control the activity. However, industrial productivity and the search to master the technology, contrast with the strong collective identity which in the trade union tradition of French metallurgy sometimes brutally seeks confrontation when in social conflicts, such as layoffs. One solution adopted by the industry consists of recruiting workers under a limited time contract in the group of temporary workers. Qualified to work in the radioactive zone, these workers have the advantage of not being taken into the everyday routine and the disadvantage of not perfectly mastering the cultural elements of the security procedures. Unlike the Kamikazes mentioned above, it is their precarious status which could push them to conceal the abuses of professional exposure. The cumulative doses absorbed could be synonymous with the end of an assignment, without medical follow-ups later. But, the increasing recourse to interim workers is also, for the industry a find way to “dishomogenize” the incidents that arise during operation. Indeed, in addition to the invisible dilution of radiation and contamination, the lack of continuity in the production process and the segmentation, as a juxtaposition, of the competitive companies in the same sector, keep the workforce from constructing a complete history of its professional activity. After fifty years of operation, the employees know,

1782

L. Bocéno

predominantly, the official story. The socio-historic memory of the everyday contingency is blocked by the social decomposition, which acts as a barrier between the events: “There is no mixing between the companies” an interim worker told us during an interview. This strategy is fundamental for the industry in regards to the sociopathological and epidemiological issues that form the biographical follow-up of the careers of the sick (in the double sociological meaning of the word).

100.5.1 Fatalism and Sociopathology In the nuclear energy industry, weighing the danger is key. It conditions the activity, the sequence of procedures, on the social organization of the industry. Outside of the industrial compound, the danger seems to disappear or to fade magically. Thus, the professionals from the nuclear energy sector agree generally on the innocuousness of the radioactive waste and chemicals in the environment. We have seen battles of the experts take place regularly without their opinions changing drastically. The workers are caught in the middle between the defense of their work and the objective impossibility of thinking about the most harmful consequences for humanity. Their level of consciousness of the risk seems to be inversely proportional to their need for work. The privileges, the perplexity and the anxiety in view of the risks that represent the nuclear industry are objectified and expressed according to many terms, and strong differences exist from one to the other. But the status of the worker could enter into cognitive dissonance with those closely related to them. The sociopathological fear for descendants is thus effective.22 “For my husband and me, nuclear energy do not scare us, but it is our children I fear for. One never knows,” declared one couple. “I have a cousin who works at COGEMA who refused to have kids because he thinks that human society is headed toward the end of a healthy world, toward an artificial life alienated from nature. He doesn’t want his children to see that,” asserts a woman incredulous at the fatalism of this man. A young woman, mother of two, says, “I am pessimistic by nature and prefer not to know or read anything about nuclear energy.” She “skips” local and regional pages of the newspaper because that is where nuclear energy is referenced the most. The patronage or the recurrent sponsorship by these local industries23 finds no more credit in her eyes: “It’s hard, they are everywhere. You can’t escape them.” For these people, nuclear energy cannot be reduced to a local problem. It is a societal problem that they so not want to see. Here, the lack of information (caused by the individual’s refusal to inform oneself) is a social consequence of the inevitable mechanism of the cognitive dissonance. For others, nuclear energy is a question that they agree to keep locally because “COGEMA bought the milk from Beaumont (La Hague) to keep it from being distributed.” Local questioning that creates a hierarchy of risks shows a succinct knowledge of the industrial procedures of, more simply, the consequences of the Chernobyl catastrophe and the memory work. Thus, the nuclear power plant in Flamanville is the most stigmatized for its dangerousness because, for this worker who does not work in the plant, the plant

100

An Environmental History of the French Nuclear Complex at La Hague

1783

has “a nuclear reactor that could explode and catch fire while at COGEMA, these are leaks that can be repaired” and for a married couple who are both employed at COGMEA (she is a secretary and he is a security officer), they do not always think about the danger because “there are escape leaks,” but the explanations and communication from COGEMA are not effectively passed on to the population. Likewise, the danger of nuclear energy would come from the power plants. Thus, the Flamanville power plant is considered dangerous because it produces the energy, while the industry in La Hague is a mere reprocessing plant. In reprocessing the spent fuel (waste), the COGEMA plant seems to pacify danger and neutralize the dangerous industrial waste. COGEMA thus contributes, in a certain way, to reintegrating the danger into a peaceful nature. This is not everyone’s opinion as underlined by a woman who worked in the two organizations and who says that, “The work at the power plant is more serious than that done at COGEMA. My worries come from the military arsenal in Cherbourg where no one pays attention and the population doesn’t worry either.” The ANDRA waste storage center also worries the woman, who is happy to have a husband who doesn’t work for COGEMA because she would not feel “at ease,” but for that “The question of floods is important because when the water rises, the waste buried in La Hague comes back up.” In other words, the local population sees the danger outside of the organization that provides jobs (to a person or someone’s close relative). This reflex of denial appears similar to the one of putting a social stigma on your neighbor in social housing projects. Yet, here, the reflex carries the sociopathological risks, in the sense of industrial incorporation, because it tends to underestimate its actual threat. Far from catastrophic or frightening questions, many people wonder about J.-F. Viel’s research, “Nuclear energy is not dangerous, so why research it? The clock radios that everyone has by their heads for hours emit radiation and are dangerous, there are studies on this subject. Granite is also a material that must be researched” and disassociated from the question of nuclear energy problems linked with magnetic fields and radioactivity in the natural environment, These were, in fact, two axes of J.-F. Viel’s research in the epidemiological study. In so doing, they foreshadow, the inside and outside of all the scientific conclusions, the result being what are considered socially acceptable because: “The area benefits from the industry’s presence in La Hague from an economic point of view. This industry facilitates a number of traineeships for vocational training and finances cultural and sport activities. One can do everything: La Hague pays.” It can be said that the silence has a price, but also a communal epidemiological price. One way to accept the proximity of nuclear energy and the risk that it poses to the population is to bring it back to the level of other pathogenic factors like the women who had several cases of cancer in her family, “There have been three deaths already. Whether you live in Paris, Rouen or La Hague, it’s the same! The pollution is of a different nature, but its influence on health is as bad. The members of the family are touched by cancer victims who live in Paris, Rouen and La Hague. If someone considers leaving La Hague, I ask myself for what destination, because what place is free from pollution. In the same way, here, it is no worse than in the

1784

L. Bocéno

east of France with the chemical corridor.” This line of reasoning is comparable to that of smokers denying or reducing the consciousness of their risks by bringing up other sources of pathogenic pollution. Or still, this woman who proposes a way to work among pathologies, “If you want to accuse nuclear energy of being responsible for illnesses, you must go to investigate the zones where there are no reprocessing plants or nuclear power plants to make comparisons. That is the only way one can say anything about nuclear energy.” It is also possible to accept (or live with) the nuclear facilities, like this couple whose husband works in radioprotection at COGEMA, who explained, “I defend nuclear power and when my close relatives worry, I bring them to the visit the site. They see that the site is clean, the work is serious and done safely. In some ways, La Hague is like Mont Saint Michel, it is part of the local history.” Again, one man suggests a “visit to La Hague. It is integrated with the countryside like the old farms or the castles of the region. It is part of the history, like Mont Saint Michel.” To integrate the nuclear energy industry into the environmental heritage is a way not to avoid the question of risk but to keep it in the public sphere, like the woman who defends the public service, “Nuclear energy is good, but it is necessary that it not become a source of profit because then the security would be neglected.” Socialized by science and technology; socializing through the relations of production and its use, nuclear energy seems, in La Hague, like a rather ubiquitous social energy. In fact, it intervenes unavoidably as an identity “marker” for the local society as well as for individuals. Whatever their attitudes towards nuclear energy, conscious or not, the residents of La Hague inherit some of its social value or stigma. This legacy is perceived as something you cannot deny; the point is to make the best use of it, to adapt one’s life to it before transmitting it. And one resident of La Hague who claims to not know the influences of the industry on the environment explains: “In any case, here, it is beautiful, and we’re far away!” One can see that the nuclear organizational culture does not allow smooth integration of this particular and peculiar industry in the social world of the employees and the residents. The reality of the dispersal of radionuclides in the environment, therefore their incorporation, underlines the limits of control of their livelihood. This incorporation is the institutionalized form of these limits which, reflecting on the practical industry, surround them symbolically.

100.6 Conclusion We made the choice to present only one part of the history of the construction of the reprocessing plants in La Hague, which are still a target of controversy in France. We preferred to present J.-F. Viel’s research, by contextualizing it historically and socially, which allows one to understand what was at stake not only in the nuclear context, but in the pathological institutional incorporation that we called sociopathology. The social and historic context is of primary importance in order to read the history of La Hague where nuclear energy continues to remain. The confident French authorities, certainly relying on the history of the nuclear facilities

100

An Environmental History of the French Nuclear Complex at La Hague

1785

that we have just introduced, built a power station of the so-called new generation, despite the negative opinions of many local representatives (the mayors). As we have attempted to show, arguing about the installation of an industrial megastructure cannot avoid questioning the symbolic power it mobilizes in all strata of society, except if it uses uncontested social power to try and reduce, without really solving them, certain problems.

Notes 1. In France, the département is the main local authority, the canton is the intermediate administrative entity between the commune (the municipality) and the département (the province). 2. In the region, we will revisit a nuclear power station but this one operates free from the controversy that surrounds the reprocessing plants. 3. The Commission for Atomic Energy (CEA) was founded by General De Gaulle in 1945. It was the CEA that developed the Zoe battery, which served to support the research that endowed France with nuclear weapons (the first French nuclear attempt in the Sahara Desert in 1960). Currently the CEA is a public organization of French scientific research intervening particularly in the energy and defense domains. At the moment, the CEA has the particular status of public industrial and commercial establishment and one of its jobs is to develop the applications linked with nuclear energy to support the science industry as much as the army and the Department of Defense. 4. There are several production units dedicated to reprocessing radioactive waste in La Hague. The generally used term to refer to the complex is COGEMA, a name from General Company or Radioactive Materials created in 1976. The principal shareholder are the French state, through the Commission for Atomic Energy, with about 81% and the oil company TotalFinal-Elf with about 15% of the shares. The production units have worked since the late 1960s. Greenpeace publicized the influence of this industry on the environment after a recent tide of the century, when it was discovered that a 1.6 kilometer section of the pipe was used to discharge the waste into the ocean and a laboratory was allowed to independently control and carry out measuring their radioactivity. Since September 3, 2001, the group COGEMA (18,300 workers) has been a subsidiary company of AREVA NC (45,000 workers) presented as the world leader in the nuclear industry which acquired with the merger of CEA-Industry, Framatone and COGEMA, among others, control over of the group of activities linked in the nuclear domain. 5. The plants not only reprocessed domestic nuclear waste, produced by the French nuclear power plants, but they also reprocessed nuclear waste from Germany, Belgium, Switzerland, the Netherlands, and Japan. 6. The Channel Storage Center has existed since 1969; it is managed by the National Agency for the management of radioactive waste (ANDRA), created in 1979. A recent controversy relative to the administrative authorization to close the Storage Center has driven ecologists and ANDRA before a court in Caen that, in the last judgment, authorized the closure of the site despite numerous reservations. It was noted that the Storage Center did not meet all the required guarantees against leaks, there were numerous irregularities concerning the packaging of the authorized radioactive products, the presence of prohibited radioactive products in the storage facility, forbidden chemical elements that, if combined, could pose serious risks. 7. During the period of active storage, the Channel Storage Center employed up to 120 people. Since its closure, two people ensure its maintenance. 8. We point out that the field work we rely on in this chapter was carried out since 1995, with local workers, of which the most publicized is the study, on behalf of INSERM, about leukemia in young children, completed under the supervision of J.-F. Viel, a doctor

1786

9. 10. 11. 12.

13.

14. 15.

16. 17.

18.

19. 20.

21.

22.

23.

L. Bocéno of medicine and a university professor working in Besançon. See the bibliography for references. Later Frederic Joliot-Curie would oppose French projects for an atomic bomb. The Permanent members of the Security Council of the UN eventually all officially developed their own nuclear weapons. The positions and advertisements came from the EDF, COGEMA, etc. Until recently EDF (Electricité de France) had a monopoly in energy distribution and had a high market share in electric energy production in France. The power station built in Flamanville in 1977 is a power station with two 1,265-megawatt sections. The first was put in service in 1985, the second in 1986. It occupies about 120 ha (296 acres) of which half faces the sea. 500 people work there. From 1950 to 1953, the British authorities, with the agreement of the French authorities, dumped close to 17,000 tons of radioactive waste in the Casquets coastal trench, which is about 10 km (6.2 mi) from La Hague. Flasks are lead-sealed structures designed to transport the waste and built to resist, railway, road and naval accidents. They are calculated to resist extreme situations, impacts, fires, etc. One nuclear waste reprocessing plant, at Sellafield, in Great Britain is the origin of many radioactive pollutants in its close environment. The consequences in the way of image were disastrous and the leaders from La Manche knew it well and preferred to take the initiative to change the names of their products. The elected assembly of the department. This refers to the interviews that we carried out from 1994 to 1996. This period corresponds to the timeframe during which questionnaires about J.-F. Viel’s studies were administered. As a rough guide, we provide several indications that puts the classical appreciation of distance into perspective: the official forbidden zone around Chernobyl had a radius of 30 km (18.6 mi). And yet, many zones were identified as contaminated far from Chernobyl, in Ukraine, Russia, and Belarus, as well as Germany, Austria, France, Switzerland, etc., that is several hundred kilometers or further, in Scandinavia, close to the Arctic Circle. The Channel Storage Center, the nuclear power plant and the two reprocessing plants are in the extreme west of the Cotentin peninsula and Barfleur is a fishing town in the east. Several years ago a manager, questioned after a serious industrial accident at COGEMA in La Hague, declared in a broadcast interview that agents in charge of radioactive barrels were not always informed of the nature of the goods they were transporting. This omission was justified by the fear of two unwanted behaviors among employees: either a demand for increased security measures which would lead to increased costs and slower activity, or a salary increase to compensate for professional risk-taking. The sound systems to detect radioactivity, which all industrial nuclear energy sites have, were set off, on the COGEMA site in La Hague when the Chernobyl cloud passed over. Note that the general logic of the security systems of this type was meant to detect the movement of radioactivity form the interior to the exterior, to warn of all possible dangers to the civil society, but in the case of Chernobyl, it was the opposite which was produced: an external radioactive event contaminated the site. During our field work in the zones contaminated by the Chernobyl cloud, in Belarus, we noted the difficulties of marrying and having a family; the example of the residents of Nagasaki and Hiroshima, the Hibakushas, who were the object of social discrimination and were encouraged to hide their experience in order not to harm their progeny, who risked, accused by rumors, to give birth to abnormal children. EDF, ANDRA and COGEMA contribute, for example, financially and in natura to various sports activities and clubs (underwater diving, sand yachting, soccer. . .), and subsidize educational trips for school children. Their capacity as the major employers makes them essential partners in the local community life and civil society.

100

An Environmental History of the French Nuclear Complex at La Hague

1787

References Bocéno, L. (2005). Sociopathologies. De Tchernobyl à La Hague. Sociology thesis, Universite de Caen/Basse-Normandie. Pobel, D., & Viel, J.-F. (1997). Case-control study of leukaemia among young people near La Hague nuclear reprocessing plant: The environmental hypothesis revisited. British Medical Journal, 314, 101–106. Zonabend, F. (1989). La presqu’île au nucléaire. Paris: Odile Jacob.

Chapter 101

Fifty Years of Soviet Nuclear Testing in Semipalatinsk, Kazakstan: Juxtaposed Worlds of Blasts and Silences, Security and Risks, Denials and Memory Stanley D. Brunn

The nightingales used to sing during my childhood; now they are a rare sight. From an interview with a villager recorded by Werner and Purvis-Roberts (2007)

101.1 Introduction The World Engineering Earth map includes examples of megaengineering projects of various scales and costs that have affected environments, populations, economies, and cultures. The map would include huge hydroelectric dams, extensive transcontinental railroads and highways, new capital cities, and gigantic river diversion and coastal reclamation schemes. Another map category would include beneficial projects, at least to some, for example, industrial and tourist sites as well as megauniverisities and airports. And yet another category might include massive projects that were or are harmful and destructive to large areas and populations. In this category I would include sites for nuclear weapons production, reprocessing and testing. Perhaps these have caused more damage to the planet’s environmental systems and endangered more people than any other project. The purpose of this chapter is to discuss the environmental consequences in the major region of Soviet nuclear testing during the Cold War. The Semipalatinsk Nuclear Test Site (or SNTS), or Nuclear Polygon in northeast Kazakhstan, was the site of nearly 500 tests from 1949 to 1989. It comprises about a 6,950 mi2 (18,000 km2 ) of land in the steppes. The first Soviet test was an atmospheric test conducted on 29 August 1949; the magnitude was 22 kT, nearly the same yield as the first conducted by the U.S. (19 kT). I begin by looking at the nuclear tests conducted during the Cold War by the U.S. and the Soviet Union. Next I discuss the selection of Semipalatinsk as a test site and the number of tests conducted. The next several topics focus on the impacts of the tests, especially the early warnings by some Soviet scientists of potential health

S.D. Brunn (B) Department of Geography, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA e-mail: [email protected] S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_101,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1789

1790

S.D. Brunn

problems. I discuss recent research by social and health scientists on resident populations. The nearly five decades of silence about reporting health problems was broken with the emergence of grassroots organizations in early 1989. I also examine the reporting, or, really the lack thereof, of the tests by the local newspaper. These “denial” worlds are also reflected in the perceptions of current university students and children artists. The next focus is on “memories” of these testing years, especially exhibits in local ethnographic and art museums. I conclude with a brief examination of how the Kazakh government continues to cope with this “nuclear nightmare.” Several questions stimulated this research. First, I wanted to know what was reported about the nearly 500 nuclear blasts in the local paper. If there was one newspaper that would carry news about the blasts and their impact, I reasoned it should be from Semipalatinsk. Second, I was curious how the testing program was memorialized by the city. To answer this question I visited museums in the city and in the Polygon itself and also a major city park where a monument has been erected recently to honor testing victims. Third, I wanted to know how this nuclear legacy has impacted younger generations, specifically those born after the testing ended and when public discussion was permitted. I obtained answers from a survey administered to my university students (I was a Fulbright professor in Semipalatinsk in fall 2007) and from the drawings children made in art classes at the city’s Art Museum. Fourth, I was curious how this legacy was depicted by regional adult artists. Answering this question proved difficult because there continues to be a strong “denial” among some adults and gatekeepers of “memorialized information” about what happened, including preferring not to display negative images. To answer these and related questions I relied on published data about events, scholarly articles, personal observations from living in Semipalatinsk and discussing the testing impacts with first and second generation residents.

101.2 Nuclear Tests During the Cold War Nuclear testing was part of the Cold War strategy of both the U.S. and USSR that was designed to thwart a surprise attack. Since the first test of nuclear weapons was conducted by the U.S. on 16 July 1945 in Alamogordo, New Mexico, which was called Project Trinity and the Manhattan Project, there were nearly 2100 explosions from 1945 to 1996 (Hansen, 1995; Maag & Rohrer, 1996; Nuclear Weapons Archive, 2001; National Research Council, 2005; Natural Resources Defense Council, 2008; Trinity Atomic Web Site, 2008). Most (1030) were by the U.S., 715 by the Soviet Union, 210 by France, 45 each by China and the United Kingdom. When we consider the tests of the U.S. and the Soviet Union, nearly 1300 were underground. The U.S. tested nuclear weapons at the Nevada Test Site but also a small number in the Pacific Proving Grounds (Trinity Atomic Web Site, 2008). The USSR conducted most of its tests in Semipalatinsk; a few tests were carried out in Novaya Zemlya. Most tests by the U.S. and USSR were conducted in the 1950s; more were atmospheric than underground. The peak year for all tests

101

Fifty Years of Soviet Nuclear Testing in Semipalatinsk, Kazakstan

1791

was 1962 (176); second was 1958 (116). The Limited Test Ban Treaty signed by the USSR and U.S. in 1963 effectively banned nuclear testing from the atmosphere, outer space, and underwater, but did permit underground testing, which continued until a Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty was adopted by all major nuclear players (Russia, U.S., China, Britain, and France) in 1996.

101.3 The Semipalatinsk Nuclear Test Site Semipalatinsk (now called Semey after thegovernment changed the name in 2007 thinking it would give the city a more positive image) is a large industrial city on the Irtysh River with over 300,000 people (Fig. 101.1). It is the largest city in

Fig. 101.1 Location of Semipalatinsk, Kazakhstan, the nuclear test site, detonation sites, and communities adjacent. (Cartography by Dick Gilbreath)

1792

S.D. Brunn

northeast Kazakhstan after Ust-Kamenogorsk or Oskemen, the oblast’s capital. Both cities were closed military cities during the Soviet years. The edge of the Polygon is about 130 km (81 mi) west from Semipalatinsk. During the Cold War it was enclosed by barbed wire and guarded at entry points. Between Semipalatinsk and the eastern edge of the Polygon there are several small rural settlements, including Mostik and Dolon to the east and Sarzhal and Kainar to the southeast and south (Werner and Purvis-Roberts, 2007: 280). Approximately 6000 people lived in these villages prior to1960; Semipalatinsk then had slightly over 150,000. Before and during the testing period the steppe was occupied mostly by Kazakhs engaged in livestock raising (mostly horses, but also goats and sheep) and also by Russians, Germans, and Ukrainians, many sent here as a result of purges. There were no cities in the Polygon, however, Kurchatov, the administrative, military, and science city during the testing period, is just inside the boundary. Other large cites near Semey are Pavlodar to the northwest and Karaganda to the southwest, and Novosibirsk, a Russian city with 1.4 million residents about 350 mi (560 km) north of Semey.

101.4 Selection of the Site: Being Blind-Sited There are many reasons offered why this area was selected, including that it was sparsely populated, flat, geologically stable, and a long distance from major populated centers (Fig. 101.2). A North American environmental analog would be the

Fig. 101.2 Physical landscape adjacent to and in the Polygon

101

Fifty Years of Soviet Nuclear Testing in Semipalatinsk, Kazakstan

1793

physical landscapes of western North Dakota and southern Saskatchewan. This steppe region is within the Virgin Lands agricultural area where grains, especially wheat, are raised and some livestock. Northern Kazakhstan has a semiarid climate, but the southern part of the Polygon is arid. Flying over the Polygon leaves you with a sense of vastness and void with few roads, often leading to former testing stations and installations. Who selected the site is somewhat conjectural. Boztayev (1998), former major of Semipalatinsk, stated that the decision was made on 21 August 1947 by the Soviet government to build a nuclear testing site; it was labeled “Testing Polygon # 2.” The General Headquarters of the Soviet Army was responsible for building the project. The chief of the construction project as well as the testing program was the physicist V. Igor Kurchatov; he was also the Minister of Energy and Natural Resources (Skholnik, 2002). Kurchatov was strongly influenced by Lavrentiy Beria who was head of the Soviet nuclear weapons program. Both probably looked at this steppe land south of the Irtysh River and considered it basically uninhabited, but had other attributes, including being approximately 200 km (120 mi) from a railroad and airports and having limited road access. Local residents had no voice in the decision and also were unaware the site was under construction; in essence, they were “blindsided,” which was not unusual as all national defense decisions were made in Moscow. It is also worth noting that the Polygon is in Kazakh territory, not Russian. The Polygon’s administrative and science center was a secret city. It was first called Semipalatinsk-21; it also appeared on maps as Konechnaya and then Kurchatov. Degelen and or Moldary, two nearby small villages, were incorporated into Kurchatov. Kurchatov appeared on maps for the first time in the 1990s (Skholnik, 2002; Werner & Purvis-Roberts, 2007; Wikipedia, 2009). The government told people who lived there to acknowledge that they lived in Semipalatinsk (Werner & Purvis-Roberts, 2007: 279). The construction of the test facilities in the Polygon and Kurchatov was done in secret. Construction workers were not permitted to inform their friends or families where they worked or what they did for fear of reprisals. Initially labor was performed by the Semipalatinsk labor camp, then the 217th Engineering and Mining Battalion, which later would also construct the space launching facility at Baikanur. Kurchatov was also a closed city of about 45,000 residents during the testing years. The Russian scientists and engineers in this secret city lived lavish life styles compared to nearby farmers and herders in the adjacent Virgin Lands. Foods and consumer goods were brought in from Moscow by air or on the special constructed railroad. It had its own schools and stores. Those who died were taken to Ukraine for burial (Stevenson, 2004: 30). Some area residents conjured up superstitious reasons for the site being selected. These included that the Polygon was the center of Eurasia, which it is, and thus a “converging” place where spiritual forces are at work. This spiritual convergence is also attributed to three famous Kazakh writers and philosophers Abai, Shakarim, and Auezov, who were born in the region.

1794

S.D. Brunn

101.5 Number of Soviet Tests The number of tests conducted varies by source. Cochran et al. (1989), states there were 467 explosions; Stevenson (2004: 27) notes there were 607 nuclear devices. Boztayev (1998), who was mayor of Semipalatinsk, reported there were 509 and one additional blast in 1995. Bulatov (1996) identified 470 explosions. See Skholnik (2002) for a discussion of these issues; and also Werner and Purvis-Roberts (2007: 296). Some sources counted the number of explosions, while others only the number of tests. According to the Ministry of Atomic Energy and the Ministry of Defense of Russia there were 463 explosions plus 1 in 1995 test (an exploded ordinance) (Boztayev (1998: 16–42). I used this source as it listed the number of a test, the date, and the kilotons. Huge blasts occurred on 29 August 1949 (the first blast), 24 September 1951, 12 August 1953, and 24 August 1956. All sent radioactive clouds over villages and agricultural land downwind (Fig. 101.3). Three blasts each were recorded on these

Fig. 101.3 Magnitude of blasts and directions of radioactive clouds blasts. (Cartography by Dick Gilbreath)

101

Fifty Years of Soviet Nuclear Testing in Semipalatinsk, Kazakstan

1795

Fig. 101.4 Diorama of the testing area, 29 August 1949 in the Science Museum, Kurchatov

days: 10 December 1972, 26 December 1977, and 19 October 1989. Most of the tests were conducted in 1961 and 1962. There were no blasts conducted in six years: 1950, 1952, 1959, 1960, 1963, and 1986 and small numbers other years: 1949 (1), 1951 (2), and 1953 and 1955 (5 each). During the 1970s and 1980s there were 12–15 blasts each year. The tests were conducted in three general areas within the Polygon; 30 were “surface” tests. Another 86 “atmospheric” were at the Ground Zero Experimental Field, 109 were in the Balapan region and 239 were in the Delegen Mountain complex. The above ground tests had nuclear devices placed atop a tower which were then detonated. Planes also flew through the mushroom clouds after the explosions to measure radiation levels. The underground tests had explosives either bored into the ground or into a horizontal tunnel before they were detonated. Even though the levels of radiation that entered the atmosphere from underground tests were lower than from atmospheric testing, it is estimated that about a one-third of the gases escaped from underground explosions (Skholnik, 2002). The engineers carefully planned the first blast as they wanted to learn more about the impacts of radiation levels on humans, livestock, the soil, and air. Nuclear devices were placed atop a tower at Ground Zero and detonated. At varying distances from the tower they placed different kinds of livestock (goats, sheep, cattle, rabbits, pigs, dogs, and rats), barns and houses, residents (some standing in open spaces), military personnel, and military vehicles (planes, jeeps, tanks) (Werner and Purvis-Roberts, 2007: 281). Recording devices to measure radiation levels were placed at varying distances from the blast site (Fig. 101.4). The final blasts were three underground tests conducted on 19 October 1989. The last explosion was a non-nuclear blast (the planned detonation of an underground exploded ordinance) on 30 May 1995.

101.6 Advanced Warnings of Tests: Being Blind-Sided There was little standard policy by Soviet authorities regarding advanced warnings of tests. Some residents received such warnings, others did not. Some people,

1796

S.D. Brunn

including military personnel, were authorized to stay in buildings, others were to stand outside and experience the blast. Sometimes village and urban residents were warned by a siren only an hour before a blast. Children reported hiding under their desks in school or being told by a parent to hide under a cardboard box or newspapers or stay indoors. There was mixed advice given to farmers and herders. Some were told to leave their buildings when blasts would occur, lest they be buried by collapsing walls. Others were told to remain indoors. Although they were warned of watching the blasts and mushroom clouds, some did anyway, not realizing that blindness could result. On testing days sometimes farmers and their livestock were removed to other areas for a week or two. Common were reports of buildings being shaken, windows broken, objects falling off walls, walls collapsing, and entire foundations destroyed. The most powerful impacts and damage were felt by those living closest to the explosion sites, but the mushroom clouds were seen and the earth moved as far east as Ust-Kamenogorsk and north as Novosibirsk (Fig. 101.5). Here they experienced spectacular sunsets and walls and foundations shaking. Disruptions in daily lives were something residents could not prevent; they just had to cope with the impacts (Stevenson, 2004; Werner and Purvis-Roberts, 2007). See Yakubovskaya, Nagibin, and Suslin (2003: 43–54) for a discussion how the explosions impacted Russians living downwind.

Fig. 101.5 Levels of radiation of sites adjacent to and downwind from the SNTS. (Cartography by Dick Gilbreath)

101

Fifty Years of Soviet Nuclear Testing in Semipalatinsk, Kazakstan

1797

Fig. 101.6 Medical college in Semipalatinsk

How the Soviet authorities handled the health impacts of those affected further reveals the “secrecy of the denial.” Starting in 1961 Polygon area residents could be treated for ailments at the “Anti-Brucellosis Dispensary Number Four” in Semipalatinsk (Fig. 101.6). Treatment in this “secret clinic” was supervised by the Institute of Biophysics which was under the USSR Ministry of Health (Werner & Purvis-Roberts, 2006). This testing facility was not even identified as a clinic, but as a center testing animal-borne diseases. Women were not treated for their ailments, but merely tested for radiation levels. According to Werner and Purvis-Roberts (2007) the physicians were not to “assist those affected by radiation,” but rather “to observe them and to write reports for Moscow.” It is estimated that as many as 20,000 residents from three districts in the Semipalatinsk region, Abay, Beskarugay, and Zhana-Semey, were tested in years after the testing (Skholnik, 2002: 324). Numerous health problems resulted from those exposed to high and medium levels of radiation. Many who observed the blasts lost eyesight later. Others had cancers, benign thyroid abnormalities, loss of hair, toothaches, premature aging, psychological stress (inability to sleep), birth abnormalities, and there were also unusual births of animals (Zhumadilov et al. 2000). All life in the testing area was negatively affected. Carlsen, Peterson, Ulsh, Werner, Purvis & Sharber (2001: 951) reported on declines in plant and animal species in and near the test site. Photographs of those affected by the blasts were featured in articles, books, and museum exhibits. There were photographs of children born with one eye, malformed heads, deformed limbs, and distorted bodies. Surviving adults have unexpected health problems with internal organs, eyes, skin cancers, and irregular growth of limbs. Carlsen et al. (2001) quoted from Logachev et al. (1998) that: There is little doubt that people living in the Semipalatinsk Testing Site region suffer from a range of adverse health effects, including high rates of infectious disease, cancer, and

1798

S.D. Brunn

hematological disorders. However, the task of definitely relating any of these effects to nuclear weapons testing will be complicated by numerous confounding factors such as inadequate nutrition, poor water quality, and unsanitary living conditions.

Almost everyone living in and near Semipalatinsk can share accounts from their own experience or those of other family members and friends about the effects of the years of nuclear testing (see Stevenson, 2004). There are children born today with many of the same symptoms as those born 50 years ago. And there are adults in their fifties and sixties today who experience unexpected health problems. The “harms” are more than physical or environmental, but also psychological

101.7 Coping with the Tests 101.7.1 Risks to Health: Early Warnings and Denials We know that air, soil, food, and water samples from the villages were collected and analyzed before, during, and after the tests (Grosche et al., 2002; Skholnik, 2002: 1–4). There were Soviet scientists, including physicians, who in the mid-1950s detected and reported to higher military and government authorities that health problems were surfacing, but they were criticized, marginalized, or silenced by military and government authorities; or had their views outweighed by compromising scientists who believed the testing ensured the safety of the Soviet Union in the Cold War. According to Balmukhanov, Raissova, and Balmukhanov (2002) some scientists were forced to falsify reports of those affected by atmospheric and subsurface testing. Many records were returned to Moscow or destroyed (Werner & PurvisRoberts, 2007: 298). There are no health data available for analysis from Kurchatov (Werner and Purvis-Roberts 2007: 287). Skholnik (2002) discusses the scientists’ roles in preparing for the nuclear tests and subsequent analyses. He was head of Kazakhstan’s Ministry of Energy and Material Resources, a board comprised of the directors and deputy directors of various institutes, including the National Nuclear Center in Kurchatov. It is estimated that approximately 1.2–1.8 million people were exposed to significant doses of radiation (Rehabilitating . . ., 2000–2001; Skholnik, 2002). This figure includes those living in northeastern Kazakhstan and adjacent Russia, including Novosibirsk. And it is very likely that the radiation areas extended into northwest China and Mongolia which are downwind from the SNTS (Fig. 101.7). Area residents continue to be exposed to small amounts of radiation through environmental contamination of their food source. Public officials never explained the risks or the consequences to those affected. The blasts were not described as “nuclear tests” or “atomic bombs”. (Werner & Purvis-Roberts, 2007: 290–292). One researcher, Saim Balmukhanov, noted above, tried to publish a report in the 1950s, but was threatened by the KGB (Werner, Purvis-Roberts, & McKenna, 2007: 289). He practiced self-censorship until the late 1980s when it became acceptable to write about the health impacts. Balmukhanov was detained along with a colleague in the test site in 1957. He reports that it was

101

Fifty Years of Soviet Nuclear Testing in Semipalatinsk, Kazakstan

1799

Fig. 101.7 Book cover E. L. Yakubovskya et al. Semipalatinsk Test Polygon (2003)

in the interrogation he met noted Soviet physicist, Andrei Sakharov, who asked that Balmukahnov be released (Balmukhanov et al., 2002). He also wrote that shortly after this meeting, Sakharov began to question the Soviet nuclear policies. Physicians were not permitted to list the real cause of death from radiation-suspected illnesses, which was most likely cancer. According to Werner and Purvis-Roberts (2007: 287), as early as 1951 the government developed a Radiation Safety Service “to predict radiation levels in the plumes of nuclear explosions, determine available dose levels, and create evacuation plans, if necessary.” (Skholnik 2002: 74). Wind conditions were monitored and concerns about public safety were kept secret. In short, the physicians, like the construction workers, worked in silence and in secret and were “blinded” in not being able to share their concerns with the residents at the testing site.

101.7.2 Protests: Grassroots Opposition Area residents remained unaware of the ill effects of radiation until the very late 1980s, where, with Gorbachov’s policy of glasnost, reports on the harmful effects appeared in the Semipalatinsk newspaper. This openness became a venue for discussion and also for revelations about the health problems of those exposed.

1800

S.D. Brunn

Werner and Purvis-Roberts (2007: 282) describe an embryonic antinuclear movement that emerged in Kazakhstan in early 1989. In February the first secretary of the Semipalatinsk Regional Committee of the Communist Party, K. Boztayev, sent a telegram to the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union in Moscow requesting a temporary suspension of the testing because of public concern. Citizens were beginning to speak openly about the testing. The committee initially responded negatively, but soon the movement had a powerful spokesperson, noted Kazakh poet Olzhas Suleimenov who gave an emotional television speech on 26 February calling for the end of nuclear testing in Kazakhstan. There was also a huge anti-nuclear rally in Semipalatinsk in the central square on 24 February. Simultaneous international rallies were held in the U.S. and Nevada. By the end of March 1989 the Nevada-Semipalatinsk Antinuclear Movement was spawned; it had gathered more than a million signatures asking for a halt in testing (Werner & Purvis-Roberts, 2007). Through this movement villagers living near the Polygon confirmed that their illnesses resulted from radiation exposure. Published studies revealed that people living near the test site experienced higher rates of cancers (including leukemia), benign thyroid abnormalities, psychological problems, and more birth abnormalities than those living farther away. For some, this news was shocking (Werner & Purvis-Roberts, 2007). The movement gathered momentum, even from the chair of the Republic’s Central Committee, Nursultan Nazarbaev who also supported efforts to halt testing. The group received concessions, the testing stopped and the site was closed on 29 August 1991, 42 years to the day from the first test. President Nazarbaev (2001: 13) expressed in his book, Epicenter of Peace, that he did not wish to see further destruction to people or the environment. Even though the testing ended in1989, Kazakhstan still had more than 1200 nuclear warheads and 600 kg of uranium at the Ulbinsky Metallurgical Plant outside Ust-Kamenogorsk. Nazarbaev also signed an agreement with President Yelstin in 1994 to remove all nuclear warheads. In November 2004 the remaining uranium was transferred to the Oak Ridge National Laboratory in Tennessee.

101.7.3 Three “Worlds” of Impacts A team of U.S. social and physical scientists (Werner & Purvis-Roberts, 2007) visited Semipalatinsk early this decade to gather ethnographic and survey data from individuals and focus groups about the perception of risks from nuclear testing among residents in the affected region. These studies by Purvis-Roberts, Werner and Frank (2007), Werner and Purvis-Roberts (2007, 2006), and Carlsen et al. (2001) are invaluable in documenting the health issues. Altogether Werner and colleagues spent six months in 2000. 2001, 2003 and 2004 interviewing more than 800 villagers, physicians, and research scientists. They conducted in depth interviews with three different village populations and collected current and historical health data; they were informed it was impossible to obtain health data from Kurchatov. Some of the scientists worked and lived in the Polygon during the testing years. These studies were the first that measured perceptions of risk, rather than only cancer and other

101

Fifty Years of Soviet Nuclear Testing in Semipalatinsk, Kazakstan

1801

health problems. Perceptions of risks to technological disasters, whether nuclear, chemical, or biological, are valuable to scientists and public officials seeking to measure the short and long term environmental impacts of hazards. See Brunn, Johnson and Zeigler (1979) on the perceived risks of those living near the site of the March 1979 Three Mile Island nuclear accident, Zeigler, Johnson, and Brunn (1983) on the geographies and geometries of technological hazards, Everest (1986), Hanna et al. (2005), and D’Silva (2006) on the 1984 Union Carbide chemical explosion at Bhopal, and Gould (1990) on the 1986 nuclear plant accident at Chernobyl. In one paper Purvis-Roberts, Werner and Frank (2007) examined the perception of risk from radiation exposure among members of three groups. The first was a sample of residents in two villages, Dolon and Kainar, each less than 40 km (24.8 mi) from the Polygon’s boundaries and the village of Zharbulak 500 km (310 mi) away. These villagers were the lay group. Second was a group of physicians who worked in the Semipalatinsk Oncological Hospital and the Semipalatinsk Regional Hospital, both which treat cancer patients. Third was a group of scientists who worked at the Institute for Radiation, Safety, and Ecology, which is part of the National Nuclear Center in Kurchtatov at the Institute for Radiation, Medicine, and Ecology in Semipalatinsk (see Werner, Purvis & Ibraev 2003). What emerged were some interesting findings. First, the villagers had a much greater fear of radiation than the professionals (physicians and scientists). But the physicians’ fears were greater than the scientists. Second, the responses of the villagers close to the Polygon boundary and those more distant were similar, that is, distance did not result in less perceived risk. Third, the villagers also had a higher risk aversion than the other groups. Fourth, when responding to a number of statements about the perceived impacts of radiation exposure, the villagers had much higher percentages of “don’t know/no response.” The scientists and physicians expressed more knowledge about the subject. Fifth, the higher perception of risk among villagers was reflected in their view that any exposure would cause illness. What is also noteworthy in the study is that the physicians tended to agree more with the lay people than the scientists in regards to scientific knowledge. The villagers also tended to be less concerned about the “accumulated doses of radiation” thinking that the extra doses would make little difference since they already have had much exposure. Sixth, the villagers were suspicious of all “radioactive related topics” whether they observed the blasts or lived downwind. Seventh, and finally, the physicians always perceived the risks to be much greater than the scientists, a finding the authors attributed to the physicians being trained in the life sciences and working with people and their health problems versus the scientists (most were physicists), who work in laboratories and have little direct contact with patients requesting treatment. These different frames of reference among professionals have been noted in other studies (Barke & Jenkins-Smith, 1993; Grosche et al., 2002; Gusev, Abyllkassimova, & Apsalikov 1997, 1998; Kraus, Malmfors, & Solvic 1992; Mertz, Slovic, & Purchase 1998; Skholnik, 2002; Walsh, 2002; Wright, Bolgers, & Rowe 2002). Skholnik (2002: 70) notes that “The scientists frame the issue of nuclear testing as a national security issue rather than a human rights issue.” Scientists were “rarely apologetic about the impact of their tests on the local

1802

S.D. Brunn

populations” (Werner & Purvis-Roberts, 2007: 284) and they discounted the importance of the local population. They referred to the areas near the testing site as “poorly developed,” “small agricultural villages,” “practically barren steppe” and “temporary summer and winter camps” and an “uninhabited” steppe suitable for nuclear testing. The third publication by these authors looks at the decisions made by the government following the end of testing (Werner & Purvis-Roberts, 2006). It focuses on the disarmament phase, which it did with help from the U.S. and Russia. They also discuss the kinds and levels of assistance provided the radiation victims, including a Kazakh government program to provide an “ecological supplement” to those whose lives were negatively impacted.

101.7.4 Three Personal Accounts of Ground Zero Below I provide the observations of three Americans who recently who visited Ground Zero after testing stopped. The first is Professor James C. Warf, a well known U.S. physicist who was a Group Leader on the Manhattan project during the 1950s. He visited Kazakhstan in summer 1994 as part of a team sponsored by the United Methodist Church. He wrote: In the afternoon, we drove a couple hours to the site of the very first Soviet nuclear test on August 29, 1949. The name Alamogordo kept rattling around in my head. It was at the hind end of nowhere: not a house, not a tree, not an animal. We stopped a couple of miles before reaching the point, and the soil registered background level on my Geiger counter. At one mile it was 1500 counts per minute. But at about a half a mile from the hypocenter, even inside the vehicle, the counter began to click rapidly. At about 100 feet distance, the clicking was a continuous noise and I had to adjust it to a less sensitive setting. Walking toward the depression of the marking the hypocenter itself, it read 2100 counts per minute on the surface and 3000 in a fresh hole 10 cm deep. At the rim of the crater, like the vortex of hell, the reading was about 100,000 cpm; the least sensitive setting was necessary. The bomb, with a 20 kiloton yield, had been detonated on a 90 foot tower, and the downward force compacted the earth to form a crater about 30 feet deep. There was water in the bottom, so I could not get any samples from that area. Water plants, weeds, grass and insects were everywhere. Walking in the direction downwind from the blast site the radioactivity increased to about 600,000 cpm. The activity was due only to gamma rays, mostly from cesium-137. From the half-life and a time of 45 years, I calculated that about two-thirds of the cesium-137 (as well as tronitiuim-90), which also undergoes beta decay (but without any gamma radiation) had decayed away. I took a sample back home; it registered at 0.8 microcurie per gram (Warf, 1994).

This is a statement from Cynthia Werner, who co-authored the articles cited above. She is a professor of anthropology at Texas A and M University. (She refers to her research partner, Kathleen Purvis-Roberts.) Given the nature of our project, Katie and I felt that it was very important to visit Ground Zero where the first nuclear weapon was detonated in the Polygon. During the summer of 2003, our Kazakh partner, Nurlan helped us arrange a one-day trip to the site with several Kazakhstani scientists from the National Nuclear Center. We were told that it would be safe to visit the site for a short period of time (less than one hour). We were each given a protective mask and booties to wear on our feet. It took several hours to complete the drive

101

Fifty Years of Soviet Nuclear Testing in Semipalatinsk, Kazakstan

1803

from Kurchatov to Ground Zero. One of the most striking things was the absence of a fence surrounding the site and signs warning people of the potential dangers within the test site. There also did not seem to be any guards at the entrance to the site. The lack of restrictions today was confirmed as were approaching Ground Zero and encountered a car filled with several Kazakhs who asked us for directions to Kurchatov. It seems that they were taking a short cut from the villages on the south side of the Polygon to the town of Kurchatov. But, depending on how long they stayed at certain sites and what kind of contact they had with radioactive materials within the site, this shortcut was potentially exposing them to dangerous levels of radiation. As we continued, it was fascinating to see the large array of concrete structures that had been constructed to hold monitoring equipment and now lay abandoned across the steppes. After this encounter, we arrive at Ground Zero, which was represented by a large crater in the ground. Standing at the site provided an eerie feeling that reminded me of my visit to Birkenau and Auschwitz. Although the site itself was no longer remarkable, it was impossible to be there and not imagine the horrifying events that had taken place at this very spot nearly sixty years before (Werner, C. (2009). “personal email communication” 29 May).

This is from Kathleen Purvis-Roberts, a professor of Chemistry at Clermont College. I visited Ground Zero at the Semipalatinsk Nuclear Test Site (SNTS) outside of Kurchatov, Kazakhstan in July of 2003. I was working with my colleague, Cynthia Werner (an Anthropologist at Texas A&M University) in the villages surrounding the SNTS to understand how laypeople viewed the risk from historical and current radiation exposure. We thought it was important to learn more about the Polygon itself though, so arranged to visit the site through the National Nuclear Center in Kurchatov. They provided the transportation, a scientist to explain the different locations we would visit, and an environmental health and safety officer to make sure that we did not receive too large of a radiation dose. I remember first being struck by the fact that as we drove onto the Polygon itself, there were no signs warning of the potential radiation risks and no fences or gates to keep people from traveling across the site. As we made our way to Ground Zero on a dirt path off the main road, we saw a car coming towards us, and not one of the official vehicles of the National Nuclear Center. We stopped to talk to the occupants of the vehicle, and it ended up that they were from a village directly adjacent to the western side of the test site, traveling to a wedding on the eastern side. They explained that it was just easier to make the short cut across, instead of going around the Polygon, even though they knew that there were locations where they could be exposed to radiation. In addition, it was interesting to them to see where the nuclear testing had taken place. The Safety Officer explained to them that this was not a wise decision and let them go on their way. All this time, the Geiger counter in our van was beeping slowly, but as we moved further along the road, it started to pick up in speed and intensity until the van stopped. We got out of the van, and the scientist traveling with us pointed out a slight depression in the land off to our right. Although it looked like any other part of the Kazakh Steppe, he explained that this was the site of the original nuclear blast that occurred on August 29, 1949. As I looked up and around me, I realized that the decaying concrete instrument towers that were used to monitor explosions ran radially out from the point where we were standing. When I looked at the ground at my feet I saw soil that had melted together from the heat of the nuclear blast. As someone who grew up under the threat of nuclear war from Cold War politics, I had a sense of awe that this is where the nuclear arms race started for the Soviet Union. We only stayed in that location for a few minutes to limit radiation exposure, which made me think about all of the villagers who use this site as a shortcut. What if they had stopped a picnicked in this location? They would receive high doses of radiation without even knowing it. When I think back to my visit to Ground Zero I often worry about the villagers who travel across the Polygon, potentially

1804

S.D. Brunn

exposing themselves to radiation because they do not know the locations of the hot spots (Purvis-Roberts, K. (2009). “personal email communication”, 5 June).

101.8 Newspaper Stories: The Reporting of Silence A visit to Semey bookstores will yield some books on the nuclear testing period as the region continues to be visited by outside photographers, journalists and scholars interested in many of the history and background questions discussed above and in the impacts of the testing on contemporary residents. Residents and scholars inside and outside Semey recognize the city’s unique place in world history. There are regular conferences held at the city’s universities that address the ecological, medical, and environmental impacts of the testing period. Teams of physicians from Japan especially, periodically visit the medical colleges to test the radiation levels of youth and elders. Japanese scientists have a special affinity with the region and its residents since they, too, have been affected by atomic blasts. I wanted to know how much and what kind of information about the Polygon was reported in the Semey newspaper, Priirtyskaya Pravda (The Near-Irtysh Region Truth). It had a circulation of 15,000 in 1951. The newspaper in 1964 changed its name to “Irtysh.” Its circulation increased to 78,000 in 1985. Since there was and is no other large city near the Polygon, it is reasonable to assume that this newspaper would report major regional stories. I examined the contents for stories about nuclear tests on three different dates: (a) the day before each blast, (b) the day of the blast, and (c) the day following. Newspapers, usually 6–8 pages, were not published every day, nor on weekends. This task required going through 998 different issues of the newspapers from 1949 to 1989. Also I was interested in other major news stories. The results were not altogether surprising. There were no references to the explosions in any issues until 27 February 1987. In all likelihood, the editor was under very strict orders from the Ministry of Defense not to publish any news about the blasts, their psychological impacts, or the impacts on the economy or region’s health. In short, the population was “blindsided.” It had no inkling when a blast would occur or its destructive impacts. The newspaper did, however, occasionally report briefly on American nuclear tests. Here are examples of the lead stories from six different years: 1949: • 28 August: Day Before the First Explosion Which Was Huge: These were the headlines: Today Is Miners’ Day; The opening of the All-Union Conference of Peace Supporters in Moscow; The work of the permanent committee of the World Council of Peace Supporters; and a Letter to Stalin about the fulfillment of the harvest plan in Bukhara and Chernozem regions of the Uzbek, SSR. • 29 August: Day of Big Test: No Paper • 30 August: Day after Huge Test: To spread the political work during harvesting; To Comrade I. V. Stalin from the All Union Conference of Peace Supporters.

101

Fifty Years of Soviet Nuclear Testing in Semipalatinsk, Kazakstan

1805

There were also materials about the conference, which included an address. A story from the U.S. about an attempt to lynch Paul Robeson, and a story about American nuclear testing. 1951: • 22 September: Two Days before A Huge Test: These were the headlines: Friendship and Unity of the Young Fighters for Peace; To Comrade Stalin: Charski District Has Fulfilled the Plan of Wheat Harvesting; Soviet Scientists – Great Construction Projects; Closing of the Third International Youth and Students’ Festival. • 23 September: Day Before Test: No Paper • 24 September: Day of Big Test: To Comrade Stalin about Harvesting in Georgia; Barbaric Bombing of Phenyan by American Planes • 26 September: Two Days After Big Test; Greeting Address to Stalin from Bucharest in honor of the 7th Anniversary of the Liberation by the Soviet Army; More Attention to the Electrification of Collective Farms; Research in the Regional Museum 1953: • 11 August: Day Before Big Test: The Law of the State Budget for 1953 and other Law Documents • 12 August: Day of Big Test: Grandiose Tasks of the Soviet Country; Towards the New Blooming of the Motherland; Let’s All Give Energy to the Benefit of the Motherland; Law about Rural Taxes • 13 August 1953: Day After Big Test: Let’s Respond with New Work and Raise the Concern of Our Party and Government; Wheat (Bread) Is the Wealth of our Motherland (To Aid Political Agitators); The Film “The Barbarians” after Gorky’s Play Is Now in Cinemas 1977: • 26 December: 3 explosions: On 24 December there were stories about a meeting of the Supreme Soviet of the Kazakhstan SSR • 27 December: A lengthy story about Brezhnev’s answers to the questions from a Pravda correspondent and another story about socialist obligations of the collectives in Semipalatinsk. 1987: • 26 February: This announcement from TASS was the first mention of the blasts and it appeared on the last page. “On 26 February 1987 at 8,00 Moscow time on the Polygon near Semipalatinsk there was executed an underground nuclear explosion with the power of up to 20 kilotons. The test was made with an aim

1806

S.D. Brunn

to test (check) the research in the field of the physics of the nuclear explosion.” (Note: the first power of the first blast on 29.8.49 was 22 kilotons.) 1989: • 18 October: On the eve of the last day of nuclear testing, these were the lead stories: “We sow words and we harvest words.” This was a story about agriculture. Another story the same day about a visit by the Ministry of Defense of the USSR who was traveling in the US. • 19 October: The last day of nuclear testing. Stories about the Electoral Committee and a Charity Concert by the local Baptist choir in the Semipalatinsk House of Culture. • 20 October: The Mysteries of Alakol Lake, a lake known for its therapeutic value, an advertisement of the Anti-Nuclear Meeting on 23 October in Lenin Square in the city. (There was no information about yesterday’s test, but this announcement: “Dear Citizens. The regional trade unions and the Regional Committee of Peace Defense announce that on 24 October at 3 PMP on Lenin Square there will be an anti-nuclear rally. We ask everyone to participate.”) The 24 October item about the Polygon was about “happiness.”

101.9 Living in the Worlds of Awareness and Denials It is not always easy to discuss with Semipalatinsk residents the health and environmental problems that resulted from the nearly five decades of testing. Their reactions can be summed up in three categories. First are those who lived through it and are willing to talk about events. They are willing to cast blame (and shame) on existing state officials, viz., Soviet scientists and political leaders. Second are those who acknowledge the past but prefer not to talk about it. They are uncomfortable acknowledging “what happened and why.” Silence is one way they try to cope with the despair and ugliness of the legacy. Third are those who live in a world of denial; they especially do not wish to be reminded of the negative impacts. The “denial” mentality I encountered on more than one occasion living in Semey. These individuals have lived in Semipalatinsk or nearby towns for most or all of their adult lives and were aware of the blasts from structural damage, the red sunsets, stories told by friends and relatives who lived and/or worked in the Polygon, and continuing health problems of grandparents, parents, children, and friends. They had questions about the blasts, but they did not know how or where to obtain answers. They could not rely on newspapers for they were no stories. Local radio stations also did not regularly inform residents of pending blasts and when they were informed, they were told there would be no serious health effects. These perceptions suggest attempts to put this dreaded nuclear legacy “out of sight and out of mind.” The “denial” also extended to the sentiment that “It never affected me, so why should I be concerned.” This expression was not a selfish view, but one meant to separate (to their comfort) those whose health never was knowingly affected negatively by the blasts. Why some had serious health problems from living in the blast zone or living downwind and others did not remains a mystery. Some

101

Fifty Years of Soviet Nuclear Testing in Semipalatinsk, Kazakstan

1807

sought “answers” in superstitions, many which may seem absurd to an outsider, but for them provided some comfort in their current state.

101.9.1 University Students I gained additional knowledge of the region’s environmental heritage from a survey administered to my university students at Semey State University. Most lived in Semey and surrounding villages. They were asked to indicate their views using a five-point Likert scale on statements, with 5 indicating “strongly agreeing” to 1 “strongly disagreeing.” The pertinent results were: • • • •

I consider my city a safe place to live: 2.13. I think about the city and region’s legacy every day: 2.45. My parents discussed with me the years of Soviet nuclear testing: 2.97 My parents received compensation from the government for living in the region during the nuclear testing period: 3.56 • My city faces serious environmental problems: 4.32 • The region’s nuclear history was discussed in my high school classes: 4.33 There were no major differences between women and men and between Russians and Kazakhs on these questions. The results showed that the current generation of university students recognizes that many of the existing problems have their roots in the Soviet nuclear testing period, that they are well aware of the nuclear legacy, and that they would like to see the issues resolved.

101.9.2 Youth Artists: “Semey the Beautiful” I also wanted to know what Semey’s children thought about this “nuclear legacy.” To answer this question I worked with the teachers at the city’s art museum who asked their students (ages 8–18) to paint/draw: “The City I Live In.” Of the 72 drawings, only two depicted any message related to the city’s nuclear heritage. They drew the monument for the Polygon which is described below. Most of the children drew happy and fun settings in the city, parks and green spaces, sports fields, the Russian Orthodox cathedral, the river bank (for swimming and fishing), and the spectacular suspension bridge over the Irtysh (funded by the Japanese government) that links the city’s north and south sides) (Fig. 101.8). There were no images of littering or the polluting cement plant in the southwest part of the city.

101.10 Monument and Museums 101.10.1 Monument A very vivid and powerful monument to the victims of nuclear testing in the region opened in August 2000 (Fig. 101.9). It is on Polkovnichii Island, a much visited tourist site in the Irtysh River, that separates the north and south sides of the city. The title (translated) is “Stronger than Death.” Near the base of the monument is a large

1808

S.D. Brunn

Fig. 101.8 Drawing of one child from Semipalatinsk “How I see my city”

Fig. 101.9 Monument to victims of nuclear testing, Semipalatinsk

map of Kazakhstan with the testing sites identified. The monument was designed by a well known Kazakh architect, Shota Valikhanov; he also designed the Kazakh national emblem and the Monument for Independence of Kazakhstan in Almaty. Near the monument are trees where visitors attach pieces of cloth, symbolizing the sacredness of this place.

101

Fifty Years of Soviet Nuclear Testing in Semipalatinsk, Kazakstan

1809

101.10.2 Museums Displays: Denials and Memorials I also wanted to learn what local museums conveyed about the Polygon and its history. I would have expected that since Semipalatinsk is recognized internationally as being near the epicenter of the Soviet nuclear testing program that the testing history would be an important part of any region’s museum space. There are four museums in the city and each has a different story. The first is the Dostoyevsky Museum. Writer Fyodor Dostoyevsky lived in exile in Semey for five years (1854–1859). This museum contains some of his works as well as paintings related to the time he lived there. The Nuclear Polygon is, understandably, not part of the exhibits. Second, the city’s Ethnographic Museum, which is across the street from the Medical College, has a good display area about the Polygon’s history (Fig. 101.10). There are several large scale maps of the region and also photographs of the landscape before and after tests, of residents living in the area, and the devastation brought on by the blasts. Photographs are also included of the Nevada-Semipalatinsk movement mentioned above. And there is space for photos of the protests in late 1989 and the protest organizer, Olzhas Suleimenov. This museum’s displays serve as vivid reminders to all visitors of both the engineering that designed the tests and of the toll the blasts took on the people, their culture, and livelihood. Third, I expected to find a number of paintings by local and regional artists of the Polygon’s history in the city’s Art Museum, either on display or for sale. None were to be found; even though there were paintings on exhibit and for sale of the Virgin Lands area, churches, the Irtysh, horses and rural livelihood, natural landscapes, and street

Fig. 101.10 Display in the Ethnographic Museum, Semipalatinsk

1810

S.D. Brunn

scenes. Why there were no paintings of the testing years surprised me until I later learned the reason. Fourth, there is a small display in the Medical College that contains some gruesome examples of babies born with one eye, distorted and contorted bodies, and other genetic deformities. Visiting this museum required special permission. The final museum I visited was in Kurchatov, described above as the brain center for scientists and engineers during the testing period. The museum has two floors devoted to the technology used during the testing period. There are examples of equipment used and many photographs of the installations used and what the blasts did to the physical landscape. A diorama for the first atmospheric test (described above) depicts the huge arrangement of military observation points, data collecting stations, explosion sites and also people, livestock, and vehicles which were carefully placed at varying distances from the blast tower. And there was a desk where Kurchatov sat and a library. There were also exhibits in small jars of animals born with deformed limbs, distorted and enlarged heads, and other physical abnormalities. There was also an old phonograph record with Stalin’s voice where one could listen to him giving instructions to someone (voice was unclear) and also maps showing detailed land uses in the Polygon. What was absent from this museum was any evidence of the testing on people. It was a museum that showed the “science” side of the testing, not the impacts on people. The equipment, including the telephones and instrument panels, looked very primitive by today’s standards. There were no photos of people and protests, as there were in the Ethnographic Museum. It was as if people were not an important memory of this devastating 50 year period.

101.10.3 Marginalization the Polygon Artist In my discussions with art teachers in the Art Museum, I sought information about regional and local artists who painted the Polygon. One person was identified, Alexander Shevchenko, who was a local artist who painted many landscapes in and around Semey. His works were known to locals because he worked for the railroad and painted huge murals about rural life and the natural environment that appeared in train stations. Since he was prolific many of his paintings appeared in public buildings and are also in private collections. He also painted the Polygon, where he worked as a soldier during the years of nuclear testing. But he could not paint the Polygon while he worked there; this was a forbidden. But when the USSR ended and Suleimenov was successful in generating massive protests against the testing, Shevchenko began painting the environmental and devastating human impacts of the Polygon. His son informed me that his father painted nearly 50 scenes of the region. Some are immense (two meters by two meters); others are much smaller. Many of his colorful paintings are powerful in their messages; some show gruesome scenes of women, children, and farmers affected by the devastating blasts (Fig. 101.11). Others have a religious theme and still others a peace/protest theme.

101

Fifty Years of Soviet Nuclear Testing in Semipalatinsk, Kazakstan

1811

Fig. 101.11 Semey Artist: Alexander Shevchenko and one depiction of the Polygon

When I inquired why his paintings were not in the city’s Art Museum, I was told that the director did not like his work because Shevchenko was not professionally trained (he was self-taught) and because his works dealt with an unpleasant part of the region’s past that it was deemed not desirable to show to the public. Not displaying Polygon art seemed to be another example of the “denial” syndrome, this time extending to professional gatekeepers (museum directors). The thinking is that: “If we don’t have his paintings in our museum, we will deny their existence, that is, no one will ever know that they were painted.” This is similar reasoning to no mention of testing in the local newspaper. While I could understand the unpleasant depictions of some paintings, including those showing distorted bodies of children and women, denying these paintings as part of a region’s legacy is most regrettable. Other Polygon paintings showed farmers and herders watching mushroom clouds and people with gnarly hands and distorted feet. Some had a religious content, showing Jesus leading the victims into heaven and another called the “Semey Madonna.” The decision to ban these from the city’s Art Museum’s holdings and permanent display was likely also a political decision, as politics and art often go hand in hand. The president of Kazakhstan was aware of Shevchenko’s work and invited him to render a painting for a major international conference of Eurasian leaders held in Astana. When he saw Shevchenko’s huge painting about the region’s nuclear past, he decided not to display it. The reasons remain unclear, but perhaps because the president did not wish to have this part of Kazakhstan’s history presented in a negative light. Today these paintings are in storage in the son’s residence in Semey.

1812

S.D. Brunn

101.11 Government Responses: Compensations and Ecological Supplements The initial response by the Soviet government to victims of nuclear testing was to have scientists measure the impacts of different levels of radiation, but not to inform them. The detection of serious and emerging short and long term health problems by affected populations was squelched as noted above. Reports about what was going on within the Polygon were not reported in the local media. Even construction workers and military personnel were not permitted to inform families where they worked or what they were doing. Scientists living in Kurchatov did not mix with locals in Semey. As noted above, the Polygon did not even appear on maps. The Soviet government’s awareness of the pernicious impacts of the nuclear testing was finally recognized by President Gorbachev’s in his glasnost policies of the late 1980s. He sought more “openness” in a number of areas of government activity and public life, including how nuclear testing affected residents and their environment. It was under his watch that the testing ended in 1989, but this only after the president of the Republic of Kazakhstan took up the challenge from visible protests by Kazakhs against the testing. Even with the end of testing, there still remained unresolved nuclear issues (Egorov, Novikov, Parker & Popov 2000). These included: what to do with the existing nuclear stockpile? What should happen to the Polygon area itself, that is, what use would it have? Should residents be relocated? Were residents deserving of some compensation? These are all dealt with in Werner and Purvis-Roberts (2006). Suffice it to say that these were delicate decisions that involved the new government of Kazakhstan, the new Russian leaders, the U.S., since it was also a producer of nuclear weapons, and the IAEA (International Atomic Energy Agency) which oversees nuclear issues worldwide. Kazakhstan still had 1216 nuclear warheads (more than in China, France, and United Kingdom combined) and also 600 kg of uranium at the Ulbinsky Metallurgical Plant near Ust-Kamenogorsk. During the early 1990s the U.S. helped Kazakhstan in removing uranium to Oak Ridge, Tennessee; Kazakhstan received $20 million from the U.S. for this transfer. All the tactical and strategic nuclear warheads were taken back to Russia, which also reimbursed Kazakhstan for the value of these weapons. After sustained monitoring of Polygon area residents by the IAEA for radiation levels, it was decided not to relocate them, because many did not want to move and because those living in communities near the Polygon did not have abnormally high levels of radiation. (Water levels were not tested.) Massive relocation plans of the affected population were considered, but placed on hold. Most did not want to move from familiar places which are also ancestral homelands, burial sites, and sacred spaces. There was a real reluctance to leave, even though many probably knew the area is not safe for them or for crops and livestock economies. But they had nowhere to go and could not afford to move elsewhere. Many people, especially Russians, did move following the end of the Soviet Union, as they could. This sentiment for staying might be termed a form of “resigned fatalism,” or fear of unknown, not knowing if you moved you would be any safer or healthier.) Residents, however, did

101

Fifty Years of Soviet Nuclear Testing in Semipalatinsk, Kazakstan

1813

Fig. 101.12 Abandoned buildings in Kurchatov

request that the government compensate them for being affected by nuclear testing. Kurchatov lost many of its Russian scientists; its population dropped from 45,000 (height of the Cold War) to 10,000 today with most residents being nuclear scientists in the National Nuclear Center. It contains many abandoned buildings (Fig. 101.12). The Institute for Radiation, Medicine, and Ecology, formerly Dispensary # 4, works with radiation patients at the Semey Oncological Hospital. Semey has also suffered extreme population loss. The country still wrestles with its nuclear heritage (Wolfe, 2006). A more sensitive problem was compensating radiation victims who lived in, near and downwind from the Nuclear Testing Sites for 50 or fewer years. The government of Kazakhstan agreed to provide, starting in 1990, an ecological “supplement” (posobie) to those pensioners who lived and worked in the region during the testing years (Werner & Purvis-Roberts, 2006). The government of Kazakhstan divided risk victims into four categories: minimal risk, above minimal risk, maximal risk, and extraordinary risk. Nearly 2 million residents in 711 settlements in three different oblasts in northeast Kazakhstan have received compensation (Compensation . . . 1992: 282). After 1992 the government reduced the age for residents receiving pensions (age 45 for women and 50 for men) and also provided an “ecological supplement” and additional medical benefits. Many victims living in the Test Site can still receive medical treatment in Semipalatinsk hospitals at reduced costs. The heavy bureaucracy to administer these programs is considered an impediment for many who face immediate and long term health problems. Additional medical benefits were awarded those with disabilities, provided one met the specific criteria. In addition, one-time compensations were awarded. These meager amounts (approximately $300 US) were awarded early this decade and they are still being received by those who qualify and who

1814

S.D. Brunn

are willing to endure the lengthy bureaucracy to obtain the funds. The amount one receives is based on the years one lived in the region, not proximity to the test site!! Note should be made that Russia also provided some compensation to residents living in the Altai and Novosibirsk regions.

101.12 The Legacy Continues The population of Semipalatinsk and surrounding countryside has been impacted negatively by not only the five decades of nuclear testing, but from the other heavy industrial plants inside the city. These include an old and huge cement plant in southern Semey, a huge meat packing plant in the city’s east, and other food processing plants. By some accounts, Semey ranked slightly ahead of Ust-Kamenogorsk in regards to quality of air. The oblast’s administrative center has major lead, zinc, rocket fuel, and titanium plants. Even though there is no more nuclear testing, this is not to say that lingering health problems and economic problems do not remain. The region is still important for raising crops and livestock and some levels of contamination remain. Many in crop and livestock economies work on marginal agricultural land and live at almost subsistence levels. They sell their products in Semey, or Pavlodar, a two or three hour bus trip, the nearest city to the west. Today it is easy for almost anyone to enter the Polygon as there are no sentries at gated entries. What remains are abandoned border crossings (at one time twelve heavily guarded) with outposts and dilapidated structures and broken fences. People

Fig. 101.13 Open border crossing to the Polygon (formerly restricted entry)

101

Fifty Years of Soviet Nuclear Testing in Semipalatinsk, Kazakstan

1815

can and do enter the region from the perimeter to visit family members and friends, to herd livestock, plant and harvest crops, mine, and pick up copper scrap material (wiring from detonated explosive devices, which is likely to be radioactive) for home use or to sell in a nearby bazaar. There are no warning signs at the Polygon’s entrance (Fig. 101.13). And there is allegedly no money to construct and maintain a fence around the most contaminated areas (Werner & Purvis-Roberts, 2006: 479). At Ground Zero and in Balapan region, there are warning signs about high levels of radiation, but no one enforces them. The mine shafts are sealed, but this does not mean that radioactive leakage has stopped completely. Food produced is consumed locally and sold in city bazaars. Scientists in Kurchatov work for a newly constructed facility, the National Nuclear Center of Kazakhstan, which is funded by the Kazakh government. They collaborate with international scientists on peaceful uses of nuclear energy, including radiation ecology, and the proper storage and disposal of nuclear waste (Werner & Purvis-Roberts, 2007: 295).

101.13 Summary I have described above both from recent research and personal observation and experiences how this industrial city in northeast Kazakhstan has been affected by a massive and prolonged megaengineering project, viz., the nearly five decades of nuclear testing. I have explored these impacts by examining the contents of the local newspaper, personal visits to Ground Zero, and the denial of the city’s legacy by local residents and official institutions, viz., museums and art galleries. It would be interesting to compare the SNTS history and perceptions with those living near Nevada’s test sites and to compare the information provided in regional newspapers in Nevada. See, for example, Hacker (1994); Johnston (1994); Weart (1995); U.S. Congress, Office of Technology Assessment (1989); National Cancer Institute (1997); Schwartz (1998) and Welsome (1999). Would there be similarities in the perceptions of risks by residents, physicians, and scientists? And how are the environmental and social histories of the nuclear era being constructed and reconstructed (see Dalton et al., 1999). Leaders of Central Asian states, mindful of their role in the Soviet nuclear testing program, seem determined not to repeat this tragic legacy. They ratified a regional treaty in September 2006 declaring Central Asia to be a zone free of nuclear weapons (Potter et al., 2008). One also has to wonder about the final sentence in Werner and Purvis-Roberts (2007: 296): “In a world filled with social and environmental problems, it seems that the victims of nuclear testing in Kazakhstan may soon be forgotten by the international community of donors.” Acknowledgements I want to thank my wife, Natalya Tyutenkova, who kindly assisted in translating the headlines from the local newspapers reported above about the lead stories on days of nuclear testing. I am grateful to the librarians at Semey Public Library and also all students, faculty, and public officials in Semipalatinsk who shared with me their stories about the impact the years of testing had and has on their own health and others close to them.

1816

S.D. Brunn

References Balmukhanov, B., Raissova, G., & Balmukhanov, T. (2002). Three generations of the Semipalatinsk affected to the radiation. Almaty: Sakshy. Barke, R. P., & Jenkins-Smith, H. C. (1993). Politics and scientific expertise: Scientists, risk perception, and nuclear waste policy. Risk Analysis, 13, 423–439. Boztayev, K. B. (1998). 29 August. Almaty: Altamira. Brunn, S. D., Johnson, J. H., Jr., & Zeigler, D. J. (1979). Final report on a social survey of Three Mile Island area residents. East Lansing, MI: Michigan State University, Department of Geography. Bulatov, V. I. (1996). Radioactive Russia. Novosibirsk: TsEris. (In Russian) Carlsen, T. M., Peterson, L. E., Ulsh, B. A., Werner, C. A., Purvis, K. L. & Sharber (2001). Radionuclide contamination at Kazakhstan’s Semipalatinsk test site: Implications on human and ecological health. Human and Ecological Risk Assessment, 7(4), 943–955. Cochran, T. B., et al. (1989). Nuclear Weapons Databook, Vol. IV. Soviet Nuclear Weapons. Cambridge, MA: Ballinger Press. Compensation for nuclear test victims. (1992). International Labour Review, 132(3), 282. Dalton, R. J., et al. (1999). Critical masses: Citizens, nuclaer weapons production and environmental destruction in the United States and Russia. Cambridge: MIT Press. D’Silva, T. (2006). The black box of Bhopal: A closer look at the world’s deadliest industrial disaster. Victoria, BC: Trafford. Egorov, N. N., Novikov, V. M., Parker, F. L. & Popov. V. K. (2000). The radiation legacy of the Soviet nuclear complex: An analytical overview. London: Earthscan. Everest, L. (1986). Behind the poison cloud: Union Carbide’s Bhopal massacre. David City, NE: Banner Press. Gould, P. (1990). Fire in the rain: The democratic consequences of Chernobyl. Oxford: Basil Blackwell and Polity Press. Grosche, B., et al. (2002). Fallout from nuclear tests: Health effects in Kazakhstan. Radiation and Environmental Biophysics, 41, 75–80. Gusev, B. K., Abyllkassimova, Z. N. & Apsalikov, K. N. (1997). The Semipalatinsk nuclear test site: A first assessment of the radiological situation and the test-related radiation doses in the surrounding territories. Radiation and Environment Biophysics, 36, 201–204. Gusev, B. K., et al. (1998). The Semipalatinsk nuclear test site: A first analysis of solid cancer incidence (selected sites) due to test-related radiation. Radiation and Environmental Biophysics, 37, 209–214. Hacker, R. C. (1994). Elements of controversy: The Atomic Energy Commission and radiation safety in the nuclear weapons testing, 1947–1974. Berkeley: University of California Press. Hanna, B., et al. (2005). The Bhopal reader: Remembering twenty years of the world’s worst industrial disaster. New York: Apex Press for the Council of International and Public Affairs. Hansen, C. (1995). The swords of Armageddon: U.S. nuclear weapons development since 1945. Sunnyvale, CA: Chucklea Publications. Johnston, B. R. (Ed.). (1994). Experimenting on human subjects: Nuclear weapons testing and human rights abuses. In B. R. Johnston (Ed.), Who pays the price? The sociocultural context of environmental crises (pp. 131–141). Washington, DC: Island Press. Kraus, N., Malmfors, M. M. & Slovic, P. (1992). Intuitive toxicology: Expert and lay judgments of chemical risks. Risk Analysis, 12, 215–232. Logachev, V. A., et al. (1998). Population health in regions adjacent to the Semipalatinsk nuclear test site. Bethesda, MD: Armed Forces Radiobiology Research Institute, Contract Report 98-4. Maag, C. R. & Rohrer, S. (1996). Project Trinity 1945–1946. http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ 548.bibrec.html

101

Fifty Years of Soviet Nuclear Testing in Semipalatinsk, Kazakstan

1817

Mertz, C. K., et al. (1998). Judgments of chemical risks: Comparisons among senior managers, toxicologists, and the public. Risk Analysis, 18, 391–404. National Cancer Institute. (1997). Study estimating thyroid doses of I-131 received by Americans from Nevada atmospheric nuclear bomb test. Retrieved March 7, 2009, from www.cancer.gov/i131/fallout/exesum.html National Research Council. (2005). Health risks from exposure to low levels of ionizing radiation: BEIR VIII Phase Two. Washington, DC: National Academies Press. Nazarbaev, N. (2001). Epicenter of peace. Hallis, NH: Puritan Press. Nuclear Weapons Archive. (2001). Gallery of U.S. Nuclear Tests. Retrieved March 1, 2008, from http://nuclearweaponarchive.org/Usa/Tests/index.html Potter, W., et al. (2008). Central Asia becomes a nuclear-weapons-free-zone. Retrieved from http://cns.miis.edu/stories/081201_canfwz.htm. Accessed 24 September 2010. Priityshskaya Pravda (The Near Irtysh Region Truth); issues from 1949–1991. Purvis-Roberts, K., Werner, C., & Frank, I. (2007). Perceived risks form radiation and nuclear testing near Semipalatinsk, Kazakhstan: A comparison between physicians, scientists and the public. Risk Analysis, 27(2), 291–302. Rehabilitating the Semipalatinsk Region. (2000–2001). UN Chronicle 4: 15. Schwartz, S. I. (1998). Atomic audit: The costs and consequences of U.S. nuclear weapons. Washington, DC: Brookings Institution Press. Skholnik, V. (Ed.). (2002). The Semipalatinsk test site: Creation, operation, and conversion. Albuquerque: U.S. Government Printing Office. Stevenson, S. (2004). Eternal mourning: A nuclear diary. Edinburgh: Dog Ear. (translated into Russian by Kamilla and Sulushash Mazgiev). Trinity Atomic Web Site. (2008). Retrieved March 1, 2009, from http://www.cddc.vt.edu/host/ atomic/atmosph/ustable.html Retrieved March 1, 2009, http://www.cddc.vt.edu/host/atomic/images/tstmap1a.gif (shows global locations of nuclear test sites and years) U.S. Congress, Office of Technology Assessment. (1989). The containment of underground nuclear explosions. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office, Report OTA-ISC414 (document contains many detailed maps of the Nevada Test Site). Also this is available on pdf. Walsh, N. (2002). When the wind blows. In: S. Balmukhanov, G. Raissova, & T. Balmukhanov (Eds.), Three generations of the Semipalatinsk affected to the radiation. Almaty: Saskhy. Warf, J. C. (1994). Kazakhstan. Its legacy of Soviet nuclear testing. Personal account of a visit to the SNTS. Weart, S. R. (1985). Nuclear fear: A history of images. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Welsome, E. (1999). The plutonium files: America’s secret medical experiments in the Cold War. New York: Delta Press. Werner, C. (2009). Personal email communication 29 May. Werner, C., Purvis, K., & Ibraev, N. (2003). Comparative perceptions of risk from nuclear testing in Kazakhstan: Preliminary results and proposed research. Central Eurasian Studies Review, 2(2), 11–13. Werner, C., & Purvis-Roberts, K. (2006). After the Cold War: International politics, domestic policy and the nuclear legacy in Kazakhstan. Central Asian Survey, 25(4), 461–480. Werner, C., & Purvis-Roberts, R. (2007). Unraveling the secrets of the past: Contested versions of nuclear testing in the Soviet Republic of Kazakhstan. In B. Johnston (Ed.), Half-lives and halftruths: Confronting the radioactive legacy of the Cold War (pp. 277–298). Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press. Werner, C., Purvis-Roberts, K., & McKenna, C. (2007). After the Cold War: International politics, domestic policy, and the nuclear legacy in Kazakhstan. Central Asian Survey, 25, 461. Wolfe, K. D. (2006). Kazakhstan’s nuclear policy. Journal of Central Asian Studies, 1, 30–45.

1818

S.D. Brunn

Wright, G., et al. (2002). Differences in expert and lay judgments of risk: Myth and reality? Risk Analysis, 22, 1107–1122. Yakubovskaya, E. L., Nagibin, V. I., & Suslin, V. P. (2003). Semipalatinsk testing program: Independent analysis of the problem. Novosibirsk: Novosibirski Polygraphykombinaat (in Russian). Zeigler, D., Johnson, J. H., Jr., & Brunn, S. D. (1983). Technolgoical hazards. Washington DC: Association of American Geographers. Zhumadilov, Z., et al. (2000). Thyroid abnormality trend over time in northeastern region of Kazakhstan, adjacent to the Semipalatinsk Nuclear Test Site. Journal of Radiation Research, 41, 35–44.

Part XIII

Socially Engineered Landscapes

Chapter 102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities: Marketing Age, Religion, Ethnicity and Lifestyle Ira M. Sheskin

102.1 Introduction Florida evokes a variety of images within the popular imagination of Americans. The state has been endowed naturally with beautiful beaches, a 1,800 mi (2897 km) coastline, more than 30,000 lakes and canals, a subtropical climate, tropical vegetation, and the unique environment of the Everglades. It has a colorful history and cultural heritage which include Ponce de Leon’s search for the fountain of youth, the Seminole Wars, the Mariel boatlift, Ernest Hemingway, the frontier nature of Key West, a multicultural population, spring break activities, beauty pageants, military bases, the Kennedy Space Center, and the magic of Orlando. The lack of heavy industry has led to relatively little pollution. The lack of an income tax and other factors has contributed to a low cost of living. The natural aspects of Florida’s physical geography, historical events, and social and cultural activities have led to significant numbers of tourists (many of whom eventually became migrants) and to a significant retirement migration stream. Florida’s proximity to the Caribbean and Latin America has led to a significant immigration stream that has added to its multicultural nature. Three significant engineering breakthroughs made the retirement migration to Florida possible: air conditioning, DDT, and affordable airline travel. Air conditioning became available after the invention of Freon in 1928. Its availability for mass consumption after the Second World War made the state livable for retirees both by modifying temperatures that otherwise restricted retirees to hugging the coast for the sea breezes and by allowing windows to be closed to keep out mosquitoes and other insects (Arsenault, 1984). The invention of DDT led to effective pest control in the outdoors (Colburn & deHaven-Smith, 2002). Affordable airline travel after the Second World War enabled elderly migrants from the Northeast and Midwest, who otherwise would have considered the state to be too far from their relatives “back home,” to move to Florida with the ability to visit their relatives on a regular I.M. Sheskin (B) Department of Geography and Regional Studies, University of Miami, Coral Gables, FL 33124, USA e-mail: [email protected] S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_102,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1821

1822

I.M. Sheskin

basis. These northern relatives could also afford to visit the “Florida branch” of their families which, in turn, led to more migration. Florida has long been one of the fastest-growing states. Florida’s population increased from 528,000 in 1900 to 2,771,000 in 1950 and to 18,328,000 in 2008, which made it the state with the fourth largest population in the U.S. By 2010 Florida is expected to be the nation’s third largest state, surpassing New York. The daily in-migration rate is 1,900 persons and the daily out-migration rate is 955 persons, yielding a net migration of 945 persons per day (Vogel, 2006: 26). About one-fourth of the growth in Florida’s population is due to immigration to the United States. Although the majority of people who move to Florida are young, the young also leave in large numbers. The elderly, of which Florida draws more than any other state, tend to stay; 25% of the net migration to the state are age 65 and over and 50% are age 55 and over. Many residents age 55–64 are “early retirees” or the spouses of retirees (Vogel, 2006: 28). Of the top ten major national metropolitan areas with the highest percentage of the population age 65 and over in 2000, three (including the top two) are in Florida. Of the top ten small metropolitan areas with the highest percentage of the population age 65 and over, eight are in Florida (Frey, 2001: 20). In 1900, Florida’s median age of 20.4 years was among the youngest in the country (Mormino, 2005). This increased to 30.9 years in 1950, to 36.4 years in 1990, and to 40.1 years in 2009, then making Florida the state with the oldest median age in the nation. About 17% of Floridians were elderly in 2009 and this is expected to increase to about 25% by 2030. Also contributing to this increase in the percentage of elderly persons in Florida is the fact that life expectancy at age 65 had risen from 13.9 years in 1950 to 18.7 years in 2005 (National Center for Health Statistics, 2009: 203), a trend that is likely to continue. Thus, because of advances in modern medicine since the end of the Second World War, elderly retirees are living about five years longer. Contributing as well to the growth of the retirement population is the low cost of living in Florida and the expansion of financial and health care resources provided by Social Security, Supplemental Security Income (SSI), Medicare, and Medicaid. Florida has become a “gerontopolis.” This chapter examines the megaengineering projects necessary to accommodate the large retirement population that contributes so much to the growth of the state. Elderly retirees are not only attracted by the physical geography of the state, but also by the significant elderly retirement communities, the geronclaves (defined below) in the state. In fact, a “re-engineering” of the state was necessary to attract, house, and care for the more than three million elderly who call Florida home. That is, with more elderly than 21 states have people, Florida had to adjust its social service system, its economy, and its political system. This is discussed in greater detail in the second section of this chapter. This chapter will briefly describe some of Florida’s large scale, planned retirement communities and then examine the marketing of these communities to retirees, with special attention to marketing to various specific population groups. Next, it will examine the impacts on Florida of the large scale, planned retirement communities and the elderly who inhabit them, focusing on the social, economic, and political impacts. While the vast majority of Florida’s elderly do not live in large scale, planned retirement communities, those communities marketed Florida to the elderly

102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities

1823

and created the significant elderly migration stream from the Northeast and Midwest to Florida (Longino & Perricone, 1991). In a sense, the large-scale retirement communities provided the catalyst that led to the large scale retirement migration that changed the state.

102.2 Retirement Communities as Socially Engineered and Segregated Spaces The term retirement community can be used to refer to many different types of housing for retirees. For the purposes of this Chapter, for the most part, only large scale, planned retirement communities are included. Thus, the term does not include NORCs (Naturally Occurring Retirement Communities), such as Beacon Hill in Boston (Gross, 2006) in which services are added to existing neighborhoods with significant elderly populations, nor any type of housing that includes congregate meals, such as independent living facilities (ILFs), assisted living facilities (ALFs), or nursing home facilities. Such large scale, planned retirement communities often: (1) are planned as elderly communities; (2) have extensive cultural, educational, and athletic facilities for active elderly, such as clubhouses, swimming pools, arts and crafts, boating, tennis courts, and golf courses; (3) have on-site (or just off-site) adult retail and medical facilities that were planned in conjunction with the retirement community; (4) have common areas for socializing; (5) have a transportation system within the community and to nearby shopping centers; and (6) have walls or fences around the community for security purposes. Very often such facilities are referred to as active adult communities, age-segregated settlements, or 55+ communities (Golant, 1992). Large elderly retirement communities, such as the four Century Villages, Greater Sun City, The Villages, and Lehigh Acres, were constructed for this purpose. Figure 102.1 shows the location of all retirement communities referenced in this chapter. Table 102.1 lists all retirement communities, their location, and the population group that predominates. All these large, elderly retirement communities are socially engineered landscapes in the sense that they were specifically designed to house persons age 55 and over and in some cases designed to attract specific population subgroups of older persons. Note that 55+ communities do not permit any household members under age 18. When such developments began to appear a number of court cases in circuit courts challenged this concept under the Fair Housing Act of 1968. Thus, congress passed a number of amendments to the Fair Housing Act in 1988 that legalized this type of housing. Note that almost all retirement communities introduce a form of segregation into society, but a form that, as of 1988, is considered legitimate. Boal (1976) forwards a model of ethnic assimilation and its spatial consequences. He posits four possible spatial outcomes that result from ethnic assimilation, of which three are relevant concepts in the current context: dispersal, enclave, and ghetto. Many elderly do live in a dispersed manner in and among the non-elderly. Where spatial concentration does occur, he defines an enclave as a spatial concentration resulting from the internal cohesion of a group. A ghetto is defined as a concentration resulting

1824

I.M. Sheskin

Fig. 102.1 Location of retirement communities in Florida and South Florida

when external factors severely limit the possibilities for dispersal. With respect to elderly retirement communities, they are clearly closer to enclaves than ghettos in that no external forces restrict elderly living space. Yet a new term is needed because (at least legally) no other demographic concentration of a particular type of person results from the legal exclusion of persons not of that group. In this case, households without a person age 55 and over or with a person under age 18 are not permitted to reside in the spatial concentration. I propose that such spatial concentrations be called geronclaves.

102.2.1 Century Village One of the best examples of a large scale, planned retirement community, a geronclave, is Century Village in Pembroke Pines. The Century Village concept was originated in 1967 by H. Irwin Levy, a Palm Beach lawyer. The Cenvill

102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities

1825

Table 102.1 Florida retirement communities Community

Location

Ethnicity/group

Ave Maria Century Village Century Village Century Village Century Village Clermont Fedhaven Gibsonton ⎫ Greater Sun City ⎬ King’s Point Sun City Center ⎭ Hawaiian Gardens Hollybrook King’s Point King’s Point Lake Worth/Lantana Lehigh Acres Moosehaven Nalcrest Palm Greens Palm Harbor Palm-Aire Palms of Monasato Penney Farms Salhaven Slovak Gardens Spring Hill Sun Valley Sunrise Lakes The Villages

Collier Boca Raton (Palm Beach) Deerfield Beach (Broward) Pembroke Pines (Broward) West Palm Beach (Palm Beach) Lake Polk Hillsborough

Catholic Jewish Jewish and French Jewish and Hispanic Jewish Athletes Federal Workers Carnival Workers None

Villages of Oriole Winter Park Wynmoor Village

Tampa (Hillsborough) Lauderdale Lakes (Broward) Pembroke Pines (Broward) Tamarac (Broward) Delray Beach (Palm Beach) Palm Beach Lee Jacksonville (Duval) Polk Delray Beach (Palm Beach) Pinellas Pompano Beach (Broward) Manatee Clay Palm Beach Orange Hernando Palm Beach Sunrise (Broward) Sumter, Lake, and Marion Counties Delray Beach (Palm Beach) Orange Coconut Creek (Broward)

Jewish Jewish Jewish Jewish Finnish and Italian None Loyal Order of the Moose Postal Workers Jewish Italian Jewish Gay Missionaries and Pastors Upholsterer’s Union Slovak Italian Teamster’s Union Jewish None Jewish German Jewish

Development Corporation constructed four Century Villages in South Florida (West Palm Beach, Deerfield Beach, Boca Raton, and Pembroke Pines) with a combined total of more than 30,000 units and more than 50,000 residents (Fig. 102.2). Century Village became the model for other retirement communities throughout South Florida (Colburn & deHaven-Smith, 2002: 55), although Cenvill Development Corporation did not take the model nationwide. Century Village Pembroke Pines is the largest condominium community in Broward County with 7,780 units in 141 buildings on 724 acres (293 ha) housing 14,000 residents. Figure 102.2 shows the location of the development just east of I75 in South Broward. On this figure, the spatial extent of the development is shown using eight balloon icons. Notice that almost all buildings have a view of either the golf course and/or one of the many lakes and water traps. This is in contrast to the

1826

I.M. Sheskin

Fig. 102.2 Aerial photo of Century Village, Pembroke Pines

Fig. 102.3 Main entrance to Century Village, Pembroke Pines

original Century Village in West Palm Beach where the golf course was placed in one corner of the property and a much lower percentage of units had golf course views and lake views. Note that water features, either canals or lakes, are necessary when building in South Florida where the water table and drainage issues require man-made canals or lakes. Many earlier developments built canals because they could offer more waterfront property to more residents, but emergency services (fire and police protection and emergency medical services) found their travel hindered by the limited crossing points of canals. Figures 102.3 and 102.4 shows the entrance to and housing at this development.

102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities

1827

Fig. 102.4 Housing in Century Village, Pembroke Pines

But the layout of the development has more to do with the geographical origin of the residents. When Century Village West Palm Beach opened in the late 1960s, most of its first-generation American residents migrated from the moredensely settled urban areas of the Northeast, such as Manhattan, Brooklyn, and the Bronx. By the time Century Village Pembroke Pines opened in the early 1980s, most residents were migrating to South Florida from more suburban settings such as Nassau and Suffolk County (New York), Bergen County (New Jersey), and Fairfield County (Connecticut). These second generation Americans were accustomed to a suburban environment and Century Village Pembroke Pines (more so than Century Village West Palm Beach) was designed to provide this (Fig. 102.5). These later residents were also of higher income and housing standards had changed since 1967. Thus, Century Village Pembroke Pines is also considerably more “up-scale.” This is evidenced by the considerably larger clubhouse and the much more extensive landscaping in Century Village Pembroke Pines. This development is not simply a place to live. It encompasses 32 separate condominium associations, 23 swimming pools, an 18-hole golf course, three synagogues, six voting precincts, a café, a stand-alone gym, tennis courts, shuffleboard courts, a sailing lake, and a picnic and barbecue area (Fig. 102.6). The 135,000 ft2 (12,541 m2 ) clubhouse contains a 1,042 seat theater, indoor and outdoor heated pools, a party room that can accommodate more than 900 guests, a billiard room, card rooms, meeting rooms, rooms for bingo, and ample space for arts and crafts, music, ceramics, computers, and other classes (Fig. 102.7). A significant emphasis is placed on adult education classes (Sanua, 2007). The development produces a monthly newspaper and supports more than sixty clubs. A pharmacy and a medical

1828

I.M. Sheskin

Fig. 102.5 Century Village, West Palm Beach. Note contrast in housing and landscaping with Century Village, Pembroke Pines

Fig. 102.6 Century Village, Pembroke Pines, Shuffleboard Court

office are also on the premises. This gated community has 24/7 security and a medical alert system in each unit, enabling residents to simply press a button in their apartment to receive immediate attention from paramedics or the round-the-clock nursing staff on the premises. A trolley system operates within the development and it also transports residents to nearby strip centers and malls (Veciana-Suarez, 2007)

102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities

1829

Fig. 102.7 Century Village, Pembroke Pines, Clubhouse

Fig. 102.8 Century Village, Trolley Transportation Service Provided

(Fig. 102.8). Chafetz avers that Century Village is “just guys and gals having a blast at summer camp” (Chafetz, 1988: 237). Sanua (2007) posits that Century Village was somewhat modeled after the “borscht belt” in the Catskill Mountains in New York (Kanfer, 1989), where much of its Jewish clientele had vacationed previously.

102.2.2 Greater Sun City Greater Sun City, in Hillsborough County (Tampa) on Florida’s Gulf Coast, is located adjacent to I-75. It was founded by the Del Webb Corporation in 1961 on a 5,000-acre (2,023 ha) tract, of which 3,000 acres (1214 ha) are currently developed. Today it is one of several WCI communities (www.wci.com) in six states:

1830

I.M. Sheskin

Fig. 102.9 Sun City Center development plan

Connecticut, Florida, Maryland, New Jersey, New York, and Virginia. It includes King’s Point and Sun City Center. The King’s Point area is a controlled-access development in a condominium arrangement. Sun City Center contains individuallyowned and privately-maintained homes (Figs. 102.9 and 102.10). The Sun City Resident Volunteer Security Patrol, with 1,500 members, is an example of the type of self-protection program evident in a number of Florida retirement communities. The Greater Sun City geronclave is 83% elderly. The 2000 Census found about 16,000 persons, although the current estimate is about 19,000. The City has its own hospital and several nursing homes. Shopping centers have parking spaces for golf carts, a common form of transportation in the City. The community contains many of the same types of facilities and activities as Century Village, with 162 holes of golf, over 250 clubs, organizations, and activities, 19 tennis courts, 9 pools, and a health club (Fig. 102.11) (www.suncitycenter.org).

102.2.3 The Villages The Villages geronclave (“Florida’s Friendly Hometown”), a 25,000 acre (10,117 ha) community in Sumter, Lake, and Marion Counties with many of the same amenities as Century Village, is the largest residential development in Central Florida. The Villages was the fastest-growing micropolitan area in the United States in 2007. Most of its residents migrated from other parts of Florida. It was marketed

102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities

1831

Fig. 102.10 Sun City Center, single family dwelling

Fig. 102.11 Sun City Center, lawn bowling

to all retirees. While non-retirees also reside in The Villages, 58% of the population is age 65 and over. Thirty-six thousand retirees live in The Villages, which contains sixteen golf courses and four hundred social clubs. Its population is expected to exceed 100,000 by 2010.

1832

I.M. Sheskin

102.2.4 Lehigh Acres Lehigh Acres (Lee County) (Stroud, 2006) was initially advertised as a retirement community, yet it differs from the other large retirement communities in a significant way. While each household in Century Village and many other retirement communities are required to contain at least one person age 55 and over, such an age restriction was not mandated at Lehigh Acres and so only 20% of the current residents are age 65 and over. Thus, Lehigh Acres is not a geronclave. Thus, although often perceived as such, Lehigh Acres is not a retirement community. While population projections had suggested that by 2010 about 60,000 persons would live in the 61,000 acre (24,687 ha) community, the recent recession has dampened those growth projections (Cave 2009).

102.3 Marketing Florida to Retirees More Americans have chosen to retire in Florida than in any other state. In 2005, Florida attracted nearly 400,000 retirees, almost three times the number settling in California or Arizona. Eighteen of the top 25 U.S. counties people move to for retirement are in Florida. A larger percentage of baby boom retirees plan to relocate than was true of previous generations (Fagan, 2006). Thus, should even a smaller percentage of retirees choose Florida, it is likely that the actual number of retirees who settle in the Sunshine State will remain high. Some of the efforts to market Florida to retirees have been generalized, while specific target marketing also has been used effectively. Only the large scale, planned retirement communities could afford the significant advertising costs. While the vast majority of retirees to Florida did not move into these large communities, many smaller ones benefitted from the migration stream generated by the marketing efforts of the large-scale communities.

102.3.1 Marketing to All Retirees A significant number of books have been written to both encourage retirement migration to Florida and to provide guidance concerning where to retire within Florida (Cullinane & Fitzgerald, 2004; Fox & Fox, 1999; Gollattscheck & Murray, 2008). Mormino (2005: 131–132) points out that Sunday supplements and promotions promised retirement to Florida for $35 a month. “Ten dollars down and ten dollars a month” was a phrase that was repeated in many advertisements. He further states that “once they (the elderly) realized they could, in H. Irwin Levy’s words, put ‘years to their lives and lives to their years,’ the Florida dream awaited.” On television and in Sunday’s newspaper supplements, developers lured retirees to “sunshine and paradise” through relentless salesmanship. Mormino (2005: 132) states that “hundreds, perhaps thousands of books addressed the hot issue of aging and retirement.” Currently, numerous web sites accomplish the same task (http://flretirementcommunities.boomja.com).

102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities

1833

Several movies have acted as advertisements for Florida retirement. Cocoon (1985) (http://www.fandango.com/cocoon_104952/movieoverview) was directed by Ron Howard and was nominated for three Academy Awards. Ron Howard was nominated for best director and Don Ameche won for best supporting actor. The movie also won for best visual effects. This science fiction movie is about a modern Fountain of Youth in a St. Petersburg swimming pool. The message of the movie is that older people move to Florida and add years to their lives and lives to their years, the same message forwarded by Century Village advertising (see below). The movie was followed by Cocoon 2: The Return (1988) again starring Don Ameche. Another movie, Boynton Beach Club (2006) (http://www.fandango. com/boyntonbeachclub_96232/movieoverview) follows a group of five South Florida retirees in Boynton Beach who, after becoming widowed meet at the Boynton Beach Bereavement Club and re-enter the dating world. The movie implies that Florida retirement is so reinvigorating that one can bounce back, both socially and sexually, after the death of a spouse. A similar concept was forwarded by the NBC-television show, The Golden Girls which ran from 1985 to 1992 (http://www.goldengirlscentral.com) and showed four older women (Bea Arthur, Betty White, Rue McClanahan, and Estelle Getty) sharing a Miami home. All four stars won an Emmy Award at least once and the show won for Outstanding Comedy Series twice. The introduction to the show shows a beautiful scene of Miami Beach, the Atlantic Ocean, and the Intracoastal Waterway. This show consistently won its time slot and has been one of the most syndicated shows in television history. Again the message of the show was that retirement in Florida was invigorating and that even single women in Florida could lead an active sex life. A further advertisement for Florida retirement came from the many references to Boca Raton as the place of residence of Jerry Seinfeld’s mother in the long running (1989–1998) Seinfeld television show. Most housing developments do not market to specific groups. Sun City Center, The Villages, and Lehigh Acres did not undertake the type of ethnic marketing seen in South Florida. This may be related to the I-95 versus I-75 routes mentioned below. South Florida has grown via migration from the Northeast and the Gulf Coast of Florida via migration more from the Midwest. The Northeast tends to have stronger attachments to ethnicity because it has more ethnic enclaves than the Midwest.

102.3.2 Target Marketing to Specific Population Groups Some of the marketing efforts for various developments were oriented toward specific population groups, including Jews, Catholics, Italians, Finns, French-speaking retirees, blacks, other ethnic groups, gay retirees, and other groups based on occupation. 102.3.2.1 Jews The history of elderly settlement in the three-county South Florida area, particularly in Broward and Palm Beach Counties, is largely a tale of Jewish elderly (Sheskin, 2005b). While Jews comprise only 2% of adults in the United States, they comprise

1834

I.M. Sheskin

Fig. 102.12 Gated entrance to Jewish retirement community in Delray Beach

more than one-tenth of the elderly in Miami-Dade County, more than one-third of the elderly in Broward County, and almost two-thirds of the elderly in Palm Beach County. Many retirement communities have historically been more than 80% Jewish, including (among many others) Hawaiian Gardens (Lauderdale Lakes in Broward County), Hollybrook (Pembroke Pines in Broward County), King’s Point (Tamarac in Broward County and Delray Beach in Palm Beach County), Palm-Aire (Pompano Beach in Broward County), Palm Greens (Delray Beach in Palm Beach County), Sunrise Lakes (Sunrise in Broward County), Villages of Oriole (Delray Beach in Palm Beach County), and Wynmoor Village (Coconut Creek in Broward County) (Mormino 2005; Sheskin, 1984, 1997) (Fig. 102.12). Some development names (such as Hawaiian Gardens, Palm-Aire, Palm Greens and Sunrise Lakes) are clearly meant to evince positive reactions about the Florida environment. Other names are designed to (at least subliminally) provide some feeling of control over one’s life (Wynmoor, King’s Point, and Century Village – which perhaps implies that one will live until 100). The use of the term village in many names is meant to imply that a sense of community will exist in a retirement community. Particularly for retirees from the New York suburbs, that sense of community had often been lost in the life being left behind in the North. Most notable, all four Century Village developments have a majority Jewish population. When Century Village West Palm Beach first opened in the late 1960s, it was not an immediate success. It was with the introduction of the strategy of advertising in the Anglo-Jewish press that Century Village was “close to synagogues” and employing Red Buttons as spokesperson that sales began to escalate (personal conversation with H. Irwin Levy, developer of Century Village). Century Village in

102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities

1835

West Palm Beach was one of the first developments in the country to use celebrities to sell real estate (Sichelman, 2004). Comedian-actor Red Buttons became the front man for Century Village to make people comfortable in moving to West Palm Beach at a time when it was viewed as a distant suburb of Miami, which was the known retirement mecca. Red Buttons (nee Aaron Chwatt), the son of Jewish immigrants, “spoke” to the mostly Jewish clientele. At age 16, he had worked as a singer in the Borscht Belt, a string of resorts in the Catskill Mountains in New York which catered to a mainly Jewish clientele. Buttons looked and sounded “New York Jewish” and became part of a marketing strategy aimed at attracting this demographic group. This was particularly important to counter the perception of many Jews from the Northeast that there were housing developments in Florida which did not welcome Jews. This perception was most likely based on former Miami hotel and residential restrictions on Jews (Zerivitz, 2009). This targeted marketing strategy worked because it played upon the desire of elderly Jews to live with other elderly Jews in an atmosphere where they would be welcomed. This marketing strategy, then, was a form of social engineering and made Century Village both a geronclave (by age) and an enclave (by ethnicity). Later Richard Simmons became the spokesperson for Century Village. Jackie Gleason helped to “sell” Miami Beach and then promoted the garden condominium property of Inverrary, on the western edge of Fort Lauderdale. While Simmons and Gleason were not Jewish, Gleason in particular appealed to the New York audience that both Century Village and Inverrary were attempting to attract. Advertisements in Jewish newspapers in the New York metropolitan area invited people to luncheons in the New York metropolitan area to see movies of Century Village and to hear about the Century Village experience. Partially paid trips were offered to Palm Beach County. Potential buyers would fly or drive to Florida at their own expense, but then Century Village would pay for their hotel room and food and would even arrange for them to be picked up at the airport. Anyone purchasing an apartment would be given a credit for their airfare at the closing, so the entire trip would actually be covered (Sanua, 2007). A marketing technique that may be unique to Century Village in Pembroke Pines was employed in the 1980s. During this decade, the Jewish population of The Beaches in Miami-Dade County (the cities of Bal Harbour, Bay Harbor Islands, Indian Creek Village, Miami Beach, and Surfside) was experiencing a significant decrease. In 1970, more than 90,000 Jews lived on The Beaches. This number had decreased to 34,500 by 1994 and to only 20,500 by 2004 (Sheskin, 2005a). Most of this decrease was due to mortality among the very old European-born Jewish residents. A significant portion of the decrease, however, was due to migration out of a deteriorating and ethnically changing Beaches, as young Hispanic immigrants moved into buildings that formerly had been inhabited almost exclusively by older Jews. Many of these Jews moved to Broward County (Sheskin 1998) and Palm Beach County (Sheskin, 2006a, 2006b). Capitalizing on this trend, the marketers of Century Village in Pembroke Pines ran free busses from Miami Beach to Century Village, encouraging Beach residents to tour the development and to move there with their friends.

1836

I.M. Sheskin

The effectiveness of targeting a particular demographic/geographic group (in the above case, former New York metropolitan area Jews who had first retired to MiamiDade County) has the positive effect of maximizing the impact of word-of mouth advertising, often the best marketing technique. A 1987 study of elderly Jews in West Palm Beach (Sheskin, 1987) asked an open-ended question concerning the major reason the respondent selected his/her current condominium/housing development rather than some other area of Florida. Fully one-third of the respondents volunteered the response that their Florida home was close to “friends from back home” or to relatives. Restricting the analysis to elderly respondents in Century Village and Golden Lakes (a nearby large retirement community) showed no significant change in the percentage of persons who had selected their housing because of proximity to close friends and relatives. Clearly, chain migration played a major role as some of the households who had purchased condominiums in Century Village’s Phase 1 invited friends and relatives to Florida from the Northeast to visit and to observe their new lifestyle. These friends and relatives then often migrated to the same housing development. Contributing to the attractiveness of the development to potential residents was the clubs that were formed of residents who used to work, for example, for the New York Transit Authority or who came from Bayside, Queens (Sanua, 2007). People could, therefore, move and still feel connected to things back home, increasing their comfort level. Illustrating the catering to a mostly New York Jewish market, is that of the 60 shows in Century Village clubhouse theaters from November 2008 to March 2009, no fewer than 12 shows contain either Jewish comedians or Jewish themes. All four Century Village theaters book the same shows each season. Thus, only two of the 60 shows are oriented toward the Hispanic audience. Note that the theater season runs during the months when the Jewish snowbird population is in Florida. Note that a number of other communities used the word “century” as part of their name– Century City, Century Town, Century Community–to take advantage of the large-scale advertising done by Century Village. These developments benefitted when people called the “wrong Century” (Sanua, 2007). Ethnic changes are occurring in many of the traditionally Jewish retirement communities. As mentioned above, Miami Beach, once mostly Jewish, is now more than 50% Hispanic. Veciana-Suarez (2007) notes that Century Village Pembroke Pines is now estimated to be 25% Hispanic by its residents. As had previously occurred to encourage chain migration of Jewish residents, now “Radio Bemba” (word of mouth) spreads information among Cubans in Miami about the Century Village lifestyle. Century Village is the closest retirement community to MiamiDade County (which was 63% Hispanic in 2009) and nearby I-75 (Fig. 102.2) allows quick access for Hispanic residents to return to Miami to visit friends and family. Hispanic foods are now found on the shelves of local stores and more than 300 persons have joined the Century Village Domino Club. Dominos is a game traditional to Cuban culture. Domino Park in Little Havana in Miami is consistently filled with Cuban retirees playing dominos. Century Village in West Palm Beach has also shown significant ethnic change. This Century Village is a Census Designated Place (CDP) and thus there are Census

102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities

1837

data specific to this development. The ancestry data from the 1980, 1990, and 2000 Censuses showed that residents of Russian, Polish, Hungarian, German, and Ukrainian ancestry (who are very likely to be Jewish) decreased from 4,697 persons in 1980, to 3,325 persons in 1990, and to 2,470 persons in 2000, while persons of English, Italian, Irish, and French ancestry (who are much less likely to be Jewish) increased from 536 in 1980, to 693 in 1990, and to 2,232 in 2000. Units in the original Century Village, which by 2000 were more than 30 years old, became difficult to sell, particularly if, as was most often the case, kitchens and bathrooms had not been updated to more modern standards. During the 1990s, when owners died, relatives who lived out of town sometimes simply abandoned housing units or donated them to charity, rather than continue to pay a maintenance fee to the condominium association. Sheskin (1999, 2006b) shows that the Jewish population of the zip code in which Century Village is located decreased from 6,590 Jews in 1999 to 4,158 Jews in 2005. Clearly, the loss of Jewish population and the ethnic change in Century Village has been continuing. During the 2000s, the development has made somewhat of a comeback, with only about a 3% vacancy rate (personal conversation with Century Village Real Estate agent). Ethnic change also occurs as the elderly population ages. When a new retirement community opens, most residents are in their sixties. But twenty years later, many of the original residents have been lost to mortality. Those who remain are in their eighties, making the units hard to resell to new retirees, who have little in common with persons two decades older. Furthermore, the (Jewish) generation dying off in many of these communities was of much lower income than the newer retirees. Therefore, in some cases, to fill vacant units, some retirement communities have dropped or relaxed their age restriction. Some now allow a certain percentage of units to not have a 55 or older person as a resident, although in most cases still do not allow persons under age 18. In other cases, elderly Jews are simply being replaced with lower income immigrants from the Caribbean (particularly Haitians) and Latin America. In a sense, these developments are being reengineered. 102.3.2.2 Catholics Ave Maria, Florida is a new town being developed in Collier County 25 mi (40.2 km) east of Naples on Florida’s Gulf Coast. It is the site of Ave Maria University, the first new major Catholic University built in the U.S. in over forty years. While the community is not being developed specifically for retirees, it will doubtless attract many older persons as depicted on a recent blog: Ave Maria: “Have some Jesus with your retirement community” (http://boomersonthemove.blogsport.com, July 22, 2007). Thus, Ave Maria is a religious enclave, but not a geronclave as it does not restrict the community by age. The town was started by Roman Catholic philanthropist Tom Monaghan, the founder of Domino’s Pizza (who donated more than one-half billion dollars) and by Barron Collier Companies. Barron Collier is involved as part of its “Rural Stewardship” program, a program to conserve rural environments while allowing for economic growth. Monaghan and Barron Collier Companies have exclusive

1838

I.M. Sheskin

control of commercial real estate in Ave Maria. The community was conceived as a “faith-based” community, but, particularly after the installation of a 60 ft (18.3 m) high crucifix in the town square, the American Civil Liberties Union is watching this town to make certain that no civil rights laws are broken (Leonard, 2008). Stores have been asked not to stock items such as contraceptives and adult magazines. Some street names reflect the Catholic nature of the town directly: Pope John Paul II Boulevard, Annunciation Circle, Ave Maria Boulevard, and Roma Street. The town is surrounded by controversy as well over control of the government as shown in the recent three-part series in the Naples Daily News (http://www. naplesnews.com/news/ave-maria/town-without-vote). The current law set up Ave Maria as a “special district” which makes the developers the ultimate authority in Ave Maria. The law ensures that Monaghan and Barron Collier Companies, as the largest landowners, control Ave Maria’s government forever. Within the next decade or so, the town is expected to grow to 11,000 homes containing about 25,000 residents. As of April 2008, the population stood at about 1,000, including young families, retirees, and 475 university students. Land values have increased significantly in the area. Vacant lots in nearby Port LaBelle have increased in value over the past two years from $300 per quarter acre to $40,000 per quarter acre. Note that while the idea of establishing an entire town specifically for a religious group was not well received among some in Florida, it is interesting to note that building nursing homes which are religiously sponsored is well accepted, with the Baptist, Catholic, Christian and Missionary Alliance, Covenant Evangelical, Jewish, Lutheran, Methodist, Presbyterian, Seventh Day Adventist, and United Church of Christ groups having established nursing homes in the state. A related example is a development in western Delray Beach (Palm Beach County) which bore the name “Christian Conference Center” while it was under construction. After most of the homes were sold, the name was changed to Morningstar. The original name was a clear indication that the developers wished to tap into the non-Jewish market in an area that was more than 95% Jewish (Sheskin, 1996). An earlier example of a faith-based community (although not a retirement community) is Kiryas Joel in Orange County, New York. Kiryas Joel was established in 1977 by the Satmar Chasidic sect which was outgrowing the space where they had settled in Brooklyn after World War II (Fig. 102.13). They needed a space in which to set themselves apart from all others so that they could strictly adhere to their interpretations of the Torah and its commandments (www.kjvoice.com). The 14,000 residents, most of whom speak Yiddish as their first language, have an average household size of 5.74 with more than 60% of the town’s residents living below the poverty line (the highest poverty rate in the United States) and only 3% having a college degree or higher. The high household size results from strict adherence to the commandment to “be fruitful and multiply” and the low percentage attending college results from the need to spatially segregate their children so that they do not come under outside influences. For the same reason, homes are without television

102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities

1839

Fig. 102.13 Jewish community, Kiryas Joel, of Satmar Chasidic Sect

and radio. The low socioeconomic status has necessitated a significant social service network. The median age of 15 years is the lowest of any United States population center with more than 5,000 residents. All children (except the developmentally disabled) attend Jewish religious schools, not public schools. More than 90% of homes are high density townhomes. As in Ave Maria, some of the street names (Satmar Drive, Getzil Berger Road, Israel Zupnick Drive, and Gurlitz Court) reflect the culture of the residents. Many signs are in both English and Yiddish. While the residents do not all vote as a “block” in Orange County elections, the local rebbe (a chief rabbi) does endorse candidates and, thus, obtaining his endorsement can have a significant impact on local elections. Kiryas Joel is an ethnic enclave. 102.3.2.3 Finns While Finns have not all moved into one large scale, planned retirement community, their settlement patterns do illustrate the effects of ethnic marketing, word-ofmouth, and chain migration. In total, about 26,000 Finns and persons of Finnish ancestry reside in South Florida (Miami-Dade, Broward, and Palm Beach Counties). A large Finnish retirement community has developed in Lake Worth and Lantana in Palm Beach County (Winsburg, 2006: 44). Finns who had originally come to South Florida as servants to the super wealthy residents of the Town of Palm Beach formed the initial nucleus of this settlement. Finns living in Chicago in the 1950s who were reaching retirement age held meetings in churches in Chicago and selected Lake Worth and Lantana as the place in which to try to recreate the Finnish atmosphere of their Chicago neighborhood. During the 1960s, Finnish retirees moved from Finland to Lake Worth and Lantana, supplementing the Chicago migration stream. Chain migration and word-of-mouth then acted as it did for the Jewish migration experience.

1840

I.M. Sheskin

Fig. 102.14 Finnish Lutheran Church in Lantana

In Lake Worth and Lantana, about 1,600 people claimed Finnish descent in 2000. About 43% of this Finnish population was elderly. Forty-five percent of Finnish persons age five and over spoke Finnish at home, reflecting the fact this area is home to the world’s second largest Finnish expatriate community. There are two Finnish cultural centers offering dances, concerts, and other Finnish activities, Finnish companies in almost every sector of the economy, three Finnish churches, two Finnish newspapers, a Finnish Consulate, and a Finnish nursing home (Fig. 102.14). Finlandia Week (http://www.finlandiadays.com), a celebration of Finnish culture, attracts thousands. This area of South Florida is also a unique American phenomenon for Finns. In 2000, about 623,000 Americans claimed Finnish ancestry. All communities which are 5% Finnish or more (except Lake Worth and Lantana) are north of Cleveland and most are on Michigan’s Mackinaw Peninsula or in northern Wisconsin (www.epodunk.com/ancestry). Yet, because Finns are but a small portion of the population of this area and were not the first settlers, one must know where to look to find evidence of a Finnish culture imprint on the landscape. Only a small number of streets (Alho Drive, Anderson Road, Lehto Lane) reflect Finnish culture and one does not see many signs in Finnish, except on Finnish institutions. The sense of Finnish community is clearly not created by a Finnish neighborhood, but by participation in Finnish events and in the social community and Finnish clubs created by the community (Fig. 102.15). The Finlandia Foundation Florida Chapter coordinates Finnish social, cultural, and educational activities (www.finlandiafoundationfl.us). For the first time in 2009,

102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities

1841

Fig. 102.15 Finnish community center in Lake Worth

Finlandia Week activities were jointly coordinated by both Finnish community centers: Finland House (Suomi Talo) and the American Finnish Community Club, AFCC, (Kerho Talo). The original reason for the two separate organizations–that one was communist-oriented and the other was not – appears to have abated over time. If examined at the state or county level, one could think of this retirement community as an enclave. But Finns appear to be well dispersed within the Lake Worth and Lantana area and could thus be viewed as a dispersal according to the Boal model introduced above. 102.3.2.4 French Century Village Deerfield Beach (Broward County) boasts a “French Alliance” (L’Alliance Francophone CVE), which is featured prominently on the home page of the development (http://cvedb.com). The organization boasts more than 600 French-speaking residents, mostly Canadian snowbirds (seasonal residents) and it was formed in 1995 to foster relations among its members, promote social, cultural, and recreational activities, establish a French-language library, and to act as a welcoming committee for French-speaking condominium owners. The group maintains a French-language web site which helps to attract more French-speaking residents. The Century Village as a whole is a geronclave with the French speakers as an ethnic enclave which, while living spatially dispersed within the development, is united in social space.

1842

I.M. Sheskin

102.3.2.5 Blacks Blacks, according to Mormino (2005) have been generally ignored as a market, although Chambers and Clemetson (1999) point to some recent efforts at targeting this market. They cite the case of a black retiree who experienced repeated humiliation when trying to move to a planned community in West Palm Beach. In fact, Century Village West Palm Beach is about 99% white. Henry Ford Village in Dearborn Michigan launched a $400,000 affirmative-marketing program after a law suit over advertisements that showed only white people and used slogans like “Your Kind of People.” The Huffington Post web site (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/ mellody-hobson/the-looming-retirement-cr_b_85390.html) cites data suggesting that the median savings for blacks upon retirement is about $48,000, compared to $100,000 among whites. This economic difference will almost certainly mean that blacks and whites will be attracted to different communities. Black developers have reacted to this issue with black retirement facilities. Examples include the Fry Retirement Community in Greensboro, North Carolina, Cameron Cove in Prince Georges County, Maryland, the future Ivy Acres in Winston Salem, North Carolina, and Martin County, North Carolina. Chamber & Clemetson state that “for many seniors, African-American retirement communities provide, at a reasonable cost (as little as $250 a month), what they could never have imagined: a place to enjoy their golden years, surrounded by gospel music, African-American art and peers who share their life experiences.” Ivy Acres, originating with the black Alpha Kappa Alpha sorority, will be a $32 million project on 48 acres (19.4 ha). The project, which has been in the planning stages for a decade, will be the first minority-owned and sponsored retirement facility among 900 retirement facilities in the United States. It will be a continuous care community, with 188 independent living units, 40 assisted living apartments, and 20 skilled nursing beds. Thus, this will not be a retirement community as defined in this chapter. As the black middle class has grown among the baby boom generation, blacks are seen in the promotional brochures of the Del Webb Corporation communities (El Nasser, 2005). Martin County, North Carolina is making a concerted effort to attract black retirees, particularly those who were raised in the area (Frey, 2004; Long & Hansen, 1975) as part of their development efforts. In particular they point to the low price of housing in the area. As home ownership rises among blacks nationwide, this demographic group obtains the ability to sell a major asset and move south upon retirement. William Frey of the Brookings Institute is quoted by El Nasser as saying: “More so than whites, black seniors will be influenced by family ties and Southern culture in the choice of retirement destination.” This is perhaps the reason why relatively fewer blacks are selecting South Florida as a place to retire. South Florida is the only place in the country where one looks north to find the South.

102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities

1843

102.3.2.6 Other Ethnic Groups Italian retirees were attracted to Spring Hill (Hernando County) and Lake Worth (Palm Beach County). In 2000, more than one million Floridians identified their ancestry as Italian. Florida has hundreds of Sons of Italy and other social lodges, including the Italian Angels Motorcycle Brotherhood of Palm Harbor (Pinellas County) with which many post-Second World War Italian retirees affiliate. Large numbers of German retirees settled in Winter Park (Orange County). Slovak Gardens, also in Winter Park, developed as a retirement location for Slovaks (www. iarelative.com/flslovak/apts.htm). 102.3.2.7 Gays In 1999, the first gay retirement center opened in Fort Lauderdale, a 270unit high rise. Marketing of retirement communities for the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transsexual (GLBT) population is evidenced by the web site www. gayretirementguide.com, which lists five housing developments in Florida known to be “gay-friendly.” The Palms of Manasota, located in Palmetto (Manatee County) between Sarasota and St. Petersburg, is the first active adult retirement community in America that was planned for, built and populated by gay men and lesbians (Fig. 102.16). Its vision was that of the late Bill Laing, a psychologist and college professor, who envisioned a safe, supportive and caring community for gays and lesbians where they could live a free and open lifestyle (http://www.palmsofmanasota. com). 102.3.2.8 Occupational Groups and Others Mormino (2005: 143) indicates that labor unions perceived Florida as a place in which they could reward members and invest pension funds. Communities were

Fig. 102.16 The Palms of Mankota is a Gay-Oriented Retirement Community

1844

I.M. Sheskin

planned for retired railroaders, policemen, upholsterers, steelworkers, and teamsters. Salhaven in Palm Beach County (now replaced by Jonathan’s Landing) was a 634acre (256.6 ha) retirement center for upholsterers built with the union’s welfare-fund profits (http://myfloridahistory.blogspot.com/2007/02/salhaven.html). Sun Valley in Palm Beach County was sold to members of the Teamsters Union starting in 1956. The web site for the development (www.sunvalleyflorida.com) makes no mention of this history. Polk County’s Fedhaven became a retirement location for federal workers and Nalcrest (an acronym for National Association of Letter Carriers Retirement Education Security Training Foundation) (population less than 1,000), a dogless community in Polk County, was specifically set up for retired postal workers (http://www.nalc.org). Penney Farms (population 580), in Clay County, became a retirement center for Christian missionaries and pastors. Clermont, in Lake County, became a retirement location for athletes and Gibsonton in Hillsborough County, for retired carnival workers (Schaleman & Stowers, 1990). Gibsonton, for many years, had the only post office in the United States with a special window for little people. Moosehaven, south of Jacksonville (Duval County), was set up for retirees of the fraternal organization, the Loyal Order of the Moose.

102.4 The Social Impact of Retirement Communities This section discusses the social service, economic, and political impacts of largescale planned retirement communities and of the elderly in general. Most of the data for this section derives from the U.S. Census and the Florida Department of Elder Affairs, the primary state agency responsible for administering human services programs to benefit Florida’s elderly with an annual budget in excess of $400 million. Where general data on elderly Floridians is not available, data on elderly Jews in Palm Beach County is used. Recall that Jews comprise about two-thirds of the Palm Beach County elderly population (Sheskin, 2006a, 2006b).

102.4.1 Social Service Impact The significant growth in the number of elderly Florida residents to more than three million persons (18% of the population) has created strain upon the social service provision system, including private, nonprofit, and governmental providers. As the percentage of retired persons increases, the percentage of wage earners who pay taxes decreases (although Florida has no income tax) as a proportion of the population. As of 2005, zero percent of Palm Beach County’s Jewish elderly were born in the County and 16% moved to Palm Beach County within the past five years (2001– 2005). This often implies a lack of familiarity with the local elderly support agencies and local resources and this can hinder a resident’s ability to find help in time of need. Most elderly retirees migrated to Florida from the Northeast and Midwest, particularly from New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Massachusetts, and Illinois.

102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities

1845

An interesting aspect of this migration is that elderly migrants from the Northeastern states tend to select the Southeast coast (Miami-Dade, Broward, and Palm Beach Counties) while migrants from the Midwestern states are more likely to select the Gulf Coast (Tampa, St. Petersburg, Sarasota, Fort Myers, and Naples). This settlement patterns is related to the fact that I-95, the major route from the Northeast to Florida, travels along the eastern coast of the state, whereas I-75, the major route from the Midwest, travels along the Gulf Coast (see Fig. 102.1). Recognition of these geographic patterns guides the marketing efforts of the large-scale retirement communities. Thus, marketing the Century Village (discussed below) developments in Southeast Florida in Chicago would probably have been less effective than marketing these developments in New York. Mormino makes the point that Northeastern retirees and Midwestern retirees are likely to think and vote differently. One implication of this migration is that a large number of elderly reside in different metropolitan areas than their adult children and grandchildren. Only about 30% of Jewish elderly in Palm Beach County have an adult child within the three-county South Florida region. Thus, while they may have long-time friends and similar-aged relatives living in close proximity, many elderly Jews often lack adult children to assist them with medical, emotional, financial, or other crises or needs. This factor also contributes to the outmigration from Florida of many Jewish elderly upon the death of their spouse, enabling them to live (either independently or in institutions) closer to their adult children residing in other parts of the country. This return migration helps to alleviate some of the burden on local agencies as some of the neediest among the elderly leave the state. Another factor contributing to the strain on the social service system is that the old are getting older. The percentage of Floridians age 75 and over increased from 7.8% in 1990, to 8.5% in 2000, and to 8.8% in 2009. The percentage age 85 and over increased from 1.6% in 1990, to 2.1% in 2000, and to 2.6% in 2009. The 85 and over population increased from 210,000 in 1990, to 331,000 in 2000, and to 475,000 in 2009. During the past decade, the number of persons age 85 and older increased four times faster in Florida than the number of persons age 60–84 (Florida Department of Elder Affairs, 2009). There are several implications of developments on the state’s elderly population. First, simply put, older elderly will almost certainly need greater levels of medical services and social services (Fig. 102.17). Second, an important implication of the fact that the average life expectancy has increased is that some persons who had retired at age 65, with what they had assumed were sufficient financial resources to last the remainder of their lives, have found that they have outlived their retirement funds. The recession of 2008–2009 has further contributed to this problem for retirees on fixed income relying on stock dividends and savings account interest. Third, an interesting and unfortunate implication of the settlement pattern in large scale, planned retirement communities, as mentioned above as a reason for ethnic change, is that residential developments “cycle” with different age groups. For instance, a condominium development that opened in 1985 and filled with persons in their middle sixties would, twenty years later, consist mostly of surviving residents in their middle eighties, the majority of whom would be single female widows

1846

I.M. Sheskin

Fig. 102.17 Emergency medical services are a common site in retirement communities

living alone. As these residents are lost to mortality, need independent living facilities (ILFs), assisted living facilities (ALFs), or nursing homes, their housing units become increasingly more difficult for them or their heirs to resell. Younger retirees in their sixties do not wish to move into a housing development populated with many eighty year olds for two reasons. (In short, there is a re-engineering of retirement spaces and places.) The twenty-year age difference represents a generational difference. Newly-retired persons do not wish to live with their parents’ generation. Also, most people would not find it optimal to relocate to a situation in which most of their potential new friends were experiencing severe health problems and a high mortality rate. Fourth, increasingly, elderly households are composed of a single person living alone. The number of elderly living alone in Florida increased from 602,000 in 1990, to 710,000 in 2000, and to 792,000 in 2009. As an example, the 1980 U.S. Census found 10,600 persons living in Century Village West Palm Beach. These persons lived in 7,654 housing units, with an average household size of 1.4. The 1990 United States Census showed that while the number of households remained virtually the same, the number of persons decreased by about 2,200, reflecting a drop in average household size to 1.1. Average household size increased back to 1.4 persons per household in 2000, probably reflecting the sale of these inexpensive housing units to a younger generation of elderly married couples. Note that all these population numbers refer to the population on April 1 of each census year and thus do not include much of the large snowbird population. Clearly, elderly persons living alone will need social services, medical care, and institutionalization sooner than those living as couples or in other household combinations.

102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities

1847

Fifth, the drop in household size implies a significant imbalance in the male/female ratio, because life expectancy among women is higher than men. In 2000, 46% of persons age 60–74 in Florida were male, compared to 43% of those age 75–84, and 34% of those age 85 and over (Florida Department of Elder Affairs, 2009). Again, in Century Village West Palm Beach in 2000, 62% of persons were female. This makes it difficult for elderly women to find male companionship. Also, to the extent that the 85 and over generation of women left many “life skills” (such as filling the gas tank and changing batteries) to their husbands, some elderly women find themselves without the ability to maintain their residences and lifestyles. Florida’s elderly population contains a significant number of snowbirds. While this group is of much higher income and generally in better health than elderly fullyear residents, their ties to the local community are often more tenuous. That is, their snowbird status exacerbates the place of birth and short length of residence issues discussed above. It also means that they are seeing different doctors during different times of the year, leading to difficulties and inconsistencies in their medical care. On the positive side, large scale, retirement communities that enable the elderly to live in a very geographically clustered fashion facilitate mutual care-giving among residents. Because such a large percentage of elderly residents of retirement communities live in close proximity to longtime friends and relatives, they do have some local support system, albeit, as discussed above, many do not have local adult children. Thus, informal social service networks, including “phone check services,” “respite care,” and “handyman services” develop among the residents. Those who can still drive provide transportation to friends and neighbors who do not drive or own a car. This is particularly important because public transportation in Florida is not as ubiquitous as in northern cities. Providing social services to this population is also made easier by the density of settlement. The myriad of social, cultural, educational, and recreational activities provided in the large scale retirement communities are part of the social engineering that keeps the residents mentally active and provides them with purpose and meaning and means for social interaction and expression that might not be available to elderly living in other situations in which a lifestyle, not just a living space, is being provided. The support system provided within large scale, planned retirement communities lessens the need for governmentally-based and faith-based social service programs. In those cases where such programs are needed, this pattern of elderly settlement simplifies the delivery of social, cultural, educational, religious, health-related, and ethnic services to this population. Note that while geographical clustering of the elderly has led to many positive outcomes for residents of large-scale, planned retirement communities like Century Village, one serious mistake was made in the original Century Village West Palm Beach (and was unfortunately duplicated in many other retirement communities): elevators were not constructed. Rather, to save money, only staircases were provided for access to units on the upper floors. In an attempt to attract lower-income elderly, the developers did not provide expensive elevators. A windshield survey of Century Village in 2009 shows that a number of the three- and four-story buildings (but none

1848

I.M. Sheskin

Fig. 102.18 Century Village, Pembroke Pines, apartments with elevators that replaced outside staircases

of the numerous two-story buildings) have added elevators. This makes it difficult or impossible for residents with mobility problems to live above the first floor and has engendered moves by people who develop mobility problems after moving to a second floor or higher story. Many South Florida elderly retirement communities constructed after Century Village West Palm Beach did provide elevators, as the original mistake was realized, but most of the installed elevators were designed too small to allow usage of the stretchers and hospital gurneys used by emergency medical services. All of this is consistent with the engineering and marketing of communities as “active adult.” That is, when trying to sell the units, the sales people projected the image of an eternally-vigorous population. The developments’ designers, however, should have anticipated the aging of the population and included handicapped and emergencyfriendly design features in their plans. Note that Century Village Pembroke Pines, built almost 15 years later, included elevators and emergency buttons (Fig. 102.18). Also it should be added that in 2009 dollars, the median household income in Century Village West Palm Beach decreased from $28,464 in 1980, to $24,808 in 1990, and to $23,978 in 2000. The median income for Florida elderly households is $27,000. Thus, Century Village West Palm Beach was successful at attracting lower-income elderly.

102.4.2 Economic Impact Michael Harrington’s (1997) The Other America, Poverty in the United States, originally published in 1962, identified eight million elderly living in poverty. But

102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities

1849

the poverty rate among the elderly, as a result of Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid, decreased from one in three in the 1950s to one in ten in 2000. In addition, elderly migrants to Florida are not a random sample of all elderly. Rather, they tend to be of somewhat higher income, although 10% do live in poverty. Thus, Florida’s elderly, unlike the popular perception of the elderly held by many, are not a lower income group. They bring significant resources, and significant purchasing power to the state. Tourism, agriculture, and the elderly are identified by the Florida Department of Elder Affairs (2009: 140) as the three legs of the Florida economy. Bill Haas (1990), of the University of North Carolina’s Institute for the Future of Retirement, estimates that the economic impact of a retiree household moving to a state is the equivalent of 1.4 factory jobs. The Florida Department of Elder Affairs (2009) states that direct spending by mature Floridians and the value of their federal health benefits is about $150 billion and that Florida’s elderly represented a net benefit of $2.8 billion in taxes in the year 2000. Each month in 2004, $3.5 billion in Social Security and military retirement benefits were received by Florida residents and resulted in $75 billion in direct and indirect spending. Mormino (2005: 145) points out that between 1985 and 1990, the elderly transferred $8 billion in assets into Florida while transferring out only $1.8 billion. The impact of the elderly is particularly significant in a number of economic sectors. The large scale, planned retirement communities result in hundreds of millions of dollars for the construction industry in all its aspects, from the designers and architects of the community, to the plumbers, electricians, dry wall installers, and landscapers. Investment in the construction industry results in two significant positives for the state. First, construction has a high multiplier effect, so investment in construction leads to a healthy economy. Second, construction in Florida provides jobs for the significant immigration (both legal and illegal) to the state. The fact that, in retirement communities, hundreds of units are built to the exact same specifications is helpful in efficiently using non-English-speaking construction workers. Large scale, planned retirement communities open in phases over a period of years. During the move-in period, certain types of retail activity are stimulated, including furniture stores and home improvement stores (such as Home Depot). In Fig. 102.2, within 50 yards of the gated entrance to Century Village Pembroke Pines the three “large boxes” are three furniture/home stores: Baer’s Furniture, JC Penney Furniture, and Ethan Allen. Within one mile (1.6 km) is the major regional shopping mall (Pembroke Lakes Mall) with four major department stores and about 130 small stores. The fourth large box is a BJs warehouse store. Major new strip centers and shopping malls follow in the vicinity of the largescale, planned retirement communities. Figure 102.2 shows a shopping center abutting Century Village Pembroke Pines on the northeast with a supermarket, drug store, Home Depot and other small shops. In 2008, the Home Depot moved about 1.5 mi (2.4 km) to the east to be more central to their entire customer base now that Century Village is fully occupied.

1850

I.M. Sheskin

Fig. 102.19 Offices of medical specialists are seldom far from retirement communities

Restaurants begin to cater to the elderly with “early-bird specials,” smaller portions at lower prices, and, particularly around the Century Villages and other such developments, restaurants cater to their “New York Jewish” clientele with kosherstyle delis. Many Northeastern retail outlets followed their clientele to Florida. One could shop at Loehman’s in New York prior to moving to Florida and could then continue to shop in a Florida branch of the store after moving to Florida. Snowbirds could buy garments in Florida and return them in New York. Nathan’s hot dog restaurant, originally from Coney Island amusement park in Brooklyn, opened branches in Florida well before it became a national chain. Levitz Furniture (now in bankruptcy and no longer in Florida) also expanded from New York to Florida well before it became a national company. Just over 30 businesses, from barber shops to restaurants to clothing stores, use “New York” in their name in each of Broward and Palm Beach counties. Doctors’ offices, hospitals, chiropractors, acupuncturists, magnetic resonance imaging offices, opticians, physical therapy centers, and pharmacies locate just outside large-scale retirement communities (Fig. 102.19). Figure 102.2 shows the Memorial West Hospital within one mile (1.6 km) of Century Village. The number of nursing home beds in Florida has not increased significantly in recent years because disability rates among the elderly have decreased substantially. Only 2.4% of the elderly population in Florida resides in nursing homes, compared to 4.3% nationwide (Florida Department of Elder Affairs, 2009: 141). As only a small percentage of elderly have local adult children, many of the neediest of the elderly migrate out of state to be closer to these adult children. The number of assisted living facilities, however, has increased enormously (Florida Department of Elder Affairs, 2009: 144), creating jobs in the elder-care industry, many of which are being filled by immigrants. While immigrants are not at the highest levels of the health care industry, a large percentage of the home health aides, hospice

102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities

1851

workers, elderly companions, and other such workers are recent immigrants from the Caribbean. The large elderly population has resulted in an expansion of the medical industry, funeral homes, and cemeteries. However, note that many bodies are shipped north for burial (Sheskin 1998). Mormino (2005: 125) points out that Eastern Airlines survived longer than it might have otherwise, due to the significant business generated by shipping bodies to the Northeast for burial. The demand for lawyers to draft wills and for financial consultants is also spurred by a large elderly population. A further economic impact is created by the fact that nearly 25% of Florida’s elderly are currently employed, either full time or part time. Of those who are unemployed, about a third indicate interest in part-time or full-time work (Florida Department of Elder Affairs 2009: 140). Many times the elderly are filling minimum-wage jobs that result from a shortage of teenagers (Mormino, 2005: 143). Other seniors have resumed their careers in Florida. In addition, about 30% of Florida’s elderly volunteer time that the Florida Department of Elder Affairs (2009: 138) estimates is worth $2.5 billion.

102.4.3 Political Impact In the 2000 presidential election (George W. Bush v Albert Gore), the inability of a small number of Jewish retirees in Palm Beach County to properly read a ballot almost certainly cost Democrat Al Gore the election. The transplantation of many Jewish elderly from the Northeast and Midwest to South Florida included many liberal Democratic Party members, changing the local and national political landscape (Sheskin, 2008). Because the elderly register and vote in such high numbers, Mormino (2005: 146) states that the elderly, who are 18% of the population of Florida, comprise about 27% of registered voters and that some exit polls show that as many as one-third of voters are age 65 and over. Jewish elderly register to vote at very high rates. In 2005, 98% of elderly Jews in Palm Beach County claimed to be registered voters (Sheskin, 2006b). Voting is held in condominium club houses, simplifying the logistics of voting, particularly for a retired population. For many years, the elderly were perceived as an impoverished group and were often ignored politically. Today, they are a “special interest group” who has changed the state of Florida by lobbying for elderly benefits, such as Social Security and other governmental programs. The impact of Century Village Pembroke Pines on the politics of that city was significant when Century Village was proposed in the early 1980s. The proposal to create within a city of 36,000 persons a development that would contain 14,000 mostly Jewish retirees, who were almost all Democrats, was seen as something that would change Pembroke Pines in numerous ways. The mayor proposed single-member districts to ensure that all neighborhoods would be equally represented (Veciana-Suarez, 2007). By 2007, however, the political impact was much muted as the 14,000 Century Village residents represented less than 10% of the city’s 157,000 residents, because extensive population growth occurred elsewhere

1852

I.M. Sheskin

in the City as well. In addition, Cubans, who are replacing many of the Jews in Century Village, are much more likely to vote Republican than are Jews. Exits polls (http://www.huc.edu/newspubs/pressroom/article.php?pressroomid=33) showed that 78% of Jews voted Democratic (Obama) in the 2008 presidential election, despite predictions by the Republican Jewish Coalition that the case would be otherwise (www.rjchq.org). Woods (2008) reports that according to exit polls in Miami-Dade County (the source for most Hispanics in Century Village), less than half of Hispanics voted for Obama. A similar situation arose with Century Village Deerfield Beach. H. Irwin Levy, the developer of Century Village, points to anti-Semitic feelings when he first tried to build Century Village Deerfield Beach. Deerfield Beach was a small, conservative Christian town that had little desire to add 15,000 liberal Jews from New York (Sanua 2007). Levy had difficulty in obtaining a building permit. Deerfield was a very small community of about five thousand. All five members of the City Commission were conservative Republicans who were clearly nervous about losing their positions when 14,000 mostly liberal Jews moved in. (They did.)

102.5 Conclusion This chapter started with a description of some of the large scale, planned retirement communities and then explained how their development acted as a catalyst to the elderly migration stream that has resulted in Florida becoming the state with the oldest population in the U.S. Only the large scale, planned retirement communities, such as Century Village, had the budget to conduct marketing campaigns in the Northeast and Midwest that prompted the migration of the elderly. These marketing methods were sometimes targeted to specific ethnic and other population groups. Next, an examination of the history of some of these communities revealed how, despite their original success in targeted marketing, over the years, economic factors have changed the character and composition of many of these communities. Finally, the significant impacts that the more than three million elderly in Florida have had on the social service system, the economy of the state, and on state (and national) politics have been discussed. Although, in recent years, Florida’s share of the retirement migration stream has decreased from one in four elderly migrants in the 1960s to one in five in the 1990s (Mormino, 2005: 147), future migration to Florida should remain strong as the oldest members of the large baby boomer generation are now entering their retirement. A slowdown in migration to Florida in 2009 resulted from both a high incidence of hurricanes in 2004–2005 and the recession which started in 2008. However, even if Florida receives a lower share of the baby boomer migration stream, the stream itself will be so large that “new” elderly should continue to impact the state in significant ways. While Ponce de Leon never did find the Fountain of Youth, the elderly will continue to come for the rejuvenation benefits of the Florida lifestyle. The State of Florida encourages tourism and markets the state as a wonderful place to visit, live in, work in, and retire to. While the state itself has encouraged

102

Florida’s Planned Retirement Communities

1853

elderly migration (Schiavone & Ivy, 1998), and, no doubt, elderly would have migrated to Florida in any case, the catalyst provided by the marketing campaigns of the large scale, planned retirement communities and particularly the four Century Villages, has been essential in accelerating this migration and in transforming the state.

References Arsenault, R. (1984). The end of the long hot summer: The air conditioner and southern culture. The Journal of Southern History, 50: 597–628. Boal, F. W. (1976). Ethnic residential segregation. In D.T. Herbert & R.J. Johnston (Eds.), Social areas in cities, Vol. I: Spatial processes and form (pp. 3–18). London: John Wiley. Cave, D. (2009, February 8). In Florida, despair and foreclosures. The New York Times. Chafetz, Z. (1988). Members of the tribe, On the road in Jewish America. Toronto: Bantam Books. Chambers, V., & Clemetson, L. (1999). A place they can call home. Newsweek. 9 April. Retrieved May 9, 2009, from www.newsweek.com on Colburn, D. R., & deHaven-Smith, L. (2002). Florida’s megatrends, Critical Issues in Florida. Gainesville, FL: University Press of Florida. Cullinane, J., & Fitzgerald, C. (2004). The new retirement: The ultimate guide to the rest of your life. Stuttgart: Holtzbrinck. El Nasser, H. (2005) Blacks a growing part of retirement migration south. USA Today. 17 December. Retrieved May 30, 2009, from http://www.usatoday.com/news/nation/2005-12-07black-retirees_x.htm Fagan, M. (2006, Spring). Older Residents Impact State Economies. American Association of Retirement Communities Newsletter. Florida Department of Elder Affairs. (2009). Florida master plan on aging, 2007–2009. Tallahassee, FL: Florida Department of Elder Affairs. Fox, R., & Fox, B. (1999). Where to retire in Florida. Houston, TX: Vacation Frey, W. (2001). Seniors in Suburbia. American Demographics, 23(11), 18–21. Frey, W. H. (2004). The new great migration: Black Americans’ return to the South, 1965–2000. Washington, DC: The Brookings Institute. Golant, S. (1992). Housing America’s elderly, many possibilities/few choices. Newbury Park, CA: Sage. Gollattscheck, J. F., & Murray, D. (2008). Choose Florida for retirement (4th ed.). Guilford, CT: The Global Pequot Press. Gross, J. (2006). Aging at home: For a lucky few, a wish come true. New York Times. Retrieved May 3, 2009, from http://www.nytimes.com/2006/02/09/garden/09care.html? Haas, B. (1990). The influence of retirement in-migration on local economic development. Washington, DC: Appalachian Regional Commission. Harrington, M. (1997). The other America, poverty in the United States. New York: Touchstone. Kanfer, S. (1989). A summer world: The attempt to build a Jewish Eden in the Catskills from the days of the ghetto to the rise and decline of the Borscht Belt. New York: Farrar Straus Giroux. Leonard, T. (2008). Ave Maria, Florida: The Catholic-friendly town. Retrieved Nov 1, 2010 from www.telegraph.co.uk. Long, L. H., & Hansen, K. A. (1975) Trends in return migration to the South Demography, 12, 601–614 Longino, C. F., Jr., & Perricone, P. J. (1991). The elderly population of South Florida, 1950–1990. The Florida Geographer, 25, 2–19. Mormino, G. R. (2005). Land of sunshine, state of dreams: A social history of modern Florida. Gainesville, FL: University Press of Florida. National Center for Health Statistics, Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. (2009). Health, United States, 2008 with Special Feature on the Health of Young Adults. Hyattsville, MD.

1854

I.M. Sheskin

Sanua, M. (2007). South Florida ‘re-shtetlment’: A history of the Century Village retirement communities. Boca Raton, FL: Florida Atlantic University. Paper presented at the Jews of Florida Conference. Schiavone, C. J., & Ivy, R. L. (1998). Demographic efficiency of elderly migration to Florida. The Florida Geographer, 29: 65–67. Schaleman, H. J., Jr., & Stowers, D. M., Jr. (1990) Gibsonton, Florida – Seasonal retreat for the carnival-circus world. The Florida Geographer, 24, 12–21. Sheskin, I. M. (1984). The Jewish Population of South County, Current Size and Future Projections: An Examination of the Feasibility of the Proposal for the Establishment of a Magnet Jewish Community Campus (Boca Raton: The Jewish Federation of Palm Beach County). Retrieved from www.jewishdatabank.org. Sheskin, I. M. (1987). The Jewish Federation of Palm Beach County Demographic Study (West Palm Beach: The Jewish Federation of Palm Beach County). Retrieved from www.jewishdatabank.org. Sheskin, I. M. (1996). The Jewish community study of Palm Beach County (Boca Raton: The Jewish Federation of Palm Beach County). Retrieved from www.jewishdatabank.org. Sheskin, I. M. (1997). The Jewish Community Study of Broward County. Fort Lauderdale: The Jewish Federation of Broward County. Retrieved from www.jewishdatabank.org. Sheskin, I. M. (1998). Estimating the need for cemetery spaces in South Florida: An Exercise in applied economic geography. The Florida Geographer, 29, 80–91. Sheskin, I. M. (1999). The Jewish Community Study of Palm Beach County (West Palm Beach: The Jewish Federation of Palm Beach County). Retrieved from www.jewishdatabank.org. Sheskin, I. M. (2005a). The 2004 Greater Miami Jewish Community Study, Main Report. Miami: Greater Miami Jewish Federation. Retrieved from www.jewishdatabank.org. Sheskin, I. M. (2005b). Ten percent of American Jews. In A. Greenbaum (Ed.), The Jews of South Florida (pp. 3–18). Boston: Brandeis University Press. Sheskin, I. M. (2006a). The Jewish Community Study of South Palm Beach County (Boca Raton: The Jewish Federation of South Palm Beach County). Retrieved from www.jewishdatabank.org. Sheskin, I. M. (2006b). The Jewish community study of Palm Beach County (West Palm Beach: The Jewish Federation of Palm Beach County). Retrieved from www.jewishdatabank.org. Sheskin, I. M. (2008). Four questions about American Jewish demography. Jewish Political Studies Review, Jerusalem Center for Public Affairs, Jerusalem, Israel, 20 (1&2): 23–42. Retrieved from www.jcpa.org and http://www.dailyalert.org. Sichelman, L. (2004, 1 May). Celebrity tie-ins. Big Builder Magazine. Retrieved April 4, 2009, from www.bigbuilderonline.com Stroud, H. B. (2006). Rapid growth and development at Lehigh Acres, Florida despite faulty layout and design. The Florida Geographer, 37, 46–57. Veciana-Suarez, A. (2007, 16 September). The New Voices of Century Village. The Miami Herald. Accessed 3 May 2009. Vogel, M. (2006, April). The mega-trends. Good migrations. Florida Trend, 48, 26–31. Winsburg, M. D. (2006). Atlas of race, ethnicity, ancestry, and religion in 21st century Florida. Gainesville, FL: University Press of Florida. Woods, C. (2008) Obama first Democrat to win Florida’s Hispanic vote. Miami Herald, 6 November. Zerivitz, M. J. (2009). Images of America, Jews of Greater Miami. Charleston, SC: Arcadia Publishing.

Chapter 103

Re-engineering the Urban Landscape: Land Use Reconfiguration and the Morphological Transformation of Shrinking Industrial Cities Alan Mallach

103.1 Introduction Cities are among the greatest engineering works of humankind. They are not only complex and sophisticated social and economic systems, but rank among the most ambitious efforts to re-engineer the natural landscape for human use, transforming it through a myriad of structures, linked by multidimensional infrastructure systems. For thousands of years, the building and maintenance of ever larger and ever more complex cities has been a dominant theme in the making of human societies. And yet, for all their majesty, cities are highly transitory constructs. Throughout history, cities have come and gone. The existence of life cycles in cities is both an objective reality and a cultural artifact. The “tel,” defined as “an accumulation of several [former] settlements – one on top of another – forming an artificial elevated hill” (State of Israel, 2003: 15), is a ubiquitous landscape formation in the Middle East, with roughly 200 to be found in Israel alone. Tel Gezer, in Israel’s central Sh’felah region, contains 26 layers, representing 12 distinct civilizations (Peled, 2007). Not surprisingly, in light of the abundant evidence for the proposition, the idea of urban life cycles has been a part of Western thought at least since Plato, given voice in the past century by Lewis Mumford, who wrote in typically judgmental vein that “history is full of burying grounds: the dead forms and deserted shards of communities that had not learned the art of living in harmonious relations with nature and with other communities” (Mumford, 1938: 292). American cities are not immune to the force of urban entropy. While concern about their prospects began as early as the 1920s, the cities’ decline became highly visible during the decades following World War II, as the rise of the automobile, suburbanization and deindustrialization triggered massive population and job loss in the nation’s older cities (Beauregard, 1993). From the 1960s through the 1980s, a vast literature appeared diagnosing the urban condition, or “urban crisis,” and offering prescriptions for the cities’ maladies. Some of these writings explicitly recognized

A. Mallach (B) Metropolitan Policy Program, The Brookings Institution, Washington, DC 20036, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_103,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1855

1856

A. Mallach

the significance of population loss or urban shrinkage, raising issues and proposing remedies which in many cases may be even more relevant to today’s reality than they were to the reality of the 1970s or 1980s (Bradbury, Downs, & Small, 1982; Starr, 1976). These voices were shouted down. Starr’s 1976 call for the “planned shrinkage” of parts of New York City ignited a polemical firestorm, with writers linking planned shrinkage to increases in crime, substance abuse and AIDS (Wallace, 1990). When the Detroit City Ombudsman proposed in 1993 that the city “mothball” severely blighted areas, demolishing properties and suspending city services to those areas, her proposal was greeted with a mixture of controversy and ridicule (Bonham, Spilka, & Rastorfer, 2002). By the 1990s, moreover, the dominant urban discourse had began to change course, as the popular perception of the American city and its treatment in the literature shifted from a discourse of crisis to one of rebirth, marked by a new trope of recovery and revival (Greenberg, 1999; Kromer, 2000) and by the appearance of triumphalist titles such as Cities Back From the Edge (Gratz & Mintz, 1998) and Comeback Cities (Grogan & Proscio, 2000). While there is little doubt that an important shift in American attitudes and behavior toward cities and urban living took place during the 1990s, change was partial and uneven. While many cities, such as Boston, Jersey City or Portland, Oregon, saw population stabilization and economic improvement during that period, many did not. Moreover, the revival of some cities heralded in the media turned out to be limited, and, in light of the current economic downtown, possibly transitory (Uchitelle, 2007). Today, looking back over the extended period of decline since World War II or earlier, as well as the outcome of the boom and bust cycle of the past decade, greater perspective on the condition of the highly differentiated body of distinct places that constitute the American city may be possible. Within that body, one subset of cities has become the focus of growing attention, particularly as it has become clear that their long-term decline was not even minimally arrested by the 1998–2006 economic boom. These are the nation’s shrinking older industrial cities, a category that includes iconic cities like Detroit and Cleveland as well as dozens of smaller cities such as Flint, Youngstown or Gary. Their counterparts may be found elsewhere, including one-time mill towns in the Carolinas, and western mining towns. They can also be found in one-time industrial cities in the former Soviet Union such as Ivanovo (Kil, 2005), or small industrial cities in the Japan, as population concentrates in the central megalopolis (Fujii, 2005). There is little in these cities’ features, the prospects for their regional economies, or future national or global economic trends that is likely to reverse this decline, at least within the near-term future. Detroit will not regain the million people it has lost since 1950, nor will Cleveland regain its half million, over half of each city’s peak population.1 In that light, what is the future of these older industrial cities? The question was posed by Clarke and Gaile (1998: 39), who wrote, “Now that there is no rubber made in Akron and little steel made in Pittsburgh, have these cities lost their raison d’etre? Is there a life cycle to cities, especially those that have been

103

Re-engineering the Urban Landscape

1857

industrially specialized, that implies a necessary acceptance of their eventual demise?” In the following pages, we will explore the ways these cities have changed, and whether intentional strategies for reconfiguration of their physical form are capable of providing a framework for their future.

103.2 Decline, Property Abandonment and the Revival of the Shrinking Discourse Shrinking industrial cities are those cities which were historically heavily dependent on manufacturing or other primary industries, and which have lost a significant share of their population and employment base since their peak, a point most often reached in 1950 or earlier. A sample of 21 such cities that were among the nation’s 100 largest cities in 1950, and their population trends since then, is shown in Table 103.1. Seven of those cities have lost more than half of their peak population, while the other 14 have lost between one-quarter and one-half.2 Population loss is a symptom of a cluster of interrelated dynamics that have led to a fundamental transformation of these cities.3 In most, decline was initially triggered by the process of suburbanization and interregional migration that began after World War II, fueled by mass automobile ownership and a vision of the good life as a suburban house and private yard, a vision given greater weight by public sector actions that favored suburbanization over urban reinvestment. These forces, along with the decline of these cities’ manufacturing base, a process that accelerated in the 1970s and 1980s, led to the hollowing out of many older cities, which found themselves with little housing demand, a shrinking tax base, and an increasingly impoverished resident population. Deteriorating physical fabric, substandard schools, inadequate public services and rising crime rates followed, prompting continued middle-class flight. By the 1970s, housing abandonment, a phenomenon once unthinkable in urban America, had become widespread. Abandonment was first recognized as a significant feature of the inner city landscape in the late 1960s; by the 1970s, descriptions of the desolate wastelands that had once been vital urban neighborhoods had become common in the rhetoric of urban decline, as in Starr (1976: 105), who wrote: . . .large parts of the Bronx . . . are virtually dead – they have been so reduced in population that block after block of apartment houses stand open to wind and sky, their windows smashed, their roofs burned, their plumbing pilfered.

Urban property abandonment became a concern of analysts and policy-makers; HUD commissioned a number of research efforts, including the first (and only) comprehensive survey of abandonment in 1978 (Burchell & Listokin, 1981; Sternlieb & Burchell, 1973). Those analysts and policy-makers, however, continued to see abandonment as a temporary or transitional urban phenomenon rather than a manifestation of long term systemic change in the cities where it was taking place.4

168330 856796 676806 914808 1849568 133911 580182 163143 503998 243872 326037 332488 438776 220583 871047 949706 134995 274605 2071605 130808 115911

Youngstown St. Louis Pittsburgh Cleveland Detroit Gary Buffalo Flint Cincinnati Dayton Birmingham Rochester Newark Syracuse Milwaukee Baltimore Albany Akron Philadelphia Erie South Bend

166689 750026 604332 876050 1670114 178320 523759 196440 502550 262332 340887 318611 405220 216038 741324 939024 129726 290687 2002512 138440 132445

1960 115511 453085 423938 573822 1203339 144953 357870 159611 385457 203371 284413 241741 329248 170015 636212 786775 101727 237177 1688210 119123 109727

1980 82026 348189 334563 478403 951270 102746 292648 124943 331285 166179 242820 219773 273546 147306 596974 651154 95058 217074 1517550 103717 107789

2000 65056 350759 290918 395310 808327 80661 264292 104867 297304 146360 206215 204122 270007 139600 582207 637455 91023 196073 1449634 98507 97945

2007

%∗ −1.4 −1.2 −1.1 −0.8 −1.0 −1.5 −0.9 −1.1 −0.7 −0.9 −0.7 −0.5 −0.8 −0.7 −0.3 −0.9 −0.3 −0.4 −0.5 −0.6 −0.1

No. −1674 −5245 −4469 −4771 −12603 −2110 −3261 −1733 −2709 −1860 −2080 −1098 −2785 −1135 −1962 −6781 −333 −1005 −8533 −770 −97

1980–2000

∗ as percentage of base year population Source: 1950 through 2000 from Census of Population; 2007 from American Community Survey

1950

City

Population

Average Annual Change

−2424 +367 −6235 −11870 −20420 −3155 −4051 −2868 −4812 −2831 −5229 −2236 −506 −1109 −2110 −1957 −576 −3000 −9702 −744 −1486

No.

2000–2007

Table 103.1 Population of principal United States shrinking cities 1950–2007

−3.0 +0.1 −1.9 −2.5 −2.1 −3.1 −1.4 −2.3 −1.5 −1.7 −2.2 −1.0 −0.2 −0.8 −0.4 −0.3 −0.6 −1.4 −0.6 −0.7 −1.5

%∗

38.6 41.0 43.0 43.2 43.7 45.2 45.6 53.2 59.0 60.0 60.5 61.4 61.5 63.3 66.8 67.1 67.4 67.5 70.0 71.1 74.0

2007 as % of peak population

1858 A. Mallach

103

Re-engineering the Urban Landscape

1859

Fig. 103.1 Abandoned house in Detroit, haphazardly and inadequately secured

While abandonment was all but wiped out in New York City through an unprecedented commitment of public sector resources coupled with growing market strength during the 1990s (Schill, Ellen, Schwartz, & Voicu, 2002), and has significantly declined in other strong market cities such as Boston or Washington, DC, it has continued to grow in cities with weak property markets whose populations continue to shrink. As Table 103.1 shows, population loss has accelerated, often significantly, in most of the 21 cities shown since 2000. Gary and Youngstown, the two most rapidly shrinking cities, have lost an average of 3% of their 2000 population in each year since 2000.5 With little market demand to fuel rebuilding, vacant land accumulates as abandoned structures are demolished, while those demolished are soon replaced by new vacancies. A 2001 Philadelphia survey found over 27,000 vacant residential structures, 2,000 vacant commercial properties, and 31,000 vacant land parcels (Mallach, 2005). According to one assessment, roughly one-third of Detroit’s land area, or some 40 mi2 (103.6 km2 ), is vacant land.6 The city also contains an additional 35,000–50,000 vacant structures (Fig. 103.1),7 most of which are likely eventually to be demolished and added to the city’s vacant land area. The early 2000s saw a revival of public policy interest in abandoned property issues, marked by the formation of the National Vacant Property Campaign in 2003. The re-emergence of the shrinking discourse after 2000 owed much to the German experience of the 1990s, when the de-industrialization and de-population of urban areas in the former East Germany had dashed many of the expectations, widely harbored after unification, of a painless integration of the two countries. Shrinkage was embraced in 1999 as a framework for planning by Leipzig (Plöger 2007), which led

1860

A. Mallach

to the German federal government’s Stadtumbau (urban conversion) Ost program in 2002.8 The ideas behind the German initiatives found greater visibility through the traveling exhibit Shrinking Cities, which made its American debut in Detroit in February 2007, and the publication of the two massive volumes of the same title (Oswalt, 2005, 2006).9 The city of Youngstown first embraced shrinkage in 2002 in its Youngstown 2010 plan (City of Youngstown, 2005), while in 2006, the Cleveland Urban Design Collaborative, a project of Kent State University, established a Shrinking Cities Institute.10 Rejecting the pejorative associations of the term “planned shrinkage,” the Institute embraced the term, holding that: . . .planned shrinkage can identify opportunities to establish lively and attractive development clusters that take advantage of the best the region can offer, while improving air and water quality, enhancing wildlife habitat, and establishing exciting new recreation opportunities.11

Two propositions, first, that many of the nation’s older cities are losing population to such an extent that their historic form may no longer be viable; and second, that an intentional response to that reality through reconfiguration of their urban form may be desirable or even necessary, have become part of the ongoing debate over the future course of America’s older industrial cities, and have received much attention in the public media.12 It is the nature of that transformation which I will begin to address in the next section, followed by a discussion of the questions and issues that arise if one seeks to pursue urban reconfiguration as a strategy for shrinking cities.

103.3 Shrinkage and the Urban Landscape While Levy notes that “the concept ‘urban fabric’ has never been clearly defined” (Levy, 1999: 79), much of that has to do with the many uses of the term “urban,” a term which is widely used to refer to the entire area of metropolitan settlement. Here I will limit the use of the term to the central city or core of a region, distinguishing a distinct urban fabric from that of other forms of settlement, most notably suburban and rural settlement. The form of that core, as older industrial cities grew steadily from the mid-19th through the mid-20th century, shared two salient features. It was continuous, with nearly all properties being utilized for activities linked to the urban economy; and, in keeping with the classic density gradient model of urban form (McMillen, 2006; Muth, 1969), tended to contain the highest densities found within the metropolitan area. Within the administrative boundaries of the central city, it contained a continuous and largely integrated functional network of streets, sewer and water lines, and the like, in contrast to the more fragmented networks found in more outlying areas developed since World War II. 13 Variations in the density of settlement and the configuration of those networks reflect both individual variations between cities and regional variations in settlement forms and housing types, from Boston triple-deckers to Philadelphia and Baltimore row houses, and the more dispersed Midwestern pattern of single-family

103

Re-engineering the Urban Landscape

1861

Fig. 103.2 Detroit population density by census tract, 1950. (Courtesy of Center for Urban Studies, Wayne State University; Source: U.S. Census Bureau)

detached housing in Detroit14 and Cleveland. Even in cities dominated by singlefamily houses, the development pattern was compact, oriented more to walking than to driving. Individual lots were usually small (in Detroit, typically between 30 and 50 wide (9.1–15.2 m) and 100 to 120 deep (30.5–36.5 m)), with the narrow dimension along the street with little separation between the houses, creating a nearly-continuous street wall. The street network was usually based on a grid but was sometimes eccentric, as in Cleveland; in Detroit and Buffalo, radial arteries were superimposed on the underlying grid. The microscale of development was determined by the market choices of large numbers of generally small scale developers subdividing parcels and laying out streets within the overall grid defined by the central network. This pattern can be seen clearly in Fig. 103.2, which illustrates population density in Detroit in 1950, and which shows clearly how closely the city’s 1950 population distribution conformed to the classic density gradient model.15 In ancient times, the depopulation of a city led the remaining population to converge toward the center. After the collapse of the Roman Empire, Rome’s population shrank; by the 11th century, depopulation had created “the disabitato, that expanse of open land, of fields and vineyards, farms and ruins, scrub and pasture between the built-up areas and the Aurelian Walls” (Hibbert, 1985: 93). In the surviving core, population densities remained high, perhaps even higher than in Rome’s heyday. Today’s pattern of urban shrinkage is a radically different one. Central city depopulation, rather than reinforcing the density gradient, undoes it. As Fig. 103.3 illustrates, although densities have declined throughout Detroit, the central area extending roughly 2 mi (3.2 km) in all directions from the city’s core has seen the greatest decline in population. The depopulation of urban areas has created a new urban landscape. The formal subdivision of blocks into individual lots remains, but instead of the largely

1862

A. Mallach

Fig. 103.3 Detroit population density by census tract, 2000. (Courtesy of Center for Urban Studies, Wayne State University; Source: U.S. Census Bureau)

uniform fabric of occupied houses that resulted from parcelization, the texture of the block now includes four distinct property types, forming a continuum of morphological change: (1) vacant lots, where houses once stood and have been demolished; (2) vacant houses, often fire-damaged, and likely to be demolished (Fig. 103.4); (3) absentee-owned occupied houses, usually in poor repair and likely to be abandoned by their owners as soon as the cost of operation exceeds the rental cash flow; and (4) owner-occupied houses, generally in somewhat better repair than the absentee-owned properties. Many blocks in cities like Buffalo or Gary contain far more vacant lots than lots on which structures still exist, and more vacant structures than occupied buildings.

Fig. 103.4 Abandoned, fire-damaged house in Detroit

103

Re-engineering the Urban Landscape

1863

In such areas, moreover, reflecting the absence of homebuyer demand, the remaining owner-occupants tend to be disproportionately elderly; in one section of Youngstown studied by the author, nearly half of the home owners were over 65 years old. Many of these houses are likely to be abandoned when the current owner either moves or dies, while in other cases the house may be bought by an absentee owner, who will “milk” the property for a few years and then abandon it. The relative proportions of the four property types on any block within the disinvested area of a shrinking city reflect the stage of depopulation and abandonment of that block; whether the cycle is reversible, and how fast it takes place, are largely a function of the level of housing market demand in the area. More or less a priori, in any city which is steadily losing population, overall demand for housing will be less than the available supply, and housing abandonment will continue to take place. Concerted efforts may be able to reverse the cycle in some areas, either by drawing demand from other parts of the central city, or, less often, by drawing demand from outer parts of the metropolitan area. Ultimately, however, the sheer lack of effective demand will doom many – although not all – parts of the city to follow the cycle. Weak housing demand is fundamental to this morphological transformation, and can be measured by using Home Mortgage Disclosure Act data on home purchase mortgages as a surrogate for overall market activity. Figure 103.5 shows the distribution of housing demand in Youngstown, Ohio by census tract using HMDA data. The tracts outlined in light gray are “non-market” areas, and saw fewer than one

Fig. 103.5 Non-market and weak-market areas in Youngstown, Ohio. Note: Area in heavy outline contains no residential units

1864

A. Mallach

purchase mortgage made in 2007 per 100 one to four family structures during the course of 2007, while those in dark gray are “weak-market” areas, in which one to two mortgages per 100 one to four family structures were made during the year. Non-market and weak-market areas represent roughly two-thirds of Youngstown’s land area. Given that normal housing turnover rates tend to be in the range of 6–7% (Fabozzi, 2005), the most likely outcome for any house coming on the market in non-market or weak-market areas of Youngstown is that despite absurdly low prices it will not find a buyer, will remain vacant, and ultimately abandoned. The difference between the two categories, in all probability, may lie in the slope of their downward trajectory, rather than in the ultimate outcome.16 The same mechanisms work in all older industrial cities, with variation being a function of the relative strength and weakness of the housing market, rather than being significantly affected by distinctive local factors. While residential uses cover the greater part of most cities’ land mass, the non-residential landscape of the older industrial cities is even more severely compromised. The supply of commercial or industrial floor space in buildings often poorly configured for modern uses vastly exceeds the demand, as does the supply of storefront space on commercial streets (Figs. 103.6 and 103.7), even where those streets lie adjacent to relatively healthy residential areas. Most non-poor residents have cars, and can shop in more convenient, often less expensive, suburban shopping centers and supermarkets. While some non-residential properties, particularly in the downtown areas of the larger cities, have been reconfigured for residential use,

Fig. 103.6 Abandoned factory building in Detroit

103

Re-engineering the Urban Landscape

1865

Fig. 103.7 Abandoned storefronts in Cleveland

those properties represent only a small part of the total available square footage. The 3.5 million ft2 (325,150 m2 ) Packard Motor Car Company plant on Detroit’s East Side (Fig. 103.8) has been sitting empty for over 50 years, as “trees grow on the plant’s roof, and chunks of concrete regularly fall from the bridge that connects two of its buildings” (Vlasic & Bunkley, 2009). While such buildings may appeal to twenty-something urban explorers, they are symptomatic of an urban landscape that arguably has more in common with medieval Rome than with the more prosperous regions of the United States. As a result of these processes, a tripartite configuration of urban space has emerged in shrinking cities. The three categories of urban space can briefly be defined as follows: • The core is the heart of the economic city, the mixed-use area which contains the central functions and most important economic assets of the city, such as universities and medical centers. Some cities, like Cleveland, have more than one core, with one major concentration of economic activity in and around the central business district, and a second around the University Circle area at the eastern edge of the city. • Neighborhood spaces are those of the city’s predominately residential neighborhoods which still contain a relatively intact urban fabric and a level of market activity capable of sustaining them as vital functioning communities, or restoring them to that status.

1866

A. Mallach

Fig. 103.8 Vacant Packard Motor Car Company plant in Detroit. (Courtesy of Cleveland Urban Design Collaborative)

• Residual spaces are those remaining areas within the city’s boundaries, the interstices between the city’s core and its neighborhood clusters, which are no longer sustainable as centers of either population or economic activity. This configuration of space is the reality of the shrinking city. In the absence of strategic intervention, as areas are disinvested and abandoned, they become residual by default, but with little likelihood that the growing amount of vacant land in these areas will be used in ways that are either environmentally sustainable or further a better quality of life for the city’s remaining residents. Fewer homes and businesses demand that increasingly inefficient public and private networks be maintained at great cost. Economic activity is scattered and fragmented, with vacant office buildings and storefronts interspersed with surviving businesses and institutions. Functioning neighborhoods exist, but their vitality is sapped by disinvestment, abandonment and loss of resident confidence. A pervasive sense of disinvestment and neglect permeates the greater part of the city. These cities will not disappear like those of the ancient Middle East. As long as they serve as centers of government, health care and higher education, they will continue to play an economic role. At the same time, no matter how many mobile individuals abandon the city for the suburbs or the Sunbelt, they will continue to house a residual low-mobility population, disproportionately poor and elderly, and sustained in large part by transfer payments.17 In the absence of a re-configuration strategy that is capable of imposing both a more coherent urban form and a more sustainable way of maintaining the city’s networks, the cities will continue to shrink, becoming a dystopian, hollow version of the cities they once were.

103

Re-engineering the Urban Landscape

1867

The foregoing discussion points out a fundamental reality of these places; namely, that in each shrinking city there are two cities, a “political city” that represents the physical space occupied by the legal entity that is the city, and an “economic city” that occupies that smaller space within the larger legal entity in which the great majority of the economic and real estate market activity takes place.18 The economic city, generally speaking, includes the city’s downtown, the areas in which important economic anchors such as universities or medical centers are located, and the residential areas which continue to draw housing market demand. Within it repose most of the hopes for the city’s future. The question is whether it is possible to frame a rational response to shrinkage that not only reflects the complex interactions of the urban environment, but also reinforces each city’s “economic city,” in order to hold out the prospect of a better albeit smaller future for America’s shrinking cities.

103.4 Toward a Conceptual Framework for Re-engineering Shrinking Cities Planning has historically organized itself as a discipline around growth, a term that often appears in planning definitions, such as “City and town planning is a science, an art, and a movement of policy concerned with the shaping and guiding of the physical growth and arrangement of towns. . .” (Adams, 1935: 21) or more recently, “a plan provides decision makers with the information they need to make informed decisions affecting the long-term social, economic and physical growth of a community” (American Planning Association, 2006: 3). While the tools of planning for a shrinking city may not be fundamentally different from those applied to a growing region, the adaptation of those tools to shrinkage – and even more, the recognition that shrinkage is as much in need of systematic planning as is growth – may require a form of mental reorientation on the part of both planners and policy makers. Simply demolishing buildings in the vain hope that something good will come of it is not planning, nor is it a considered, rational response to sustained population loss. In order to build a conceptual framework for re-engineering a shrinking city, one must focus on the two fundamental components of the urban system described earlier: the urban morphology reflected in the pattern of settlement and population distribution, and the networks that bind that population and their physical space together. To think, however, solely in terms of shrinking populated areas and networks in direct proportion to the loss of population, or as closely as possible in light of physical and economic constraints, however, would be simplistic and inadequate. Shrinkage in itself is not a sufficient object of the planning process, which should have as its object that the future not only be smaller but better. It is not enough, therefore, to limit one’s thinking to shrinking the settled footprint and its associated networks, but it is also necessary to address the quality of the resulting urban environment, in particular the quality of those areas of the city that will remain populated or centers of economic activity (or both), and those parts of the city’s networks that will remain in place in the future smaller city.

1868

A. Mallach

For that reason, in thinking about changes to urban form, it is arguably more constructive to think in terms of re-configuration of the urban fabric rather than shrinkage, planned or otherwise. This is more than a semantic distinction. While acknowledging that much of the city may no longer be sustainable as a populated area, re-configuration recognizes that much of the city will continue to be populated, and that other parts will continue to support economic activity. Maximizing the vitality and sustainability of those latter areas must be part and parcel of any strategy designed to reduce the city’s populated footprint or the extent of its networks. The fundamental task of reconfiguring urban space is to strengthen the economic city, sustaining economic activity and population in the core and the neighborhood space, while identifying ways of using land in the residual space that enhance rather than detract from the quality of life and economic prospects for the city and its region. Since the land in the residual space is no longer needed to meet future development demand, which can be comfortably accommodated in the core and the neighborhoods, those land uses are likely to be non-development uses, involving the use of land for green purposes such as parkland or agriculture. Cities, however, are messy things. To imagine the future shrinking city as an English countryside in miniature, with its central town and peripheral villages set in a bucolic green landscape, however appealing, is to fail to acknowledge the complex and untidy reality of urban population loss and property abandonment (Fig. 103.8). Detroit and Cleveland may contain hundreds of city blocks on which vacant properties outnumber occupied ones, but few blocks which have become completely vacant (Fig. 103.9). Since it would be ethically unacceptable, politically unsupportable and financially untenable to uproot substantial populations against their will, the residual areas of shrinking cities will continue to contain some population for many years to come, in some cases perhaps even maintaining some vitality as low density residential areas. Urban reconfiguration demands a scalpel, not a sledgehammer. This reality has powerful implications for the future of urban networks. Cities are rich in two distinct types of network, physical and institutional ones, which still largely exist in the forms in which they were created during these cities’ heyday from the late 19th century through the 1920s. Physical networks are those that are physically inter-connected, and include the urban infrastructure of highways, roads and streets, sewer and water systems, as well as gas, electric, telephone and cable networks, and in some cities, fixed rail transit systems.19 Institutional networks are networks of discrete physical objects linked through institutional or bureaucratic systems, such as public schools and public facilities such as parks, recreation centers, libraries, health clinics and police precincts, as well as private or non-profit networks of social service agencies. Recognizing that the relationship between population and network capacity is often imprecise, networks are designed to capacity levels largely determined by population and economic activity, whether defined as rush hour vehicle traffic, sewerage flows, or school enrollment. As population and jobs drop, networks typically develop excess capacity, visible in empty streets or empty school buildings (Moss 2008). From 2005 to 2008, Detroit public school enrollment dropped by 35,000.20 In similar vein, a bicyclist recently wrote, “one night a little over a year ago, crossing Woodward Avenue, I crashed my bicycle. As I flew head over heels across Detroit’s

103

Re-engineering the Urban Landscape

1869

Fig. 103.9 Street scene on Cleveland’s East Side. (Source: Google Earth)

main boulevard, I thought, well, in any other town, I’d be hitting a car right about now. But this being the Motor City, the street was deserted, completely motor-free.” The author added that “while bike enthusiasts in most urban areas continue to have to fight for their place on the streets, Detroit has the potential to become a new bicycle utopia” (Barlow, 2009). Planners and engineers typically concern themselves with expanding infrastructure to accommodate growth; as the authors of a recent study point out, “engineers and public works professionals are trained to maintain and expand infrastructure networks–the idea of removing infrastructure is totally contrary to business as usual” (Hoornbeek & Schwartz, 2009, 1). While reconfiguring urban networks to reflect a smaller population is a logical corollary to reconfiguration of the city’s urban space, and in theory should result in significant economies and cost savings to local government, practice, once again, is messier than theory, as will be discussed further in the following section. Institutional networks (Figs. 103.10 and 103.11) are more malleable than physical networks, and many shrinking cities have already begun to reduce these networks. The Detroit public school district closed 33 schools in 2007, and plans to close another 25 entirely and relocate 4 more in 2009.21 These closings represent roughly one quarter of the school district’s facilities. Other communities have closed public facilities, including libraries and park facilities, although in most cases the driving factor appears to be budgetary constraints rather than an intentional effort to reconfigure facilities to reflect a shrinking population.22

1870

A. Mallach

Fig. 103.10 Abandoned church in Detroit

In principle, the same tools that are used to plan for growth can be used to plan for shrinkage, whether through reconfiguration of urban land uses and networks, through initiatives to strengthen the vitality of urban neighborhoods (Mallach, 2008), and strategies to maximize the impact of key anchor institutions, particularly urban universities, which are in a position to play a major role in many older industrial cities23 (Adams, 2003; Hahn, 2003?; Rodin, 2007). In practice, planning for growth is far easier. Not only does the planner of greenfield development confront a relatively clean slate, but growth, whether at the urban fringe or through redevelopment of an urban downtown, is driven by the headwinds of market demand and private sector investment. Re-engineering a shrinking city is a far more complex task.

103.5 Urban Reconfiguration: Opportunities and Obstacles Reconfiguration of the urban landscape offers the opportunity to rethink urban form around more environmentally sustainable principles (Schilling & Logan, 2008); as a recent study suggests, it “creates unprecedented opportunities to improve the city’s green space network and natural systems. Capitalizing on this moment to set aside

103

Re-engineering the Urban Landscape

1871

Fig. 103.11 Old Cleveland Board of Education building, now largely overgrown by vegetation. (Courtesy of Cleveland Urban Design Collaborative)

land for recreation (Fig. 103.12), agriculture, green infrastructure and other nontraditional land uses will benefit existing residents and help to attract new residents and development” (Cleveland Urban Design Collaborative, 2008: 3). These opportunities are particularly powerful in light of the widespread environmental degradation that accompanied both the development of many older industrial cities and their subsequent decline. The Cleveland Urban Design Collaborative has shown how vacant land in that city can be used to restore the city’s ecosystem, improve air and water quality, restore urban soils, reduce stormwater runoff and create wildlife habitat (CUDC, 2008). Another suggestion, which has also been explored in Detroit, is to “daylight” some of the many buried streams that once ran openly through what is now the city (Fig. 103.13). Opening up a buried stream and creating attractive open space along its banks not only serves valuable hydrologic purposes, but creates a recreational amenity that might enhance property values and market demand.24

1872

A. Mallach

Fig. 103.12 The DeQuindre Cut in Detroit: a rail line turned into an inner-city walking and bicycling path. (Courtesy of Detroit Eastern Market)

Fig. 103.13 Map of culverted streams and watersheds in Cleveland. (Courtesy of Cleveland Urban Design Collaborative)

103

Re-engineering the Urban Landscape

1873

Urban agriculture offers still more opportunities. It is time to begin thinking of urban agriculture as a potentially significant land use and economic activity, rather than as a socially-desirable but inconsequential pursuit.25 While the term has often been used to encompass everything from backyard gardening to commercial farming (Brown & Carter, 2003), I use it here to describe something other than community gardening, which has been part of the urban scene since the 1970s (Bonham et al., 2002), and which by virtue of the close spatial relationship between residents of a neighborhood and their gardens is almost ipso facto a model of limited relevance to the reuse of largely depopulated residual spaces. Urban agriculture differs from community gardening both in scale and in economic function. It is designed to produce food not for consumption by the gardener and her immediate neighbors, but for larger-scale consumption. At one level, this may mean production of food for a community food bank or soup kitchen or for sale at a local farmer’s market; beyond that level, it may involve producing food that can be absorbed by the regional or national food processing and distribution system. Urban agriculture can potentially become a vehicle for urban transformation. From the standpoint of land use, agriculture offers the possibility of reusing vacant land at various scales, from individual lots to multi-acre tracts, which reflect the actual variety in the size of vacant parcels created through the depopulation of a city’s residual space. It can be highly productive: “the intensive methods of production can maximize the efficiency of small-scale operations, as well as providing much of the household’s yearly vegetable needs and nutritional requirements. Urban commercial gardens utilize raised beds, soil amendments, and “season extenders” such as row covers and hoop houses to produce yields can be 13 times more per acre than rural farms” (Brown & Carter, 2003, 9). Since agricultural land is maintained by individual farmers, it avoids the difficult issue of public sector maintenance costs associated with many other green land reuse alternatives. The benefits of urban agriculture are particularly relevant to inner city economic conditions. Food insecurity and poor access to healthy food are widespread in urban areas: Low income consumers have less food shopping choices than middle-income consumers . . . they have fewer retail options, limited transportation options, and often face higher prices at chain supermarkets. Thus ironically, people on limited incomes in cities are likely to pay more for their food than wealthier shoppers in higher income neighborhoods. The range, freshness, and quality of foods are also often compromised in inner-city groceries, thus further limiting customers’ maximal choices for nutritious and affordable meals. (Brown, 2002: 7)

Along with addressing food security issues, urban agriculture can create jobs and income streams for inner-city residents, both through farming itself and through the production and distribution of processed food products. Successful examples, including GreensGrow in Philadelphia and Village Farms in Buffalo, are already in place (Kaufman & Bailkey, 2000). Bringing agriculture to commercial scale in a shrinking industrial city is fraught with difficulties. Obstacles that have been identified include the lack of farming skills, lack of funds for start-up costs, the fragmentation of land ownership and

1874

A. Mallach

control, difficulties of marketing and distribution, crime and vandalism, and the environmental issues associated with the former uses of urban land (Brown, 2002; Kaufman & Bailkey, 2004), as well as the relatively short growing season typical of most older industrial cities. Commercially-viable agriculture requires an infrastructure beyond the fields in which the crops are grown or livestock raised. This infrastructure, which is well established in traditional farming regions, includes schools to train prospective farmers, agricultural extension services to provide assistance with marketing, soil testing and crop management, food processing companies and distribution networks.26 The importance of agricultural extension services to the larger agricultural economy in the U.S. has been widely recognized (Burkhaeuser, Evenson, & Feder, 1991); the redirection of their energies toward urban agriculture could potentially become a major element in enhancing the viability of such strategies for land re-configuration.27 Some of these obstacles may be amenable to technical solution. The use of hoop houses to extend the growing season is straightforward and inexpensive. Solving environmental contamination issues is more difficult. While environmental contamination affects all types of reuse, it is particularly germane to future prospects for large scale urban agriculture. Many urban sites are contaminated from former industrial uses, while urban land suffers generally from high ambient lead levels from its historic use in leaded gasoline and exterior house paint (Farfel et al., 2003; Hunter, 1976; Litt et al., 2002). Reuse of land is also often impeded by the common practice – rarer today than in the past, but not entirely gone – of demolition contractors shoveling demolition debris into the cavity created by the building’s basement, and covering the debris with a thin layer of topsoil. While technical solutions such as phytoremediation, using specially-developed metal-accumulating plans to remediate soils contaminated with heavy metals (Terry & Bañuelos, 1999), are emerging, far more needs to be done before effective remediation technologies exist that are both cost-effective and efficient. Other facets of land reconfiguration run afoul of the severe financial constraints facing local governments. Richmond, Virginia was able to mount a successful effort to direct the lion’s share of its discretionary community development resources to a small number of carefully chosen neighborhoods (Accordino, Galster, & Tatian, 2005); few cities have followed in its footsteps, and efforts in Youngstown to target resources have been less successful (Kutner, 2009). While many older cities would benefit from additional parkland for passive or active recreation, few can adequately maintain their existing park inventory, let alone additional facilities. Similarly, while shrinking cities spend large amounts of local, state and federal funds to demolish abandoned buildings,28 no city has been able to assemble enough resources to demolish all the buildings that need to be removed.29 Philadelphia’s ambitious Neighborhood Transformation Initiative had to be scaled back when demolition costs ballooned from $14,000 to $22,000 per building (Young, 2004). Pressures for deconstruction, or the demolition of buildings in ways that preserve the materials for reuse, while admirable in intent, may actually compound the problem.30 The obstacles to decommissioning infrastructure networks can be equally if not more daunting. Leaving aside political obstacles, significant costs are associated

103

Re-engineering the Urban Landscape

1875

with decommissioning fixed infrastructure, including both the direct costs – removal of streets, capping of sewer lines, etc. – and the opportunity costs that may arise from removing infrastructure that may be of value in the future. As Hoornbeek and Schwartz (2009: 2) point out, excess capacity in a sewer or water system may in fact be a competitive asset for a city seeking to attract new industries and employment opportunities. Moreover, as they write: “infrastructure operates on a fixed grid and it is difficult to remove components in depopulated areas without impacting the whole system. . ..When cities are dealing with old infrastructure, redundancy is a benefit.” While modest savings may be gained by removing streets and street lighting in completely depopulated areas, to do so on blocks which contain even one or two occupied houses is likely to be politically risky, if not literally untenable. Given the history of urban renewal and the national controversy over eminent domain, any attempt to compel those last homeowners, such as the Detroit homeowner in the last occupied home on her desolate block who told a reporter “I refuse to move unless the Lord says so” (Hackney, 2009), is doomed to failure. While there are undoubtedly many owners who feel trapped in houses without the possibility of sale, and lack the money to move, helping them move is likely to be a slow, incremental process, hindered by the city’s chronic shortage of financial resources. No salient research exists that might help cities better manage such strategies. Ultimately, however, notwithstanding the many technical and operational obstacles, land reconfiguration continues to represent in potential arguably the only viable strategy for creating a brighter future for shrinking industrial cities. Whether this potential is likely to be realized, however, is far from certain. This is less a technical question than a political or institutional one. To acknowledge shrinkage and its all but inevitable consequences is a political act fraught with risk, while almost any action taken to address it is likely to be difficult, and carry its own risks. Any policy that demands a fundamental change in the community’s self-perception, and in its practice of local land use regulation, its use of public funds and its provision of public services, will be difficult to adopt, and once adopted, to sustain. This leads to the final question to be asked: do the conditions exist in America’s shrinking cities under which land reconfiguration can become an effective strategy for rebuilding these cities, or is it destined to remain an aspiration, more discussed than actually pursued?

103.6 Land Reconfiguration and the Capacity for Change Any community’s ability to respond constructively to change will be driven by the nature and quality of the community’s leadership, and the effectiveness and coherence of the community’s economic, social and civic networks. While strong individual leadership, whatever that may precisely mean, and the existence of social capital (Putnam, 2001) are both salient factors in a community’s ability to change, even more important may be the manner in which the city’s organizational and leadership networks interact and cooperate; discussing a city that has weathered de-industrialization with relative success, Safford (2009: 9) notes that its “economic

1876

A. Mallach

resilience owes much to the fact that the social structure of its civic interactions connected key constituencies who needed to cooperate in the face of the region’s crisis.” Thus, put differently, the quantity of organizations, or the individual qualities of those leading them, may be less significant in the final analysis than the extent to which those individuals and organizations have established patterns of cooperation and positive interaction over time, which in turn enable them, in Safford’s words, “to rebuild the economic viability of their communities” (2009: 134). While Safford has charted and compared the organizational interactions in two communities (Youngstown and Allentown, Pennsylvania), more work is needed to understand how those dynamics work in other communities. At the same time, enough is known to serve as the basis for some critical observations. American industrial cities have never been cohesive social entities, but in earlier times most cities contained mechanisms through which economic elites and political machines could make decisions and impose them on the city’s population and institutions, as well as mechanisms through which the values and goals of those elites permeated the city’s civic infrastructure. These elites and machines are with few exceptions long gone. De-industrialization, coupled with the loss of local ownership of remaining economic levers such as financial institutions or public utilities, has led to the near total disappearance of the traditional local economic elites, while changing demographics and identity politics, among other forces, have undone once powerful political organizations. Nothing has come into being to replace them. Pace Putnam, shrinking industrial cities are not without social capital. Detroit, Cleveland and Youngstown do not lack individuals and organizations dedicated to bringing about a better future for their community. Yet these individuals and organizations do not aggregate into effectively interconnected networks, nor do these cities appear to have the leadership in place capable of both acknowledging the need for change, or moving their city in that direction. Moreover, there are significant questions regarding the extent to which individual or charismatic leadership, whether manifested in the political system or within an organization such as a church or community development corporation, can foster sustained systemic change in the absence of the organizational connectivity Safford describes. The lack of the organizational connectivity that can foster constructive systemic responses to change in the cities under consideration may be the single largest barrier to implementation of reconfiguration policies, reflected in the fact that, after over 50 years of sustained demographic and economic decline, not one shrinking city has yet to implement a systemic reconfiguration strategy. Youngstown received extensive media coverage for the commitment to shrinkage set forth in the Youngstown 2010 plan, yet four years after adoption of the plan, little action has resulted from the plan (Kutner, 2009).31 The city has, however, recently received a state grant to develop a new city zoning code consistent with the plan.32 The European experience offers some interesting contrasts to the American picture. The effective revitalization strategies pursued in Torino in the wake of the near collapse and subsequent restructuring of Fiat (a story with strong parallels to more

103

Re-engineering the Urban Landscape

1877

recent American experience), not least of which was the remarkable and highly successful effort to host the 2006 Winter Olympics, reflected strong civic connectivity, aided “by Torino’s long tradition of civic involvement dating from the medieval era of self-governing Northern Italian city-states, which fostered cooperation across civil society” (Winkler, 2007: 21). By contrast, the relatively successful implementation of land reconfiguration in Leipzig appears to have been very much the product of an elite leadership strategy operating in a less demanding political environment, along with substantial financial investment from the German federal government (Plöger, 2007). There are many fault lines dividing the civic infrastructure in American shrinking cities, but perhaps the most powerful one is race. In contrast to many other parts of the United States, where the growth of Latino and Asian populations has created a multifaceted racial and ethnic dynamic, racial realities and perceptions in most Rust Belt cities continue to be governed by a white/black polarity. Within this bipolar world, African-American residents are likely to be disproportionately poor (Sugrue, 2005; Wilson, 2007). African-Americans are also significantly underrepresented in the civic infrastructure of most shrinking cities, particularly those which have a white majority. Even where the majority of the city’s population is African-American and the visible political leadership is African-American, the nongovernmental leadership forming the civic infrastructure – the remaining economic actors, the heads of major institutions and the leaders of citywide associations and organizations – is likely to be largely white.33 Their relative poverty means that African-Americans more often live in the city’s non-market and weak-market areas, those areas most likely to be treated as residual space in any land reconfiguration policy. Youngstown is representative in this respect. In 2000, 44% of the city’s population was African-American, and 53% non-Latino white. While non-market areas accommodated 37% of the city’s total population, 56% of the city’s African-American population lived in non-market areas compared to less than a quarter of the city’s white residents. Two-thirds of the residents of the city’s non-market areas were African-American. In an already fragmented polity, any public action that can be read in overtly racial terms, particularly – as is likely to be true of land reconfiguration – when the action will in fact disproportionately affect African-Americans, is at risk of being interpreted as such, whatever its intent. The purpose of calling attention to the racial divide is not to make a judgment on the merits of land reconfiguration, but to raise a further question about the capacity of the political/institutional system; namely, are the level of political leadership and the quality and connectivity of the civic networks in America’s shrinking cities robust enough to build a consensus in support of reconfiguration across the racial divide? Left to their own devices, the answer in most cases is likely to be in the negative. The weakness and fragmentation of the cities’ political, organizational and institutional fabric, their limited managerial/technical capacity and constrained financial resources, all militate against their ability to mount a sustained, effective response to their city’s condition.

1878

A. Mallach

The single factor that might potentially change these circumstances would be state or federal government intervention, by offering well conceived incentives for cities that undertake systemic land reconfiguration strategies and helping to build those cities’ capacity to both plan and execute those strategies. The role of national governments, particularly in Germany, and of the European Community both there and elsewhere, as a source of substantial funding as well as policy direction, stands out as a factor in the ability of many older European industrial cities to adopt effective new strategies for change (Power, Plöger, & Winkler, 2007). The rationale for state and federal intervention is compelling. The future of the nation’s older industrial cities is important, not just to themselves, but to their metropolitan areas, the states in which they are located, and to the nation as a whole. While their future will inevitably be that of smaller cities, to the extent that actions by the states and the federal government can significantly increase the likelihood that that future will be not only smaller, but better, that is an important role for both levels of government to play. Whether this will happen, of course, remains to be seen.

Notes 1. One hesitates to say that these cities will never reverse their population loss. In 1931, Rome ultimately regained the population of one million it had when it was the capital of the Roman Empire. It took, however, roughly 1500–1600 years for it to do so. 2. Population loss in itself does not always determine a city’s condition; Hoboken, which today has only slightly more than half of its peak population, is far more prosperous than it was during its population heyday because of the demographic and economic changes fostered by its ready accessibility to Midtown Manhattan. Few older industrial cities have Hoboken’s locational assets. 3. Not all older industrial cities, however, have experienced significant population loss, despite significant levels of distress. With a handful of exceptions, small older industrial cities in the Northeast such as Bridgeport, Paterson, NJ, Worcester or Springfield, MA have had significantly less population loss than similar communities in the Midwestern Rustbelt, and are thus far less relevant here. The difference appears to be attributable in some cases to some cities’ location in stronger market regions, where suburban housing is far more expensive, thus sustaining lower or middle-market demand in older cities even as their industrial base disappears; in other cases, it appears to be associated with the city’s role as an immigration destination. Most Northeastern older industrial cities have substantially larger Latino populations than their Midwestern counterparts. 4. The HUD-funded Burchell and Listokin publication, significantly, was entitled The Adaptive Reuse Handbook, reflecting the publication’s focus on the reuse of abandoned properties; while recognizing in passing the need for interim land banking in weak market cities, the authors, in the course of nearly 600 pages, do not address the possibility of long-term decommissioning or reconfiguration of urban land. 5. Assuming that this rate of population loss were to continue, in theory these two cities would disappear entirely in 25 and 27 years respectively. This, of course, is not remotely possible, if only because of the lack of mobility of many of the poor and elderly who make up an increasing share of these cities’ population. 6. By Dan Pitera, Associate Professor of Architecture at the University of Detroit Mercy. This datum shows up on numerous web sites and blogs; see, e.g., http://www.cityfarmer.info/acresof-barren-blocks-offer-chance-to-reinvent-detroit/

103

Re-engineering the Urban Landscape

1879

7. There are no sound data on vacant structures in Detroit. This represents the range of answers from a number of knowledgeable informants queried by the author. 8. “Nearly 60,000 apartments were torn down in eastern Germany between 2001 and 2003 in the name of “urban restructuring” and about 300,000 more will likely follow” (Bernt, 2005). 9. The Shrinking Cities exhibition was commissioned by the German Kulturstiftung des Bundes (Federal Cultural Foundation). For the exhibition, “starting in 2002, local teams were commissioned in Detroit (USA), Manchester/Liverpool (Britain), Ivanovo (Russia), and Halle/Leipzig (Germany) to investigate and document processes of urban shrinking. In more than fifty exhibition contributions, artists, architects, filmmakers, journalists, culture experts, and sociologists reveal and illuminate the changing realities of these cities.” from http://www.mocadetroit.org/exhibitions/shrinkingcities.html 10. An argument could be made that wider dissemination of the shrinkage discourse in the United States was delayed by the seeming improvement in some urban housing markets, most notably Cleveland and Detroit, during the years immediately following the millennium. While in retrospect it is clear that this was a bubble driven by speculation and sub-prime financing rather than any economic improvement, it allowed observers briefly to convince themselves that these cities were on the path to economic recovery. The end of the bubble and the wave of foreclosures that began in 2006 not only triggered a catastrophic collapse in these cities’ housing markets, but meant the bitter end of long-held illusions about their future prospects. 11. “The CUDC’s Shrinking City Institute,” at http://www.cudc.kent.edu/shrink/inst.html 12. The topic of planned shrinkage in Flint, Michigan, prompted by the work of Dan Kildee, founder of the Genesee County Land Bank, was the subject of an extended segment of NPR’s Morning Edition on 13 July 2009. The author of this paper made a cameo appearance on that program. 13. The central core of a region is not necessarily coterminous with the political boundaries of the region’s central city. Indeed, many older industrial cities are abutted by inner-ring suburbs which are functionally linked to and all but indistinguishable from the adjacent sections of the central city. 14. In 2000, nearly two-thirds of Detroit’s dwelling units were in detached single-family structures. 15. The two outlined gray areas in the center of Figs. 103.1 and 103.2 are two separate incorporated cities, Hamtramck and Highland Park, located entirely inside the municipal boundaries of the city of Detroit. 16. This difference may be significant, because in a weak-market area, the fact that the disinvestment slope is more gradual, and that there continues to be some market demand , may offer opportunities for public or non-profit interventions that could reverse the decline, in contrast to the condition in non-market areas. 17. Two additional albeit smaller populations that are likely to remain in the cities are (1) middle and upper-income households, including many employed in the city’s health care and higher education facilities, who live in the city’s remaining handful of upscale neighborhoods, buying high-quality older houses on tree-lined streets for a fraction of the cost of comparable homes in the suburbs; and (2) in the larger cities like Cleveland and Detroit, where a critical mass can be found, affluent, usually well-educated, young adults who congregate in downtown enclaves like Cleveland’s Warehouse District or St. Louis’ Washington Avenue. 18. A similar point was made by Starr in his 1976 essay, but his use of the same terms is somewhat different from their use here. 19. This includes the bus rapid transit systems (BRT) that have been developed in a number of American cities, which involve a substantial dedicated physical infrastructure, although not to the same extent as fixed rail systems. One of the most notable of these new BRT systems has been built along the Euclid Avenue corridor in Cleveland. Transit systems that do not involve a fixed rail or similar infrastructure are better characterized as institutional rather than physical networks. 20. Detroit Free Press, 7 March 2008, cited at http://asumag.com/dailynews/DETROITclose0304/

1880

A. Mallach

21. http://www.detroitk12.org/admin/finance/manager/docs/2009.05.12_School_Closure_ Summary.pdf 22. And in many cases, particularly with respect to school closings, the criteria used to determine which schools would be closed and which remain open were narrowly framed and excluded any consideration of the impact of the closing on either the future of the particular neighborhood where the school was located, or large considerations of urban planning and land use. 23. The role of the urban university in the future of these cities is an important topic which, unfortunately, cannot be adequately addressed within the scope of this paper. Nearly every older industrial city of significant size has one or more urban universities, particularly in Ohio, where the state university system is particularly strongly oriented to urban areas, with major institutions such as Ohio State University, Cleveland State University and the University of Cincinnati, all located within urban areas. Judith Rodin’s book (2007) offers a compelling description of how an urban university can become a constructive force for urban change, based on her work as president of the University of Pennsylvania. 24. Depending on the topography and the amount of vacant land available, one could conceivably create small lakes along some re-opened stream corridors, which would further enhance the recreational and market potential of the area. 25. There is a tendency in the media to treat urban agriculture as a human interest story, often involving heartwarming encounters between ex-hippies and photogenic inner-city children, that, however positive in intention, has the effect of trivializing the activity; a recent popular book, Farm City (Carpenter, 2009) tends to create much the same effect. 26. Detroit, thanks to the still-vital major food processing and distribution cluster that grew up around its 1890s Eastern Market, has a significant advantage over many other communities, which may have to develop similar networks from a much more limited base. See www.detroiteasternmarket.com. 27. At least some extension services have begun to move in that direction. The cooperative extension service of Penn State University has opened a Philadelphia office, through which it provides a variety of programs in support of community agriculture and related areas; see http://philadelphia.extension.psu.edu/. The extension program at Michigan State University has opened a 4-H center in Detroit. 28. The subject of demolition has been a matter of some controversy, with some writers, most notably historic preservationists, arguing against the practice. While the issue deserves more extended treatment than possible here, I strongly disagree, and would argue that given the lack of potential demand for most buildings in shrinking cities, and the social as well as direct costs imposed on the community by the presence of vacant structures, demolition is not only a rational response, but is far from inconsistent with constructive urban strategies. For an exchange on the subject between the author and Robert Brandes Gratz, see http://citiwire.net/post/1007/#more-1007 29. This may be seen as a possible missed opportunity for the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act (the 2009 “stimulus package”), which provided no funds targeted for this purpose, and few or similar activities. In fact, the one area in which this might be included, the $2 billion provided for neighborhood stabilization, includes specific language that not more than 10% of any grant under that section may be used for demolition. 30. Deconstruction increases the cost of demolition; according to a number of studies summarized in http://www.reallifeleed.com/2009/07/deconstruction-costs-revealed-aka.html, the cost premium is 15–30%. Given the length of time required for deconstruction, which can make the time for demolition go from 1 to 2 days for a conventional demolition to upwards of 10–21 days, the premium may often be greater. While in strong market areas, the cost premium may be offset in whole or part by resale of the salvaged materials, this is likely to be more difficult in areas where market values are low and little construction is taking place. 31. A further issue relevant to most shrinking cities, but of particular salience to Youngstown’s stalled effort, is the limited managerial and technical capacity in city government to execute the specific activities called for by the reconfiguration plan.

103

Re-engineering the Urban Landscape

1881

32. The grant was made by the state Housing Finance Agency “to help Youngstown redevelop its city-wide zoning code to focus on redevelopment, achieving stability, and encouraging the strategic redevelopment of vacant properties and affordable housing.” 33. A subject that can only be a matter of speculation is whether, in cities that are largely African-American in population, the extent to which the leadership – either or both the visible political leadership and the less-visible institutional leadership – is African-American has any significant bearing on salient features of civic life or on strategic outcomes.

References Accordino, J., Galster, G., & Tatian, P. (2005). The impacts of targeted public and nonprofit investment on neighborhood development. Richmond, Virginia’s Neighborhoods in Bloom Program Richmond, VA: Community Affairs Office of the Federal Reserve Bank of Richmond. Adams, C. (2003). The Eds and Meds in urban economic development. Journal of Urban Affairs, 25(5), 571–588. Adams, T. (1935). Outline of town and city planning. A review of past efforts and modern aims. New York, NY: Russell Sage Foundation. American Planning Association. (2006). Planning and urban design standards. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Barlow, T. (2009). Bike among the ruins (op-ed). New York Times, July 4. Beauregard, R. A. (1993). Voices of decline: The postwar fate of US cities. Cambridge, MA and Oxford UK: Blackwell. Bonham, B., Jr., Spilka, G., & Rastorfer, D. (2002). Old cities/green cities: Communities transform unmanaged land. Chicago, IL: American Planning Association. Bernt, M. (2005). Demolition program east. In P. Oswalt (Ed.), Shrinking cities, Vol. 1: International research. Ostfildern-Ruit, DE: Hatje Cantz Verlag. Bradbury, K. L., Downs, A., & Small, K. A. (1982). Urban decline and the future of American cities. Washington, DC: The Brookings Institution. Brown, K. H. (2002). Urban agriculture and community food security in the United States: Farming from the city center to the urban fringe. Venice, CA: Community Food Security Coalition. Brown, K. H., & Carter, A. (2003). Urban agriculture and community food security in the United States: Farming from the city center to the urban fringe. Venice, CA: Community Food Security Coalition. Burchell, R. W., & Listokin, D. (1981). The adaptive reuse handbook: Procedures to inventory, control, manage and reemploy surplus municipal properties. New Brunswick, NJ: Center for Urban Policy Research. Burkhaeuser, D., Evenson, R. E., & Feder, G. (1991). The economic impact of agricultural extension: A review. Economic Development and Cultural Change, 39(3), 607–650. Carpenter, N. (2009). Farm city: The education of an urban farmer. New York, NY: The Penguin Press. Clarke, S. E., & Gaile, G. L. (1998). The work of cities. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Cleveland Urban Design Collaborative. (2008). Re-imaging a more sustainable Cleveland. Cleveland, OH: Neighborhood Progress, Inc., Cleveland City Planning Commission, and Kent State University Cleveland Urban Design Collaborative. Fabozzi, F. J. (2005). The handbook of mortgage-backed securities. New York, NY: McGraw-Hill. Farfel, M. R., Orlova, A. O., Lees, P. S. J., Rohde, C., Ashley, P. J., & Chisolm, J. J., Jr. (2003). A study of urban housing demolitions as sources of lead in Ambient dust: Demolition practices and exterior dust fall. Environmental Health Perspectives, 111. Fujii, Y. (2005). Shrinkage in Japan. In P. Oswalt (Ed.), Shrinking cities, Vol. 1: International research. Ostfildern-Ruit, DE: Hatje Cantz Verlag.

1882

A. Mallach

Gratz, R.B. with Mintz, N. (1998). Cities back from the edge: New life for downtown. New York: Wiley. Greenberg, M. (1999). Restoring America’s neighborhoods: How local people make a difference. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Grogan, P., & Proscio, T. (2000). Comeback cities. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Hackney, S. (2009). Is right-sizing the right fix? Detroit Free Press, July 19. Hahn, A. with Coonerty, C., & Peaslee, L. (2003?) Colleges and Universities as economic anchors: Profiles of promising practices. Brandeis University Institute for Sustainable Development and PolicyLink. Hibbert, C. (1985). Rome: The biography of a city. New York: W. W. Norton. Hoornbeek, J., & Schwartz, T. (2009). Sustainable infrastructure in shrinking cities: Options for the future. Cleveland, OH: Center for Public Administration and Public Policy and the Cleveland Urban Design Collaborative Hunter, J. M. (1976). Aerosol and roadside lead as environmental hazard. Economic Geography, 52(2), 147–160 Kaufman, J., & Bailkey, M. (2000). Farming inside cities: Entrepreneurial. Urban agriculture in the United States. Cambridge, MA: Lincoln Institute of Land Policy. Kaufman, J., & Bailkey, M. (2004). Farming inside cities through entrepreneurial urban agriculture. In R. Greenstein & Y. Sungu-Eryilmaz (Eds.), Recycling the city: The use and reuse of urban land. Cambridge, MA: Lincoln Institute of Land Policy. Kil, W. (2005). Ivanovo: The faces of crisis. In P. Oswalt (Ed.), Shrinking cities, Vol. 1: International research. Ostfildern-Ruit, DE: Hatje Cantz Verlag. Kromer, J. (2000). Neighborhood recovery: Reinvestment policy for the new hometown. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Kutner, J. (2009). A rust belt city tries to shrink its way to success. Christian Science Monitor, May 29. Levy, A. (1999). Urban morphology and the problem of the modern urban fabric: Some questions for research. Urban Morphology, 3(2), 79–85. Litt, J. S., Hynes, H. P., Carroll, P., Maxfield, R., McLaine, P., & Kawecki, C. (2002). Safe yards: Improving urban health through lead-safe yards. Journal of Urban Technology, 9(2), 71–93. Mallach, A. (2005). Bringing buildings back: From abandoned properties to community assets. Montclair, NJ: National Housing Institute distributed by Rutgers University Press. Mallach, A. (2008). Managing neighborhood change. Montclair, NJ: National Housing Institute. McMillen, D. P. (2006). Testing for monocentricity. In R. Arnott & D. P. McMillen (Eds.), A companion to urban economics. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Moss, T. (2008). ‘Cold spots’ of urban infrastructure: ‘Shrinking’ processes in Eastern Germany and the modern infrastructural ideal. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 32(2), 436–451. Mumford, L. (1938). The culture of cities. New York: Harcourt Brace. Muth, R. F. (1969). Cities and housing: The spatial pattern of urban residential land use. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Oswalt, P. (Ed.). (2005). Shrinking cities, Vol. 1: International research. Ostfildern-Ruit, DE: Hatje Cantz Verlag. Oswalt, P. (Ed.). (2006). Shrinking cities, Vol. 2: Interventions. Ostfildern-Ruit, DE: Hatje Cantz Verlag. Peled, A. (2007). The electronic mountain: A tale of two tels. The American Review of Public Administration, 37, 458–478. Plöger, J. (2007). Leipzig city report. London, UK: Center for Analysis of Social Exclusion, London School of Economics and Political Science. Power, A., Plöger, J., & Winkler, A. (2007). Transforming cities across Europe: An interim report on problems and progress. London, UK: Center for Analysis of Social Exclusion, London School of Economics and Political Science.

103

Re-engineering the Urban Landscape

1883

Putnam, R. D. (2001). Bowling alone. New York: Simon & Schuster. Rodin, J. (2007). The university and urban revival: Out of the ivory tower and into the streets. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Safford, S. (2009). Why the garden club couldn’t save Youngstown. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Schilling, J., & Logan, J. (2008). Greening the rust belt. Journal of the American Planning Association, 74(4), 451–466. Schill, M. H., Ellen, I. G., Schwartz, A. E., & Voicu, I. (2002). Revitalizing inner-city neighborhoods: New York city’s ten-year plan. Housing Policy Debate, 13(3), 529–566. Starr, R. (1976). Making New York smaller. The New York Times Magazine, November 14. State of Israel. (2003). The biblical tels and ancient water systems: Megiddo, Hazor, Beer Sheba. Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, Israel Nature and Parks Authority, The Hebrew University. Sternlieb, G., & Burchell, R. W. (1973). Residential abandonment: The tenement landlord revisited. New Brunswick, NJ: Center for Urban Policy Research. Sugrue, T. J. (2005). The origins of the urban crisis: Race and inequality in postwar Detroit. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Terry, N., & Bañuelos, G. S. (Eds.). (1999). Phytoremediation of contaminated soil and water. Boca Raton, FL: Lewis. Uchitelle, L. (2007). Baltimore’s revival stalled by housing downturn. The New York Times, November 4. Vlasic, B., & Bunkley, N. (2009). Scars of an ailing industry. The New York Times, July 31. Wallace, R. (1990). Urban desertification, public health and public order: “Planned shrinkage”, violent death, substance abuse and AIDS in the Bronx. Social Science & Medicine, 31, 801–813. Wilson, D. (2007). Cities and race: America’s new black ghetto. New York: Routledge. Winkler, A. (2007). Torino city report. London, UK: Center for Analysis of Social Exclusion, London School of Economics and Political Science. Young, E. (2004). Demolition costs force Philadelphia to alter anti-blight plans. Philadelphia Daily News, March 23. City of Youngstown, & Youngstown State University. (2005). Youngstown 2010 Citywide plan.

Chapter 104

Wiring the Countryside: Rural Electrification in Ireland Patrick J. Duffy

Wiring or cabling the landscape has been important internationally in terms of collapsing distance and spatial integration. Telegraph cables, for example, marked an important phase in the consolidation of far-flung spaces in the emerging U.S. in the latter half of the 19th century, when lines were installed along the fast-expanding railroads. Equally important, however, at the very local level in eliminating the friction of space and facilitating territorial integration, has been the impact of electricity lines connecting up individual rural houses, and eliminating the poverty and deprivation associated with the remoteness and inaccessibilities of rural life. Rural electrification facilitated a convergence of urban and rural living standards throughout the western world during the mid-20th century. Throughout much of the U.S. and Europe rural electrification was the most comprehensive wiring of the land that occurred after the Second World War. There was, however, a time-lag between the electrification of cities and urban settlements and the more dispersed and commercially less-attractive rural landscapes.

104.1 Electricity in Ireland In Ireland, urban areas were the earliest to be cabled for electricity by private supply companies or local authorities in the late nineteenth century. Because of the largely unregulated nature of the electricity market from the late nineteenth century, there was a wide variety of systems in place, best reflected in the competition between direct and alternating current supplies. The Dublin Electric Light Company provided a network of streetlights in 1880 and in 1892 Dublin Corporation took over the supply of a public electricity system, but the separate townships of Rathmines and Pembroke ran their own direct current schemes as opposed to the city’s alternating current. Other towns in the country had limited electricity systems in place P.J. Duffy (B) Department of Geography, National University of Ireland, Maynooth,Co. Kildare, Ireland e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_104,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1885

1886

P.J. Duffy

in 1900. By 1922 there were 140 mostly privately-owned separate operations in place (powered by coal, gas or oil generators), with approximately twenty larger schemes run by local authorities (Manning & McDowell, 1985). Ultimately, as was the case with other infrastructural services such as railways and telephones in the United Kingdom, comprehensive coverage and transmission of electricity supplies were dependent on public regulation by the state, initially located in Westminster and, after 1922, in Dublin. The potential of the 200-mi (322-km) long river Shannon for electricity generation in Ireland had been recognized in the late 19th century. Parliamentary legislation to facilitate a hydro station was enacted by London in 1901 and it was still being considered on the eve of Irish independence from Britain in 1921 (Duffy, 1990). The first Irish government was interested in an integrated electrification scheme in the state and approached Siemans-Schuckert in Berlin for detailed proposals in 1925. The Shannon was seen as having the greatest potential for providing power for a state with 3m population and work on the construction of the Ardnacrusha hydroelectric scheme began in August 1925. As anticipated by the government it had significant social, economic and industrial consequences for the country. The Shannon scheme was operational in 1929, representing a significant investment and statement of optimism by the new state and for the first decade its high-tension main lines ran through the countryside servicing cities and town of c.500+ population. For a brief period, the Shannon scheme was the largest hydroelectric station in the world, superseded soon afterwards by the Hoover Dam. Rising consumer demand as the electricity network expanded in Ireland called for a series of additional hydro projects in the following twenty years. By 1949 approximately 75% of Ireland s inland waterpower potential had been harnessed. Anxieties about the security of coal supplies during the Second World War and the potential for harvesting and utilizing indigenous peat resources, resulted in the commissioning of several peat-generated power stations after the war. (see Fig. 104.2) There was limited private capital in the newly-independent Irish state and a policy of state intervention was adopted as a means of capitalizing the provision of electricity, which resulted in the establishment of the Electricity Supply Board (ESB) in 1927. The Board was based on contemporary policy and practice in Europe where states were involved in a regulatory or supervisory capacity in power generation though not necessarily in management or retailing of electric power. The ESB was empowered by legislation to produce and generate electricity, and to distribute and sell the service to consumers. The Board constructed a high-tension distribution network in 1929–1930 to link an initial eighty cities, towns and villages. Most of these already had local networks in place (with two-wire or four-wire systems erected on insulators fixed to wooden or steel poles) which were compulsorily taken over and transferred from DC to AC. Following intensive publicity campaigns in the 1930s, electricity consumers in this early phase of development rose from 77,000 in 1932 to 237,000 in 1946.

104

Wiring the Countryside: Rural Electrification in Ireland

1887

104.2 Rural Electrification There were 2.9 million people living in the Republic of Ireland in 1946, 60% living in rural areas. The economy was very dependent on agriculture with 320,000 farm holdings, predominantly small farms of less than 30 acres (12.1 ha) in the west. Households were generally dispersed across the countryside and fields, along rural by-roads and lanes. Rural electrification would clearly have enormous economic and social significance for post-war rural Ireland. It had the potential to significantly improve farming but it would also face enormous obstacles in terms of successful implementation. The rural population, especially in the poorer western regions, was demographically unbalanced as a result of decades of emigration: almost 75% of male farmers were aged 45 and over, and almost a quarter were unmarried – a cohort which was reluctant to change and skeptical about expenditure on the household and farm improvements which came with electricity. Up until perhaps the 1960s, there was a significant divergence in material living standards between town and country in Ireland. The pre-electric countryside made do with oil lamps and a variety of cooking ovens fuelled by peat, coal or later gas. Water was carried from wells or yard pumps. There was a much greater degree of labor and muscle power involved in rural living than in the more comfortable landscapes of town, particularly on farms where carrying and lifting water not only for domestic use, but for animals and spraying machines, for example, was a backbreaking task. Town and country were “light” and “dark” landscapes respectively: people in some towns spoke of life “beyond the lights” in the countryside. Electricity is used not only for lighting and domestic household purposes, but also for mechanization of many farming operations, such as threshing, milking, and hoisting grain for storage. Life and living standards in the post-electric countryside were radically transformed: many people experienced greater changes in the days and weeks following rural electrification than in their lifetimes beforehand. It was the greatest driver of modernity and progress for rural and farming households (Fig. 104.1). From the outset of the electrification program in Ireland in the 1930s, provision to the rural population beyond the towns of 500+ was always on the agenda in a state which was heavily rural. By 1939 it was acknowledged that only a subsidized scheme would make electrification of rural areas possible: rural population thresholds, densities and settlement dispersal made rural areas commercially unattractive for service provision. In Britain, for instance, which had a very high level of urbanization, the smaller rural farming population had to wait until 1953 for an electrification program to start to connect 85% of the farms in England and Wales by 1963. In 1927 the British Electricity Commissioners considered that “for economic reasons rural electrification cannot be proceeded . . . the prospects in the sparsest and remote areas are of such a low order as to preclude . . . the establishment of public supply on a remunerative basis.” In the English West Country there was the same reliance on state support, without which rural areas “had no chance of ever receiving a supply of mains electricity” (Warburton, 2001).

1888

P.J. Duffy

Fig. 104.1 Local schoolchildren watch as a rural house is connected. (Printed with permission from the ESB Archives, Harold’s Cross, Dublin)

Rural electrification, therefore, presented economic challenges based on the costs of service provision to a low-density, widely dispersed, often relatively poor population, and engineering issues (especially in relation to hydro schemes) to do with topography and environmental obstacles. Remoter island communities off the west coast epitomized the extreme problems for a rural electricity service for sparsely populated areas. The main problem was the cost of constructing the rural connection. The Irish electricity board required that total expected revenue over two years should be equal to or greater than the capital cost of connection – referred to as the “2:1 ratio” (Shiel, 1984). Any balance in the capital cost had to be paid by the householder. Where houses were clustered, or close to the existing electricity networks, this was not a problem. But for the average isolated rural dwelling in much of the countryside, the capital costs would be prohibitive. By 1943 the government agreed to subsidize the scheme on the basis of an annual revenue accruing from a 70% uptake of the rural service. Rural distribution experience in Sweden, Denmark and Ontario suggested a program of fixed charges per household based on floor area, and a variable charge based on consumption. In 1944 it was decided to roll out the scheme simultaneously all over the country, with at least one area being connected in each of the country’s twenty-six counties (thus optimizing the opportunities for encouraging widespread take-up), with the objective of completing the integration of all rural areas in ten years. Northern Ireland commenced a small rural electrification program

104

Wiring the Countryside: Rural Electrification in Ireland

1889

in 1950, which was more costly to consumers than in the Republic and was aimed at connecting larger revenue-producing clusters of customers.

104.3 Logistics of the Rural Scheme Catholic parishes were adopted as the basic territorial units for the development of the scheme. Parishes had a social infrastructure in place with representative councils and community organizations, as well as leaders who would act as promoters and innovators of the scheme. Clergy, for instance, were important in this regard, with many parish priests “preaching rural electrification on Sundays” to encourage residents who were often reluctant, skeptical, and even fearful of the “electric” as it was called. In total c. 800 local areas were targeted for connection. Households were canvassed in advance by local committees as it was important for the progress of the scheme that a majority of households signed up for the service to make it an economic proposition for the Board to develop an area. These committees later helped the electrification crews in locating lodgings, and office accommodation, in recruiting local labor, organizing house wiring, and resolving disputes with landowners over wayleaves (Fig. 104.2). Shay Healy’s 2005 musical,

Fig. 104.2 Advertisement seeking peat for a peat-fired generating station (Kerryman, March 23, 1957)

1890

P.J. Duffy

The Wiremen, commemorated the social impact of new people, predominantly men, and the transformative impact of electricity on the lives of isolated rural inhabitants. Registers of “acceptors” and “backsliders” were constantly monitored by the ESB local offices. For example in November 1955, districts in west Galway had not been selected for connection as their returns did not compare favorably with other areas still awaiting development and prospects of selection for development would depend largely on an improvement in the percentage of householders willing to take supply (Dáil Éireann, 1955). Those who signed up then had to arrange with private contractors to have their houses wired in advance of being connected when the lines were switched on. Also in advance of the engineering works, electricity personnel were involved in evening demonstrations and sales of electrical equipment to the new consumers. The engineering components of the program had to take cognizance of commercial and market priorities as all aspects of the installation had to proceed in tandem. In 1948, construction policy involved “building the backbone in sections and switching in as the job proceeded. The advantages of this are that revenue starts coming in right from the beginning, people in advance of the job are encouraged to wire their houses, farms already connected can be used as demonstration places for the rest of the area. . .” (REO News, December 1948). As each section was completed there was significant public satisfaction which acted as a driver for subsequent take up of the service elsewhere. The launch of the rural electrification program in 1946 was an enormous logistical operation which aimed to connect 280,000 new consumers in the following ten years, and involved the erection of more than one million poles, 75,000 mi (120,000 km) of line and 100,000 distribution transformers. A separate Rural Electrification Organization (REO) was established within the ESB, to deal with employment, supplies and logistics, and to decentralize the day-to-day running of the scheme to local areas as much as possible. There was a coterie of skilled construction and maintenance crews in local districts since the early thirties who had been responsible for the initial “urban” network and these formed the core for a huge expansion in training for the rural scheme. In addition there were many skilled and trained personnel available from the demobilized wartime army. At peak operation in the mid-1950s there were forty separate work units of from 50 to 100 personnel scattered across 26,000 mi2 (63,484 km2 ) of the state (Shiel 1984) (Figs. 104.3, 104.4, 104.5, and 104.6). There was an inadequate supply of Irish poles for the initial period and experiments with concrete poles as used throughout Europe proved them to be expensive and difficult to maneuver into position by the manual workers. Finland had copious timber supplies and ultimately provided up to a million poles for the Irish scheme. Thousands of these poles were floated down Finland’s rivers and lakes to the ports – in one instance a world record “raft” of 5,400 poles was floated down for the Irish trade. For thirty years, pole-carrying ships were continuously sailing between Finland and Dublin, Cork or Limerick in Ireland. Storage and treatment depots were set up in Dublin, Cork and Limerick, strategically located for distribution to rural areas. Skinning the bark and creosoting were carried out in these depots

104

Wiring the Countryside: Rural Electrification in Ireland

1891

Fig. 104.3 Linesmen and cable drum. Most of the work of the rural electrification program in the late 1940s used locally recruited manual labor. (Printed with permission from the ESB Archives, Harold’s Cross, Dublin)

Fig. 104.4 Construction crew. (Printed with permission from the ESB Archives, Harold’s Cross, Dublin)

and the creosoted poles were delivered to local rural centers by a fleet of tractors and specially designed pole-trailers. Western districts had long road distances and inferior roads unsuitable for heavy transportation, so small coasters unloaded poles and materials at local harbors and jetties.

1892

P.J. Duffy

Fig. 104.5 Crew erecting pole (horse in background). (Printed with permission from the ESB Archives, Harold’s Cross, Dublin) Fig. 104.6 Stringing the new wires. (Printed with permission from the ESB Archives, Harold’s Cross, Dublin)

The first of up to 1 million poles was erected in rural county Dublin on 5 November 1946: “As the pole was raised in the gathering dusk of that November evening, those present realized that a start was being made on a scheme which was to bring new life to the hills and valleys of rural Ireland, and a new outlook and new

104

Wiring the Countryside: Rural Electrification in Ireland

1893

Fig. 104.7 One of the most important benefits of electricity on the farm: the electric pump replacing the old water pump in the center picture. The mobile sales van is visible in the background. (Printed with permission from the ESB Archives, Harold’s Cross, Dublin)

hope to those who dwell there.”(REO News). At the end of 1946 one construction crew in Co Dublin and one in Limerick had built 63 km (38 mi) of line. By late 1948 there were seventeen crews, 17,286 poles had been erected and 1,210 km (750 mi) of line. In 1949, thirty-seven areas were completed (Fig. 104.7). In 1953/54, 75 areas per year were being completed, with a target of one hundred for 1956. In 1960 there were still up to one-third of households throughout the country who had not signed up, or who lived in remote areas and islands which had not been developed (Fig. 104.8). In 1963 a “post development” phase commenced in the peripheral, more uneconomic areas, involving the return of crews to connect up remoter houses or those who had failed to sign up in the initial period. As economic conditions in Ireland improved in the 1960s more consumers wanted connection and the subsidized scheme was extended to facilitate the servicing of a further 50,000 between 1965 and 1971 when electricity had reached 90% of all rural homes. By 1976 almost 99% were connected.

104.4 The Construction Project In engineering terms, the rural electrification project was a low-cost design comprising a three-phase backbone with single-phase distribution to the local areas. Low-cost single-phase power distribution is widely used especially for domestic supply in rural areas. Three-phase is costly to install, but is much more efficient for

1894

P.J. Duffy

Fig. 104.8 ESB map showing areas completed by 1952. (Printed with permission from the ESB Archives, Harold’s Cross, Dublin)

high horsepower motor loads. The REO in 1948 reported that some farmers wished to have a three-phase supply and pointed to the diseconomies in its provision in terms of wiring, transformers and meters. Where it was required later, however, the additional cost was borne by the consumer (REO News, December 1948). During the 1947/48 post-war period, keeping construction crews supplied with materials was a major problem which called for the sourcing of alternative suppliers and the re-arrangement of crews to work with materials as and where they became available. Because of a postwar escalation in the price of copper, steelcored aluminium (SCA), initially from Canada, was used for the rural network. An Irish company (Unidare Ltd in the 1950s) later began production of SCA and some of the electrical equipment, such as transformers (Shiel, 1984). Because of the distances and dispersed nature of rural housing the most economic method of distribution was 10 kV single phase cable. Transformers were then required to reduce this voltage to domestic 220 volts which generally served groups of 1–10 houses.

104

Wiring the Countryside: Rural Electrification in Ireland

1895

Up to 100,000 transformers were needed, initially sourced in the U.S. but because of currency fluctuations, from 1949 Irish-manufactured transformers became available. Other materials were modified from wartime uses and sourced in war surplus depots in Britain and the continent: for example, up to 800 mi (1,280 km) of British naval minesweeping hawser were adapted as stay wires for the network. There was initial reluctance by British suppliers, hostile as a result of Ireland’s wartime neutrality, but very soon the enormous scale of Ireland’s rural electrification scheme and its commercial attractiveness overcame this hostility. By 1950, however, more and more materials were being sourced in Ireland, the expansion of rural electricity itself often facilitating such manufacture; by 1956, 69% of £2m worth of material was sourced in Ireland, 82% by 1961. As a result the rural scheme had significant downstream consequences for the Irish economy. The rural electrification scheme in Ireland was almost a military-style operation by an organization with a strong esprit de corps. As more crews were trained and entered the field, the progress of the scheme accelerated. REO News was published monthly from 1947 until 1961 as a corporate medium which helped to boost morale, motivate, inform and educate staff. In theory a one thousand-pole area would be completed in about three months. As each area was selected following a successful canvass, wayleaves were sought from landowners, the local network was designed and pegged out, tractors distributed 15–20 poles per day, and 10-man crews moved in to dig holes (with blasting an option for rocky areas). Then came teams involved in equipping, hoisting, tree-cutting, coppering (“taking LT as well in their stride including house aerials, five gangs with two cable drum carriers, one notching machine each consisting of four climbers and two groundsmen. We use a horse on long stretches and three cable drum carriers.”(REO News, November 1949). This system produced an output in excess of 10 km (6 mi) a week of completed line. Servicing and metering completed the process locally with three teams turning out 30–35 houses per week (Fig. 104.9). Progress reports from local areas illustrated some of the difficulties encountered by the mainly manual labour crews. In one area in Monaghan County in 1954, “out of 122 pole holes, 107 had rock in varying amounts and 85 had rock within a foot or less of the surface. Long lines of broken rock round poles require extra strong poles which are expensive.” In the local district of Stranoodan there were 629 premises, 373 acceptances, 170 refusals, 16 doubtfuls. In Donaghmoyne, total acceptances were 477, backsliders 68 (“some had signed at the behest of the committee to improve selection chances of the area”), and additional acceptances later amounted to 88. Demonstrations of appliances and uses of the new power sources were held in local primary schools. In Monaghan, while “there was a lot of interest shown in animal food boilers, it was almost impossible to sell anything. Sales £113 – 1 welder, 17 fires, 1 heatlamp, 4 kettles, 8 irons. Three people nibbled at pumps, three showed interest in washing machines” (REO News, March 1954). Many rural inhabitants were cautious in their attitudes to electricity. In many of the remoter rural communities there was resistance to innovation, making canvassing an important stage in the early days when ignorance of the benefits of the new power source was extensive. More progressive farmers, teachers, clergy,

1896

P.J. Duffy

Fig. 104.9 An REO wall map showing the early geographical progress of electrification in 1948. (Printed with permission from the ESB Archives, Harold’s Cross, Dublin)

shopkeepers, and public service workers who readily signed up for electricity became exemplars to motivate the waverers and backsliders. In 1948 Radio Eireann broadcast a forty minute documentary featuring rural electrification, from the first meeting of the local committee to the final switch-on (REO News, December 1948). In 1951 the board produced a propaganda film about the rural electrification program in Ireland part-funded by the post-war Marshall Plan and scripted by the Irish writer Sean O Faoláin, in which electrification of rural areas was represented as a symbol of progress and modernity. The Promise of Barty O’Brien told a story of a farmer who resisted this modern innovation, but whose son Barty, wishing to work for the ESB, installs electricity in the family home with the support of his mother and sister. His father dismisses the brighter light, insisting that he can read perfectly well with the paraffin lamp (Rockett, Gibbons, & Hill, 1987: 82). Indeed Donn Byrne an Irish writer who had spent time in America and held a strongly romantic nationalist view of Ireland condemned rural electrification because of its potential to radically change rural life.

104.5 Switching On The switch-on of the new service was a momentous event locally, duly marked with ceremony and celebration and reported in the local press. Such evenings were not only moments of achievement for the organization, but also had strong propaganda value for the further development of the service. Invariably the switch-on

104

Wiring the Countryside: Rural Electrification in Ireland

1897

Fig. 104.10 The formal switch-on ceremony headed up by local clergymen. The new meter box is visible in the background as is the smoke patch from the now-obsolete paraffin lamp. (Printed with permission from the ESB Archives, Harold’s Cross, Dublin)

was presided over by the parish priest who had an important leadership role in the community: “Rev Fr J M Hayes, PP Bansha, switched in the village of Bansha from a platform on the Main Street. In spite of heavy rain, there was a large attendance of people from the two parishes of Bansha and Knockmoyler, accompanied by the Bansha Fife and Drum Band. Afterwards the local Guild of Muintir na Tíre [Community development group] entertained the REO construction crew to supper in the schoolhouse. Members of the crew contributed to the musical program which followed. Speaking at the ceremony, Fr Hayes emphasized that “rural electrification is more than an amenity – it is a revolution. . .” (REO News, June 1948). In northern counties, clergy of different denominations participated jointly in the ceremonies (Fig. 104.10). The switching-on of lights in each rural community was greeted with “gasps of delight” and loud applause and celebration, often followed by demonstrations of machines and electrical appliances by ESB personnel. In one Tipperary village, ice cream was on sale an hour after the first store had been connected – a small symbol of change for the future (Shiel, 1984: 119). As the program proceeded and more and more areas were connected, increased visibility of the benefits of electricity lent more momentum to up-take by local householders. A survey in 1953, highlighted the slow development of the consumer market: 80% of those surveyed had mains radio, 64% electric irons, 44% electric kettles, 25% electric cookers, 17% washing machines (Fig. 104.11). However, only 11% had water pumps which by introducing piped water would have made the biggest impact on household lifestyles (Shiel, 1984: 152). “This Christmas 50,000 householders – the majority of them farmers – will have the benefits of cheap electric power at hand to help them improve on old ways, to cut out time-wasting methods. The work of 50,000 housewives will be lightened because of the humble iron or kettle, perhaps by the elimination of cleaning, trimming, and filling the oil lamp. A

1898

P.J. Duffy

Fig. 104.11 Exhibition of appliances for farm use. There is particular emphasis on “cheap” electricity. (Printed with permission from the ESB Archives, Harold’s Cross, Dublin)

hundred thousand children will be grateful for the good light which enables them to read their story or lesson books in comfort. In many rural homes water will gush from taps for the first time” (REO News, December 1951). The farmyard was slow to adopt, apart from lighting yards to extend the winter working day. But areas which were connected for several years gradually invested in more and electric appliances. By the sixties, as the Irish economy and rural living standards improved, there was increasing interest in water pumps and heaters for piped water supplies.

104.6 Conclusion Between 1946 and 1979, the ESB connected in excess of 420,000 customers in rural Ireland. The Rural Electrification Scheme has been described as "the Quiet Revolution" because of the major socioeconomic changes it brought about. To a greater extent and more rapidly than the telephone, electrification integrated all rural and urban landscapes, lighting up the rural darkness, transforming standards of living, assisting with the mechanization of farms and rural households at a time of considerable rural despondency, and facilitating a significant convergence of rural and urban living standards. It revolutionized rural and farm life. In terms of the built environment, for instance, it was followed by a rash of bathroom extensions to rural houses, as well as new and remodeled farm buildings, such as dairies, milking sheds, chicken and mushroom houses. Indeed the new house-building boom of the 1960s was not unconnected with this energy source provided to rural communities. Today the pre-electric countryside is almost lost in local memory. It is commemorated in folk museums such as Muckross Traditional Farms in Kerry which recreate

104

Wiring the Countryside: Rural Electrification in Ireland

1899

the houses and activities of rural Ireland in the 1930s before rural electrification – for the benefit of tourists and younger Irish people.

References Dáil Éireann. (1955). Parliamentary replies (Vol. 153). 23 November. Dublin: Stationery office. Duffy, P. (1990). Ardnacrusha – birthplace of the ESB. Dublin: Electricity Supply Board. Manning, M., & McDowell, M. (1985). Electricity supply in Ireland: The history of the ESB. Dublin: Gill and McMillan. REO News (ESB, Dublin, 1947–61) REO News, December 1948 Rockett, K., Gibbons, L., & Hill, J. (1987). Cinema and Ireland. Beckenham: Croom Helm, Beckenham, Shiel, M. J. (1984). The quiet revolution: The electrification of rural Ireland 1946–1976. Dublin: O’Brien Press. Warburton, G. (2001). The story of SWEB’s Rural Electrification. Retrieved from http://www. swehs.co.uk/docs/news17su.html.

Chapter 105

When a New Deal is Actually an Old Deal: The Role of TVA in Engineering a Jim Crow Racialized Landscape Derek H. Alderman and Robert N. Brown

105.1 Introduction The Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA) was created in 1933 as part of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal, one of the first in a long line of government programs and agencies intended to provide relief and recovery from the Great Depression. The TVA, which resulted in the building of a series of multipurpose dams and reservoirs along the Tennessee River, is mainly identified now with electricity production and stream regulation (Fig. 105.1). Yet, it was originally set up as a totalizing regional economic development project with a strong emphasis on social reconstruction. New Deal planners saw the Tennessee Valley and much of the South

Fig. 105.1 Map of Tennessee Valley Region and TVA dams. (Source: TVA, 1940)

D.H. Alderman (B) Department of Geography, East Carolina University, Greenville, NC 27858, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_105,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1901

1902

D.H. Alderman and R.N. Brown

as lagging behind the development experienced in the rest of America. In addition to electricity, the TVA also provided malaria control, fertilizer production, industrialization, improved river navigation, recreational areas, and badly needed jobs. The TVA has been heralded as one of the largest and most significant megaprojects in United States history (Reed, 2001; Boyce 2004), and recognized for “kick-starting the post-Second World War global obsession for large dams” (D’Souza, 2008: 113). Many of the early academic studies of the TVA tended toward political polemics in its praise and sentimental admiration for the policies and personalities of the New Deal. Beginning in the 1960 s, however, a more detached and critical view emerged that sought to assess the many successes, failures, and tensions that accompanied Roosevelt’s administrative project (Conkin, 1967). This perspective, in the words of Colignon (1997: 263), recognizes that “the TVA was created and institutionalized under conditions of contradiction and conflict.” In recent years, writers of the New Deal have looked to the stories of individuals (oftentimes the voiceless poor) for their interpretations of the era (McDonald & Muldowny, 1982). Perhaps the best example of such scholarship has been Nancy Grant’s (1990) critique of the TVA from the perspective of African Americans. Despite the progressive, reconstructive focus of TVA and its stated promise to improve life for all southerners, the Authority perpetuated and further legitimized a Jim Crow style of racial discrimination against African Americans through its employment practices and community planning. This discrimination was rationalized through a “grass-roots” philosophy meant to minimize conflict (with white southerners) and a “political arithmetic” of cost calculations and proportionate hiring. The term Jim Crow refers to a caste-like system of legally sanctioned and informal social practices that segregated blacks and whites and justified the infliction of racism, intimidation, and violence upon African Americans. There is some historical debate about when and how the Jim Crow era began (e.g., see Williamson, 1965; Woodward, 1955). Nevertheless, by the time that the TVA was founded in the 1930 s, Jim Crow was firmly established and African Americans in the South were suffering from separate (and unequal) schools, transportation and public accommodations; deprivation of political and economic rights; and frequent instances of lynching and false imprisonment. White beliefs about the necessity of maintaining a hyper-segregated society constituted the Jim Crow South. Racial mixing was not only frowned upon, but made unlawful. It would not be until the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950 s and 1960 s that racially-based segregation and disenfranchisement were successfully challenged and dismantled. The maintenance of Jim Crow did not occur simply through the reproduction of certain ideas about the supposed inferiority of African Americans. It also required the construction of landscapes and other spatial expressions of control that reinforced white supremacy and maintained the wide chasm between the races (Inwood, 2004; O’Brien, 2007). As Powell (2007: 49) observes, “The arrangement of space has been one of the most important ways to distribute and retard opportunity along racial lines.” Indeed, the TVA played an active role in perpetuating Jim Crow by building racially segregated worksites, parks, and entire settlements. Of particular

105

When a New Deal is Actually an Old Deal

1903

concern to critics of the TVA’s racial policies at the time was the blatant exclusion of African Americans from the planned community of Norris, Tennessee. Later to become a white suburb of Knoxville, Norris was created to house TVA workers and as an experiment in social engineering, viz., to demonstrate, ironically enough, the benefits of cooperative living. Norris drew intense public criticism from the NAACP, who referred to the TVA as “Lily-White Reconstruction” (Houston & Davis, 1934: 290). Our chapter examines the racial politics of the TVA, seeking to raise awareness of the social justice implications of earth engineering as it reshapes (or fails to reshape) social inequalities and racism. How was the so-called ‘New Deal” actually an “Old Deal” in the way that it continued the injustice that had been imposed upon African Americans for so long? We also ask: Why did the TVA’s bold experiment in regional planning reproduce the South’s racial order rather than reform or redefine it? Addressing these issues requires more than just historical analysis, but also recognition of the social implications of megaproject development. While earth engineering is obviously a technically- and physically-based process, it is also a social practice that involves and impacts humans in selective and sometimes negative ways. Megaprojects bring about dramatic change, but they also play a more under analyzed role in reproducing traditional power relations and maintaining control over marginalized groups such as racial and ethnic minorities. The idea of megaprojects serving as agents of social control is developed further in the next section, where we also argue that earth engineering can be analyzed in terms of the “racialized landscapes” it creates. In the words of Harris (2007: 2), a racialized landscape perspective recognizes that built, designed environments “not only reflect, but reinforce and even create racially-based practices of exclusion, oppression, minoritization, and privilege.” Megaprojects actively work to normalize the racial identities of places and people, communicating powerful messages about who belongs where (or if they belong at all) within the engineered sociospatial order. Critiquing the racialized spatial histories of TVA and other large scale projects is important. As Lipsitz (2007: 17) asserts in assessing the legacy of Jim Crow: “The contours of racial inequality today flow directly from the racial and spatial heritage bequeathed to us from the past.” Given the burden of this heritage, landscape architects, planners, and designers should “disassemble the fatal links that connect race, power, and place” (Lipsitz, 2007: 10).

105.2 Conceptual Background Megaprojects are often defined and studied in the context of the social and environmental changes they induce. Indeed, Gellert and Lynch (2003: 15) identify megaprojects as those that “transform landscapes rapidly, intentionally, and profoundly in very visible ways, and require coordination of capital and state power.” As they also suggest, “displacements” or stresses are inherent within megaproject development. These stresses result not only from altering the physical landscape,

1904

D.H. Alderman and R.N. Brown

but also from societal changes that accompany engineering. Social displacements can include the eviction and resettlement of people, the establishment (and eventual closing down) of labor camps used to build megaprojects, and loss of public access to property and resources. Ideologies and biases, such as racism, can foster displacement and ensure that the benefits of mega-projects are felt unequally. Arguing that megaengineering is driven by the process of “creative destruction,” Gellert and Lynch (2003) ask the important question: For whom are megaprojects creative and for whom are they destructive? Changes brought on by projects can negatively impact the identity, sense of place, and well-being of marginalized groups, contributing to their further social exclusion (Moulaert, Salin, & Werquin, 2001; Windsor & McVey, 2005). Despite widespread recognition of this fact, there has been limited attention devoted to the social impact of megaengineering on African Americans in the American South. There is, however, excellent literature on environmental and transportation racism (e.g., Bullard, 2000; Bullard, Johnson, & Torres, 2004). In critically analyzing the differential social effects of earth engineering, it is important to recognize that megaprojects are not just agents of change but also continuity. While these large scale projects transform environments, economies, and cultures, they also assist in maintaining the prevailing social and political order. Maintenance of this order is not simply an unintended or accidental consequence of planning. Rather, as Grant (1990) argues, the status quo can be planned for and engineered. Lack of social change, particularly for minority groups, can be a deliberate outcome given the conservative political environment within which megaprojects are built and the racist assumptions that dominate the planning process. Yiftachel (1998) encourages us to recognize the “dark” side of planning. He writes: “. . .the very same tools ostensibly introduced to assist social reform and improve people’s quality of life can be used to control and repress peripheral groups” (Yiftachel, 1998: 400). According to him, this tension between reform and control is most obvious in planning projects when they take place in deeply divided societies, “where a dominant ethnic [or racial] group rules the state and often uses the power of public institutions to impose control over other ethnic [or racial] groups” (Yiftachel, 1998: 400). It is worth noting that TVA planning took place in a deeply divided region characterized by long-standing racial inequality and a Jim Crow ideology that saw social reform (for whites) and social control (of blacks) as one and the same. We can even go beyond the South and suggest that the TVA’s insensitivity to African Americans resulted from a national government that had not yet thought it necessary to advocate adequately for racial equality. Indeed, President Harry Truman did not fully integrate the U.S. military until 1948. Control is exerted in many different ways through planning, but one of the most important is territorially through the processes of spatial segregation and confinement (Yiftachel, 1998). There have been instances outside the context of the TVA in which megaprojects have continued, if not exacerbated, spatial divisions between racial and ethnic groups. For instance, as Frenkel (2002) show, US involvement in the building of the Panama Canal in the early 20th century led to the production of a segregated residential landscape that, in many instances, reflected Jim Crow practices found in the South. Entire Canal Zone towns were built to separate

105

When a New Deal is Actually an Old Deal

1905

Americans from Panamanians, driven by an unquestioned, institutional belief in the perceived “Otherness” of Panama and “the imperial practice of rationalizing discrimination against tropical people” (Frenkel, 2002: 85). Colten (2002) provides an even more compelling look into the complex intersection of Jim Crow-era racial policies with environmental engineering in New Orleans. He discusses race- and class-based inequities in the reconstruction of the city’s drainage system. While improvements in drainage opened up new neighborhoods in ways that could have helped desegregate New Orleans, racist city ordinances and real estate practices kept African Americans out of these areas, contributing to more pronounced residential segregation. While Colten (2002) and Frenkel (2002) differ over the extent to which they see racism as a corrupting versus an intrinsic aspect of earth engineering, they both demonstrate how megaprojects have functioned in the past as agents of racial control and the extent to which these projects assisted in reaffirming the social importance of Jim Crow, whether at home or abroad. The research of Colten and Frenkel is important, but it only takes us so far in theorizing about the role of earth engineering in shaping the geography of race, power, and social justice. To help fill this void somewhat, we suggest that megaprojects, rather than operating in a color blind vacuum, are involved in producing what Richard Schein (2003) refers to as “racialized landscapes.” Engineered spaces and places, like any landscape, are not simply the outcome of racially-based social values, fears, and relations. Rather, because landscapes are ways of ordering the world as well as material things, they participate in promoting and institutionalizing dominant ideas about race and the racial identities of African Americans and other minorities, thereby creating a visual legitimacy for how society ought to be (Schein, 2003). Important here is recognizing that racialized landscapes are produced by (and in turn produce) what Trudeau (2006: 422) calls a “territorialized politics of belonging,” in which places are racially bounded in ways that enforce exclusion and discrimination. As Inwood and Martin (2008) argue, the construction and reification of white privilege is important to understanding how racialized landscapes normalize or justify the exclusion of African Americans. Of course, rarely does this normative power go completely unquestioned. Within each racialized landscape lies the potential for resisting racism and exclusion (Schein, 2003). Consequently, as we analyze TVA’s role in engineering a Jim Crow racialized landscape, it is important to analyze not only the Authority’s role in using place to perpetuate and legitimize racist social relations but also the reaction of African Americans to this maintenance of the South’s social and spatial order.

105.3 The TVA as a Contested Terrain In order to understand the capacity of the TVA to perpetuate racial discrimination and segregation, one must interrogate its larger ideological context. This is not necessarily easy given that TVA advocates, according to D’Souza (2008), sought to obscure the project’s political roots. They represented river valley development as a “neutral technological artifact” (D’Souza 2008: 121). Such an image belies

1906

D.H. Alderman and R.N. Brown

the extent to which large-scale engineering is always about realizing certain specific political outcomes and how the TVA operated within a “contested political, economic, and ecological terrain” (D’Souza, 2008: 121). The origins of the TVA predate the New Deal Era. During World War I, the War Department, through the National Defense Act of 1916, harnessed the power of the Tennessee River at Muscle Shoals, Alabama to produce nitrates for explosives. In the years that followed, progressives in Congress, especially Nebraska Senator George Norris, began to advocate for public ownership of electricity production and looked to Muscle Shoals to build upon the government’s work there. Though various proposals for the use of the Muscle Shoals infrastructure came and went, including an offer by Henry Ford to buy and develop the site privately, the project languished in the bureaucratic wilderness until the early days of the New Deal. The Great Depression raised the political and economic stakes of the debate over federal intervention and Norris’ plan attracted the attention and gained the support of President Roosevelt (Conkin, 1967; Leuchtenburg, 1963). Although the Tennessee Valley project came to be identified strictly with the progressive policies of the Roosevelt administration, the idea of environmental, economic and social engineering in the region had roots in at least two political philosophies. The first of these was a pragmatic impulse that focused on the government’s investment at Muscle Shoals. For decades, many southern congressional leaders proposed that these facilities change to fertilizer production for the area’s struggling farmers, while Norris and others looked to the potential for cheap electric power production that would serve a population who had yet to experience the benefits of the electric light, much less radios and washing machines. Indeed, before the TVA developed the Norris Basin in Tennessee, only 6% of property owners and 2% of tenants in the area had electricity and only 8% of property owners and 3% of tenants owned radios, usually battery-operated. Before the TVA, 65% of property owners and 78% of tenants in the Norris Basin had to travel at least 300 yd (274 m) to get their household water (New Deal Network, 2003). At the same time, the TVA emerged out of social activism and a progressive ideology. As the country plunged deeper into the Depression more and more people embraced the idea that the federal government ought to try something – anything – to improve the lives of millions of destitute Americans. Into this political awakening stepped individuals of radical views and grandiose plans, plans that until that time would have been unthinkable for the center right political mainstream. These visionaries saw in the Tennessee Valley an opportunity to create a new American world, a world driven and planned from Washington, D.C., imbued with idealism in the pursuit of a basic social reordering. Thus, the 40,000 mi2 (103,600 km2 ) of the Tennessee Valley drainage basin became a laboratory in pragmatism wedded to idealism. These two imperatives worked together – or perhaps in opposition – as the foundation of the TVA (McDonald & Muldowny, 1982; Schlesinger, 1958). As we allude to above, there were complementary and competing views at work in the early days of the New Deal. The idea most clearly associated with social justice and social engineering proved to be the shortest lived of all the TVA endeavors. There were two main themes at the root of this idealistic impulse. First, Franklin

105

When a New Deal is Actually an Old Deal

1907

Roosevelt long had been interested in issues related to natural resource conservation and by 1931, he was extolling the merits of regional planning (Conkin, 1983). Growing up in the bucolic setting of his family estate in New York’s Hudson River Valley, Roosevelt believed in the health and spiritual benefits of rural life and the need for careful management of the land (Schlesinger, 1956). For him, this belief led naturally to a commitment to conservation and environmental restoration (Baldwin, 1968). After Roosevelt contracted polio in 1921 at the age of 39, he retreated often to Warm Springs, Georgia and to what people of the day believed to be healthgiving mineral waters. Never before had Roosevelt witnessed the kind of pervasive poverty and rural suffering that he encountered among the people in the Deep South (Schlesinger, 1956). He also observed the ravages of erosion and agricultural mismanagement on landscapes of the Georgia Piedmont. In Roosevelt’s estimation, these two factors were inseparable. Likewise, one of his early “brain trust” advisors, Columbia University economist Rexford G. Tugwell, stated the observation most succinctly: “Poor land made poor people” (Myhra, 1974: 178). Moreover, he believed the reverse to be true (Conkin, 1959). Another early New Deal intellectual, M. L. Wilson of the Department of the Interior’s Division of Subsistence Homesteads, wrote of people living separated from rural life, “This is no way for people to live. I want to get them out on the ground with clean sunshine and air around them, and a garden for them to dig in” (Schlesinger, 1958: 363). Wilson and Tugwell understood, however, that “clean sunshine and air” were not cures for malnutrition and disease that so characterized the rural poor, and as a result, both men advocated policies that sought to address a wide range of the social and physical pathologies endemic to rural poverty. Thus, the TVA emerged as an entity interested in the divergent issues of pragmatics and progressive ideology: an integration of such concerns as electricity production, flood control, and erosion abatement, with the proactive redress of poverty relief and social reorganization. One of the clearest examples of Roosevelt’s devotion to the social engineering potential of the TVA was his appointment of Arthur E. Morgan as the Authority’s first chairman. Morgan was a drainage engineer by training and community planner and communitarian by avocation. He gained notoriety by the mid-1910 s for building flood control measures in the Miami River Valley of Ohio. According to biographer Roy Talbert (1987: 37), “Morgan saw the Miami project as a social endeavor as well as an engineering enterprise, and he wanted to improve the men who would build the dams.” Morgan built model communities at each worksite that included newspapers, schools, and recreational programs, important preparations for his community planning later at Norris. He took over the presidency of Antioch College in 1920, developing a curriculum designed to cultivate in the student a sense of community responsibility and civic engagement. Beyond the classroom, Morgan instituted programs that required students to work on campus in ways that contributed to the corporate life of the college. His ideas about work and community were similar to those of Roosevelt, and in fact, the two men shaped the foundation of the TVA in private discussions well before the formal writing of any legislation, and long before the other members of the three-member board took their positions.

1908

D.H. Alderman and R.N. Brown

A critical reading of the TVA’s founding legislation reveals the potential tension between pragmatism and idealism that underlay the megaproject. Most of the TVA Act deals with pragmatic issues. It lays out six main developmental objectives: flood control, navigation, land use planning, erosion control, “and the economic and social well-being of the people living in said river basin” (TVA, 1939: 92). The mandate for social action originated from Section 22 of the TVA Act and states that the work of the Authority shall exist, “all for the general purpose of fostering an orderly and proper physical, economic, and social development of said areas” (TVA, 1939: 92). Matters related to community action and planning formed a rather small portion of the Act’s text, yet Morgan took comfort in the fact that FDR exercised wide latitude for the implementation of various social experiments. For example, the legislation reads that the president reserved the right to enact social policies for the Valley, “as he deems proper” (TVA, 1939: 92). Such language also provided Roosevelt an escape hatch of sorts if he found political pressure too great to continue with such unconventional projects as the town of Norris. Even though social reconstruction was seemingly not central to the TVA’s mandate, it certainly guided the Authority’s conceptualization and received significant press coverage and publicity at the time. Of particular importance to African Americans and civil rights organizations such as the NAACP and the National Urban League was the TVA’s “promise” of non-discrimination on the basis of race, which was articulated in the Authority’s 1934 Employee Relationship Policy (Grant, 1990). In understanding how and why the TVA failed to achieve its progressive goals, particularly as related to African Americans, we understand the contested political environment within which the New Deal operated, while also recognizing that progressives leading the TVA, such as Director Morgan, embraced an ideology in which racial justice was not central if it existed at all. While Roosevelt sought, in the words of historian William Leuchtenburg (2005: 79), “to put the future of the South in the hands of liberals,” he angered African American leaders by not opposing the perpetuation of racism by New Deal agencies, the TVA being a prominent example. Roosevelt often cited the political constraints under which he worked and how his own ideals were tempered by the pragmatics of getting legislation passed in a Congress dominated by southern lawmakers who “insisted on strict adherence to the imperatives of white supremacy in administering New Deal programs” (Leuchtenburg, 2005: 57). The intense opposition that the TVA faced from private power companies in the South, who claimed the Authority was unconstitutional and socialistic, further pushed Roosevelt to behave as a political realist. The potential for conflict between the southern social structure and social planning imposed upon the region from Washington, D.C. actively shaped the policies of the TVA, which advocated a “grass-roots” philosophy that acquiesced to local customs and hence did “not force progressive racial practices on the local white population” (Grant, 1990: 42). For example, white foremen in the TVA, many of whom were locals, were not forced to include African Americans in their labor requisitions. Mid-level personnel officials who oversaw these requisitions “generally assumed that supervisors did not wish to have blacks or other minorities on the list of qualified applicants” (Grant 1990: 47).

105

When a New Deal is Actually an Old Deal

1909

Leuchtenburg (2005: 59) argues that if Roosevelt had dismantled Jim Crow, the President would not only have lost the political support of conservative white southerners but also the region’s white liberals, many of whom “shared the dominant racial presumptions” about the supposed need for segregation. The TVA was guided by social progressivism that did not advocate on behalf of African Americans (Rook, 2004). As Talbert (1987) explains in describing Arthur Morgan, a strong sense of elitism pervaded early 20th century progressivism and its sense of social justice. Among progressives, it was not uncommon to find racism, classism, religious bigotry, and xenophobia. Morgan’s ideas about engineering a model community were heavily influenced by eugenics, a belief in the inherent inferiority of certain racial and cultural groups and the need to eliminate or isolate them. Morgan was a charter member of the American Eugenics Society and invited to be the organization’s Honorary President when he chaired the TVA. He once wrote: “the extreme and universal immorality of the negro is a bigger blight upon the country than people realize” (quoted in Talbert, 1987: 60). When faced with accusations that the TVA perpetuated racial inequality, Morgan argued that it was not the government’s responsibility to provide better opportunities for blacks. He went on to comment, “Blacks had to create their own opportunities” (Grant, 1990: 38). Even though Morgan was not a southerner, his views on race “shared a kinship with indigenous realities and racial attitudes in the Tennessee Valley” (Rook, 2004: 59). Sadly enough, among the three men who initially formed the TVA Board of Directors, which also included David Lilienthal and Harcourt Morgan (no relation), Arthur Morgan “was the member most likely to be concerned with the problems of minorities in the Tennessee Valley,” thus leaving little hope for radical racial reform (Grant, 1990: 37).

105.4 Norris as a Racialized Landscape Under the leadership of Arthur Morgan, the TVA began constructing its first dam in October of 1933 near the confluence of the Clinch and Powell Rivers in Anderson County, Tennessee, a location 20 mi (32 km) northwest of Knoxville. Norris Dam, named after the Nebraska Senator who sponsored the act establishing the Authority, occupied a site formerly known as Cove Creek, where various government officials had dreamed of building a dam as early as 1911 (TVA, 1940: 20). By June of 1935, 1,832 workers were employed at the dam site, each working a 33-hour workweek (TVA, 1935: 8). A year later, Norris Dam was completed and generating electricity at a production capacity of 100,800 kW (TVA 1934: 641) (Fig. 105.2). Even before the Norris Dam generated its first kilowatt of electricity, it had the significant impact of creating jobs. African American journalists at the time, who were some of the most vocal critics of the TVA, conceded that wage rates on projects like the Norris Dam were racially progressive in relation to the national trends of the day (Weaver, 1935). Much less progressive, however, was the extent and nature of black employment at Norris Dam and other worksites across the TVA. Grant (1990), who has written the most extensively and authoritatively on this issue, points out that

1910

D.H. Alderman and R.N. Brown

Fig. 105.2 Norris Dam, Tennessee Valley, 2008. (Photograph by Robert N. Brown)

African Americans employed by the Authority overwhelmingly occupied temporary unskilled and low skill positions. The TVA accepted and legitimized racist beliefs in the inherent inferiority of African Americans by asserting, even in the face of highly skilled black applicants, that minorities would be unsuitable for skilled positions. Some black workers were trained by the TVA, but they “were for the most part trained to occupy the same menial and semiskilled positions that they already had in the valley” (Grant, 1990: 93). The TVA defended its hiring practices by pointing to its policy of seeking to hire African American workers in numbers that were in direct proportion to the racial percentages of the region in which the work took place. However, Morgan’s racial quota system only applied to unskilled and temporary jobs, often in the areas of construction and reservoir clearance, and there was no guarantee that the approach would be honored (Fig. 105.3). African American critics added that because blacks occupied low level jobs, they did not receive a proportionate share of the payroll even if they did have a proportionate share of the jobs (Houston & Davis, 1934). In the case of Norris Dam, Blacks made up 4.5% of the population in the fourteen counties surrounding the dam. Yet black employment during the peak period of employment (1933 to September 1935) ranged from 1.80-2.70%, with a mean of 1.96 %. . .. By 1936 there was only one black employed permanently at Norris.” (Grant 1990: 48)

The TVA’s quota approach, in addition to being selectively and inconsistently applied, reduced African Americans to a “labor commodity” according to the NAACP (Houston & Davis, 1934: 291). It also allowed the Authority to ignore African Americans in areas in which they made up a small percentage of the population (Grant, 1990). This fact becomes even clearer when we examine the unflinching way in which TVA excluded African Americans from the planned community of Norris.

105

When a New Deal is Actually an Old Deal

1911

Fig. 105.3 A sea of white faces in this photograph of workers at Norris Dam, 1933. (Photograph by Lewis W. Hines. Source: National Archives and Records Administration)

The community of Norris was built to house the large workforce in charge of the dam’s construction and later permanent TVA employees in the area. Morgan rejected the model common to large construction projects in the private sector. In such cases, construction companies usually built several high quality houses for on-site upper management while housing skilled and unskilled workers in temporary communal structures. Planning Norris dovetailed with the New Deal’s goal of providing a better life for citizens and was a natural extension of Morgan’s previous experience in building communities for workers in the Miami Valley. Following the Miami model, Morgan set out not only to house workers, but to engage in social engineering, to build a small town founded upon frugality, progressive education and cooperative living. True to this vision, he ensured that Norris had a home economics demonstration cottage, a public hall and community center, vocational training facilities, a ceramics craft shop, and a school where students were encouraged to develop their own businesses (Talbert, 1987). No doubt, Norris had an innovative design, displaying many elements now associated with New Urbanist planning (TVA, 2000). Morgan was assisted by Earl S. Draper, an urban planner from Charlotte, North Carolina who became head of the Authority’s division of Land Planning and Housing. Draper employed a town layout that conformed to the contours of the land rather than following rigid street patterns (Fig. 105.4). The community included small groups of houses strategically built at the ends of isolated cul-de-sacs, underground power lines, and sidewalks that often curved away from streets to follow paths across hillsides and through small wooded

1912

D.H. Alderman and R.N. Brown

Fig. 105.4 Layout of Norris planned community. (Source: TVA, 1940)

areas (TVA, 1940). One of the boldest landscape design features of Norris was the development of a 1,333 acre (539 ha) greenbelt buffer that still surrounds the community today. House lots at Norris were designed to be deeper than they were wide and architects aligned houses with the longest axis parallel to the street. Designers believed that this physical presentation added to the “dignity” (TVA, 1940: 194) of the resident. This emphasis on “dignity” is poignant given that Norris emerged, in full knowledge of TVA planners, as an all-white community. African Americans were not just excluded from living in Norris; they were not even allowed to be part of Norris Dam-related vocational training programs held in the community. Such exclusion was a bitter disappointment for African Americans, prompting John P. Davis (1935: 142) to write in the Crisis, a magazine published by the NAACP: “On every hand, the New Deal has used slogans for the same raw deal.” In defending its discriminatory policy at Norris, the TVA cited the need to maintain local racial mores and avoid social conflict. According to one Authority official: “the presence of Negroes in the villages would lead to racial outbreaks. . .the ‘white South’ would not tolerate Negroes at Norris” (quoted in Grant, 1990: 48). The more common rationale cited financial considerations. TVA project planners made housing decisions concerning African Americans based on minority population levels. The Authority acceded to the need to provide separate housing for its African American employees in northern Alabama at Wheeler Dam because the black work force was relatively large (TVA, 1934). Norris, however, involved a different set of realities. TVA planners argued that the cost of constructing segregated housing for African Americans at Norris was prohibitive, concluding dispassionately that they had no legal or moral

105

When a New Deal is Actually an Old Deal

1913

requirement to accommodate African American workers (Grant, 1990). Arguably, in creating the racialized landscape of Norris, the TVA not only perpetuated segregation of the races but, worse, gave legitimacy to the outright exclusion and invisibility of African Americans. The TVA’s argument against building African American housing and its quotabased approach to employment reduces the human dimensions of mega-projects to a seemingly unproblematic and neutral accounting of costs versus benefits (D’Souza, 2008). In reality, these calculations were used to achieve a specific political outcome, to control the presence and power of blacks so as not to disrupt white support for the TVA. In doing so, the Authority carried out what Wilson (2000) calls a “rational” or rationalized form of discrimination in which the pursuit of cost-savings is justification for not investing in African American people and places. D’Souza (2008) encourages us to think about the “political arithmetic” that accompanies large dam projects such as the TVA, and how it affects the social welfare of people, particularly marginalized groups. The Authority’s arithmetic, as argued by the NAACP at the time, stood in the way of minorities being fully included in the prosperity of the New Deal, a huge injustice given that it was the African American “who has been most exposed to the anti-social practices and economic exploitation which have retarded the development of the region” (Houston & Davis, 1934: 290). Ironically, it was the costly nature of building and operating the model community of Norris that led the TVA to auction it off in 1948. A Philadelphia consortium bought Norris, and after a short time, sold it in small pieces (TVA, 2000). As a racialized landscape, Norris and its related dam site were directly involved in reproducing and further institutionalizing Jim Crow, loudly communicating the territorial message that African Americans held an inferior social and economic position, or that they simply did not “belong.” The legacy of this message can still be felt today. Of the 1,446 people living in Norris in 2000, only three were African American. Of course, while the social engineering of Norris worked to perpetuate the status quo, it also carried with it the potential for challenging racist inequalities (Clayton, 1934). Max Bond, one of the TVA’s few senior black staff members, publicly criticized the exclusion of African Americans from Norris. But the most vehement protests came from the NAACP, who conducted damning on-site investigations of the Authority’s racial policies in 1934 and 1935. In rebuttal, Morgan ordered his own investigation, but it agreed with many of the NAACP findings. The black organization threatened to sue the TVA on several occasions and, in 1938, was allowed to participate in a more general congressional investigation of the Authority, allowing for greater publicity about the plight of African Americans. Although none of this resistance led to a change in existing racial policies, it did put considerable pressure on the TVA not to propose additional exclusionary practices (Grant, 1990).

105.5 Concluding Remarks Two other landscape moments after the building of Norris illustrate the degree to which the TVA continued to struggle with racial reform. First, in response to a worker shortage during World War II and an Executive Order requiring government agencies involved in defense to utilize labor regardless of race, the TVA recruited

1914

D.H. Alderman and R.N. Brown

and bussed in African Americans to help build the Fontana Dam in North Carolina. In a scene quite indicative of the Jim Crow South, arriving black workers were met by a white mob throwing stones, threats of lynching, and an attempt to burn down African American housing. TVA officials at Fontana were successful in stopping the mob, but were unable to keep black workers from leaving the dam site because of continued discrimination and hostility (Grant, 1990). Second, the TVA began hosting international observers as early as the 1930 s, but its global agenda and prominence grew after World War II. Officials worked hard to control visitors’ personal exposure to Jim Crow, particularly foreign people of color. To this end, in 1963, an International Visitor Center was created at Knoxville’s Farragut Hotel. On the fourth floor, foreign visitors could check-in, sleep, eat, and socialize under integrated conditions. While successful in insulating internationals from the uglier side of the South, the Farragut arrangement did draw complaints for creating its own form of segregation (Rook, 2004). Clearly, the TVA placed more emphasis on protecting the civil rights of its visitors than African Americans in the region. Fontana Dam, the Farragut Hotel, and Norris are all examples of racialized landscapes created through the politics of megaproject development. They existed as sites for reproducing and resisting the Jim Crow racial order, providing insight into earth engineering as a social practice and the capacity of megaprojects to control and maintain the status quo even as they promise change and reform. Perhaps the biggest impact that the TVA had on African Americans was what it did not do for them. Exposure to, and protest of, TVA-perpetuated racial inequality gave black communities in the Tennessee Valley a greater unified sense of political purpose. For instance, the Knoxville branch of the NAACP, which had gone dormant in 1923, was resurrected in 1938 with some membership coming from TVA employees (Grant, 1990). It would be local organizations such as this Knoxville chapter that would later carry out the Civil Right Movement, ultimately accomplishing what the TVA refused to do. In focusing on the case of the TVA, we have asked the reader to consider some broader questions about megaprojects. What type of social engineering issues and tensions related to race accompany megaprojects? What role does earth engineering play in shaping patterns of racial control and protest? What effect do racist practices in megaproject development have on minorities, both short term and long term? In thinking about these questions further, it is necessary to examine other landscapes socially engineered by the TVA and how the African American struggle varied across the entire Tennessee Valley. It would also be worthwhile to think about other cases in which earth engineering can be studied in terms of racialization. The construction of the United States Interstate Highway System is a likely candidate in light of how displaced African-Americans in the name of progress (Lewis, 1997).

References Baldwin, S. (1968). Poverty and politics: The rise and decline of the farm security administration. Chapel Hill, NC: The University of North Carolina Press.

105

When a New Deal is Actually an Old Deal

1915

Boyce, R. R. (2004). Geographers and the Tennessee Valley Authority. Geographical Review, 94(1), 23–42. Bullard, R. D. (2000). Dumping in Dixie: Race, class, and environmental quality (3rd ed.). Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Bullard, R. D., Johnson, G. S., & Torres, A. O. (Eds.). (2004). Highway robbery: Transportation racism & new routes to equity. Cambridge: South End Press. Colignon, R. A. (1997). Power plays: Critical events in the institutionalization of the Tennessee Valley Authority. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Colten, C. E. (2002). Basin Street blues: Drainage and environmental equity in New Orleans, 1890– 1930. Journal of Historical Geography, 28(2), 237–257. Conkin, P. (1959). Tomorrow a new world: The New Deal community program. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Conkin, P. (1967). The New Deal. Arlington Heights: AHM. Conkin, P. (1983). Intellectual and political roots. In E. C. Hargrove & P. K. Conkin (Eds.), TVA: Fifty years of grass-roots bureaucracy (pp. 3–34). Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press. Clayton, C. (1934). The TVA and the race problem. Opportunity, (April), 111–112. D’Souza, R. (2008). Framing India’s hydraulic crises: The politics of the modern large dam. Monthly Review, 60(3), 112–124. Davis, J. P. (1935). A black inventory of the New Deal. The Crisis, 42(May), 141–142, 154–155. Frenkel, S. (2002). Geographical representations of the “Other”: The landscape of the Panama Canal Zone. Journal of Historical Geography, 28(1), 85–99. Gellert, P. K., & Lynch, B. D. (2003). Mega-projects as displacements. International Social Science Journal, 55(175), 15–25. Grant, N. L. (1990). TVA and Black Americans: Planning for the status quo. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Harris, D. (2007). Race, space, and the destabilization of practice. Landscape Journal, 26(1), 1–9. Houston, C. H., & Davis, J. P. (1934). TVA: Lily-white reconstruction. The Crisis, 41(Oct.), 290– 291, 311. Inwood, J. F. J., & Martin, D. G. (2008). Whitewash: White privilege and racialized landscapes at the University of Georgia. Social & Cultural Geography, 9(4), 373–95. Leuchtenburg, W. E. (1963). Franklin D. Roosevelt and the New Deal: 1932–1940. New York: Harper and Row. Leuchtenburg, W. E. (2005). The White House looks south: Franklin D. Roosevelt, Harry S. Truman, and Lyndon B. Johnson. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University. Lewis, T. (1997). Divided highways: Building the interstate highways, transforming American life. New York: Penguin Books. Lipsitz, G. (2007). The racialization of space and the spatialization of race: Theorizing the hidden architecture of landscape. Landscape Journal, 26(1), 10–23. McDonald, M. J., & Muldowny, J. (1982). TVA and the dispossessed: The resettlement of population in the Norris area. Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press. Moulaert, F., Salin, E., & Werquin, T. (2001). Euralille: Large-scale urban development and social polarization. European Urban and Regional Studies, 8(2), 145–160. Myhra, D. (1974). Rexford Guy Tugwell: Initiator of America’s Greenbelt New Towns, 1934 to 1936. Journal of the American Planning Association, 40(3), 176–188. New Deal Network. (2003). Social conditions in Norris Basin. Resource document. TVA: Electricity for All. Retrieved August 30, 2008, from http://newdeal.feri.org/tva/tva06.htm O’Brien, W. (2007). The strange career of a Florida state park: Uncovering a Jim Crow past. Historical Geography, 35, 160–184. Powell, J. A. (2007). Structural racism and spatial Jim Crow. In R. D. Bullard (Ed.), The black metropolis in the twenty-first century (pp. 41–65). Lanham, MD: Rowan & Littlefield. Reed, J. S. (2001). Forty defining moments of the twentieth-century south. Southern Cultures, 7(2), 94–97.

1916

D.H. Alderman and R.N. Brown

Rook, R. (2004). Race, water, and foreign policy: The Tennessee Valley Authority’s global agenda meets “Jim Crow.” Diplomatic History, 28(1), 55–81. Schein, R. H. (2003). Normative dimensions of landscape. In C. Wilson, & P. Groth (Eds.), Everyday America: Cultural landscape studies after J.B. Jackson (pp. 199–218). Berkeley: University of California Press. Schlesinger, A. M. (1956). The crisis of the old order. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Schlesinger, A. M. (1958). The coming of the New Deal. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Schlesinger, A. M. (1960). The politics of upheaval. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Talbert, R., Jr. (1987). FDR’s utopian: Arthur Morgan of the TVA. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi. Trudeau, D. (2000). An American ideal. Resource document. TVA Heritage. Retrieved from August 30, 2008, http://www.tva.gov/heritage/norris/index.htm Trudeau, D. (2006). Politics of belonging in the construction of landscapes: Place-making, boundary drawing and exclusion. Cultural Geographies, 13, 421–443. TVA. (1934). Annual report of the Tennessee Valley Authority. Knoxville, TN: Tennessee Valley Authority. TVA. (1935). Annual report of the Tennessee Valley Authority. Knoxville, TN: Tennessee Valley Authority. TVA. (1939). Annual report of the Tennessee Valley Authority. Knoxville, TN: Tennessee Valley Authority. TVA. (1940). The Norris Project: A comprehensive report on the planning, design, construction, and Initial Operations of the Tennessee Valley Authority’s First Water Control Project. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office. Weaver, R. C. (1935). The New Deal and the Negro. Opportunity, (July): 200–2002. Williamson, J. (1965). After Slavery: The Negro in South Carolina during Reconstruction, 1861– 1877. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press. Wilson, B. M. (2000). Race and place in Birmingham: The civil rights and neighborhood movements. Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield. Windsor, J. E., & McVey, J. A. (2005). Annihilation of both place and sense of place: The experience of the Cheslatta T’En Canadian First Nation within the context of large-scale environmental projects. Geographical Journal, 171(2), 146–165. Woodward, C. V. (1955). The strange career of Jim Crow. New York: Oxford University Press. Yiftachel, O. (1998). Planning and social control: Exploring the dark side. Journal of Planning Literature, 12(4), 395–406.

Chapter 106

A Double-Edged Sword: Social Control in Appalachian Company Towns Thomas E. Wagner and Phillip J. Obermiller

Purpose-built towns are not a new phenomenon on the global landscape. The first planned towns in history may have been capitals built by autocratic rulers seeking prestige and strategic control of religious ceremonies, agricultural hinterlands, or commercial trade routes. The pharaohs established worker camps near pyramid construction sites and the Romans allowed local workers and merchants to construct dwellings near their forts. Numerous examples of company owners building towns to house employees can be found throughout pre-colonial France and England (Galantay, 1975). In North America, the practice of company owners building towns to house employees begins just after the colonial period. There are textile mill towns dating to 1791, towns built for iron workers dating to 1839, and coal towns in Pennsylvania dating to the 1840 s (Magnusson, 1920: 7–8). Lowell, Massachusetts, Manchester, New Hampshire, Paterson New Jersey, and Humphreysville, Connecticut, for instance, are among the many examples of towns constructed for textile workers in the antebellum period (Crawford, 1995: 11–28; Reps, 1965: 414–420). The rapid growth and consolidation of American industries after the Civil War spurred the development of company towns. Sole proprietors were replaced by large corporations which in turn had the capital to plan and build entire communities. As the national economy grew, corporations expanded into the less developed parts of the nation, establishing captive sources of raw materials for their urban factories, while attracting migrant and immigrant workers looking for jobs and housing into rural areas. At the same time, professional landscape designers, architects, and engineers became involved in the physical design of the towns. These new company towns reflected the history of purpose-built towns worldwide: they were created for the fundamental purposes of commerce and control. Industrialization came to the Appalachian coal fields as a part of the growing American economy in the late 1800 s. As the demand for timber and coal increased in Northern industrial centers, the resource rich portions of West Virginia, Kentucky,

T.E. Wagner (B) School of Planning, University of Cincinnati, Cincinnati, OH 45221, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_106,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1917

1918

T.E. Wagner and P.J. Obermiller

Fig. 106.1 Early coal mining areas of Harlan County. (Map courtesy of Appalachian Archives, Southeastern Kentucky Community College)

Pennsylvania, and Tennessee began to boom. Railroads extended their reach into formerly isolated areas, first to tap ample timber supplies on the surface and then the rich veins of coal below. Without the rail lines bringing in supplies and taking out timber and coal, the industrialization of the region could not have occurred so quickly. The growth of extractive industries in the mountains brought the need for laborers and, in turn, homes for those workers and their families. Consequently, more than 20,000 coal camps and company towns were constructed in Appalachia during the last quarter of the 19th century and first-half of the 20th century. In Harlan County, Kentucky, there were 53 such towns, but they were by no means a homogeneous lot (Fig. 106.1). Historian Crandall Shifflet (1992: 24) describes them as complex social arrangements where the nature of life “depended on the nature of an individual operator, the life cycle of the town, the composition of it population, and other forces of change” (see also Fishback, 1996; Goode, n.d.; Coal Towns in Harlan County, 2009). The pattern of individual mine ownership began to change around 1900 when large coal companies and major corporations such as U.S. Steel, Consolidated Coal, Island Creek Coal Company, Inland Steel, and International Harvester began to develop large-scale mining operations across the central Appalachian coalfields. In the period between 1900 and 1920, “model” communities that included modern municipal infrastructure, housing, recreational and health facilities, and schools began to appear. A slow decline in the fate of company towns began in the late 1920 s, accelerated in the 1930 s, and continued until the majority of coal towns were sold off after World War II.1

106

A Double-Edged Sword

1919

To reflect the changing nature of these corporate enterprises we identify three general types of coal towns: coal camps, company towns, and model towns (Wagner and Obermiller 2004). Although sharp distinctions are not possible, there were notable differences between the early coal camps and the company and model towns that eventually appeared in the coalfields. Coal camps were less well organized, smaller, and provided few amenities for residents. These camps, established along hillsides or creek sides near mine operations, were often fiefdoms of individual owners (Perry, 2009). In the early stages (1880–1900), mining camps were generally austere places; many of the lasting images of worker poverty and oppression that the public holds about life in coal towns come from this era. Working and living conditions appear to have improved from camps through company towns to model towns. Company towns in the Appalachian coalfields appear to have been present as early as 1885. “Model towns,” as they are known, were an extraordinary form of Appalachian coal town. Developed by large corporations, model towns differed from coal towns in that they involved intentional physical and social planning (Fishback, 1996; Greene, 1990; Munn, 1979).

106.1 Welfare Capitalism Beyond the physical construction of a town, recruiting a suitable labor force to a remote and rugged region posed a particular challenge for the coal operators. In the words of historian Ervin Galantay (1975: 40), “Unless the town offers a pleasant living environment, the industry will suffer from high turnover of key personnel. Since a stable workforce is essential for the efficient operation of industry, the quality of physical environment must be recognized as an important factor for successful development.” The coal operators saw additional challenges in a labor supply barely able to keep up with the demands of industrial expansion, the formation of unions and the corresponding rise in strikes, and the growing interest of government in the welfare of workers. In response to these perceived issues, companies adopted the contemporary stance of corporate paternalism toward workers, increasing the numbers and types of amenities their company-owned towns provided. Coal operators saw the associated costs as simply “good business” in terms of worker recruitment and retention, avoiding unionization, and providing a public relations profile meant to impress investors and legislators alike. Offering an array of physical and social amenities to workers, a trend later known as welfare capitalism, became a hallmark of company towns built during the Progressive Era. Two towns in Appalachia provide clear examples of this trend.

106.2 Two Model Coal Towns In this chapter we will focus on the Kentucky mining towns of Benham and Lynch as case studies (Fig. 106.2). Benham was built by the Wisconsin Steel subsidiary of International Harvester in 1910; U.S. Steel founded Lynch a bit farther

1920

T.E. Wagner and P.J. Obermiller

Source: US Geological Survey

Fig. 106.2 Harlan County with communities of Benham and Lynch. (Cartography by Dick Gilbreath)

up Looney Creek in 1917. Although the companies built two complete towns in remote, sparsely populated, frontier-like locations adjacent to each other, within five years they housed several thousand people and provided residents with a quality of life, and restrictions on their daily lives, matched by few other places in the country. The opening of the Harlan County coalfield in Kentucky came when the L&N Railroad completed the Wasiota and Black Mountain Branch spur into the county in the early 1900 s. By 1921 Harlan had become the top coal-producing county in Kentucky, and the coal operations established at Benham and Lynch ultimately became the largest in the county. The two towns also became thriving communities that fluctuated in size as the demand for coal, and therefore labor, rose and fell (Benham, Kentucky: 2009). In 1908 the Deering Harvester Company (later to be named International Harvester Company) opened a steel mill in south Chicago. Benham was established after the company decided to exploit the rich coal seams under Black Mountain in eastern Kentucky to feed its Chicago mill. With the mining operation sited, attention was turned to building a town. By 1910 the company had set up a saw mill next to Looney Creek, where virgin timber from Black Mountain was planned for building a self-contained company town. The L&N Railroad extended its spur from Pineville, Kentucky to Benham and in September 1911 the first load of coke was shipped from Benham to Chicago (Hale, 1909: 24). According to the Harlan Daily Enterprise (n.d.), “By November 1912, 300 coke ovens were completed, 175 houses [built], the town was lighted by electricity, water works were underway, three churches were

106

A Double-Edged Sword

1921

built, a school with and attendance of 130 [was operating], and a well-equipped Y.M.C.A. building was opened.” Not long after the Benham operations started, the U.S. Steel Company purchased 40,000 acres (17,889 hectares) at the head of Looney Creek to open its own coalmining operations on the Black Mountain seam. A subsidiary, the United States Coal and Coke Company, began building a company town and mining facilities in 1917. Because the L&N Railroad refused to build a spur up Looney Creek from Benham, the company had to haul supplies upstream by wagon to construct the town and operations buildings. Shipments of coal from the Lynch mine began flowing into U.S. Steel’s mills in Gary, Indiana within months of opening the first mine shaft in August 1917. Named after Thomas Lynch, the first president of the subsidiary company, the model town took another eight years to complete. Memphis Tennessee Garrison, a black welfare worker in U.S. Steel’s West Virginia mining operations, commented. “ . . . now U.S. Steel had the best houses; they had the safest mines.” (Bickley & Ewen, 2001: 116) A typical coal town in Appalachia was built with at least four prominent goals in mind: to attract and maintain an adequate workforce, to exploit the economic opportunities in owning a town, to maintain close social control over the workforce, and to reap the public relations benefits in providing jobs and amenities for workers. After jobs, housing was the main attraction for workers, followed closely by recreational and shopping opportunities (c.f., Munn, 1979: 244; Sullivan, 1989: 161–163). In addition to the physical design of these towns, there was a distinct social component as well. Novelist Homer Hickam, Jr. (2001: 2) in writing about his own youth in a company town says that he realized that life there involved more than houses, roads, schools, and jobs: “It was also a proposition. This proposition held that if a man was willing to come to Coalwood and offer his complete and utter loyalty to the company, he would receive in return a sensible paycheck, a sturdy house resistant to the weather, the service of a doctor and a dentist at little or no costs, and a preacher who could be counted on to give a reasonably uncomplicated sermon.” Model towns such as Benham and Lynch were intentionally structured as closed economic systems, carefully designed to recapture the workers’ wages so that, at the very least, the operators would break even on the cost of providing housing and other employee amenities. Comprehensive control was exercised to protect the company’s profit structure as well as to maximize the company’s power over its employees. Lynch was once described as “a small kingdom ruled by the officials of the United States Coal and Coke.” (Kelemen, 1974: 173–175) Company paternalism is illustrated by correspondence between Wisconsin Steel Corporation managers. One letter describes the company’s involvement in the religious, recreation, and social life of Benham’s residents. The letter discusses the activities and operation of the Benham Community Church, YMCA, and “moving picture house” concluding, “I am very much convinced that where employees have to do with affairs as mentioned above, and in which they are interested, with the Company giving counsel and direction in a quiet way, that the Community is much more satisfied” (Biggert to Alexander Legge, 23 May 1923).2

1922

T.E. Wagner and P.J. Obermiller

106.3 Physical Designs for Social Control Early coal camps typically were thrown together with little or no forethought. Company towns and model towns, however, were more thoughtfully constructed. Most scholars who have studied company town designs have identified two basic forms: the grid and curvilinear plans. Some have further differentiated the two forms by whether architects or non-architects (usually engineers) designed the site plans and buildings. Obviously, the terrain was an important factor in determining the form of the town. Benham, for instance, is based on a curvilinear plan (Fig. 106.3). With more open space it was possible to design the town in a circular form with streets running outward from the center. The mine offices, company store, “white school,” medical and recreational buildings, theater, and a church were located around this central location. Eventually 520 company-owned homes lined the short streets running up the slopes from the valley. The mine portals, tipple, and coke ovens were located on the far side of the railroad tracks and Looney Creek, away from the administrative and residential areas (Hale, 1909).

Fig. 106.3 Benham, Kentucky

Lynch, on the other hand, was built in a linear form with its main road following Looney Creek and its streets in a grid fitted to the hillsides (Fig. 106.4). The town was laid out in six sections along the creek, with the first section downstream closest to Benham and last at the farthest point upstream. The long, narrow town filled the valley floor and spread up both hillsides. The mine portals, tipple, offices, store, schools and other buildings housing mine support operations were at the center of the town. Housing included two hundred single homes, four hundred double homes and five boarding houses for unmarried workers with twenty-two bedrooms in each.

106

A Double-Edged Sword

1923

Fig. 106.4 Lynch, Kentucky

A 108-room hotel was built to accommodate visiting company officials and other guests. A 54-bed hospital, power plant, churches, and recreational facilities were also constructed (Johnson, n.d.; Kelemen, 1974). Urban planning as a profession was still in its infancy when Benham and Lynch were developed, but concepts employed in the planning and the construction of the two towns are still in use today. Employee homes in both towns appear to have been designed by architects; at least twelve basic home designs were used in Lynch (Osborne, 2002). Both towns were constructed considering the advantages and constraints of the sites, allowing for future growth, and providing many of the conveniences of established cities. Although the towns were planned communities, they were designed not by urban planners or landscape architects, but by mining engineers specifically for the purpose of facilitating coal extraction. The physical designs of Benham and Lynch enhanced the companies’ social control over their residents. The “model” nature of the towns kept employees in place; with work, homes, stores, schools, health care, churches and recreation provided, there was little need to go “outside.” The natural terrain and controlled entry points, similar to modern gated communities, limited access by unwanted outsiders. Company officials were quickly alerted by security personnel when anyone new arrived in town. Partially in keeping with prevailing Jim Crow laws, but also to maintain workforce and community control, racially segregated housing was a standard practice (Figs. 106.5 and 106.6). Influenced by prevailing theories of “scientific management” and “welfare capitalism,” the two model towns were designed to increase productivity and maintain control over the workforce. Beyond the obvious economic potential of the housing,

1924

T.E. Wagner and P.J. Obermiller

Fig. 106.5 Lynch amusement building

Fig. 106.6 Benham YMCA and hotel (background left)

stores, and physical infrastructure in model coal towns, there was another less well articulated component. The towns were organized around a theory of social control, ostensibly for the betterment of workers and their families but, in fact, to protect the interests of the corporate owners.

106

A Double-Edged Sword

1925

106.4 Maintaining Control in Company Towns Coal operators had many devices at their disposal to maintain control over the workers in their towns. Although Appalachian coal miners were subject to many standard control techniques, we shall see that a few were specific to the region. While the semblance of democracy was maintained, the owners exercised final authority over all aspects of the municipal and social structures of their towns. On-site managers, the de facto czars of company towns, kept corporate officers in distant cities in close contact with all local activities. Detailed and frequent communications by letter, telegraph, and on-site visits kept the corporate headquarters well informed of the minutest aspects of community life. In turn, the corporate officers informed the managers of their policy decisions, which were enforced by lower level employees or, as necessary, by local police or private “security” guards (Fig. 106.7). The corporations went to considerable effort to influence state and government lawmakers to pass legislation favorable to coal interests. County and municipal codes and regulations, to the extent that they existed in early 20th century Appalachia, were easily manipulated by the largest employers in the area.

Fig. 106.7 International Harvester company police in Benham

Having established a (quasi-) legal basis for their activities and a mechanism for implementing their decisions, the corporate owners were in an excellent position to exploit their power. They did this indirectly, however, for the sake of appearances in the public arena and perhaps more importantly, to sustain a contented work force. Pitched battles with workers were not in the owner’s best interests, so control mechanisms were literally built into the social fabric and physical environment of Appalachian coal towns like Benham and Lynch. In the balance of this section, we will enumerate a dozen examples. Control of access. By their very nature Appalachian coal towns were situated in rugged, isolated areas. Steep hillsides divided by narrow valleys characterize these

1926

T.E. Wagner and P.J. Obermiller

places, which were usually accessed via a single road or rail spur. This made control of ingress and egress relatively simple because mine management held sway over key transportation choke points such as the rail station or the main road into town. Managers were kept informed of who had come into their towns, who had left them, and when. This made the expulsion of union organizers, blacklisted miners, or “rabble rousing” preachers relatively easy, while enhancing the importation of strikebreakers or additional security guards when needed. Even itinerant salesmen were subject to being turned away lest they provide competition to the company store. Control of employment. Once inside a company town, workers came under a tightly regimented system of employment. On-the-job intimidation was commonly used to keep the workforce compliant. In addition to outright firing, foremen had an array of strategies they used to manipulate miners under their authority. One tactic was to assign a miner to unusually uncomfortable or dangerous sites in the mine such as low coal (exceedingly cramped working conditions), wet shafts (working in standing water), or uncommonly dusty areas (danger of explosions). Other tactics included short-weighing a miner’s output at the scales (miners were paid by the ton), assigning a worker to a lower-paying job such as mine ventilation or coal transport, or threatening to blackball a miner so that other companies in the area would refuse to hire him. Control of diversity. The owners were careful to maintain “a judicious mixture” of ethnic groups in their towns. In the Appalachian coalfields native whites, southern blacks, and European immigrants were maintained in “suitable” proportions. Living in segregated areas of the towns, these ethnic and racial groups were numerically balanced to maintain production due to their differing work patterns and holidays. For instance, hunting, planting, and harvesting seasons saw native mountaineers returning to their homesteads to take care of those chores, while European immigrants rested on saints feast days and during family celebrations. More significantly, these groups represented subsets of miners who could be set against each other as the operators saw the need. Sociocultural differences, for example, were thought to make the miners more difficult to organize into unions. Control of housing. Housing was a scarce national commodity at the turn of the century, and even more so in Appalachia. Coal companies built sturdy, quality houses to attract laborers who were in short supply during much of the industrial expansion of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Few workers in the American labor force had access to the quality of housing that some Appalachian miners enjoyed, especially in model coal towns such as Benham and Lynch. The houses often came with access to clean running water and sanitary facilities close at hand and, more often than not, electric lighting (Figs. 106.8 and 106.9). At the time, these amenities were rare in big cities and even rarer in rural America. Maintaining ownership of the housing gave coal operators huge leverage over their employees; the operators lived in larger homes and more elegant surroundings (Fig. 106.10). Overt sympathy with the union movement, tardiness, absenteeism, drunkenness on the job, or disputes with management were grounds for dismissal and being evicted

106

A Double-Edged Sword

1927

Fig. 106.8 Lynch homes

Fig. 106.9 Benham homes

from the company’s house. Unemployment for a miner with a family was one thing, but homelessness was something else entirely. Control of credit and cash. Unless a worker had a personal relationship with a shopkeeper or a banker, credit was not easily come by in either rural or urban

1928

T.E. Wagner and P.J. Obermiller

Fig. 106.10 Lynch Superintendent’s home

America. Company-owned stores formalized the availability of credit for purchases by mine employees, making them legally indebted to the mining company. Economic control was also maintained by issuing scrip in lieu of cash. A company’s scrip was good only for payment in one of its own stores, thereby inhibiting worker mobility (Fig. 106.11). Although scrip could be redeemed at some places other than the company store, the exchange rate was highly unfavorable to the miner. Control of union organizing. Coal operators used a carrot-and-stick method in coal towns to oppose the unionization of their workforces. As we have seen, the towns were attractive, offering good housing at affordable rates and utilities such as water, sanitation, and electricity. The institutional infrastructure created by mining companies only added to this attractiveness: a well-stocked company store with available credit, professional health care that often included a hospital, quality schools with well-trained teachers, churches of nearly every denomination, and recreational facilities including sports fields and Y.M.C.A buildings. The miner who challenged the company’s pay scale, work schedule, integrity at the scales, or workplace safety, for instance, stood to lose not only a paycheck, but also access to the town and its institutions as well. Moreover, by deploying armed municipal police who were essentially company employees, contracting with private security forces such as the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, and in some cases calling on the state police and National Guard to put down strikes, coal operators wielded great power over the miners and their families living in company towns. The coal town resident who challenged the

106

A Double-Edged Sword

1929

Fig. 106.11 Original Benham store replaced in 1920

company’s hegemony stood to lose not only housing, but health and possibly life itself. Control of government. Because of their size, prestige, and financial resources, the owners of company towns were easily able to persuade local, state, and federal politicians to establish and enforce laws compatible with corporate objectives. Just as easily, large corporations could get those responsible for law enforcement to ignore many legal mandates. The owners of company towns feared government intervention in their operations almost as much as unionization, and used their towns to persuade lawmakers that all was well in the coalfields (hence the name “model” towns).3 Control of public opinion. The cooptation of lawmakers involved public relations techniques that we are familiar with to this day: news releases touting the benefits of life in company towns; photographic displays in company-published magazines showing happy workers at work and play; patriotic rallies organized by the coal operators; hometown newspapers well-disposed to favor their major advertisers; company-sponsored home beautification, gardening, and cooking contests; sports events and leagues underwritten by the operators.4 While each of these local efforts may have been endorsed or participated in by the miners and their families, the companies were careful to let the miners know the source of this largesse, and that it could abruptly end for those expressing any dissatisfaction. The wider public was always kept well informed of the companies’ benevolent and philanthropic endeavors, but not of the combined lure and threat they held for miners. Control of institutions. The doctors, nurses, teachers, preachers, small businessmen, and recreation directors employed in company towns were, in essence,

1930

T.E. Wagner and P.J. Obermiller

company representatives. If not hired and paid directly by the company, they were closely vetted by the mine manager for their political and social leanings before they were allowed to work in a company town. Any hint of anti-corporate or pro-union leanings was considered grounds for either harassment or being run out of town. Control of women. Coal towns provided scarce employment opportunities for women, and these were carefully allocated on the basis of perceived loyalty to the company. Women who passed muster could find jobs as housekeepers and cooks in the company-run hotel or in the homes of mine managers or local professionals. Others could work as health aides in the hospital, teach in the schools, or work as clerks in the company store. Often a woman’s access to paid employment was linked to her husband’s cordial relationship with mine management. When a miner was injured, his wife most often nursed his wounds, for if he became disabled, the entire family could lose its home and livelihood. Thus, both the paid and unpaid work of women supported the operation of model towns in the coalfields. Control of children. Families who wanted work for their male children were also in the thrall of the coal operators. Jobs were often available for boys as mule tenders, trappers (ventilation operators), or shale pickers who “cleaned” the coal as it left the mine. These sources of extra income were important to working families, and were assigned by the mine managers in return for worker loyalty. Children in school were also under the implied threat of company sanctions. Tardiness, skipping school, and any form of juvenile delinquency were seen as a threat to the social order of the town and could result not only in the student’s expulsion from school, but also in the whole family’s being evicted from a company town. Control of behavior. It is telling that company towns usually included many churches, but rarely bars or taverns. Company towns did not allow cohabitation of unmarried couples, and in some cases checked households for marriage licenses. Worker housing was regularly inspected for lax sanitation or lack of general maintenance. Alcoholism, criminal behavior such as theft, or anti-social behavior such as street fighting were not tolerated. The penalty for egregious or frequent breach of these social norms was a fine, incarceration, or expulsion from the town.

106.5 Systems of Social Resistance Historian Curtis Seltzer has written that mine owners “preferred to envelop miners in a total environment, the better to control their behavior. Mining became an occupational prison from which there was no escape, upward or outward” (Seltzer, 1985: 20). But the regime of social control imposed by coal operators was by no means absolute in the company towns of the Appalachian coalfields. The region has a strong tradition of independence and resistance that functioned despite the best efforts of the operators (c.f. Fisher, 1993). Union organizing eventually prevailed in the Appalachian coalfields, and it took place despite the sanctions and rewards that the coal operators wielded. In addition to forming unions, miners often “voted with their feet,” by moving from one mining

106

A Double-Edged Sword

1931

Fig. 106.12 First united mine workers union meeting in Lynch

community to another seeking better pay, living, and working conditions. Miners in Appalachia also put to good use an opportunity inadvertently provided by the coal operators: because they could not buy their houses in the company towns, they were free to move to better conditions unencumbered by mortgage obligations or the need to sell a house they owned. Labor unions were formed at a steep price in “Bloody” Harlan County, but even in the model towns of Benham and Lynch industrial behemoths such as International Harvester and U.S. Steel could not stop their progress (Fig. 106.12). Moreover, the owners misjudged the bonding among native blacks and whites and immigrant miners that went on underground. Men faced with the same hazardous and arduous working conditions found common ground in other areas as well. Social norms imposed on the surface took on less importance to men who ate, worked and sometimes died together underground. Their common experiences also led to limited racial integration across neighborhood boundaries and in intramural sports. Native mountaineers were less bound by the city limits of company towns than the other culture groups. Many came and went to their family homesteads as the seasons changed – hunting, trapping, planting and harvesting – seeing life in company towns as only a means to raise the wherewithal to support their farmsteads and kin. In similar fashion, black and immigrant miners were among the first to leave when better opportunities arose in large metropolitan areas. The quality of the education offered in company towns also liberated the next generation; miners’ children went on to higher education or found safer and cleaner jobs in urban areas outside of the mountains. In addition to forming unions, miners in company towns found other outlets for their loyalty. The churches, fraternal associations, and social clubs they formed put them in touch with denominational and organizational structures nationwide, for

1932

T.E. Wagner and P.J. Obermiller

instance the strong support for the NAACP shown by black miners in Lynch. The miners also had kinship structures that stretched across the mountains, into the Deep South, and across the Atlantic. These familial structures provided miners with information and options well beyond the precincts of the coal towns in which they lived and worked. The coal operators’ efforts to the contrary, the social systems developed by the coal town residents themselves proved much more flexible than those imposed by the owners. Today Benham and Lynch, no longer company towns, are incorporated as normal Kentucky jurisdictions. With the nationwide decline in the use of coal caused by the substitution of petroleum-based energy sources that began in the 1920 s, coal companies stopped building new towns and began to sell off the ones they owned. The corporate owners of Benham and Lynch either turned over their infrastructures to town councils or sold them to the local inhabitants. Most housing in these two towns, for instance, is now owned and occupied by retired miners. The former “white school” in Benham is a bed and breakfast, and the former company store is now a miners’ museum operated by the State of Kentucky. In Lynch the old hospital is used as a hostel for church volunteers working in Harlan County, and Portal 31 and the Lamp House are open for tours led by retired miners. The residents of Benham and Lynch have reinvented their hometowns as showcases for a rich coalfield heritage.5

106.6 Conclusion The company towns of the Appalachian coalfields provide a telling look at the systems of social control exercised by corporate America in the early 20th century. However, their story is not one of simple historical curiosity. They are part of a continuum that runs from ancient Egypt into the 21st century. Less than 200 mi (322 km) from mine Portal 31 in Lynch, Kentucky, is the contemporary company town of Georgetown, Kentucky, home of Toyota Motor Manufacturing. Georgetown, the surrounding Scott County, and to a lesser extent, the Commonwealth of Kentucky are dominated by Toyota. When the plant was located there during the late 1980 s the Commonwealth spent millions of dollars developing access roads on top of the tax abatements it provided the company. A multi-track railroad spur was also provided to serve the new plant. Payroll taxes and direct company subsidies have purchased new municipal buildings, schools, and recreational facilities for both Georgetown and Scott County. City and county officials ride in late-model Toyotas. While not subsidized directly by the company, the Toyota payroll has indirectly paid for numerous new churches, housing developments, and sports complexes. Wal-Mart and Home Depot are the new company stores. The judicious distribution of corporate largesse by way of philanthropic donations provides the company with positive media coverage in Georgetown, nearby Lexington, and in the state capital of Frankfurt. (Toyota also takes credit for the thousands of personal donations made by its employees to local United Way campaigns.)

106

A Double-Edged Sword

1933

The visitor to the Toyota complex is greeted the same way as newcomers to Lynch were: by security guards, some of them armed, wearing company uniforms. Their main function is to ensure that only Toyota-approved visitors enter the fenced compound. After over twenty years of effort, the United Auto Workers have yet to unionize the plant. The company offers amenities to its workers to ensure their contentment, including a small store with Toyota-themed clothing and souvenirs, a fitness-training facility, and a day care program. Workers with the longest tenure at the plant are recognized at annual gatherings where one of them is awarded a new car by random selection. Georgetown, Kentucky is but one of the many contemporary examples of company towns. There are also vertical company towns located in skyscrapers in major cities, where white collar employees can work, work out, shop, eat and sleep under one roof. The company town has changed dramatically over time, but it has not disappeared from the physical or social landscape.

Notes 1. Shifflett (1991: 48) describes the evolution of Appalachian coal towns as early pioneer years, years of paternalism, and years of decline. Because of their reliance on a single industry, company towns are highly vulnerable to market fluctuations, technological changes, and economic depressions. 2. Corporate paternalism, often expressed in terms such as “industrial betterment,” was aimed at maintaining tight control of the work force and local community. Throughout the early years of Benham and Lynch, however, the companies ruled in a benevolent and humane manner, and employees were not bothered by the petty harassment found in many smaller coal towns. In fact, until union organizing became an issue, company police did not lock the gate across the entrance road at night (Kelemen, 1974; Portelli, 1990). 3. Coal company presence extended well beyond political influence in the local community. Homer Hickam was told about the influence of the company by the manager of Coalwood’s worker boarding house. “The coal companies like to pay in two-dollar bills. . .. That way all the businessmen in Welch know where the power comes from in this county . . ..” (Hickam, 2001: 106) 4. There is an extensive photographic record of the two towns. Both companies hired industrial photographers to send images to company headquarters in Chicago and Pittsburgh on a biweekly basis. Initially, these photographs were meant to document industrial development and tended to show machinery and buildings rather than people. Later, however, both companies photographed the work and life of the communities to illustrate stories in company magazines. (c.f. Schertz, 1987) 5. One unique legacy of the two company towns is the Eastern Kentucky Social Club (EKSC). The members of EKSC are African American residents of the two towns and of the nearby community of Cumberland, Kentucky, who migrated from the coalfields after World War II. Founded in 1967 by seven friends from Lynch and Benham who were living in Cleveland, Ohio, EKSC now has chapters in 12 cities ranging from Los Angeles, California to Hartford, Connecticut and hosts over 2000 members at annual reunions. African American workers were recruited by company agents out of the coal mines of northern Alabama and the cotton fields of Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia to join native whites and “ethnics” from southern Europe to fill the work force. After World War II their sons and daughters left for the promise of jobs in Midwestern industrial cities. In many respects, Benham and Lynch were just a stop on the “above-ground railroad” for southern Blacks (Wagner and Obermiller, 2004).

1934

T.E. Wagner and P.J. Obermiller

References Benham, Kentucky. Retrieved January 20, 2009, from http://www.uky.edu/~rsilver/benham.htm Bickley, A. R., & Ewen, L. A. (Eds.). (2001). Memphis Tennessee Garrison: The Remarkable story of a black Appalachian woman. Athens: Ohio University Press. C.F. Biggert to Alexander Legge, May 23, 1923. Letter in the Appalachian Archives Collection, Southeast Kentucky Community College. Coal Towns in Harlan County. Retrieved January 20, 2009, from http://home.earthlink.net’~audrabill/towns.htm Crawford, M. (1995). Building the workingman’s paradise: The design of American company towns. New York: Verso. Fishback, P. V. (1996). The miner’s work environment: Safety and company towns in the Early 1900 s. In J. H. M. Laslet (Ed.), The united mine workers of America: A model of industrial solidarity? (pp. 201–223). University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press. Fisher, S. L. (Ed.). (1993). Fighting back in Appalachia: Traditions of resistance and change. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Galantay, E. Y. (1975). New towns: Antiquity to the present. New York: George Braziller. Goode, J. B. (n.d.) Introduction to a Coal Camp Database. Kentucky Heritage Council. Retrieved February 11, 2009, from http://www.coaleducation.org/coalhistory/coaltowns Greene, J. W. (1990). Strategies for survival: Women’s work in the Southern West Virginia coalfields. West Virginia History, 49, 37–54. Hale, S. (1909). The Wisconsin Steel Company. The Harvester World, November 24. Harlan Daily Enterprise. (n.d.). Benham, Wisconsin Steel Co. Operation, Model Community. Box 2. Appalachian Archives, Southeast Kentucky Community College. Hickam, H., Jr. (2001). Sky of stone. New York: Delacorte Press. Johnson, T. E. (n.d.) A history of Lynch District: 1917–1957. United States Steel Corporation, Lynch, Ky. (Mimeo) Appalachian Archives, Southeast Kentucky Community College. Kelemen, T. A. (1974). A History of Lynch, Kentucky, 1917–1930. Filson Club History Quarterly, 48, 156–176. Magnusson, L. (1920). Housing by employers in the United States. U.S. Department of Labor, Bureau of Labor Statistics. Miscellaneous Bulletin 263. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office. Munn, R. F. (1979). The development of model towns in the bituminous coal fields. West Virginia History, 30(3), 243–253. Osborne, T. (2002). Coal Camp Life (unpublished) Cumberland, Kentucky: Southeast Community College. Appalachian Archives. Perry, L. M. (2009). Coal Company Towns in Eastern Kentucky, 1854–1941: A Historic Context. Kentucky Heritage Council. Retrieved January 12, 2009, from http://www.coaleducation.org/ coalhistory/coaltowns Photographs and Harlan County Coal Camps. Map courtesy of the Appalachian Archives. Cumberland, Kentucky: Southeastern Kentucky Community College. Portelli, A. (1990). Patterns of paternalism in Harlan County, Appalachian Journal, 17(2), 140– 154. Reps, J. W. (1965). The making of urban America: A history of city planning in the United States. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Seltzer, C. (1985). Fire in the Hole: Miners and Managers in the American Coal Industry. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky. Schertz, A. E. (1987). Harlan County Coal Camps: Lynch and Benham, Kentucky: Cultural Transition From Rural to Urban Communities: Industrial Documentary Photography, 1912– 1948. Cumberland, Kentucky: Southeast Community College. Appalachian Archives. Shifflet, C. A. (1991). Coal towns, life, work, and culture in company towns of Southern Appalachian, 1880–1960. Knoxville, TN: University of Tennessee Press. Shifflet, C. A. (1992). What were coal towns really like? Appalachian Heritage, 20, 21–24.

106

A Double-Edged Sword

1935

Sullivan, C. K. (1989). Coal men and coal towns: Development of the smokeless coalfields of Southern West Virginia, 1873–1923. New York: Garland. Wagner, T. E., & Obermiller, P. J. (2004). African American miners and migrants: The Eastern Kentucky Social Club. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press.

Chapter 107

Social Engineering: Creating and Now Undoing Apartheid’s Structures Vernon A. Domingo

107.1 Introduction The South African apartheid project was huge in its vision, in its goals and in its implementation. It may well be unparalleled in the 20th century in the depth and extent of the social and spatial transformation that it created and then compelled on all of its disenfranchised citizens. South Africa’s was a particularly focused type of race-based socio-political manipulation using various pretexts but essentially depending on a set of deliberately planned and implemented state strategies aimed at maintaining social control and racial dominance. Space, its control and manipulation, were the coin of realm in the implementation of the totally institutionalized system of racial domination and separation that lasted officially until 1994 and still affect use of space and social activity patterns. While the 1948 election that brought the Afrikaner government to power is often seen as the official start of apartheid policy, many race-based laws and policies had already been put in place. The spatial structuring of apartheid effectively started with the 1913 Native Lands Act which now legally denied Black South Africans any ownership rights in 83% of the land (Thompson, 1990: 16). By forcefully restricting Black South Africans (then about 75% of the population) to the remaining arid and non-productive 13% of the land, the White authorities aimed not only to remove any agricultural competition by Black farmers, but more importantly, it commenced the grossly unequal territorial segregation that was to remain a fundamental part of apartheid practice. But initial apartheid laws were rarely sufficient to their purpose, and so the 1936 supplementary legislation served to tie the notion of land non-ownership to a political mode of production whereby Blacks were mostly restricted to the newly designated “Reserves” and from where they would serve as a pool of cheap labor for the South African mining industry. The impact of legislation on people’s lives was increasingly harsh in its creation of islands of severe underdevelopment. As Black writer and activist, Sol Plaatje (1916), bitterly noted:

V.A. Domingo (B) Department of Geography, Bridgewater State University, Bridgewater, MA 02325, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_107,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1937

1938

V.A. Domingo

Awaking on Friday morning June 20 1913, the South African Native found himself not actually a slave, but a pariah in the land of his birth.

Where you were placed by the state either cursed or blessed you. While slavery, segregation, and racial discrimination had been part of South Africa since Dutch settlement in 1652, for the first two centuries there were few laws that compelled certain social outcomes. The increasing industrialization of the first part of the 20th century saw a steep rise in the number and the intensity of legislative acts aimed at transforming the political and cultural landscapes of the country. Blacks were now to be defined and controlled and kept out of sight to the greatest extent possible. The overcrowding, pauperization, and squalor created by this deliberate racial restructuring of society would be imprinted on South Africa with its negative effects lasting up to the present time. The bleakness of apartheid’s inhuman social geography was perhaps best expressed by Nelson Mandela (2002) when he accepted an award from the International Geographical Union: When I go to the place and area of my birth, so often as I do, the changed geography of the place strikes me with a force that I cannot escape. And that geography is not one of mere landscapes and topography, it a geography of people. Where once there were trees and even forests, we now see barrenness. . . ...I would traverse the miles of land that I knew as a child and young man, and one was saddened at the poverty of the people – poverty lived out in the geography of the place. It is the geography of women and young people, walking miles and miles to find the paltriest pieces of wood for fire to cook and mealie meal, and to keep a shelter warm.

107.2 Defining and Controlling the Majority Apartheid could not have been effectively implemented without significant planning and institutionalization in a vast number of inter-related laws. The fundamental legislation in the apartheid toolbox was the 1950 Population Registration Act which used administrative powers to classify the population into separate and legally unequal groups. Now with barely 14% of the population declared to be White, it remained an important task to subdivide the remaining “non-White” majority into smaller, “ethnically” defined groupings. This policy of divide-and-rule, a strategy applied in many colonial settings, was used here to create and strengthen differences between sub-groups and to prevent any potential linkages that could threaten the power status quo. This state-led division, sometimes referred to as a form of retribalization, clearly was a practice contrary to that in most states which most often seek an homogenization of cultural differences and a submersion of differences so as to prevent potential ethnic division and regional schisms. Many of the actual terms used for the racial classification system are still in effect today, reflected most prominently in the official census categories. Whites would refer to those directly descended from European immigrants (Dutch, French, British, German, et al.). Africans refers to those who had indigenous African ancestry while Coloured refers to those of mixed ancestry, in particular the mixing between Whites

107

Social Engineering

1939

mixed any of the other groups. The remaining major classifications were Indians, viz., descendants of those who emigrated from India starting in the 19th century and Malays, descendants of people brought as indentured workers by the British from its Malayan colony. When state policy systematically defines and classifies groups as a control strategy there is bound to be much opposition and tension. This was especially true in South Africa where overt attempts were (and still are) made by groups and individuals to define and re-define themselves on their own terms. For the last four decades, the term Black has been used by many “non-Africans” to refer to all of those victims of apartheid discrimination. In this paper the term Black will be used mostly but we will also use “non-White.” “Coloured,” “Indian,” and “Malay” are used when referring to particular apartheid policies and practices in order to clarify their use at particular historical periods. The classifying of people has proven to be a particularly insidious element of apartheid and its impoverishing legacy still linger decades after the official ending of apartheid.

107.3 Socially Engineered Space South Africa’s fragmentation of space has been the cornerstone of its attempts to sustain minority control and by the mid-20th century the country was caught in the vortex of its racist policies with location mattering more significantly to its inhabitants in ways that other parts of the world could only imagine. When, in 1973, the then Prime Minister, B.J. Vorster, declared (with no irony): “If I were to wake up one morning and find myself a Black man, the only major difference would be geographical” (Johannesburg Star 3 April 1973). He was alluding to policies that to him may have sounded benign, but which in reality created enormous humiliation, hardship, and death to tens of thousands of people living within the country’s borders. The pervasiveness of the apartheid laws was such that no areas of life – for Blacks as well as for Whites, were immune from its malicious effects. The result of this pervasive racial segregation was a society that was deeply divided with very few social linkages between the different groups. This almost total social separation produced a complete lack of any normal contact between groups and, as a consequence, very little understanding of the social and political aspirations of others. This drastic bifurcation would have the effect of creating distancing and mistrust, a situation that resonates in the post-apartheid era. The wide-spread territorialization of racial policies required not just the acquiescence and support of the majority of the White electorate but also the vision and planning skills of those dedicated to the implementation of segregationalist plans. In the post Anglo-Boer (1899–1902) period, the victorious British recruited people like Lionel Curtis – an ardent British imperialist and urban planner – to remake the South African urban form. As Town Clerk of Johannesburg, Curtis rejected the more liberal Cape Colony policy of bringing in Africans, as second class citizens, under the banner of “White civilization.” Instead he advocated and implemented policies of rigid territorial segregation, summing it up thus:

1940

V.A. Domingo

I am picturing a state of affairs in which the native is free to move about South Africa but has been led to fix his home in native territory and to find himself in the position of an uitlander (Afrikaans word for White foreign worker) foreign when he goes outside it. These territories could then be administered by the South African government by means of a highly organized Civil Service, very much as India is administered by the Imperial Government. (Rich, 1990: 57)

Once established, this pattern of centralized urban and regional planning became the norm both because of the organizational weakness of many of the local municipal systems, but also because of the lack of enthusiasm of specific municipal authorities to implement these policies. Most of the actual apartheid spatial planning was done by specialists in engineering, architecture, and health care (Mabin & Smit, 1997) whose primary purpose was in implementing the apartheid impulse rather than in planning for urban economic and social development. But the scholarly underpinning of the territorializing of apartheid was provided in significant part by geographers both through what was said and presented in formal writing as well as what was accepted without question. Reintges and McCarthy (1992) are correct in pointing out that the paucity of local political geographic writing about apartheid during much of apartheid’s lifetime was as much an attempt by South African geographers at “de-politicizing” the field as it was about being co-opted into the prevailing apartheid ideology. Despite the obvious stark spatial differentiation in human suffering, many South African geographers chose avoidance through an escape to a faulty belief in a “non-political” physical geography. A telling feature of planning practice at that time was the low involvement of academic and applied geography, a field that today is almost universally connected to spatial planning. Maharaj and Ramutsindela (2002), a prominent South African geographer, sees this distancing and the “deafening silence” as tantamount to acquiescence and covert support with most of the geographic research in the 1940–1985 period which assumed a pseudo-objectivity and an uncritical acceptance of the apartheid status quo. The work of most contemporary South African geographers as they forcefully and directly address the social inequities in the country contrasts dramatically with that of geographers only a generation earlier who through omission or commission aided apartheid planning. Primary texts in college level urban geography were often locally written in Afrikaans, confirming the narrow and biased lens of geographic education. The urban geography training of the present author, at a “Coloured” university in the early 1970s, consisted of examination of exclusively American models of urban structure (concentric, sector, multiple nuclei) with never a glance at the close-by realities of the inhuman geography of township distress where apartheid policies were daily restricting and pauperizing millions of South Africans, solely on the basis of their racial classification. But the foundation for apartheid thinking about spatial structures was the work done in school geography texts and in atlas publication. The apartheid structures were being accepted uncritically and were in fact supported by leading South African geographers such as Barnard and Nel (1981: 125) who at the height of the forced Bantustan resettlements posed the geographic question in a school text and then proceeded to answer it:

107

Social Engineering

1941

Question: What factors have a bearing on the location and form of rural settlement? Answer: The type of settlement, physical environment, traffic routes, social and military considerations, as well as agro-economic factors, play a greater or lesser part.”

Such refusal to acknowledge and interrogate the role of the state in creating spaces of gross poverty and inequality was the start of more purposeful intellectual support for the system of apartheid where the apartheid territorial divisions were validated as: The Black homelands originated during a history of more than two centuries . . .. Treaties, negotiations and the exchange of land between Whites and Blacks ensued for a long period after the first contact at the eastern border. (Barnard & Nel, 1981: 222–223)

The complicity of local geographers and planners in their uncritical acceptance of the very premises of apartheid segregationist policies should be carefully considered by those interested in a social engineering that aims to improve society, not in a planning framework that could cause harm to vast numbers of people.

107.4 Spatialization of Apartheid Once racially classified, the territorial separation of groups occurred at three scale levels: micro, meso, and macro. At each of these spatial levels, the degree of inequality, domination, and powerless was deliberate, apparent, and deeply consequential for all communities. This was government fiat felt at every level of society, always with the aim of securing and maintaining White minority supremacy in every area of life. The White community’s support for apartheid theory and practice was overwhelming as their quality of life, narrowly defined, was among the highest in the world, understandable when 14% of the population had the monopoly on voting and on virtually all political, economic, and social aspects of society. The benefits of such a significant “race subsidy” (Whites being overpaid and Blacks underpaid) were tangible and were very rarely challenged, especially when White churches such as the dominant Dutch Reformed Church actively supported apartheid while other church hierarchies were at best complacent and limited themselves to removing the hard edges of apartheid. Indeed all of the major social institutions – legal, educational, and administrative – were complicit in perpetuating an insidious system that enabled Whites to live in appreciably better living conditions than their Black counterparts, separated into highly segregated social spheres separated by physical distance, open space buffers, and legal compulsion.

107.4.1 Micro-level Apartheid When international observers refer to the apartheid era in South Africa, they often equate South Africa to the United States during the Jim Crow period. There were indeed similarities in that Black South Africans were prevented from using particular facilities such as toilets, park benches, and beaches, but it is important to note

1942

V.A. Domingo

that the South African system of “petty apartheid” received its impetus from central government directives that visualized a truly separated society with virtually no social contact between members of particular groups. Even at this local and personal level the intra-Black divisions, so inartfully introduced, were used to severely limit contact. Even beaches were not simply separated for Whites and “non-Whites” but distinctions within the latter group were maintained resulting in a pecking order of beaches with Chinese, Coloured, and African zones being allocated and appropriate signs were posted. Clearly much effort, planning, and design went into a system built on the premise of separation and control.

107.4.2 Meso-level Apartheid It was at the urban level of residential segregation that apartheid had to work hardest and most relentlessly in order to ensure that the principles and requirements of the apartheid state were adhered to. The “ideal apartheid city” required an inordinate amount of detailed urban and regional planning so as to ensure separate residential areas for each population group creating the ideal of an orderly mosaic of townships (the South African residential unit). The “ideal apartheid city” was one where distance and physical and racial buffers were used to inculcate a townscape that was visually, politically and culturally differentiated on racial/ethnic bases.

107.4.3 Macro-level Apartheid The Bantustans (Fig. 107.1), as already mentioned were part of the “grand apartheid” scheme whereby Blacks were to be totally disenfranchised (no longer citizens of South Africa) and relegated, forcibly to barren reserves. These dumping grounds – cynically referred to as “homelands” as if they were cozy ancestral hearths – in fact became not only alternative power centers for Black politicians eager to enrich themselves, but also centers of a seething opposition to apartheid. Despite the careful planning and the development of symbols of sovereignty – flags, border posts, stamps – these units were never granted any international recognition and were seen as a clear sign of the desperation of the apartheid government unable to accept the growing demographic imbalance between Black and White and unwilling to rethink the racially exclusive policy. The use of spatial planning to remove citizenship has rarely been done on a scale such as this.

107.5 Creating the Apartheid City With increasing 20th century industrialization and its attendant urbanization, the apartheid planners put a great deal of effort into orchestrating the apartheid city. The socially engineered city where the different population groups would live, worship, and recreate in totally separate municipal districts was a motivating vision for apartheid’s architects and it was achieved within the short space of 35 years,

107

Social Engineering

1943

Fig. 107.1 South African provinces and capitals in relationship to former Bantustans. (Map produced by Susan McGrath, Brockton, MA)

a remarkable feat of ideological determination and ruthless implementation. It was essential that the population groups be kept separate. By structurally restricting any meaningful social contact between the groups, there would be little opportunity for inter-group understanding and coalition formation that could potentially challenge the status quo. Apartheid’s survival depended on the social geography of the cities. If proximity was the problem, then physical barriers, restricted road access, and curfews would serve to wall off communities; the cities were not going to be allowed to play their traditional role as a crucible of social change where groups could rub elbows, join together in class formation, and maybe even rise up against an oppressive regime. It was thus the Group Areas Act of 1950 that had the greatest effect on urban South Africa. Large numbers of Blacks had already been defined by ethnicity (Zulus, Xhosa, Tswana, et al.) and had been deposited in Bantustans with urban Blacks placed in peripheral “Native locations.” The Group Areas Act of 1950 would serve as the vehicle for the separation of White, Coloured, Indian, and Asian urban population groups into distinct and “ethnically” exclusive zones. This national Act required an exceptionally high degree of agreement and participation from local governments. Taylor (1994) points out correctly that in some cases local city councils – with their goals of local economic development and a controllable social peace – had disagreements with the central government. Local authorities were less willing to proceed as forcefully and as rapidly as the Pretoria regime and were oftentimes pushed into implementation sooner that they had hoped. This is in stark

1944

V.A. Domingo

contradistinction to the post-apartheid era where much planning is now left to the municipal level of government.

107.6 Port Elizabeth: A Frontier Apartheid City The city of Port Elizabeth on the southeastern coast has long represented the meeting of Europe and Africa. Established as a town in 1820 by the British on the easternmost edge of the Cape Colony, its function was to serve as the base from which to limit and drive back the advancing Xhosa people who were fighting against advancing racial colonization. Port Elizabeth continued this role as a pioneer of racial oppression by having in 1902, the first government determined “Native location” within urban area South Africa, what Kirk (1991) calls “an experiment in social control.” Despite local opposition to the establishment of the New Brighton district, by the mid-1950s, most urban Africans in Port Elizabeth had been deposited in rigidly segregated enclaves, separated by both distance and physical barriers from other defined groups. Now it was the turn of the Group Areas Act to extend the policy of apartheid segregation to other groups, largely Coloured and Indian. While Port Elizabeth had long had a strong degree of racially determined residential segregation, there were up until 1965, significant enclaves of Black groups in areas such as South End, which was near the city center (Fig. 107.2). A primary reason for this inner-city population clustering was the location of the port facility which, in a pre-container period, necessitated an elastic supply of labor that could be called up at short notice. Most of the people living here were Malaysian, Indian, Coloured, and some Whites. Another reason for this more multi-cultural enclave was that the area was actually located in the Walmer Municipality, a more rural and less industrial municipality. But an even more locally significant factor was the local White dominated housing retail market, which itself was state assisted. By the mid-1950s, most of the city’s “Whiter” residential townships had become racially exclusive, reflected in the widespread use of racially restrictive clauses in their title deeds. Du Pré (1997) cites a Port Elizabeth example that prohibited ownership or occupation by any “Coolie, Chinaman, Arab, Kaffir or any such Coloured persons.” Not surprisingly, this market practice led to a much higher degree of racial segregation and “non-White” immigrants to the inner city region settled in “mixed race” districts such as South End while the rest of the city retreated into racial enclaves. The mixed areas, North End, South End, and Central, were working class neighborhoods, a discontinuous set of enclaves that posed a challenge to the national government’s idea of separate residential areas. They would soon be forced to move (Table 107.1). While North End and Central were planned for industry and business respectively, it was South End, with its panoramic view of Algoa Bay and its proximity to the CBD and to the best beaches in the city that became the chief focus for “racial re-allocation.” When the first eviction notices arrived in May 1965, residents knew that they were pitted against the strength of the national state. The Port Elizabeth

107

Social Engineering

1945

Fig. 107.2 Port Elizabeth legacy residential areas. (Map produced by Susan McGrath, Brockton, MA) Table 107.1 1960 Port Elizabeth residential areas; populations forced to move

Area

Coloureds

Asian

Total

South end Central North end

5, 786 1, 861 909

1, 558 593 491

7,344 2,454 1,400

Source: Nel (1989)

municipality had for a while resisted the national directives (Nel 1989) but then local authorities proceeded to fully implement the forced removal. South End, with a population in 1960 of almost 6,000 (Du Pré, 1997), was a vibrant community with mosques, churches, community halls, sports clubs, schools, and locally owned businesses (Fig. 107.3). It was in the words of a resident, “we lived in harmony with other races . . . we were really a League of Nations in South End” (Du Pré, 1997). But it also was a district that needed an input of government resources to help it avoid physical decay of buildings and structures. This lack of infra-structural maintenance was largely because throughout the 1950s, the

1946

V.A. Domingo

Fig. 107.3 South end in its heyday. (Reproduced with permission from the South End Museum, http://www.southendmuseum.co.za)

ever-present threat of forced removal hanging over the community had inhibited the use of private or public money to revamp the area. Thus when the Minister of Development spoke of slum clearance and improvement of housing stock, he was referring to a situation that his own government had created. After South End was declared to be a White residential area, the wait began and when the letters of eviction finally went out in 1965, it was clear that there would be no negotiation. South Enders were given three months notice to leave, with property owners being given minimal financial compensation and told to resettle in townships many kilometers away in the northeastern suburbs of the city. The municipal officials did put up some opposition to the central government’s decree, but soon folded and proceeded with eviction. The residents were forced to relocate to separate, ethnically defined residential districts – Coloureds to Gelvandale and Bethelsdorp, Indians to Malabar, and Chinese to Kabega Park – a reconstituted divide and rule policy. Once everyone had been forced out, the authorities demolished all the buildings and leveled the landscape, leaving a surreal post-apocalyptic landscape to replace the thriving, energetic community that has existed. Two structures were left in place because of particularly strong opposition from South End residents. These were mosques that the community claimed under Moslem law and tradition, were sacred ground and could not be bulldozed or moved (Fig. 107.4). The government relented and today those places of worship are still maintained and used as places of worship even though the congregants live more than 10 mi (16 km) away.

107.7 The Group Areas Act The South End case study shows that the Group Areas Act caused more suffering and hardship to South African Coloureds and Indians than any other piece of national legislation. Passed by parliament in 1950, it assigned population groups

107

Social Engineering

1947

Fig. 107.4 South end: a heterophobic townscape

to designated urban areas for residential and business activities. And it resulted in many forced removals, the division of established communities, and the further impoverishment of Black South Africans. The implementation of the Group Areas Act was a clear attempt to create “ethnically pure” neighborhoods even as the Act was publicly presented as part of a slum clearance program. Proof of this last statement became evident when only Whites were allowed to return to the re-designed areas after they had been leveled. The Act had the effect of widening the wealth gap because now Blacks had larger commutes to work and Whites were able to benefit financially through buying up these empty properties at bargain basement prices and using them for future monetary gain. Thus the well-known “race subsidy” practice was operating in broad daylight under the control of both municipal and national government sanction. The Group Areas Act was implemented throughout urban South Africa and places like District Six in Cape Town, Sophiatown in Johannesburg, and Cato Manor in Durban became notorious and poster children for the calamitous impacts of a racist urban planning that was ideological and destructive of community. These place names have become synonymous with the most humiliating and hateful aspects of apartheid, felt on a personal, family, and a community level. District Six in Cape Town was similarly flattened in the 1960s and the area today is still a barren wasteland (Fig. 107.5) as the various post-apartheid residential, real estate, and municipal groupings struggle with plans to create a zone of meaningful development from the rubble of apartheid.

107.8 Sophiatown A parallel to the South End instance was the Johannesburg township of Sophiatown, a cosmopolitan part of that city, which, while it lacked many amenities and public utilities, was a thriving, multicultural township, an area that bred many

1948

V.A. Domingo

Fig. 107.5 District Six, Cape Town in 2009. (Photo by Dugald Cloete)

poets, musicians, and, not coincidentally, many anti-apartheid political activists. Sophiatown was one of the few places where Blacks could own land (restricted by the 1913 Act). As a center for music, the arts, and political life, Sophiatown grew to house at least 50,000 people, Blacks, Coloureds, Indians, Chinese, and Whites. After the Group Areas Act was enacted, there was a sense of fatalism that the area was slated for destruction. But the air of impending doom was counter-pointed with a rising political activism and opposition that included people like Nelson Mandela and Bishop Trevor Huddleston who were to become major players in opposing apartheid. In 1963, all of the residents were evicted; Sophiatown was flattened by the apartheid regime and a new White residential area called Triomf (Afrikaans for triumph) was built in its place. Don Mattera (1983), one of the poets of the time recalls the pain: Armed with bulldozers they came to do a job nothing more just hired killers. We gave way there was nothing we could do although the bitterness stung in us and in the earth around us.

One of the first acts of the new post-apartheid government was to change the name of the district back to Sophiatown, but the district still remains a largely White

107

Social Engineering

1949

enclave, awaiting an activist government with a strategy for social change and racial integration.

107.9 Planning in the Post-Apartheid World The end of apartheid in 1994 marked the beginning of a process of wide-ranging societal re-organization and re-arrangement most often only witnessed in post-war situations where the basic infrastructure had been severely damaged. South Africa did not have to deal with the wreckage of its communications or rail network that could have occurred had the change come more violently, but the country did exit the apartheid era with enormous economic and social inequities reflected in the severely contrasting and segregated residential districts. It would be the former, viz., the inequities, that were to receive the larger share of new government attention. Since 1994, there have been significant municipal efforts to change the exceptionally low levels of social development in the Black communities, shown in notable increases in access to potable water, electricity, and housing. Much of this occurred within the framework of the RDP (Reconstruction and Development Program) a socio-economic policy framework that had as its primary objectives, the alleviation of poverty and the provision of social services. This program was implemented largely at the provincial and municipal levels, which were seen as being closer to the people. The devolution of power to the enhanced municipalities was seen as an essential counter to the centralizing, hierarchical impulse of apartheid. There have also been some deliberate efforts to alter some of the spatial frameworks of apartheid era so that greater social development could occur. At the macro level this meant eliminating the Bantustan structures and introducing new provincial units, with an increased decentralization of power to that level (see Fig. 107.1). The post-apartheid constitution ceded many financial and social functions to the provincial level representing devolution of power that was needed because some of the provincial divisions do have a strong ethnic element to them.

107.10 The Cartography of Apartheid and Its Undoing Putting spatial plans on paper is never merely a technical endeavor; it is fraught with ideological baggage that is often only openly challenged when societies undergo fundamental change. In apartheid South Africa it was the prerogative of the group in power to map, to name, and thus to control the very basis of how members of that society viewed and participated in their world. During the apartheid era, planners and mapmakers imprinted their particular vision of a differentiated and a White dominated social landscape, and the non-enfranchised were given no choice but to negotiate their lives within this imposed setting. As Kelso (1999) points out, the cartography of apartheid played a significant role in reinforcing and legitimatizing the imposed socio-political structure. Many Black townships, while particularly large in numbers of residents, never appeared on published maps – commercial or

1950 Table 107.2 Selected South African place name changes

V.A. Domingo Old name

New name

Pietersburg Loius Trichard Blood River Jan Smuts Airport Greater Johannesburg

Polkwane Makhoda Mulaudzi O.R. Tambo Airport Guateng

governmental. In addition the legends used on many maps deliberately downplayed the size of certain Black towns, while their smaller White urban counterparts were over-emphasized, giving them higher stature, politically, economically and cartographically. Kelso (1999) indicates that even years after the official end of apartheid, the corrective cartographic changes had not always been made. But the greatest challenge to the cartography of apartheid has come with the movement to change place names (Table 107.2). Soon after the 1994 end of apartheid, members of the newly elected governing party instituted plans to erase the blatant signs of apartheid legacy by changing the names of places that were seen as egregious reminders of the apartheid era. A new name committee, the South African Geographical Names Council (SAGNC), appointed by the Minister of Arts, Culture, Science and Technology, was established in 1998 as being more representative of the new South Africa and one that would now challenge the names given during the various White minority governing periods (Guyot & Seethal, 2007). The composition of the SAGNC, with its mandate to have 15–25 members with at least one from each of the 9 provinces, is a potential minefield because of South Africa’s many regional and cultural constituencies and with no single ethnic group constituting a majority. Many names were changes from the blatantly racist (“kaffir”) to those that glorified apartheid architects (Verwoerd Airport). As the momentum for name change gathered speed, it has met with opposition from Whites and the controversy still continues. In the socio-political transformation demanded by the collapse of apartheid, toponym changes have been seen by their protagonists as part of the creation of a new national identity that reflects not only the culture and sentiments of the black majority, but the establishment of a national pride that has triumphed over the arrogance and unfairness of the apartheid past. Similar to other organs of the post-apartheid government structure, the national names committee has moved a significant amount of power to the provincial level, and even to the municipal level where street name changes can be recommended. The final decision is a ministerial one, done within the context of the framework of “African Renaissance”, a concept presented by then Vice President Thabo Mbeki and one that emphasizes African cultural renewal. The debate over changing cultural landscape features such as prominent place names was to be expected in post-colonial societies such as Burma and India, but in colonial-settler societies such as South Africa, Namibia, and Zimbabwe, these proposals have often caused their own political turmoil. When it was first suggested

107

Social Engineering

1951

that Pretoria be renamed Tshwane, protesters, almost all White, argued that such a change was unnecessary. This South African toponym contestation, occurring as it does along ethnic lines, reflects the shift in power and hegemony, an ideological tension that will continue to be part of South Africa’s transformation.

107.11 Urban Changes and Non-changes The major change in South Africa’s newly reconstituted political geography was the creation of new and enhanced municipal boundaries complete with increased powers ensuring a further movement of constitutional obligations down the scale to local communities who would now have power of planning and implementation. The issuance in 1998 of a White Paper on Local Government presented the municipalities as the key agents of the development process, emphasizing that those social and economic needs should best be met at the local level. Kay (2004) alerts us to the main spatial objective of local government as integrating cities, towns, and rural areas into a unified planning framework that increases efficiency and embraces mixed-use and mixed-income development. This more holistic approach led immediately to a re-drawing of municipal boundaries so that they incorporated many poor rural and peri-urban areas that had previously been peripheralized and, in fact, had been left out of any major development planning. In 2001 the city of Port Elizabeth and its hinterland was reconstituted as the Nelson Mandela Bay Metropolitan Municipality, thereby immediately increasing the population base from 580,000 to approximately 1.3 million, and making it a Category A municipality, one of six in the country. In electoral terms, this municipal areal enlargement guaranteed a Black majority of voters so that the voice of the previously disenfranchised would be paramount. In post-apartheid Port Elizabeth, the effort of the municipal authorities has clearly been on improving delivery of services and improving living conditions in the townships. But the municipality has pointedly avoided introducing any attempt to deliberately racially integrate the residential areas, opting instead for in situ economic development particularly in the Black townships where basic services such as sewage, roads, and schools were severely lacking. The result has been a city that is still largely segregated by race. Port Elizabeth’s South End has been at the receiving end of this form of “benign” neglect. After the late 1960s forced removals and leveling of the buildings, White real estate developers took control of the area and built expensive, low density, and socially insulating housing. The newly built residential landscape is at great odds with the informality of the earlier South End as seen in Fig. 107.3. While public spaces abounded in the heyday of South End, what is most prominent today is a heterotopia, an ultra-security conscious set of heavily gated communities that create an impression of isolation and distrust (Hook & Vrdoljak, 2002). Bland brick walls that are 7 feet high, electrified and inhospitable, speak of an area and its inhabitants that are all too keen to separate themselves from the rest of the urban area. What little community exists is a community bound by fear of crime and fear of the

1952

V.A. Domingo

other (see Fig. 107.4). The irony of this turnaround in sense of community (or now the lack thereof) is all the more startling with the virtual militarization of the landscape. The South End area has been transformed from a multiethnic urban space to a homogenous White residential area whose residents maintain a privileged position in the city with easy access to cultural and social facilities such as the city’s best live theaters, restaurants, beaches, university, aquarium, and gambling complex. Black urban residents who want access to these amenities have to travel at least 10 miles from the eastern and north-eastern residential areas, ensuring their diminished use of these urban facilities. Even the city hall, located in the city center, is walkable distance from the former South End but spatially very distant from most Black residents. Privileged status long maintained during apartheid by laws, is now maintained by distance and accessibility. By leaving it to the real estate market, the municipal authorities have allowed for the re-production of the former system of racially exclusive enclaves to continue. With housing in areas like South End costing often double what they cost in the Black residential areas (when they are available), the opportunity for Blacks to move into these legacy “White” areas is very slim. Isolated Black individuals may “pierce” the racial residential barrier line, but their impact is muted by the increasing large percentage of Black urbanites who, because of apartheid, have little accumulated wealth and possess very few incentives from the municipal authorities to integrate. Even fewer Whites have moved into various Black legacy areas. One of the reasons why, in the post-apartheid era, Port Elizabeth has retained its very high degree of segregation is the decision to make Bhisho and not Port Elizabeth the Eastern Cape provincial capital. The settlement of Bhisho, a rural settlement, had a claim to high visibility because of the 1992 Bisho (sic) massacre when 29 Black South Africans were shot in a political demonstration protesting for the dismantling of the Ciskei Bantustan. This came at a crucial time in the negotiations that led to the ending of apartheid and so Bhisho was forever etched in South Africa’s political landscape. In addition, Port Elizabeth was perceived as too colonial and too dominated by a potentially counter-revolutionary White population to permit it to become the provincial capital. Without a major regional legislative role, Port Elizabeth never developed the class/racial mix of ethnic and racial groups that would have put pressure on previously segregated residential areas. Higher paid Black bureaucrats surely would have achieved greater de-segregation in areas like South End than other societal forces. But a more significant factor has been the omission of any deliberate plan to challenge and change the degree of racial separation. It is therefore no surprise when Christopher (1987, 2001, 2005) notes that Port Elizabeth has remained the most segregated urban area in the country. The segregation indices for Port Elizabeth changed less than for any other major South African metropolitan area, moving from an exceptionally high 98 in 1991 to a 96 in 2001. In fact the percentage of Whites living in the apartheid-era White areas was 98.9% in 1951, and after showing a slight decrease in 1980s, it increased to 99.1% in 2001. While segregation is exceptionally high in the Port Elizabeth instance, the persistence of the characteristics of what Schensul (2008) calls “legacy” districts – the

107

Social Engineering

1953

previously formally classified areas – extends to most residential areas in urban South Africa. The morphology of the post-apartheid city is not all that different from what it was during apartheid. This obstinacy of racially segregated districts is in many ways similar to post-colonial societies where the vestiges of separate housing, viz., based there on both economic as well as racial status, that persisted four decades after the formal end of colonialism.

107.12 Conclusions In the post-apartheid urban context, the concept of societal transformation has been largely limited to social improvements in quality of life, which have occurred for significant numbers of Blacks while leaving in place the map of segregated neighborhoods. Whereas the creation of the apartheid city was the result of innumerable deliberate actions to make the spatial arrangements reflect the dominant political ideology and structure, the post-apartheid city evolves less through the conscious effort at the re-organization of planning than by the forces of the market which in effect have left much of South Africa’s residential segregation untouched. While the eradication of Pass Laws has meant a much greater Black daily commuter movement and much higher number of Blacks hawking goods during the day the city center, the post-apartheid city after 6 pm resembles the apartheid city in many ways with residential areas still highly segregated. During the day the city center is densely populated by a bustling, mostly Black commerce-oriented population, buying and selling goods in a space that they access by public transportation. On the western edge of this thriving market center stands the city hall, which, while it has had only Black mayors since 1994, effectively serves to cut the area off from the western, almost exclusively White residential areas such as South End, Walmer, and Summerstrand. This edifice in its present political orientation can be seen as both opening up doors to a new, more democratic society or physically as an obstacle to developing vigorously racially integrated urban spaces. The lack of a municipal instigated racial integration process is not exclusive to Port Elizabeth. As Mueller-Friedman (2006) notes, the situation is similar in Windhoek where she says, the city’s “de-racialized discourse” has been replaced by a purely technical approach to transforming the post-apartheid city. Windhoek’s continuing urban morphology after almost two decades without formalized apartheid, is still one of significant racial segregation. The lack of any meaningful movement towards urban residential integration has implications for South Africa’s goal of the transformation in individual and group relationships that seemed to be so promising in 1994. If urban socio-political changes are the oft cited harbingers of broader change, and with South Africa’s 70% urbanization rate expected to reach 80% in 2015, we can expect less dramatic social integration at the national level. This is especially true because most of that growth in urban population will take place in the legacy Black residential areas, leaving White areas with their low density intact and still separated. Cloete, Schlemmer, & Van Vuuren (1991) prophecy that the most lasting legacy of apartheid would be

1954

V.A. Domingo

its segregated urban social geography appears to becoming a reality. Almost two decades after apartheid ended, the patterns of racial integration have not changed significantly. This has a greater negative impact on Blacks who, as result, find the better place-based schools further away and have to resort to taking two or more busses to school. There has been no racial busing or a program of housing integration such as housing tax credits, programs that can help racial harmony and understanding. The goal of such racially diverse community building is no mere feel good project, but has positive implications for South Africa’s future development. On-going residential segregation isolates Whites who feel increasingly marginalized, less likely to develop inter-personal relationships with those of other groups, more likely to turn inward and then to contemplate emigration. With polls showing a hardening of attitudes of White resentment and an increasing sense of being marginalized, political peace and a broad sense of pride in national accomplishments are deeply threatened. Those dealing with creating plans, policies, and structures for the new society have yet to appreciate that residential racial integration is a compelling interest for development in many other areas. Planning for integration should be taking as much thought as the planning that went into the disruptive racial separation of the apartheid era. The question that now lingers over post-apartheid South Africa is whether in the new South Africa there would be a new South African geography, a geography that speaks of racial reconciliation and racial integration. The short-term answer has been that the patterns appear the same and in some cases the racial distances have widened. It would appear that South Africa could use more, not less social engineering in order to create the seamless non-racial society it aspires to.

References Barnard, W. S., & Nel, A. (1981). Our new world: Senior secondary course in geography. Cape Town: Maskew Miller. Christopher, A. J. (1987). Apartheid planning in South Africa: The case of Port Elizabeth. The Geographical Journal, 153(2), 195–204. Christopher, A. J. (2001). Urban segregation in post-apartheid South Africa. Urban Studies, 38(3), 449–466. Christopher, A. J. (2005). The slow pace of desegregation in South African cities, 1996–2001. Urban Studies, 42(12), 2305–2320. Cloete, F., Schlemmer, L. & Van Vuuren, D (1991). Policy options for a new South Africa. Human Sciences Research Council, Pretoria. Du Pré, R. (Ed.). (1997). South End as we knew it. Port Elizabeth: Western Research Group. Guyot, S. & Seethal, C. (2007). Identity of place, places of identities: Changes of place names in post-apartheid South Africa. The South African Geographical Journal, 89(1), 55–63. Hook, D., & Vrdoljak, M. (2002). Gated communities, heterotopia and a “rights” of privilege: A ‘heteropology’ of the South African security-park. Geoforum, 33, 195–219. Kay, D. (2004). South Africa city planning: A study in post-1994 national planning legislation. Lulu Marketplace. Retrieved December 1, 2008, from http://www.lulu.com/content/1741591 Kelso, C. (1999). Ideology of mapping in apartheid South Africa. South African Geographical Journal, 81(1), 15–21.

107

Social Engineering

1955

Kirk, J. (1991). A ‘native’ free state at Korsten: challenge to segregation in Port Elizabeth, South Africa. Journal of Southern African Studies, 17(2), 309–337. Mabin, A., & Smit, D. (1997). Reconstructing South Africa’s cities? The making of urban planning 1900–2000. Planning Perspectives, 12, 193–223. Maharaj, B., & Ramutsindela, M. (2002). Introduction: Post-apartheid political dispensation – New or old geographies? GeoJournal, 57, 1–2. Mandela, N. (2002). Acceptance speech at the International Geographic Union conference, Durban, South Africa. Mattera, D. (1983). Azanian love songs. Johannesburg: Skotaville. Mueller-Friedman, F. (2006). Beyond the post-apartheid city: De/segregation and suburbanization in Windhoek, Namibia. African Geographical Review, 25, 33–61. Nel, J. G. (1989). The making of an apartheid city: The case of Port Elizabeth, Republic of South Africa. African Urban Quarterly, 4(3 and 4), 330–340. Plaatje, S. T. (1916). Native life in South Africa. London: P.S.King. Reintges, C., & McCarthy, J. (1992). Reconstructing political geography in South Africa. In C. Rogerson, & J. McCarthy, (Eds.), Geography in a changing South Africa: Progress and prospects. Cape Town: Oxford University Press. Rich, P. (1990). Race and empire in British politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schensul, D. (2008). Remaking an apartheid city: State-led spatial transformation in Durban, South Africa. PhD dissertation, Brown University, Providence, RI. Taylor, B. (1994). Local government and ‘Coloured’ residential segregation in Port Elizabeth, 1964–1976. South African Geographical Journal, 76(1), 20–26. Thompson, L. (1990). A history of South Africa. New Haven: Yale University Press.

Chapter 108

Engineering Socialism: A History of Village Relocations in Chukotka, Russia Tobias Holzlehner

108.1 Introduction The Sovietization and industrialization of Russia’s northern regions was a largescale engineering endeavor that fundamentally changed a wide range of communities in diverse geographical regions, from the dense taiga at the Finnish border to the tundra expanses along the Bering Sea. In the Russian North, this development project was integral to the Soviet Union’s efforts to create an all-encompassing economic sphere that included native and non-native communities under the aegis of a communist future. Early communist era megaengineering projects, such as the Dnieper Dam (Dneprostroi), the steel city of Magnitogorsk (Magnitostroi), or the White Sea Canal (Belomorstroi) reflected on the newly acquired technological possibilities, the omnipotent visions of their realization, and the enormous human costs that were associated with these projects (Graham, 1993). From a theoretical perspective, the Sovietization of Russia can be seen as the systematic implementation of a “high-modernist ideology” that combined scientific and technological progress with the vision of a rational ordering of society (Scott, 1998: 4). New technologies and a novel ideology were fused to a powerful guideline that underscored the construction of a communist society on the Eurasian continent. The ultimate goal was to master nature and order communities and people according to a communist socio-economic blueprint. One of the primary cultural leitmotifs of the early USSR was the “struggle with the elements” (bor’ba so stikhiei) (McCannon, 1998: 83). Against this background, the Arctic and its native populations were imagined as a hostile environment, which had to be conquered for the sake of socialist realism. The Sovietization of the North was a total process of modernization and industrialization, which was executed through different institutions (Bartels and Bartels 1995: 5–6). At the center of this process was the realization of a technocratic ideology that involved the reorganization of native subsistence space and indigenous settlements.

T. Holzlehner (B) Department of Anthropology, University of Alaska, Fairbanks, AK 99775, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_108,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1957

1958

T. Holzlehner

On the ground, the implementation of this ideology had far reaching consequences. As a large-scale experiment of social engineering, its effects were reverberating through the very fabric of the affected communities, with often disastrous results. This chapter addresses the effects of Sovietization and industrialization on local communities on the Chukchi Peninsula, Russia’s easternmost region bordering the Bering Strait. Since the beginning of the 1930s, coastal villages predominantly inhabited by native Chukchi and Siberian Yupik were officially deemed unprofitable, subsequently closed and their inhabitants relocated to newly founded settlement centers. These state-enforced relocations of native communities, which peaked during the 1950s and 1960s, led to a creeping depopulation of a coastline, whose intricate settlement history traces back for thousands of years. The Sovietization of the Russian North and the corresponding village relocations in Chukotka led to a collision of different forms of spatial practices, wherein a Soviet spatial logic was implanted on the traditional space usage of native sea mammal hunters and reindeer herders. This case study illustrates the dire consequences of this state-induced social engineering experiment; an experiment that started with the well-intended vision of a prosperous communist future for native communities and ended with a disastrous collapse of the local infrastructure and economy after the breakup of the Soviet Union.

108.2 Settlement History of Chukotka The topography of Chukotka’s coastal landscape is characterized by tundra hills, rocky cliffs, deep seated bays, and long sand spits that occasionally enclose fresh water lagoons. Chukotka is bordered by the Arctic Ocean along its northern shores and the North Pacific along its eastern coastline. The cold and nutritional rich waters of the Bering and Chukchi Sea shelf offer an ideal habitat for a wide variety of arctic sea mammals. Walrus, gray and bowhead whales, and various seal species migrate in annual cycles through the Bering Strait bottleneck, which separates the Asian from the American continent by mere 50 mi (80 km). Chukotka’s rugged coast is dotted with the remains of numerous historic and prehistoric settlements that are clearly discernible by their mount shaped house ruins and protruding whale bones. For centuries, the native population, subsiding mostly on a sea mammal and fish diet supplemented by land game and birds, has chosen semi-subterranean house constructions to protect them from the harsh winters and fierce Bering Sea storms. Whale bones, especially ribs, vertebrae, jawbones, and shoulder blades were used as central construction elements for the dug-in houses, which were cover with sod and driftwood. The first permanent settlements in Chukotka can be traced back for at least 2000 years and coincide with the introduction of a systematic, community based whale hunt in the region (Krupnik, 1993: 186). Different archaeological cultures developed in successive stages along Chukotka’s coast (Ackerman, 1984; Arutiunov & Sergeev, 1975; Giddings, 1960). A greatly ornamented hunting tool set made from ground slate, walrus ivory, and reindeer antler reflects on highly specialized cultures

108

Engineering Socialism

1959

that were ideally adapted to the Arctic environment. Around 500 AD the Punuk culture, which focused on the systematic hunt for large bowhead whales, created the first large-scale permanent settlements along the Bering Sea coast, including a ceremonial center on Ittygran Island, known as the “Whale (Bone) Alley” (Chlenov & Krupnik, 1984). The prehistoric and early historic settlements along the coast share several common characteristics (Gusev, Zagoroulko, & Porotov, 1999). All of the settlements are oriented towards the sea, with the majority of them closer than 300 ft (100 m) form the shore, presenting a wide angle view onto the ocean. The rocky coast, big deposits of melting snow, and strong winds were limiting factors for settlement space, while the existence of a storm sheltered cove, the closeness to a sea overlook, and the proximity to a freshwater source were positively influencing factors for the choice of a settlement. Spits and capes reaching out into the Bering Sea were preferred sites due to the physical proximity to sea mammal migration routes. At the time of Russian contact three distinct ethnic groups with different subsistence practices inhabited the region: Siberian Yupik who inhabited coastal settlements along the Bering Strait, coastal Chukchi specialized on sea mammal hunt, and inland Chukchi who herded reindeer in small nomadic camps (Bogoras, 1909: 12). Tsarist Russia expanded into Chukotka at the beginning of the 17th century, relentlessly following the dwindling sable populations eastwards. Spearheaded by Cossack bands, Russian settlers and fur traders founded the first outpost Anadyrsk along the River Anadyr in 1649. Yet, heavy resistance of a coalition of Chukchi and Koriak tribes forced the Russian settlers to abandon the post in 1764 for a short period of time (Bogoras, 1909: 697). Local resistance to Russian settlements continued until 1837 when a treaty with Russia granted the Chukchi the right to their own territory (Forsyth, 1992: 150). Despite the treaty, which prevented Russian settlements on the territory of the Chukchi tribes, Russian traders founded several trading posts along the coast. During the mid-19th century, when international whaling fleets visited the Bering Sea in great numbers, American traders joined in the lucrative fur and ivory trade and started to establish trading posts in Chukchi and Eskimo coastal settlements. The increasing dominance of American traders challenged the Russian trade monopoly with the indigenous population and led to the relocation of Anadyrsk in 1889 to the mouth of the river Anadyr to better project Russian territorial sovereignty along the coast. Beside Russian and American trading activities, regular native trade between the coastal and inland populations formed an elaborate exchange system that involved products of the sea and the tundra and created social and economic ties between the different groups (Fitzhugh & Crowell, 1988).

108.3 Sovietization of Chukotka The life of the indigenous population of Chukotka changed dramatically with the Russian Revolution. In the Russian Far East, the Civil War protracted till the early 1920s. During the summer of 1920 the Red Guard succeeded in establishing Soviet power in the former Cossack stronghold Anadyr, and from 1923 onwards the entire

1960

T. Holzlehner

region was under the control of revolutionary committees. Chukotka was officially integrated into the Soviet Union in 1930 as a National Okrug (Chukotskii natsional’nii okrug). The grip of Soviet power tightened its hold on Russia’s northern regions with the onset of the first five-year plan in 1929. Beside administrative reorganizations of the northern territories during that time, economic programs began that set out to influence and change the local cultures in a radical way. Behind this planned economic transformation stood the notion of transforming the so-called “archaic societies of the North” directly to a communist society, thus surpassing the stage of capitalism. The “non-capitalist road to development,” a huge experiment of social engineering, was intended to lead the indigenous population of Siberia into a bright socialist future (Pika, 1999: 25). The Soviet party workers swarmed out to conquer the “cultural backwardness” of the northern peoples and to develop them into Soviet citizens. Central to this concept was the idea of transforming the traditional economies into an integrated part of the Soviet economic system. With the first five-year plan, collectivization was implemented on a large scale in the Russia’s North, with often disastrous effects on local economies. In addition to the appropriation of native land, different economic branches (reindeer herding, fishing, sea-mammal hunting) were combined into single state-administered enterprises. Reindeer breeders were to adopt “nomadism as production” (proizvodstvennoe kochevanie) as opposed to “nomadism as a way of life” (bytovoe kochevanie) (Vitebsky, 1990: 348). The traditional mixed economies of the indigenous population, which used the different resources in seasonal cycles over much larger territories, were rigidly centralized and their pastures or hunting grounds allotted to the state farms. The native reindeer herders and sea mammal hunters were incorporated into collective farms and the productive economic unit now became the work “brigade,” where social ties based on kinship were replaced by economic relationships (Schindler, 1992: 57). Yet, the plans did not always work in practice. Local resistance grew; long transportation routes and ponderous chains of command increasingly complicated the economic situation. What was left was a destroyed traditional economy, which was more or less managed by the collective and state farms. After World War II the High North was subjected to even more extensive changes. With Stalin’s program of heavy industrialization, the mineral resources of Siberia became the center of attention. The focus of development shifted from the indigenous people to the vast resources of the North (Schindler, 2000: 2). The indigenous population was by now merely seen as another resource of greater Siberia to be exploited. Following Friedrich Engel s dictum that large-scale industry and production should be "freed from the restrictions of space," meaning equally distributed across the country, little attention was paid to local sentiments, knowledge and expertise (Hill & Gaddy, 2003: 89). As the large-scale industrial exploitation led to the deterioration of pastures, hunting and fishing areas, highly skilled reindeer herders, hunters and fishermen were made into unskilled workers, drivers, watchmen, and cleaners.

108

Engineering Socialism

1961

108.4 Village Relocations The transformations went much deeper and affected the indigenous population on a level beyond mere economic changes. The Soviet’s focus on large-scale industrial operations left little space for indigenous economies based on traditional social units. These economies were termed as “inefficient” and the corresponding localities, native settlements near traditional key resources, were declared “unprofitable” (Slezkine, 1994: 340). The language of relocation has its own euphemistic quality in cloaking forced resettlement policies. Abandoned villages were labeled as “closed villages” (zakrytye poselki), a term which was used as a neutral designator for a rather devastating act (Rethmann, 1997: 771). Yet the reality looked different. Whole villages were closed and the former inhabitants relocated to a few central towns. Economically marginalized and torn from their traditional lives, the relocated populations had to live in state-provided housing projects as recipients of governmental help, susceptible to alcoholism and diseases. Between 1937 and 1953 the total number of villages on the Chukchi Peninsula was reduced from 90 to 31 (Krupnik & Chlenov, 2007: 62). At the beginning of the 21st century, 12 villages remained (Figs. 108.1 and 108.2). Similar resettlements of equal or larger scale occurred in other parts of Siberia and the Far East. For instance, on Kamchatka the resettlements started in the 1950s and mostly included native Itelmen villages in the western part of the island (Koester, 2003: 274). On the Island of Sakhalin, the approximately 1,000 native settlements were reduced to 329 between 1962 and 1986, (Grant, 1995: 244). Likewise, in the Khanty-Mansi Autonomous District of central Siberia the number of aboriginal settlements had dropped from 650 to 126 by 1980 (Slezkine, 1994: 340).

Fig. 108.1 Locations of select historic settlements on the Chukchi Peninsula, 1900–1970 (villages mentioned in the text are labeled)

1962

T. Holzlehner

Fig. 108.2 Location of contemporary settlements on the Chukchi Peninsula, 2008

Two major factors influenced and changed the settlement patterns of Native communities in the Russian Far East (Heleniak, 2010). First, the restructuring of economic and social space, from sedentarization programs for reindeer herders to the introduction of boarding schools, led to fundamental changes in settlement structures and patterns. Second, the implementation of Soviet development policy had direct effects on local economies and the fate of individual villages. The spatial impacts of these forces led on the one hand to the creation of new cities and on the other hand to the closing of many old settlements. The closings and resettlements of native villages on the Chukchi Peninsula in the 20th century was a diversified process, underscored by different rationales. Generally speaking, two sets of closures that occurred during different time periods can be distinguished. The first set includes villages that have been abandoned mostly voluntarily by their inhabitants in the 1920s and 1930s. The second set consists of villages that have been officially closed due to administrative decisions. These state administered closures happened by and large during the 1950s and 1960s. Compared to other native relocations in Russia during the Soviet Union, the Chukotka case offers several regional specifications. One peculiar characteristic is that the Chukotka relocations were focused almost exclusively on coastal communities. This coastal bias can be explained in two ways. First, due to dominant subsistence practices (e.g. sea mammal hunting and fishing) most of the permanent villages on the Chukchi Peninsula are located close or adjacent to the sea, while the inland is largely void of any permanent settlements. Second, the coastal character of the relocations could have also be an effect of the heightened security awareness of the Soviet State during the peak time of the Cold War (1950s–1960s), which consequently led to an increase in border security measures. Another specific of the Chukotkan relocation history is its “snowball” character, where individual groups were successively relocated from one settlement to another

108

Engineering Socialism

1963

in the course of several years. In the process of these relocations, different tribes and ethnic groups were eventually merged in increasingly larger villages. An example of this repeated relocation is the 20th century history of Siberian Yupik tribes that inhabited the vicinity of East Cape. The Imak’lig’mut (imakliktsy) group, approximately 100 people, lived on Big Diomede Island in three distinguishable settlements during the 19th century. At the beginning of the 20th century, the 7 clans of the tribe consolidated in the remaining settlement of Imkalik (Krupnik & Chlenov, 1979: 21). After the closure of Imaklik in 1946, the Imak’lig’mut tribe settled to Naukan. At this time, Naukan was already a conglomerate of nine different clans (approximately 350 people) belonging to the Nyvuk’ag’mit (naukantsy) tribe who had resettled there at the end of the 19th century from several coastal villages around East Cape (Mamrokhpak, Uliag’ak, Nyvuk’ak’, Nunak’). The closure of Naukan in 1958 dispersed the different clans over a wide territory and brought them in close vicinity to other ethnic groups (predominantly Russians and Chukchi). Some of Naukan’s population went to Uelen, some to Lavrentiya, but the majority went to the Chukchi village of Nuniamo and its adjacent whaling and sealing station Pinakul. After the closure of Nuniamo and Pinakul during the 1970s, the Nyvuk’ag’mit tribe was again dispersed over Chukotka: approximately 100 members moved to Uelen, a further 50 to Lorino, 40 to Anadyr, and 15–20 to Provideniya, Sireniki, and Neshkan (Krupnik & Chlenov, 1979: 21). Similar successive relocations took place in the south of the Chukchi Peninsula.

108.5 Resettlement Rationalities Multiple reasons can be identified that led to the resettlements of native coastal villages in the 1950s and 1960s on the Chukchi Peninsula. The resettlement history was an interdependent process influenced by multiple factors. Policy decisions motivated by ideology and/or economic rationales that affected the resettlements went hand in hand with other considerations (Table 108.1). One singular policy decision played a paramount role. Decree No. 300 adopted in 1957 by the Central Committee of the Communist Party and the Soviet Council of Ministers, “On Measures for the Further Economic and Cultural Development of the Peoples of the North” (O merakh po dal’neishemu razvitiiu ekonomiki i kul’tury narodnostei Severa), led to a fundamental restructuring of native economies. The decree spelled out a wide range of measures to stimulate economic growth, to introduce nomads to a settled way of life, and to increase the standard of living in native communities (Savoskul, 1978: 1936). At the same time, Khruschev’s new economic policy strengthened and centralized collective and state farms with the intent to reduce settlement numbers to increase the effectiveness of economic coordination and distribution (Grant, 1995: 240). The combined results of these administrative decisions had far-ranging effects on native economies and communities. In a process of “consolidation” (ukrupnenie) many collective farms were turned into state farms (sovkhozy) as they represented a “higher” form of labor organization in which the means of production were owned by the state and not by a collective of workers.

To

Wrangle Island Big Diomede Ureliki Larger settlements Naukan Ungaziq (Chaplino) Kaneergen Ungaziq (Chaplino) Plover Sireniki

New Chaplino (Tkachen Bay) Nunyamo (and Pinakul) Provideniya closed closed

From

Provideniya Bay Naukan Avan Native coastal villages Big Diomede Siqlluk Nutapelemen Qiwaaq Ureliki Coastal sites and reindeer camps

Ungaziq (Chaplino, Indian Point) Naukan Plover Pinakul Nunyamo

(?) ~ 250 inhabitants ~ 300 inhabitants ~ 150 inhabitants ~ 45 inhabitants ~ 250 inhabitants

10 Yupik families 5 Eskimo families ~ 40 residents 60 villages (from 90 to 31) 25 residents 50 people 40 people 80 people 70 Yupik residents

Who

1958–1959 1958 1958–1960 1969 1977

1926 Late 1930s Fall 1941 1937–1953 1948 1950 1950 1952 After 1948 1952

When

Table 108.1 Selection of relocation events on the Chukchi Peninsula

Easier infrastructural accessibility Economic/security reasons Safety (1957 avalanche incident) “unprofitable” “unprofitable”

Substantiation of territorial claims Restore depleted population Military reasons (gun battery in Avan) “sedentarization” Cold War (?) (?) (?) (?) Build-up of Soviet military presence “fusing” (multi-sector economy)

Official reasons for the village closure/resettlement

1964 T. Holzlehner

108

Engineering Socialism

1965

From 1948, economic collectives that combined different economic branches (i.e., sea mammal hunting, fox breeding, and reindeer herding) were increasingly established along the coast of Chukotka as part of a longer, policy-driven process to incorporate native economies into Soviet society. To comply with state prescribed large-scale production, the 1950s also brought an enlargement of the collective farms that had as a side effect the closures of non-profitable collectives in smaller villages (Savoskul, 1978: 135). Between 1953 and 1967, over 50 settlements, which were the bases for smaller collectives, were reduced to approximately a dozen that housed the remaining six state administered “combined-farms” (Forsyth, 1992: 367). Part of the ideological program that underscored the resettlement process was a large-scale housing program that was implemented in Chukotka during the mid-20th century and that planned to lead Chukchi and Siberian Yupik into a bright, sedentary future. Soviet modernity took hold in native villages along Chukotka’s coast in form of extensive building projects that were started in larger settlement centers and that should provide adequate housing for semi-nomadic reindeer herders and resettled coastal inhabitants. At the beginning, the Soviet planners were faced with seemingly insurmountable problems. According to the 1926–1927 census 71% of the Chukchi were nomads (Gurvich, 1962: 22). The Soviet ethnographer I.S. Gurvich painted a dismal and gloomy picture of their housing situation: “The settled Chukchi and Koriaks live in dark, smoky half dugouts, yarangas [conical skincovered dwelling Ed.] and crowded driftwood shacks” (Gurvich, 1962: 23). Much in contrast were the disassembled, prefabricated Soviet houses, which were imported from Khabarovskii Krai for the housing project (Fig. 108.3). House construction was started as part of the economic reorganization of indigenous communities in the early 1950s and peaked in 1958/1959. In total, 1690 houses were built in Chukotka

Fig. 108.3 Soviet-style houses in Lorino. (Photo by T. Holzlehner)

1966

T. Holzlehner

Fig. 108.4 Remains of the relocated village (1977) of Nuniamo in 2008. (Photo by T. Holzlehner)

during this period. Yet, despite the impressive numbers mentioned in official documents, the reality of housing constructions was hampered by infrastructural and managerial difficulties. In an internal fieldwork account for the Russian Academia of Science from 1980, I.S. Gurvich described the problematic socioeconomic situation of Eskimo villages in Providenskii Raion and criticized the slow and unreliable supply of house construction materials that stalled the “cultural” development of the Native population (Gurvich, 2005: 357). With the increase of industrial production in Chukotka came mounting problems of supply and economic coordination of the remote native settlements. The Soviet answer to these usurping problems was the mechanization of indigenous life with the help of state-sponsored terrestrial, aerial, and marine transport. A sedentary lifestyle of the indigenous population was, therefore, a prerequisite. From pesticide used to counter gadflies in reindeer to the introduction of barges and whale hunting vessels, the mechanization of native communities had extensive effects on indigenous life and led to fundamental reorganizations. Despite the high degree of mechanization and utopian visions of an efficient economy underscored by technological advances, many settlements in Chukotka were deemed inaccessible or impossible to supply and, therefore, subject to closures (Fig. 108.4). Closely connected to the economic and logistical reasons for the resettlement of native communities were territorial and geographic rationales. The early resettlements of Eskimo communities to Wrangel Island and Big Diomede were clearly a strategy to substantiate territorial claims in sparsely or uninhabited regions. Later resettlements followed a different logic. The argument of geographical convenience was put forward as a rational to integrate settlements, if possible at all, into the larger infrastructure of the Soviet economy. The resettlement of Unazik to Novoe Chaplino for instance, followed the logic of easier infrastructural access to adjacent settlement centers compared to its former location; as the Soviet Ethnographer V. V.

108

Engineering Socialism

1967

Leontev observed in the 1970s: “The new settlement is situated on the calm and deep bay, with easy access from the sea and road connection with Provideniia” (Leontev, 1977: 22). According to this logic, villages were closed and resettled, “to organize and coordinate indigenous subsistence activities toward the end of greater efficiency and productivity” (Hughes, 1984: 258). In these decisions that deemed certain villages as being “off the grid,” access to native subsistence grounds was secondary to the village’s position in the larger hierarchy of the state administered production chain. A similar fate befell the Siberian Yupik settlement of Naukan. Although the site was favorable for sealing, it did not provide good ground for the construction of modern dwellings. The military buildup in North-Eastern Russia after WWII and the succeeding Cold War also played into the decisions for village closures and resettlements, although its overall impact seems to be rather small compared to ideological or economic reasons. The Bering Strait region was closed for international travel in 1948. At the same time, the militarization of the North started in which course more than 250 military installations were established in northeastern Siberia (Forsyth, 1992: 367). Coastal sites, especially along the Chukchi Sea, were prime locations for a chain of early warning tropospheric radar installations (TRRL – Troposfernaia Radioreleinaia Sviaz’ – “Sever”, the Soviet equivalent of the White Alice early warning stations in Alaska and Canada) that stretched all the way to Western Siberia (TRRL “Sever,” n.d.). Yet, direct evidence of military induced resettlements is rather limited. The resettlement of Imaklik in 1946 from Big Diomede (as the Soviet Union’s easternmost military outpost) and the closures of Avan and Ureliki in 1941 and 1948 respectively (both villages were located at the strategically vital entrance to Provideniya Bay) represent two cases where military objectives were probably the main cause for resettlement.

108.6 Effects of the Resettlements It is difficult to pinpoint the effects of the relocation and resettlement policies on native communities due to complex interrelations of those processes with the larger project of the Sovietization and industrialization of Russia’s North. Yet the socioeconomic changes are indirectly reflected in social indices like health and demographics, which present an insight into the effects of the state-induced reorganization of indigenous life. The consequences of these alterations are visible in the change of the average life expectancy and causes of death. Between the 1960s and 1980s the average life expectancy among circumpolar peoples in the Soviet Union dropped by twenty years to 45 years for men and 55 years for women, which was 18 years less than the average life expectancy in the USSR (Pika & Prokhorov, 1999: xxxvi). Beside the average low life expectancy and the high mortality rate, the causes of death changed drastically. From the 1950s to the 1970s the causes of fatality among the indigenous people of the North changed from infectious diseases to various forms of violent death (Bogoyavlinsky, 1996: 36). The high rate of mortality

1968

T. Holzlehner

due to accidents, suicide and homicide is closely tied to the increase in drunkenness and alcoholism among the peoples of the North. Seventy three percent of the murders involved heavy or moderate intoxication, as well as 55% of suicides and sixty-four percent of accidents (Pika, 1999: 162). These deep-seated problems can be traced back to the 1960s, during the highpoint of the resettlements. Politically unaltered fieldwork accounts made by Soviet ethnographers, such as the description of alcohol induced work breakdowns, offer a glimpse into the extent of the degrading social fabric of native communities along Chukotka’s coast during that time (Sergeev, 2005). Personal accounts of the relocations in Chukotka offer another insight into the dramatic effects on traditional culture and individual lives. Igor Krupnik and Mikhail Chlenov, two Russian anthropologists who conducted interviews with relocatees in the region during the 1970s and 1980s, documented the extent of traumatic experiences during and after the relocations (Krupnik & Chlenov, 2007). Some of the relocations were executed in such a hasty manner that most of the household items had to be left behind. In the majority of the cases, the host communities were not prepared for the influx of dozens of families. Apartments provided for the relocated were mostly unfinished and people had to move into already occupied houses, which created considerable tensions in the respective communities. In the majority of the relocation cases, the new sites were inferior in terms of hunting possibilities and most of the hunters had to forfeit their profession for work in the state collective farms. Promises that relocated people could still use their old settlement as a hunting base were not honored and in most of the cases the relocatees were prevented from returning to their homeland. The loss of language, cultural expressions, and hunting grounds was exaggerated by the unfamiliar living conditions in the new villages, where the predicaments of shift work, insufficient living space, and alcoholism exerted a heavy toll on the indigenous population. Depression and homesickness still reverberated strongly through the relocated communities more than 20 years after the fact (Krupnik & Chlenov, 2007: 70).

108.7 Post-Soviet Reality The collapse of the Soviet Union brought another set of fundamental changes to the livelihoods of the indigenous people of Chukotka. Especially in the 1990s, when dramatic socio-economic change accompanied the transition period, the smallscale coastal communities of Chukotka were heavily impacted. The collapse of the Soviet infrastructure, which underscored and enabled the economic expansion in the North, rendered local economies obsolete. Industrial sea mammal hunt completely vanished, the reindeer herding industry suffered a total collapse, and supply chains to the rest of the country were severely interrupted. The difficulties and the economic vacuum produced by decollectivization and partial privatization of former state enterprises had increased the predicament of native people even more.

108

Engineering Socialism

1969

Urgently needed shipments of supplies did not arrive, the high costs of transportation raised the prices of gasoline and consumer goods to extreme levels, and only a few privileged people could count on a regular wage-earning job. Yet, the conditions of a new economic and political environment combined with local resilience have also created original solutions to overwhelming problems. After the failed experiment of large-scale social and cultural engineering, the depopulated coastal landscape with its abandoned settlements represents new points of anchorage for partial re-settlement and revitalization movements. Embedded in the landscape and local ecology, the revitalization of traditional sea mammal hunting allows for some people to escape the shattered utopia of Soviet modernization. Revitalization of old hunting technologies, camps, and traditional forms of cooperation create avenues for alternative life concepts that are diametrical opposed to the realities in the villages. Contemporary hunting camps play now a pivotal role. These hunting camps are located at formerly resettled village sites that are now partially re-settled by groups of sea-mammal hunters that spend weeks at a time to hunt and escape the predicaments of village live (Fig. 108.5). The logic of subsistence practices and a longing for the lost places draw groups of people to the old sites, with the effect that those former settlements are now almost continuously (re)inhabited by rotating groups of hunters during the summer and winter. The peculiar topography and ecology of those hunting camps, which are exclusively located on bluffs or small cliffs at the end of capes where ice breaks up early in the season, sea mammal on migration routes pass by closely, and from which walruses and whales can be easily spotted by the hunters, make them attractive places with distinct qualities. Combined with the desire to flee the village and its intrinsic problems, those sites play an increasing role in the creation of new settlement perspectives.

Fig. 108.5 Contemporary hunting camp next to the abandoned village of Nuniamo. (Photo by T. Holzlehner)

1970

T. Holzlehner

Formerly abandoned village sites that are now used as hunting camps represent a contrasting cultural space for indigenous people to the quandaries of post-Soviet village life. Those camps are characterized by communal work dictated by an individual timeline, where extended family groups cooperate in hunting, butchering, building and plant gathering. The camps are almost exclusively alcohol free zones and locations of active cultural reproduction, where older hunters subtly teach the skills of marine mammal hunting to a new generation. Life at the hunting camps is filled with activities, ranging from house building to traditional subsistence practices, which connect people to each other and to the place they co-inhabit. Building and the creation of new homes are in these cases powerful and meaningful strategies of re-settling the forcefully abandoned places. The formerly abandoned and now partially resettled places play a paramount role in the restructuring and revitalization of hunting traditions, which are essential for the physical and cultural survival of Chukotka’s coastal villages.

108.8 Conclusion The Sovietization of the High North can be seen as an attempt of the state to establish hegemonic control over space (Ssorin-Chaikov, 2003: 57). From this perspective, the resettlements of native communities were a strategic way to control indigenous space, to supplant the nomadic space of reindeer herders and the maritime space of coastal communities with an all-encompassing socialist space. During the period of resettlement different forms of economic practices and space usage collided. Seasonal camps of reindeer herders were moved to villages and outlying sea mammal hunting camps were moved back into larger settlements under the control of the local state farms. From a historical perspective, coastal Chukotka has always been a contested economic zone. Different groups competed for hunting grounds, reindeer pastures, and trade routes across the Bering Strait and along its coastline for centuries if not millennia. The Sovietization brought yet a new dimension to this struggle. Industrial space encroached on indigenous space and the village relocations were an intrinsic part of it. Resettlements removed many villagers from their traditional hunting and fishing grounds and relocated them to locations were direct subsistence resource access was often limited or scarce. In addition, the new villages produced significantly different forms of space usage, mainly due to their new economic structures. Village relocations, temporary forced resettlement of indigenous children into boarding schools (internaty), or the movement of workers and administrators from the Russian heartland represented different aspects of a new Soviet-made spatial mobility that was at the same time largely unequal in terms of the individual’s potential to influence one’s own movement in space. Differing logics of space usage collided during the Sovietization and industrialization of the Russian North. In Chukotka, where native coastal settlements were located close to preferred subsistence sites, maximum access to subsistence resources, like drinking water, sea mammal migration routes, salmon runs, or plant

108

Engineering Socialism

1971

gathering sites, were traditionally keys in choosing the optimal site for a settlement. The Soviet era brought a diametrically opposed spatial logic to the region. For the Soviet economic planners and engineers, maximum infrastructural access to villages and state enterprises was one of the prime motivators for the concentration of the native population in centralized villages. The proximity of deepwater ports or servicing facilities for barges and trawlers and a suitable terrain for house constructions were dominant factors in the choice for new settlements. Indigenous economic space was thus replaced by an economy that was based on a fundamentally different utilization of space. Industrialized sea mammal hunt, fox farms, and other economic branches of the centralized economy heavily relied on infrastructural links between production sites and the state governed market. Local sentiments and traditional space usage were forfeited in favor of large-scale production schemes that aimed at integrating native economies into the Soviet economic sphere. The closure of the international border after the Second World War debilitated indigenous space even more. Historic trading, kinship and language relationships between native communities across the Bering Strait were severed and Chukotka was turned into the closed space of a highly surveilled border zone. The collapse of the Soviet Union and the ensuing on-the-ground-realities in Chukotka exposed the ultimately flawed social engineering project of village consolidations; the absence of the Soviet state and economy made their underlying spatial logic obsolete. Struggling with this new reality, native hunters re-located to some of the abandoned former village sites to revitalize old subsistence traditions. From this move, traditional space usage patterns have resurfaced and the ruins of old settlements with their peculiar settings have become new spatial anchors for a life outside the consolidated villages, partially allowing for a self-determined existence beyond state interference.

References Ackerman, R. E. (1984). Prehistory of the Asian Eskimo zone. In D. Damas (Ed.), Handbook of North American Indians 5, Arctic (pp. 106–118). Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution. Arutiunov, S. A., & Sergeev, D. A. (1975). Problemy etnicheskoi istorii Beringomoria (Evenskii mogil’nik). Moscow: Nauka. Bartels, D. A. & Bartels, A. L. (1995). When the North was red: Aboriginal education in Soviet Siberia. Montreal: McGill-Queen s University Press. Bogoras, W. (1909). The Chukchee. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Bogoyavlinsky, D. D. (1996). Peoples of Russia’s North: Demographic information. In A. Pika, J. Dahl, & I. Larsen (Eds.), Anxious North: Indigenous People in Soviet and Post Soviet Russia (pp. 35–43). Copenhagen: IWGIA. Chlenov, M. A., & Krupnik, I. I. (1984). Whale Alley: A site on the Chukchi Peninsula, Siberia. Expedition, 26(2), 6–15. Fitzhugh, W. W., & Crowell, A. (1988). Crossroads of continents: Cultures of Siberia and Alaska. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press. Forsyth, J. (1992). A History of the peoples of Siberia: Russia’s north Asian colony, 1581–1990. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Giddings, J. L. (1960). The archaeology of Bering Strait. Current Anthropology, 1(2), 121–138.

1972

T. Holzlehner

Graham, L. R. (1993). The ghost of the executed engineer: Technology and the fall of the Soviet Union. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Grant, B. (1995). In the Soviet house of culture: A century of perestroika. Princeton: Princeton University Press Gurvich, I. S. (1962). Directions to be taken in the further reorganization of the economy and culture of the peoples of the North. Soviet Anthropology and Archaeology, 1(2), 22–31. Gurvich, I. S. (2005). Nekotorye voprosy ekonomicheskogo i kul turnogo razvitia korennogo naselenia Chukotskogo avtonomnykh okrugov. In Z. P. Sokolova & E. A. Pivneva (Eds.), Etnologicheskaia ekspertiza: Narody Severa Rossii 1963–1980 (pp. 355–372). Moscow: Institut etnologii i antropologii RAN. Gusev, S. V., Zagoroulko, A. V., & Porotov, V. A. (1999). Sea mammal hunters of Chukotka, Bering Strait: Recent archaeological results and problems. World Archaeology, 30(3), 354–369. Heleniak, T. (2010). Migration and population change in the Russian Far North during the 1990s. In C. Southcott & L. Huskey (Eds.), Migration in the circumpolar North: New concepts and patterns. Edmonton: CCI Press. Hill, F., & Gaddy, C. G. (2003). The Siberian curse: How communist planners left Russia out in the cold. Washington, DC: Brookings Institution Press. Hughes, C. C. (1984). Siberian Eskimo. In D. Damas (Ed.), Handbook of North American Indians 5, Arctic (pp. 247–261). Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution. Koester, D. (2003). Life in lost villages: Home, land, memory and the sense of loss in postJesup Kamchatka. In L. Kendall & I. Krupnik (Eds.), Constructing cultures then and now: Celebrating Franz Boas and the Jesup North Pacific Expedition (pp. 269–283). Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press. Krupnik, I. I. (1993). Arctic Adaptations: Native whalers and reindeer herders of Northern Eurasia. Hanover: University Press of New England. Krupnik, I. I., & Chlenov, M. A. (1979). Dinamika etnolingvisticheskoi situatsii u aziatskikh eskimosov. Sovestskaia Etnografiia, 2, 19–29. Krupnik, I. I., & Chlenov, M. A. (2007). The end of “Eskimo Land”: Yupik relocations in Chukotka, 1958–1959. Etudes/Inuit/Studies, 31(1–2), 59–81. Leontev, V. V. (1977). The indigenous peoples of the Chukchi National Okrug: Population and settlement. Polar Geography, 1, 9–22. McCannon (1998). Red Arctic: Polar exploration and the myth of the North in the Soviet Union. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pika, A. (Ed.). (1999). Neotraditionalism in the Russian North: Indigenous people and the legacy of perestroika. Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press. Pika, A., & Prokhorov, B. (1999). The big problems of small peoples. In A. Pika (Ed.), Neotraditionalism in the Russian North: Indigenous people and the legacy of perestroika (Foreword). Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press. Rethmann, P. (1997). Chto delat : Ethnography in the post-Soviet cultural context. American Anthropologist, 99(4), 770–774. Savoskul, S. S. (1978). Social and cultural dynamics of the peoples of the Soviet North. Polar Record, 19(119), 129–152. Scott, J. C. (1998). Seeing like a state: How certain schemes to improve the human condition have failed. New Haven: Yale University Press. Schindler, D. L. (1992). Russia hegemony and indigenous rights in Chukotka. Etudes/Inuit/Studies, 16(1–2), 51–74. Schindler, D. L. (2000). Competing for resources: First nation rights and economic Development in the Russian Far East. Retrieved May 11, 2009, from http://arcticcircle.uconn.edu/SEEJ/ Russia/deb.html Sergeev, D. A. (2005). O sovremennom polozhenii eskimosskogo naselenia Chukotkogo i Providenskogo rainonov Chukotskogo natsional nogo okruga (1960). In Z. P. Sokolova & E. A. Pivneva (Eds.), Etnologicheskaia ekspertiza: Narody Severa Rossii 1959–1962 (pp. 181–198). Moscow: Institut etnologii i antropologii RAN.

108

Engineering Socialism

1973

Slezkine, Y. (1994). Arctic mirrors: Russia and the small peoples of the North. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Ssorin-Chaikov, N. V. (2003). The social life of the state in subarctic Siberia. Stanford: Stanford University Press. TRRL “Sever” (n.d.). Sovetskaya sistema troposfernoi magistral’noi sviazi. Accessed 21 March 2009. Vitebsky, P. (1990). Centralized decentralization: The ethnography of remote reindeer herders under Perestroika. Cahiers du monde russe et soviétique, 31(2–3), 345–358.

Chapter 109

The State of Deseret: The Creation of the Mormon Landscape in the Western U.S. Samuel M. Otterstrom and Richard H. Jackson

When Brigham Young and other pioneer settlers of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (commonly known as “Mormons” or “LDS”) came to the Salt Lake Valley in 1847 there was little in the way to greet the newcomers. However it did not take long for the Mormons to plat the layout of a new city and commence building a new place for their religious gathering. This was not the first time that they had sought to lay the foundation of their religious community, or “Zion” as it was called. In Kirtland, Ohio, Jackson County, Missouri, and Nauvoo, Illinois they had established centers of growth only to have to abandon them because of persecution and conflict. Thus, the Mormon founding in the Salt Lake Valley was a continuation of settlement efforts that had failed in the East. In the Mountain West they ultimately found great success as they settled large swaths of land throughout Utah and neighboring territories, imposing their own peculiar imprint upon the natural environment. This chapter summarizes the large-scale engineering by Church leaders and laymen, which created a distinctive Mormon cultural landscape that has evolved over the decades into its current distinguishable form.

109.1 Conceptual Landmarks In this chapter we explore the interrelated processes that resulted in the construction of a distinct cultural region in the Intermountain West. The construction of this new landscape resulted in both consciously planned features and others that evolved over time. The engineering of the Mormon landscape included the settlement of cities and villages, the building of religious structures, and the construction of important socio-economic enterprises, which were often directed by the Mormon leadership in Salt Lake. Additionally, a spatial hierarchy of religious structures within these towns and villages, and geographically bounded religious congregations that became their own social centers of interaction, were also important in defining this engineering enterprise. The gathering of members into “Zion” communities, first in a number of S.M. Otterstrom (B) Department of Geography, Brigham Young University, Provo, UT 84602, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_109,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1975

1976

S.M. Otterstrom and R.H. Jackson

places in the Midwest United States, and ending with their permanent move to the valleys of the Salt Lake was likened to the gathering of Israel spoken of in the Old Testament of the Bible. Over time, the expansion of the Mormon faith outside of its historical core has resulted in the export of its geographically based social structure and a standardization of religious building architecture throughout the world, even as the suburbanization occurring around the larger Mormon cities in Utah has obstructed some features that have given the Mormon Culture Region its unique mystique. Studies on the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (referred to “Church” in this paper) have implicitly considered the conception of massive engineering of western space while emphasizing Mormons’ historical region making and its geographic growth. A number of scholars have explored how the landscape of Mormon areas was molded by both careful religiously guided planning and distinct invention that stemmed from environmental necessity. Thus when Meinig (1965) defined the “Mormon Culture Region” as the area in the western United States with a dominant Mormon population base exhibiting distinctive characteristics in its cultural landscape, he was underscoring the boundaries of this mega-engineering project. Others such as Francaviglia (1978), Jackson (1978), Louder and Bennion (1978) and Bennion (1995a) expanded upon this theme paying more particular attention to vernacular features, town designs, and to reassessing Meinig’s seminal work. More recent explorations of the impacts of Mormons on the geography of the Mountain West have emphasized its continuing regional importance while evaluating this religious group using a variety of historical and contemporary approaches (e.g., Jackson & Jackson, 2003; Norton, 1998; Upton, 2005; Yorgason, 2003). Now, Mormonism’s social engineering has extended beyond its traditional Intermountain culture region in the form of a larger and more geographically dispersed membership that is noticeable in the landscape, primarily through church buildings that have been constructed to accommodate this growth. Migration of Mormons outside of the Mormon Culture Area became more common after the Church stopped encouraging its new converts to migrate to the valleys surrounding Salt Lake City around the 1890s (Ludlow, 1992: 676). The “gathering” to the Intermountain West was thus reoriented to a “gathering” into local wards (local congregations) and stakes (groups of wards) of Zion. Therefore, the early growth of this religious megaproject was more centrally planned and developed while the growth in the 20th century and beyond has moved away from creating whole communities to perpetuating the landscape features that imprint Mormonism into the local community, even if it is far removed from Salt Lake. Integral to the expansion and projection of Mormon cultural features outside of its Intermountain base have been its missionary efforts and out-migration. The small numbers of studies that have focused on the geographic population growth and of Mormonism throughout the U.S. have devoted limited consideration to the Church’s role in affecting distributional changes in the membership. The most extensive research projects were the diffusion analyses of Paul Johnson (1966) and Dean Louder (1972, 1975). They applied their diffusion models to the Church growth through the 1960s. They both concentrated on the United States, but Louder’s work

109

The State of Deseret

1977

was oriented toward the West because of its larger relative Church membership. Johnson’s research gave mixed results, but Louder was more successful in modeling Church growth in the West over time using such variables as distance to Salt Lake City, irrigated acres in a county, and base Mormon population in a county. Stark (1984) was one of the first non-Mormon scholars to direct attention to the significant international growth trends of Mormonism, while Otterstrom (1990, 1994) considered the implications of this growth for the Church and the hierarchical, centrally planned nature of this religious diffusion. Four more recent studies have given specific attention to the geographic processes surrounding Church growth, focusing on the United States (Bennion, 1995b; Laing, 2002; Johnson & Johnson, 2007; Otterstrom, 2008). Bennion emphasized that the Church was still basically a western United States institution in 1992, with nearly 80% of its U.S. members in the thirteen western states. On the other hand, Johnson and Johnson analyzed how the migration of key individuals from the “Mormon Culture Area” to large cities and education centers across the country helped the Church grow in these areas during the twentieth-century. Laing updated Bennion’s appraisal by illustrating the “diaspora” of Church members to the South, and that the rural/urban distribution of LDS in the region closely followed the general distribution of population in 2000. Finally, Otterstrom (2008) studied how population shifts of the LDS within the United States have increased the visibility of Mormons outside of their traditional Intermountain culture region, while migration of people of other religious persuasions into the Mountain West has meant a decline in the Mormon dominance in many areas. Although Mormon dominance is declining as a percent of total population in the Intermountain West, the impact of Mormon engineering is still evident in the landscape. The genesis of Mormon efforts to engineer a distinct religious landscape extends back to the early years of the Church in the central and eastern United States during the 1830s and 1840s. Plans developed there to create a “Zion”, where the Mormons could live in peace and prosperity, became the basis of things to come in later years. The early hope was to build a large temple (the most important and sacred house of religious worship for Mormons) and central community for the Church in Jackson County, Missouri (Independence). Instead the Mormons were forcibly driven out of the state. An earlier effort to build a successful Mormon city in Kirtland, Ohio ended with the outmigration of most of the LDS there to Missouri, even though they had built a temple in the city (which still stands). Their hopes of building a central “city of Zion” and a temple in Independence, Missouri were disrupted by conflict with other Missourians, which led to the forcible removal of the Latter-day Saints from the state (Campbell 2004). After Missouri they moved to Commerce, Illinois on the banks of the Mississippi in 1839. The Mormons soon changed the city’s name to Nauvoo (from a Hebrew word meaning “beautiful place”) and over the next seven years they built a substantial city that was one of the largest in Illinois in 1845. Here they also built a temple that was only used a short time before the Mormons were once again forced to leave their latest attempt to build “Zion.” The temple was subsequently destroyed by fire, and the largest body of Mormons followed Brigham Young to what would become Salt Lake City (Cannon, 1994a, 1994b).

1978

S.M. Otterstrom and R.H. Jackson

109.2 City of Zion Plat Joseph Smith, the Church’s first prophet, designed a city that would become the prototype of many intermountain village years later. Elements of this city plan were also used in developing the Mormon communities of Kirtland, Ohio, Far West, Missouri, and Nauvoo, Illinois that were later abandoned. The plat showed streets plotted in a N/S E/W grid pattern with mostly square blocks. Lots within the blocks alternated from N/S orientation to E/W depending on where they were in the plat. Square blocks had 20 one-half-acre (0.20 hectare) lots while the larger blocks had 32 lots. Two central blocks were reserved for temples and public buildings. Trees were encouraged the front of each lot and streets were quite wide (132 ft (40.2 m) for the four major roads and 82.5 ft (25.1 m) for all other roads (Galli, 2005: 113). Lots would only contain one home each and farms and barns were to be kept outside the city limits. Once the seven by seven grid of blocks was fully occupied a new city would be built far enough away to allow for adequate farming in between the communities. Joseph intended that the strict cardinality of the plat, the centrality of the temple block, its territoriality, and the close coordination of settlement and religious activities would make the sacred city legible. Zion would expand across the continent in a systematic, orderly manner. Ideally, each new city would be in perfect semblance of the first. Parallel to the immigration into the West and the peopling of the frontier, the settlement of Zion mirrored the American dream, the belief that God chose this land for a special mission and that it was the responsibility of a people of God to settle it. The plat was both theology-Church doctrine and teaching-and a vision of the good society (Bradley, 2005: 15).

This model was never completely implemented in any Mormon city, but many of its basic features were copied in communities throughout the Mormon Culture Region (Jackson 1994). For example, Salt Lake’s spacious streets and square blocks are links back to the City of Zion Plat (Nelson, 1952). Here too lots alternated in their orientation “to prevent homes from lining all sides of the blocks” (Jackson, 1994: 44). Brigham Young adapted the model town plan to Salt Lake by widening all of the streets to 132 ft (40.2 m), putting in sidewalks that were 20 ft (6.1 m) wide, and requiring homes to be set back twenty feet from the street. These features not only made Salt Lake City’s streets an easy place in which to turn a team of horses around it also made it very amenable to the future introduction of the automobile and streetcar lines (Galli, 2005: 115–118). Even though the City of Zion Plat is no longer actively being used to plan new cities in the Mormon Cultural Region, the fact that it included many features that are now associated with Smart Growth (e.g., mixed land use, lots of landscaping, relatively high density) make the plan still relevant today (Galli, 2005: 129).

109.3 The Core: Salt Lake City Brigham Young designated the place of a temple in the northern end of the valley and the city was platted around that point. It was more than 45 years until the

109

The State of Deseret

1979

Salt Lake temple was finished. This place was not only the center of Salt Lake City, the southeast corner of the temple block was also designated as the focal point for the Great Salt Lake principal meridian and base line of the public land surveying system for most of Utah in 1855. This was not just a symbolic gesture. The Mormon influence on the evolution of the social landscape and settlement structure of this region was far reaching, much beyond simple township and range surveying. Underscoring its centrality, the temple block is surrounded by North Temple, South Temple, West Temple, and Main Streets. Street names and addresses emanated from that square making for a curious addressing system, where most roads are named simply by their distance and direction from the central streets that surround the Salt Lake Temple (e.g., “100 North” or “1000 East” are both street names themselves). Even though the temple was not completed for many years, other buildings were erected sooner on Temple Square, including the Tabernacle and the Endowment House. Additionally, the center of town was also the early focal point of land ownership for the Church’s most senior leaders. Soon after entering the valley in 1847 the land was platted and some assignments were made. Brigham Young, Joseph Smith’s successor, and the other members of the highest councils of the Church had an early interest in the land around the future temple site. Brigham Young, had claim to one and a half blocks directly east of the temple block, as well as others parcels to the south, north, and west. Other apostles (the Church is led by the prophet/president and his two counselors and twelve apostles) such as John Taylor, Parley P. Pratt, Orson Pratt, Wilford Woodruff, George A. Smith, and Orson Hyde also had land claims surrounding the temple block (John Taylor and Wilford Woodruff were the next two successors as Church president after Brigham Young). Over time, this initially focused area of settlement around the temple site by the Church hierarchy also became the center of power for the Church leaders with the construction by 1870 of Church administrative buildings and civic buildings within about three blocks of the Temple block (Cannon, 1994a).

109.4 Social Structure: Wards and Stakes A key geographical and social organizational component of the Church is the bounding of areas with approximately the same number of Mormons into wards. This practice began in Nauvoo, Illinois in the 1840s before the LDS migrated to the valleys of the Intermountain West and is still the means by which Church congregations are ordered today (Alder, 1978). Today about 300–600 members comprise a ward (Ludlow, 1992: 1541–1543). Usually five to twelve wards (with “branches” that are comprised of a membership less than what is considered to be a ward) are grouped together into a “Stake of Zion.” Members are expected to attend Church services in the ward in which they reside. They are the religious social unit where Church doctrine is taught and friendships are made within the neighborhoods delineated by the ward boundaries. Besides regular Sunday services, ward activities include periodic weekday programs for the young men and young women (12–18 years of age), children up to age 12 in the “Primary,” and women members in the “Relief Society”

1980

S.M. Otterstrom and R.H. Jackson

as well as dinners and other social activities for the ward as a whole, including sporting competitions among wards in the “Stake.” When a ward grows to be too large it is divided into two wards so the same process of socialization can continue. Boundaries of these wards are adjusted by local stake leaders with final approval coming from the Church headquarters in Salt Lake City. Each ward and stake is given a name, which is used to identify their general location and/or local geographic characteristics (such as the Sunset 3rd Ward in Provo, Utah or the Manito Ward in Spokane, Washington). Thus wards are and have been the basic building block of the engineered geographical structure of the Church, and in one respect can be considered a mini-model social community reminiscent of the structure of the City of Zion plat (Alder, 1978). In Salt Lake City the initial creation of wards followed soon after the settlement of the community. Bishops of each ward were chosen by senior Church leaders to serve as the shepherds of their local flock. These bishops were lay leaders who also lived within the ward’s boundaries. Early bishops of the Salt Lake City often served for decades (such as Edwin D. Woolley who was a bishop from 1854 to 1881 in the Salt Lake 13th Ward (Arrington, 1976a: 320–321)). Bishops now serve for much shorter periods (usually about five to seven years), but their responsibilities of looking after the temporal and spiritual needs of member in their wards has remained the same. Downtown Salt Lake City had nearly two dozen wards by 1885 (Fig. 109.1). In the outlying communities that were founded, the bishops of the wards often found themselves acting as mayor and judge as well as attempting to provide a school for the children of elementary age (Ludlow, 1992: 1542). Wards were created as religious congregations, but they have always had a social dimension (Alder, 1978). For example, the Salt Lake 13th and neighboring Salt Lake 14th wards in their early years engaged in a rivalry as to which one would be considered the “star ward.” Apparently, the Salt Lake 13th Ward won out (Arrington, 1976a: 323). Also, attesting to the importance of the ward as a social unit with its own identity was the later development of basketball teams that competed both in the stake and at regional and even “all-church levels” (Embry, 2008). Some of the early Salt Lake wards have commemorated their long histories with books that chronicle the people and activities that have given identity to these wards over the years (see for example Martin, 1979; Sixteenth Ward, 1945). The wards and local communities were also the places where the women had the most influence in the production of the Mormon social landscape. Although women were not generally involved in planning colonization efforts and platting new towns, they were integral in the success of these endeavors. Not only did they have to run the household, often raising large families, but some were required to keep the family farm in operation when their husbands were absent on Church missions far away from Utah. The women also had their own organization known as the “Relief Society,” which still exists in each Church unit today, where the women served others in need in their community, advocated causes that they felt were important, and planned many social activities and functions (May, 1976). Additionally, many women performed important medical services as midwives and nurses throughout the Mormon Culture Region where doctors were scarce (Arrington, 1976b; Smart,

109

The State of Deseret

1981

Fig. 109.1 1885 Map of Salt Lake City including Mormon wards – the arrow (circled) between the 13th and 18th wards is pointing to Temple Square. (Courtesy of the Brigham Young University Map Collection)

1997). Some also made significant marks on greater Utah society in realms such as education, politics, and the Church itself (Burgess-Olson, 1978; Bushman, 1976; Scott & Thatcher, 2005).

109.5 State of Deseret After the arrival of the Mormons into the valley of the Great Salt Lake in 1847 the Church leadership proposed the creation of a new state called “Deseret,” a term meaning honey bees from the Church’s Book of Mormon. First proposed in the spring of 1849, this state would encompass a very large swath of the western continent from present-day eastern Idaho and western Wyoming, Colorado, and New Mexico west to what is now Nevada and then south to the southern California coast (some 490,000 mi2 ; 1, 269,000 km2 ) (see Brunn, 1974: 140–141). This state would thus have the ports of San Diego and San Pedro and their access to sea traffic (May, 1994; Hunter, 1973). Nature provided a perfect geographic outline for an immense commonwealth in the heart of the West; Brigham Young supplied the empire building genius to define and set claim to the land within those natural boundaries. “Deseret” was bounded in the east by the Rocky

1982

S.M. Otterstrom and R.H. Jackson

Mountains, on the south by Mexico, and on the west by the Sierra Nevada. Deserts, mountains, and rivers provided a fairly secure barricade–one with few pregnable spots. Here was the maximum of seclusion and protection (Hunter, 1973: 71).

This grand and ambitious state was never to be. Nevertheless, Brigham Young sent colonizers in many directions even as parts of “Deseret” were being incorporated into California and a number of territories (including Utah Territory) by the US federal government. These settlers established forts and villages near the outer margins of the original boundaries of “Deseret,” in places such as San Bernardino, California, Lemhi on the Salmon River in Idaho, Carson Valley and Las Vegas, Nevada, and Fort Bridger, Wyoming (Hunter, 1973: 72). Although the state of Deseret had effectually become unattainable for the Mormons, colonization of this region continued rapidly, especially in Utah Territory, which had been established in 1850. Brigham Young was made the first territorial governor and he continued directing these frontier efforts. Jefferson Hunt and eighteen others were sent to explore a southern passage to the Pacific Ocean in November of 1847. Later in 1849, two exploring parties led by Howard Egan and Parley P. Pratt also left Salt Lake City to ascertain possible settlement sites to the south. Brigham Young stated his desire to “plant colonies” from Salt Lake to the Pacific in 1850 (Hunter, 1973: 75–76). He first sent settlers to Utah Valley, about 45 mi (72.4 km) south of Salt Lake, in 1849 to establish a settlement near the Provo River. Parley P. Pratt’s explorations were important in the siting of 25 additional towns on the route southward. This line of settlements was part of what became known as the “Mormon Corridor” (Hunter, 1973: 76). The settlements replicated the Salt Lake model based on the earlier City of Zion plat with large lots and blocks in a geometric grid oriented to the cardinal directions. Many of these small settlements have the 132 ft (40.2 m) wide streets even though they may have never had more than a few hundred residents (Jackson & Layton, 1976). Colonization efforts continued rapidly for those first ten years (1847–1857). As new immigrants arrived in Salt Lake, many were dispatched to these fledgling settlements. Some 96 new towns were established in this Mormon region during the first decade. Most of these places were sited along a line from 75 miles north of Salt Lake, to California in the south (Hunter, 1973: 378). From 1858 to 1867 another 135 towns were established by the Mormons directed by Brigham Young, and over the course of time from 1868 to 1877 (the year of Brigham Young’s death) another 127 towns were started making for a grand total of 358 settlements that had come into existence during the leadership of Young in the Intermountain West (Hunter, 1973: 370–382) (Fig. 109.2). A large portion of the Mormon migrants who came to Utah after the first wave of settlement were immigrants from Europe. Specifically, proselytizing efforts of the Church were significant in the British Isles and Scandinavia and so many of the new settlements in Utah became occupied by an international citizenry. Some of the earliest settlers who had joined the Church in Europe arrived in 1853 and soon were making themselves at home in Sanpete and Cache counties (Mulder, 2000: 194). Even with this international influx, the newly settled villages continued to be

109

The State of Deseret

1983

Fig. 109.2 Mormon settlements and stakes in 1869. (Cartography by Dick Gilbreath; source: Plewe, Cannon, Jackson, & Brown, forthcoming)

platted following the distinct grid pattern of Salt Lake City with streets having the customary names such as “Center” and “Main” in the middle and spreading outward with “100 East”, “200 East”, etc. in all the cardinal directions, and not with street names and road layouts copied from their homeland. Indeed, new settlers were encouraged to quickly integrate into Mormon Utah society in these immigrant areas. One example of this was the use of special auxiliaries within the regular community wards where Church instruction could take place in the native language of the newcomers, as they adjusted into the overall English-speaking ward environment (e.g., “Scandinavian Meeting” or “Danish Organization”) (Mulder, 2000: 200). Before the turn of the twentieth century Brigham Young’s successors had increased new settlements by over 140 towns (Arrington, 1958: 88). Calls to participate in the founding of new colonies ... were usually issued from the pulpit in a session of the general conference. In most cases, the names of the leaders and all other colonizers were specified. Each company was carefully selected to include men with the

1984

S.M. Otterstrom and R.H. Jackson

skills and equipment needed to subdue the wilderness and establish a workable community life. If dispatched from Salt Lake City, as was the usual thing, the colonizing company was usually called together for a meeting with the president of the church at which advice and counsel were given, questions answered, and prayers were offered for the success of the undertaking (Arrington, 1958: 89).

In the case of the settlement of Utah’s hot and dry Washington County in the southwest, only seventy-nine families were living there in 1861, when Brigham Young and other Church leaders visited to assess the area for growth in growing cotton and other warm weather crops. Brigham Young called for volunteers to move to the region during the Church conference in October 1861, and only one person volunteered. So the next week “President Young read over two hundred names from the stand calling them to go. About one hundred others were added later” (Rich, 1972: 313). Some two hundred of the three hundred families heeded the call. Brigham Young and his Mormon follower’s tremendous colonizing efforts resulted in the creation of a planned mega-engineered religious region that has endured in many respects to this day. It was not just the distribution and spread of LDS towns that was remarkable. The town designs and the economic and social institutions that were established also bore the unmistakable imprint of the Church. The City of Zion plat that was the base model for Salt Lake City found itself being replicated over and over again in various forms, but almost always recognizable because of its key components such as wide streets, a grid street system, and a Mormon church. Other characteristics that developed with or without direct planning from Salt Lake included roadside irrigation ditches within the town, the planting of Lombardy poplars around the homes and farmsteads, the “Mormon” fence built from a variety of new and recycled wood materials, and distinct vernacular home designs (Francaviglia, 1978).

109.6 Economic and Educational Engineering Another important component of the Church’s engineering of its western territory was the development of educational facilities. Brigham Young felt that it was important to establish schools for the youth, and his plan in 1860 was to build separate academies for girls and boys in Salt Lake for primary and secondary education. This did not come to fruition and the local wards in the various communities provided the schooling for the children until the transition to public schools. However, in the late 1800s Mormon pre-college educational academies were built in various cities of the Mormon region. The Church transferred its academies in Cedar City, St. George, and Ephraim to the state of Utah in the early 1900s. Now, they have evolved into Southern Utah University, Dixie State College, and Snow College. Additionally, the University of Deseret in Salt Lake City, and Brigham Young College in Logan, Utah and Brigham Young Academy in Provo were developed as Church sponsored colleges. The University of Deseret became a state institution in 1892 (and changed its name to the University of Utah in 1902); Brigham Young College did not last long after the start of the Utah Agricultural College in Logan; and Brigham Young

109

The State of Deseret

1985

Fig. 109.3 Former Zions co-operative mercantile institution (ZCMI) in Franklin, Idaho

Academy became Brigham Young University (BYU) that is still owned and operated by the Church (Hamilton, 1995). Other Church sponsored schools of higher learning today are the LDS Business College in Salt Lake City, BYU-Idaho in Rexburg, Idaho, and BYU-Hawaii in Laie, Oahu, Hawaii. In addition, the Church now has hundreds of college institutes that have been built near university campuses across the United States and other countries where they offer religious instruction to students of those places of higher learning. In terms of economic development, the Church and the local economy were very intertwined in the early years in the agricultural and trade interests of the Mormon realm. In 1868 the cooperative movement began in earnest where the Mormons were asked to only buy goods sold by local Mormon cooperative stores and not trade with outsiders. The “Zion’s Co-operative Mercantile Institution” (ZCMI) was formed (Fig. 109.3). While final arrangements were being made for the establishment of Z.C.M.I, an intensive campaign was being waged by church officials and others to assure the establishment of a cooperative general store in each ward and settlement throughout the territory. That the campaign was effective is indicated by the fact that within six weeks after the opening of Z.C.M.I. there were seventy-eight Mormon cooperative stores in actual operation, and plans well advanced for many others. By 1870 no known ward or settlement was without one, and Salt Lake City had seventeen. At least one hundred and fifty such cooperatives were founded during the decade after 1869 (Arrington, 1958: 303)

While the ZCMI department store chain was sold by the Church at the end of the twentieth century, the Salt Lake ZCMI’s wrought iron façade from the previous

1986

S.M. Otterstrom and R.H. Jackson

century remains, as do many other buildings across the region with the letters ZCMI on their fronts even though their role as a Church store ended many decades before. Other business ventures that the Church was involved in during the last half of the 1800s included the “United Order” communities where property and profits were to be held in common, involvement in the various railroad lines that were built within the territory, and local agricultural irrigation projects (Arrington, 1958). Each of these efforts was a tremendous engineering project in its own right. Among them, the irrigation system was arguably the most pervasive, persistent, and centrally important constructed component that contributed to the overall success of the Mormon enterprise to settle the Intermountain West, and it deserves more detailed attention beyond its brief mention in this chapter. Thus, the Church had either a direct or indirect presence in many facets of the territory’s socioeconomic structure.

109.6.1 Church Buildings The meetinghouse was an obvious indicator of the strength of the local constituency of Church members. Somewhere near the center of town a chapel was normally built in the Mormon villages that were established. Religious meeting places are some of the most evident reminders of the LDS planned impact on the landscapes where it has a presence. These buildings are generally of three levels of importance: temples, tabernacles, and chapels (ward and stake buildings), and remain important indicators of Mormon influence in the engineered landscape of Mormonism today.

109.6.2 Temples Mormon temples have been a very important part of the Church’s identity and religious focus. In the early years of the Church the first temple was dedicated in Kirtland, Ohio in 1836 followed by the Nauvoo, Illinois temple in 1845. It was only four days after the Mormon pioneers came to the Salt Lake Valley in July 1847 that Brigham Young chose the site for the Salt Lake temple. Hunter (1973: 375) believed that “the most important edifice of all erected by the Pioneers [was] the Salt Lake Temple.” The temple was built using granite stone quarried from Little Cottonwood Canyon that was some twenty miles from Salt Lake City. Originally, each massive stone was painstakingly delivered to the temple site on wagons drawn by multiple teams of oxen. A railroad line was constructed many years later in the building process, but it still took forty years to complete (1853–1893). The temple cost four million dollars (in 1952 dollars) to construct and most of the labor to build the buildings came from “tithing labor” where men donated one day out of ten on the temple. Temple districts were organized around the Salt Lake Temple and the three other temples that were built in the late 1800s to provide the labor, and industries needed for the temples (e.g., sawmills, lime kilns, and carpentry shops) (Arrington, 1958: 340–341).

109

The State of Deseret

1987

Fig. 109.4 Manti temple in Manti, Utah

All of the four temples built in Utah in the 1800s were centers of important sub-regions of the Mormon engineered settlement structure. The Salt Lake Temple anchored the “Wasatch Front” from Ogden south to Provo and other communities in Utah County. The St. George Temple was the first temple completed (1877) and it was the focal point of the “Dixie” settlements in hotter and dryer southwestern Utah. The Logan Temple (1884) was built in Cache Valley, a fertile farming region in northern Utah, and the Manti Temple (1888) (Fig. 109.4) was constructed in Sanpete County, which was in central Utah, in an agricultural valley parallel but south of the Wasatch Front (Arrington, 1958: 339). Each of these temples was either built in a central location in the city or on a high point where they could be seen from a long ways off (Jenson, 1992).

109.6.3 Tabernacles Temples were and are the most important religious buildings for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, while the tabernacles that were built came next in terms of significance to a community. Tabernacles were also much more numerous. Where temples serve a region, tabernacles originally served a community... They are monuments to the community of the successful settlement that occurred in the Mormon Culture Region. Tabernacles are symbolic of early pioneer efforts. These buildings, also built in central locations, state the importance of religion in the lives of the early settlers (Jenson, 1992: 15–16).

1988

S.M. Otterstrom and R.H. Jackson

Fig. 109.5 Logan Utah Tabernacle

Tabernacles were basically large assembly halls where all of the members of an entire stake were expected to congregate for quarterly conferences where leaders from Salt Lake encouraged, admonished, and directed the believers in their religious and temporal activities. Some 63 tabernacles were built in the Mormon Culture Region between 1852 and 1956, and about 32 still stand today (Jenson, 1992: 16). The most famous tabernacle is the Salt Lake Tabernacle. It was completed in 1867 and is home to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. It stands next to the Salt Lake Temple, and its distinct architecture makes it a recognizable Mormon landmark. The Salt Lake Tabernacle was also the place where the Church’s twice yearly “General Conference” (meetings for the full Church membership) was held up until the end of the twentieth century. Outside of Salt Lake these buildings were built for the local Church membership and often were the central meeting place for a local stake, such as the Cache Stake Tabernacle in Logan, Utah that was completed in 1891 (Fig. 109.5). “They were often the most imposing building in the community and an integral part of the colonization process” (Jenson, 1992: 27). Although only about 32 tabernacles remain in the Mormon Culture area and about six of those are not owned by the Church, the buildings that are still in use have become important local icons in their own towns and in many cases are still used today for both religious services and community cultural events.

109

The State of Deseret

1989

109.6.4 Chapels For local Mormon congregations it was the meetinghouse chapel that was the site of weekly religious services. Usually smaller than the tabernacles, they were built both in communities that had tabernacles and in those that did not. Still they played an important part in identifying the areas most associated with the evolving engineered Mormon cultural landscape. During the Mormon colonization of the West, chapels were built in various architectural styles, but there were no standardized plans. Some of the earliest Church meetinghouses in Utah were simple one-room structures, often built to be temporary until other better building could be constructed. These were later improved upon with more permanent structures using either eclectic or vernacular styles. From the 1870s through the end of the nineteenth century chapels were built in various styles often incorporating Gothic and Victorian elements. In the beginning of the twentieth century other styles began to be common such as the English Parish style (Hamilton, 1995).

109.7 Diffusion Beyond the Mormon Culture Area A crucial shift occurred in the first part of the twentieth century in terms of the grand engineering of the Mormon landscape. The Church stopped encouraging its converts to migrate to its core cities and villages in the American West, but instead supported growth and more permanent congregations outside of its traditional cultural region (Ludlow, 1992: 676). This change had the effect of projecting the Mormon engineering of the landscape outward, but in a very localized way focused on religious structures. Specifically, chapels and temples built since the early 1900s have been the main indicators and recognizable symbols of Mormon influence outside of its core. The centrally planned nature of the building and missionary programs of the Church also emphasize the ongoing construction of a Mormon geographic identity in disparate places of the world. The standardization of Church building designs began about the 1920s and has developed to this day. This process has been traced back to Joseph Don Carlos Young (a son of Brigham Young), who had been an important architect of Church buildings beginning in the 1890s (Hamilton, 1995). Years later Young designed a building that combined the chapel and “cultural hall” (used for social functions) and other offices and classrooms into one structure (Bradley, 1981b). This design became known as “Colonel’s twins” (Fig. 109.6) with one wing housing the chapel and the other the cultural hall, and it was used in many instances in the 1930s. This standard design was not required to be used at that time, and distinctly modern architectural styles were employed in some 36 Church buildings in various places such as the Glendale, California meetinghouse that was built in the mid-1930s. That building won an award from the Architectural Forum magazine in 1937 for its “innovative use of glass” (Anderson, 1982). Standardization became more the norm over the years as it continued with the architectural colonial Georgian designs of Theodore Pope, a private architect whose

1990

S.M. Otterstrom and R.H. Jackson

Fig. 109.6 LDS Chapel in Mink Creek, Idaho erected in 1928 (“Colonel’s twins” design)

firm designed some 250 to 300 buildings for the Church between 1949 and 1955. In 1954 the Church Building Committee was established that administered standard styles and floor plans, and in 1965 an office dedicated to standard plans within the Building Division was established. Since 1965, the Church has developed official building plans for all of its churches and temples throughout the world, which were usually very similar to any number of buildings being constructed at the same time (Bradley, 1981a, 1981b; Jackson, 2003). The Church only built four new tabernacles after 1930, the last one was completed in 1956 (Jenson, 1992), and so the standard meetinghouses were created in various sizes to accommodate both large and small gatherings. The largest chapels were designed to be “stake centers” where two or three different wards meet for weekly services, and the stake leaders and their offices are located. Typical chapels may house one to four wards depending on the Church membership in their vicinity, and they have a smaller “cultural hall,” and no stake offices. In addition, some of the smallest buildings were only designed for one small branch (congregation) to meet there, but were designed to allow for additions to the building as the congregation grew. These same building practices have continued to the present with modifications in size and design being employed in international locations according to local conditions, but still with central planning and oversight from Salt Lake City. The resulting Mormon chapels are immediately recognizable when compared to other churches’ architecture.

109.8 Conclusion Part of the increasing standardization of Mormon engineering was evident in the construction of temples. Initially envisioned as monumental structures to symbolize

109

The State of Deseret

1991

LDS dominance or significant presence in a region, early temples were the centerpiece of Mormon towns where they were located. Originally located in Mormon dominated locales from Cardston, Alberta, Canada to Mesa, Arizona to Laie, Hawaii, they represented the nineteenth and early twentieth century colonization efforts of Brigham Young and subsequent leaders during a time of gathering to Zion. Temples built after World War II represented the growing importance of the Mormon diaspora created by migration to large urban centers on the west and east coasts of the United States, and symbolic recognition of long Church involvement in areas from which earlier Mormon converts had migrated. Thus the Washington D.C. and Los Angeles and Oakland, California temples were massive structures symbolically advertizing the Mormon presence on the east and west coast. Temples built in the 1950s in London, England and Berne, Switzerland symbolically recognized British and European migrants’ contributions as well as the spiritual needs of LDS members who remained in Europe. Beginning in 1998 temples underwent a paradigm shift as Church leaders decided to construct smaller temples in areas where there were sufficient church members to utilize them. Unlike the larger temples that were designed to emphasize church presence as well as serve members’ spiritual needs, these smaller temples focused primarily on the spiritual aspect. With many similarities in design, they are immediately recognizable to the Mormons and neighbors living nearby as a symbol of the massive diffusion of Mormon membership from the Intermountain West in the last fifty years. During this time the number of temples increased from 44 in 1990 to over 130 (planned or operating) in 2008 as world Church membership increased sharply from some 2.9 million in 1970 to over 13 million in 2008. Thus, to meet the needs of its growing membership the Church has built thousands of meetinghouses around the world, usually using standard building plans that have been adjusted to local environments. All the buildings are planned from the Salt Lake headquarters, so the similarities in architecture are very apparent, even with the efforts that are expended to incorporate local building materials and decorative features into their construction. For example, the Guatemala City, Guatemala and Buenos Aires, Argentina temples, which were built about the same time, are easy to place together, even though the Guatemala City temple is covered by native Guatemala white marble and the Buenos Aires temple has Argentine gray granite on its walls (Deseret Morning News, 2008). At the same time, the Mormon diaspora and immigration to the American west is diluting Mormon dominance in Salt Lake and surrounding areas, the church is engaged in a massive engineering project designed to reinforce its position as the primary force in engineering Salt Lake City. Much of the land originally assigned to Brigham Young and other apostles now belongs to the Church comprising the central blocks of Salk Lake City surrounding the temple. While the Church has maintained two of Young’s original homes here, the block immediately east of the temple contains the key administrative buildings of the church, including the Church office building, the tallest building in Salt Lake City completed in 1972 (Fig. 109.7). The Church role in both the spiritual and temporal affairs of its members was symbolically engineered in 1999 when East Temple Street, which separates Temple Square from the administrative block, was closed between South Temple and North Temple Streets and a mall was created along its full length anchored by a large

1992

S.M. Otterstrom and R.H. Jackson

Fig. 109.7 Church headquarters in downtown Salt Lake City, with Temple Square in the middle block. (Courtesy of Plewe et al. forthcoming)

reflecting pool. Extending eastward through the block east of the temple, it creates an oasis of tranquility in the center of Utah’s largest city. The famous Tabernacle on Temple Square that served as the 8,000 seat assembly hall for 132 years for church members intimate enough to get a free ticket for admission to the semi-annual conference was superseded in 2000 by the massive 21,000 seat Conference Center built on the block immediately north of Temple Square. The Conference Center now performs the old functions of the Tabernacle, including worldwide Church conferences, cultural, and social events. Interestingly, as a part of its construction a part of City Creek, the basis for the 1847 selection of the site for Salt Lake City was re-directed through a symbolic river “channel” along the southern boundary of the Conference Center. The engineering of the downtown continues today as the Church is midway through a $US 1.5 billion project that involved tearing down the ZCMI mall that replaced the old ZCMI store on the block southeast of Temple Square, and the Crossroads Mall on the block immediately south of the temple. Other structures are being demolished as well, as the center of the city surrounding Temple Square is renewed. Part of the renewal will include bringing more of City Creek to the surface; symbolically reminding visitors of Mormon engineering even a century and a half ago that has created the modern Mormon landscape. Initially invented to irrigate lands for crops the day after the Mormon pioneers arrived in the Salt Lake valley in July of 1847, the creek had long ago been piped underground so that only historians and city engineers knew or cared about its existence or importance in the Mormon induced changes to the environment. Even the re-emergence of the token, channel City Creek, however, simply reinforces the dramatic and sweeping landscape changes associated with Mormon settlement and expansion.

109

The State of Deseret

1993

Although the State of Deseret never became a reality, the megaengineering of the Mormon cultural landscape continues today in diverse locations around the globe, from the updated visitor centers on historic Temple Square in Salt Lake City to the multi-storied temple in faraway Hong Kong, China. Some may equate the similarities of standard plan Mormon chapels and temples around the world with a lack of local cultural consideration, but LDS may not see this that way. In actuality, similar architectural styles over the last decades have created icons that bring immediate recognition of their buildings to the Mormon faithful, if not in the building itself, but at least by the signs in front of these structures. These signs, by having the same basic format in every language, can be readily identified by Mormon visitors who do not even speak the local tongue. Thus, central planning and foresight have been key to the success of Mormon engineering that brought a distinct cultural region in the West into existence in the nineteenth century and which has transformed other landscapes into a recognizable LDS form both in the core and the periphery of the Church’s influence up until the present day.

References Alder, D. D. (1978). The Mormon ward: Congregation or community? Journal of Mormon History, 5, 61–78. Anderson, P. L. (1982). Mormon moderne: Latter-day Saint architecture, 1925–1945. Journal of Mormon History, 9, 71–84 Arrington, L. J. (1958). Great Basin kingdom. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Arrington, L. J. (1976a). From Quaker to Latter-Day Saint: Bishop Edwin D. Woolley. Salt Lake City, UT: Deseret Book Company. Arrington, C. R. (1976b). Pioneer midwives. In C. L. Bushman (Ed.), Mormon sisters: Women in early Utah (pp. 43–65). Salt Lake City, UT: Olympus. Bennion, L. C. (1995a). Meinig’s ‘Mormon culture region’ revisited. Historical Geography, 24, 22–33. Bennion, L. C. (1995b). The geographic dynamics of Mormondom, 1965–95. Sunstone, 18, 21–32. Bradley, M. S. (1981a). The cloning of Mormon architecture. Dialogue: A Journal of Mormon Thought, 14, 20–31 Bradley, M. S. (1981b). The Church and Colonel Saunders: Mormon standard plan architecture. Unpublished MS thesis, Department of History, Brigham Young University. Bradley, M. S. (2005). Creating the sacred space of Zion. Journal of Mormon History, 31, 1–30. Brunn, S. D. (1974). Geography and politics in America. New York: Harper & Row, Publishers. Burgess-Olson, V. (Ed.). (1978). Sister saints. Provo, UT: Brigham Young University Press. Bushman, C. L. (Ed.). (1976). Mormon sisters: Women in early Utah. Salt Lake City, UT: Olympus. Campbell, C. S. (2004). Images of the New Jerusalem: Latter Day Saint faction interpretations of independence. Missouri. Knoxville, TN: University of Tennessee Press. Cannon, B. Q. (1994a). Salt Lake Valley (1848–1870). In S. K. Brown, et al. (Eds.), Historical atlas of Mormonism (pp. 84–85). New York: Simon & Schuster. Cannon, D. Q. (1994b). Nauvoo (1842). In S. K. Brown, et al. (Eds.), Historical atlas of Mormonism (pp. 54–55). New York: Simon & Schuster. Deseret Morning News 2007 Church Almanac. (2008). Salt Lake City, UT: Deseret News. Embry, J. L. (2008). Spiritualized recreation: Mormon all-church athletic tournaments and dance festivals. Provo, UT: Brigham Young University. Francaviglia, R. V. (1978). The Mormon landscape: Existence, creation, and perception of a unique image in the American West. New York: AMS Press.

1994

S.M. Otterstrom and R.H. Jackson

Galli, C. D. (2005). Building Zion: The Latter-day Saint legacy of urban planning. BYU Studies, 44, 111–136. Hamilton, C. M. (1995). Nineteenth-century Mormon architecture and city planning. New York: Oxford University Press. Hunter, M. R. (1973 [1941]). Brigham Young the colonizer. Santa Barbara & Salt Lake City: Peregrine Smith. Jackson, R. H. (Ed.). (1978). The Mormon role in the settlement of the west. Provo, UT: Brigham Young University Press. Jackson, R. H. (1994). The City of Zion plat. In S. K. Brown, et al. (Eds.), Historical atlas of Mormonism (pp. 44–45). New York: Simon & Schuster. Jackson, R. H., & Jackson, M. W. (2003). Geography, culture and change in the Mormon West, 1847–2003. Pathways in Geography Series no. 27. Jacksonville, AL: National Council for Geographic Education. Jackson, R. H., & Layton, R. L. (1976). The Mormon village: Analysis of a settlement type. The Professional Geographer, 28, 136–141 Jackson, R. W. (2003). Places of worship: 150 years of Latter-day Saint architecture. Utah: Brigham Young University Religious Studies Center. Jenson, C. W. (1992). The geographical landscape or tabernacles in the Mormon Culture Region. Unpublished MS thesis, Department of Geography, Brigham Young University. Johnson, P. (1966). An analysis of the spread of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints from Salt Lake City, Utah, utilizing a diffusion model. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Iowa. Johnson, G. W., & Johnson, M. A. (2007). On the trail of the twentieth-century Mormon outmigration. BYU Studies, 46, 41–83. Laing, C. R. (2002). The Latter-day Saint Diaspora in the United States and the south. Southeastern Geographer, 42, 228–247. Louder, D. (1972). A Distributional and diffusionary analysis of the Mormon Church 1850–1970. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Geography, University of Washington. Louder, D. (1975). A simulation approach to the diffusion of the Mormon Church. Proceedings of the Association of American Geographers, 7, 126–130. Louder, D., & Bennion, L. (1978). Mapping Mormons across the West. In R. H. Jackson. (Eds.), The Mormon role in the settlement of the west (pp. 135–167). Provo, UT: Brigham Young University Press. Ludlow, D. H. (1992). Encyclopedia of Mormonism. New York: Macmillan. Martin, R. J. (1979). Twentieth ward history 1856–1979. Salt Lake City, UT. May, C. L. (1976). Charitable sisters. In C. L. Bushman (Ed.), Mormon Sisters: Women in Early Utah (pp. 225–239). Salt Lake City, UT: Olympus. May, D. L. (1994). The State of Deseret. In S. K. Brown, et al. (Eds.), Historical atlas of Mormonism (pp. 90–91). New York: Simon & Schuster. Meinig, D. W. (1965). The Mormon culture region: Strategies and patterns in the geography of the American West, 1847–1964. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 55, 191–220. Mulder, W. (2000 [1957]). Homeward to Zion. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Nelson, L. (1952). The Mormon village. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. Norton, W. (1998). Mormon identity and landscape in the rural intermountain West. Journal of the West, 37, 33–43. Otterstrom, S. M. (1990). The L.D.S. Church: Membership brings growth per capita GNP decline. Unpublished Honors thesis, Brigham Young University. Otterstrom, S. M. (1994). The international diffusion of the Mormon Church. Unpublished MS thesis, Department of Geography, Brigham Young University. Otterstrom, S. M. (2008). Divergent growth of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the United States, 1990–2004: Diaspora, gathering, and the east-west Divide. Population, Space and Place, 14, 231–252.

109

The State of Deseret

1995

Plewe, B., Cannon, D. Q., Jackson, R. H., & Brown, S. K. (forthcoming). Atlas of LDS history. Provo, UT: BYU Press. Rich, R. R. (1972). Ensign to the nations. Provo, UT: Brigham Young University Publications. Scott, P. L., & Thatcher, L. (Eds.). (2005). Women in Utah history: Paradigm or paradox? Logan, UT: Utah State University Press. Sixteenth Ward Book of Remembrance Committee. (1945). Sixteenth ward book of remembrance. Salt Lake City, UT. Smart, D. T. (Ed.). (1997). Mormon midwife: The 1846–1888 diaries of Party Bartlett Sessions. Logan, UT: Utah State University Press. Stark, R. (1984). The rise of a new world faith. Review of Religious Research, 26: 18–27. Upton, D. (2005). What the Mormon cultural landscape can teach us. Journal of Mormon History, 31, 1–29. Yorgason, E. R. (2003). Transformation of the Mormon culture region. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press.

Chapter 110

Subversive Engineering: Building Names in Singapore Peter K.W. Tan

110.1 Introduction Large scale and costly megaprojects that alter the physical landscape or the cityscape are not the only things that create a big impact on the area’s denizens or visitors. The final impression of the landscapes and cityscapes is also constituted by the language or languages represented in the city visually. Our visual sense of being in Paris, for example, is constituted not only by our being able to see the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe and various significant buildings and infrastructure, but also by the language of the traffic signs, road names, shop names, advertising billboards, public notices etc., christened the linguistic landscape by Landry and Bourhis (1997). We might notice the blue Parisian street name plate mounted on a wall announcing ‘RUE DE RIVOLI’ (rue, French ‘road’). Other French-language signs confirm that this is a French-speaking city: a sign on a higher level declares ‘A Louer | Bureaux’ (‘For Rent | Offices’; the vertical line indicates a new line on the sign); and another on the ground-floor window of a shoe shop, ‘FINS | DE SERIES | A L’ETAGE | 19.95 C’ (‘END | OF LINE [i.e. discontinued line] | UPSTAIRS | C19.95’), with another line in small size sideways, next to the price, ‘A PARTIR DE’ (‘STARTING FROM’). However, we might also notice English signs such as ‘McDonald’s | HAMBURGER RESTAURANT’ in front of a shop or ‘Café | Pancake | Breakfast | Quick Lunch’ on the side of an awning. The presence of English-language in a context of Frenchlanguage signs adds to the gestalt or combined general impression of the place. The linguistic landscape marks the ‘geographical territory inhabited by a given language community’ (Landry & Bourhis, 1997: 25); official signs such as the street name mark French as the established language. Private signs such as commercial signs are much less under official control and might mark out multilingualism: the presence of English can be seen to mark out Paris as being cosmopolitan in nature, as evidence of globalization, and acknowledgement of the presence of English-speaking visitors.

P.K.W. Tan (B) Department of English Language and Literature, National University of Singapore, 7 Arts Link, Singapore 117570 e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_110,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

1997

1998

P.K.W. Tan

110.2 Focus Work on the language of signs pre-date Landry and Bourhis’s (1997) landmark article, including compilations of humorously infelicitous English in signs for tourists, replete with (presumably unintended) double entendres in the order of ‘You are invited to take advantage of the chambermaid.’ With at least three recent books on the subject (Backhaus, 2007; Gorter, 2006; Shohamy & Gorter, 2009), this phenomenon is something that has caught the imagination of many researchers. Much of the work is located within a sociolinguistic framework (Ben-Rafael, 2009; BenRafael, Shohamy, Amara, & Trumper-Hecht, 2006) and considers how the ecology of languages is played out in the public sphere. LL [linguistic landscape] carries emblematic significance for the very fact that it constitutes the decorum of the public space. In this sense, LL can be referred to as symbolic construction of the public space as it is the languages it speaks out and the symbols which it evinces that serve as the landmarks of this space where ‘things happen’ in society . . . (Ben-Rafael, 2009: 41; original emphasis)

This view accords with Landry and Bourhis’s bipartite informational and symbolic functions. Clearly, apart from the very local informational content of signs, they can symbolically represent something beyond the very local context. Symbols serve a semiotic or pointing function. Among other things, they point to the kind of society for which the signs operate. It then follows that the linguistic landscape can also be manipulated for social engineering purposes; signs can be changed to reconstitute society. The linguistic landscape is therefore both symptomatic as well as constitutive. It is symptomatic in that it betrays the kinds of assumptions underlying the society; signs reveal what is taken for granted in that society. However, those in power can also wrest control of the linguistic landscape to transform the society’s assumptions. By doing so, they can naturalize what had not been considered natural and in this manner reconstitute society. In this chapter, I focus on the multilingual nation of Singapore which has four official languages enshrined in its constitution: English (designated the ‘working language’), Malay (the ‘national language’), Mandarin Chinese and Tamil. The latter three are also designated ‘mother tongue languages’ because the state associates them with ethnicity which has repercussions in education policy. Official statistics break down the population of Singapore by ethnicity: 76.8% Chinese, 13.9% Malay, 7.9% Indian and 1.4% Others (Census of Population, 2000). Because of a history of race riots in the 1960s, the state has to carefully calibrate the space devoted to the concerns of each ethnic group. Public holidays in Singapore associated with the holy days and feast days of each ethnic group are carefully tallied. Similarly, ‘mother tongues’ associated with ethnic groups also need to be maintained in equilibrium. In recent years, the ‘national language’ status of Malay appears to have been played down (Alsagoff, 2008) in the delicate balancing act between the ‘mother tongue languages’ with English seen as being neutral in this respect. Finally, the state also strives to maintain a balance between the ‘mother tongue’ languages and English:

110

Subversive Engineering: Building Names in Singapore

1999

Lee [Kuan Yew] coined the term “cultural ballast” by which he referred to the supposedly innate strength that comes from identification with one’s cultural heritage. Lee saw a nexus between culture and language, and hoped that teaching children their “mother tongue” even as a second language to English, would provide them with the “cultural ballast” they needed to be strong “digits” in Singaporean society. (Barr, 2002: 33)

Clearly, the essentializing propensity in assigning language to ethnic groups is problematic. Intermarriage (between different ethnicities and different nationalities) is on the rise and linguistic affiliations change with the tendency for English to become an important home language, not only a ‘working language.’ One survey indicates that 60% of ethnic Chinese pupils entering primary school come from English-speaking homes (Goh, 2009). The state is therefore closely associated with engineering a kind of society suffused with the ideology of ethnic harmony and of a nation that is presented as modern and globally engaged with English as the ‘working language’ and yet rooted in Asian values through the ‘mother tongue’ languages. Yeoh (1996), in a similar vein when discussing street names, confirms that the landscape of nationhood . . . bore the imprint of equally salient ideologies such as multiracialism [and therefore multilingualism] since all systems of authority draw on some form of landscape text to legitimise their rule . . . (Yeoh, 1996: 305).

The result should be like the sign beside the gate of a popular primary school (‘elementary school’ is the equivalent American English term), as seen in Fig. 110.1 All state schools use the four-language formula at their entrances, with the following order: Malay (in the Latin script), Chinese (in Chinese characters), Tamil

Fig. 110.1 The sign at the entrance to Raffles Girls’ Primary School

2000

P.K.W. Tan

Fig. 110.2 Street sign marking Raffles Girls’ Primary School

(in Tamil script) and English. As noted by Scollon and Scollon: ‘The preferred code is on top, on the left, or in the center and the marginalized code is on the bottom, on the right, or on the margins’ (2003: 120). With the status of Malay as national language, the order is perhaps unsurprising. However, with the exception of heritage areas (such as Chinatown or Little India) street signs are generally only in English, as seen in Fig. 110.2. Among the items relevant under the rubric of the linguistic landscape would be ‘public road signs, advertising billboards, street names, place names, commercial shop signs, and public signs on government buildings’ (Landry & Bourhis, 1997: 25). Rather than examining a whole range of signs, I will confine my discussion here to names of residential developments in Singapore because it is here that the state’s engineering efforts seem to be challenged by a counter-effort that presents a rather different vision of Singapore and Singapore society.

110.3 Official and Private Signs One distinction that has received much attention on the writings about linguistic landscape is the distinction between official signs and non-official signs. They are also referred to as top-down and bottom-up signs (Backhaus, 2007) or municipal and commercial discourses (Scollon & Scollon, 2003). The former would be signs that originate from local government agencies, whereas the latter could originate from commercial and other private enterprises or even individuals. Official signs

110

Subversive Engineering: Building Names in Singapore

2001

should therefore be expected to conform to state ideology with regard to languages. To ensure that private signs cohere with the state ideology, the state might also introduce regulations and by-laws for private signs, such as the Quebec language law requiring that French receives prominence in shop signs. The situation is not completely laissez-faire in Singapore. Yeoh notes that in colonial Singapore, ‘official street- and place-names were assigned at municipal meetings on the approval of commissioners’ (Yeah, 2003: 221). Subsequently, there was a Street Names Committee that reported to the Minister for Finance who had the authority to determine or change the name of any street. The Street and Building Names Board (SBNB) was formed in 2002, when the Property Tax Act was amended (see Singapore Statutes Online, Chapter 254). The act allows for ‘a Chairman and not less than 2 other members all of whom shall be appointed by the Minister [for Finance]’ and its function is to ‘determine the name by which any building, estate or street shall be known, or to alter the name of any building, estate or street’ (Singapore Statutes Online). At the time of writing, there are 14 members of the SBNB (Singapore Government Directory Interactive). The majority of the members are from statutory boards (i.e. agencies in the civil service) although there are also two architects and two academics (historian Ernest Chew and geographer Brenda Yeoh), though there is perhaps room for the inclusion of a linguist. It would appear therefore that the composition of the SBNB would make it likely to be compliant with the state’s policies. However, the SBNB, and the earlier Street Names Committee, promises to be consultative and there have been instances when members of the public have been able to effect changes to earlier name decisions. Recently, the SBNB has made overt appeals for public views in the naming of the stations for the new Circle Line of the urban rail network or MRT (mass rapid transit). In this respect, therefore, the SBNB is seen as being fair in its decisions. Street names, and therefore their signs, would be a case of signs that are official and generally commandeered by the state to enforce the state ideology. While Singapore has not generally resorted to a large scale re-naming of streets, new names conform to the state ideology of the time. Street names can therefore betray their era (Tan, 2007; Yeoh, 1996). Singapore was part of Malaysia from 1963 to 1965 and this identification with Malaysia was reinforced with the language associated with Malaysian nationalism, Malay. Not surprisingly, Malay-style street names were dominant in this period. ‘Examples include Jalan Hitam Manis, and Jalan Puteh Jerneh in Chip Bee Gardens (hitam manis “sweet darkness”; puteh jerneh “clear whiteness”’ (Tan, 2007: 393). In the 1980s in an attempt to unite the various Chinese sub-groups in Singapore who identify with different Southern Chinese varieties (Cantonese, Hokkien, Teochew and others), referred to as ‘dialect’ generically, the state promoted Mandarin Chinese. Through this, the ‘dialects’ have been devalued. The linguistic landscape was engineered: the hanyu pinyin system of Romanization (which reflects Mandarin Chinese pronunciation) was introduced into the linguistic landscape, partly to get these groups to unite and identify with Mandarin Chinese rather than ‘dialect.’

2002

P.K.W. Tan

the promotion of Mandarin Chinese over other Chinese varieties such as Hokkien, Teochew or Cantonese and the pinyin style of romanization resulted in names such as Bishan, Hougang, and Yishun. Previously, locals had used Peck San (Cantonese pronunciation), Ao Kang (Teochew pronunciation) and Nee Soon (based on the name of plantation owner Lim Nee Soon), respectively. The result was such street names as Bishan Street 32 and Hougang Avenue 5 (Tan, 2007: 393).

It might also be useful to point out that in the case of street names, there were avenues for feedback and there have been instances of petitions made by residents in housing estates. For example, the street originally given the Malay name Jalan Kain Limau was changed to Mount Sinai Drive (Savage & Yeoh, 2003: 18–19). (Kain limau is a kind of sumptuous Malay woven fabric.)

110.4 Building Names As mentioned above, I will focus on building names rather than the whole range of possible items that fall under the aegis of the label ‘linguistic landscape.’ It would be interesting to examine if bottom-up names would reinforce the state’s attempts at social engineering. While I would consider building name signs to belong to the category of private signs, the name givers are not completely unconstrained in their choice of names because submissions need to be approved by the Street and Building Names Board. The SBNB can reject names, as in the case of Trinity Towers in 2007. The name was deemed too ‘religious,’ and the developer had to rename the three-tower residential project Trillium, after a three-petal flower. (Interestingly though, the alternative name for the Trillium is the Trinity flower.) It will be seen therefore that in the case of building names, the SBNB does not propose names but acts as an approving authority. These names can, therefore, be seen to be partially controlled by the state although they do not originate from the state. It is also worth noting that the developers’ (or their agents’) choice of names are affected by many factors, not the least being the need to attract the appropriate category of buyers, and, therefore, their sense of what buyers consider to be desirable and are willing to be identified with. In this sense, building names are like commercial signs; they are there to attract customers. They could, therefore, be construed as engineering the linguistic landscape for their own purposes, but also in response to what they think buyers wish to identify with. Finally, why focus on names? It seems to me that names bear additional significance compared to other words. ‘The name is a repository of accumulated meanings, practices and beliefs, a powerful linguistic means of asserting identity . . . and inhabiting a social world’ (Rymes, 2001: 160). We can assume that names are generally not frivolously conferred and the choices made must be deemed to be significant.

110.5 Do Names Belong to Languages? A related issue that arises from the focus on names is the linguistic status of names. In the case of building names, the linguistic source of the name is usually not

110

Subversive Engineering: Building Names in Singapore

2003

controversial if it is composed of words from the general vocabulary of a language. A name like Cherryhill is made of elements from English, whereas a name like Telok Indah is made up of elements from Malay (teluk ‘bay’, indah ‘beautiful’): this can be seen as the process of onymization. At issue are commemorative names or eponyms (i.e., names derived from personal names of individuals) or names derived from toponyms (place names). Examples from the data set (see Section 6) include Niven Loft (Lawrence Niven was superintendent of the Botanic Gardens in the 1970s) and Oxford Suites (Oxford is the city in England housing the well-known university). Edelman (2009) examines this issue and concludes that although proper names can cross linguistic boundaries, to remove them from being tagged linguistically results in a distortion of the picture: A researcher who does not code proper names as foreign languages gets an incomplete picture of the [linguistic landscape’s] multilingual character. Moreover, the possibility of the translation of names, however limited, shows that names can sometimes be part of specific languages. Many other linguistic landscape researchers, although they do not account for that choice, did assign proper names to their language of origin (Edelman, 2009: 152).

Therefore, Niven Loft and Oxford Suites have been analyzed as consisting of English elements. The Marbella has a Spanish element (based on the name of the city in Spain) and an English element (the English definite article). The case of Florida Park is more complicated, as the name of the American state is derived from the original Spanish name Pascua Florida (‘flowery Easter’). On balance, though, I decided to code it as English because Florida is associated with English-speaking United States of America. I coded The Mergui as having the second element derived from Burmese. Mergui is a coastal city in Burma (Myanmar). However, Mergui is an English exonym for the Burmese form, that could be transliterated as mrit mrui. In this case, I opted for coding based on the original source of the word while bearing in mind that Mergui is a city is Burmese-speaking Burma. There is no easy solution for names derived from several languages. But these form a small minority of all the names collected.

110.6 The Data Set The data used for the analysis are taken from the Condo Directory found in the website http://condo.singaporeexpats.com/ which bills itself as ‘The No. 1 Property Portal in Singapore.’ The data were retrieved on 31 January 2008 and a total of 2,599 names were obtained. Accompanying the names is information about the street and number, the district, and the year the temporary occupation permit (TOP) was awarded. The names were then divided into five categories according to the TOP information, where P1 = 2000 onwards, P2 = 1990−99, P3 = 1980−89, P4 = before 1980 and P0 = nil. This categorization will give some measure of periodization. It must be said, though, that 39% of the items do not contain the TOP information. We may assume that this would include older buildings. I also distinguished between names that had their basis on the street name and those that did not. English-based names are significantly represented in street names

2004

P.K.W. Tan

in Singapore, although there was a period in the 1960s of favoring Malay-based names for new streets (see Section 3 above). By and large, there has not been a process of ‘decolonization’ of the street names in Singapore following independence. Commemorative names honoring British personalities have been retained, such as Mountbatten Road (Louis Mountbatten was the last Viceroy and first GovernorGeneral of independent India). In contrast, the Mountbatten Road in Kuala Lumpur has become Jalan Tun Perak. Other English-based descriptive names, such as High Street or Cross Street, have also been retained. Names that were based on street names might, therefore, be steered in a particular linguistic direction. Almost all the names consisted of more than one element. I distinguished between the main element which would therefore be obligatory, on the one hand, and ‘other elements,’ which would be optional, on the other hand. The other elements are often modifiers such as determiners and generics (such as Apartments or Towers). These are not necessarily separate words, and could be fused to the main element (such as Sunglade or Chuville [Hokkien Chinese chu, ‘house’ + French ville, ‘village’). The other elements can occur before or after the main name. Therefore, in Belmondo View, the main element is Belmondo and the other element is View; in The Lumos, the main element is Lumos and the other element is The; in Casabella, the main element is bella and the other element is Casa; and in Vida, the main element is Vida and there are no other elements. The vast majority of the names contain at least one other element. There is a small number of cases where is analysis is less clear-cut, and I have tried to make as sensible a decision as possible. In general, the other elements belong to the class of determiners (such as the or French la) or nouns that are descriptive and generic as opposed to distinctive (such as garden, park, view, casa [‘house’ in Spanish], ville.) Some names have more than one other element such as The Lincoln Modern. Both the main elements and the other elements were then analyzed from the point of view of their linguistic source. Items from the general lexicon were generally unproblematic. In Water Terrace and Cosy Lodge therefore, the main element (Water, Cosy) as well as the other element (Terrace, Lodge) were analyzed as having an English source. (There is a preference for British-style English in Singapore, hence Cosy rather than Cozy.) Place names or personal names associated with a linguistic group were also analyzed as having a source in that language. Therefore, the main names of Clydes Residence or Malvern Springs are also analyzed as having English sources (based on the river Clyde in Scotland and Malvern in the English Midland). Two books on street names (Dunlop, 2000; Savage & Yeoh, 2003) were useful for checking the sources of street names when they formed the basis of building names. It was not always possible to assign one source: so, the name Vida is labeled as either Spanish or Portuguese (meaning ‘life’). On some occasions, particularly with coined names like The Botanika, it is not possible to identify the linguistic source. When combinations of letters or when Arabic or roman numerals are used (as in 2RVG), it has also not been possible to assign a linguistic source. Tables 110.1 and 110.2 summarize the naming tendencies, where the former provides the raw numbers and the latter the number in terms of percentages. The names

110

Subversive Engineering: Building Names in Singapore

2005

Table 110.1 Distribution of building names: raw figures Period

Number

Period 0 1, 013

Whether SB

Main element

Other element(s)

SB: 376

E: 228 M: 52 C: 50 T: 4 Misc: 42 E:444 M:27 C:113 T:2 Misc: 51 E: 22 M:1 Semitic:2 E: 19 C:1 ?:1 E-Latin: 1 E: 71 M:9 C:9 T:1 Misc:15 E:114 M:6 C:12 Misc:25 – E:155 M:33 C:14 T:2 Misc:20 – E:233 M:10 C:17 French:11 Spanish:8 Italian:5 ?:13 others:24 – E:194 M:12 C:7 T:3 ?:6 Semitic:3 French:2 Spanish:2 Dutch:1 German:1 Burmese:3 mixed:2 E:340 M:14 C:12?:36 French:19 Italian:19 Spanish:16 Portuguese:5 Latin:4 Greek:3 other European:8 mixed:17 others:3 E:1,820 M:164 C:226 T:12 -

E: 347

−

NSB: 637

Period 4 – Period 3 – – Period 2 – – –

47 − 262 − − 545 − − −

SB: 25 NSB: 22 SB: 105 NSB: 157 – SB: 224 – NSB: 321 –

– Period 1

− 732

– SB: 236

–

– – –

− − −

– – NSB: 496

–

−

–

–

−

–

– Totals –

− 2, 599 −

– SB: 966 NSB: 1,633

E:590 (French: 26, nil: 10) E:25 E:20 ?:1 nil:1 E:100 French:3 nil:2 E:136 French:8 Spanish:5 nil:5 other:3 E:191 ?:8 French:14 Spanish:6 others:4 nil:1 E:284 French:16 Spanish:12 ?:2 mixed:5 nil:2 E:181 C:1 M:2 ?:28 mixed:9 French:12 Spanish:2 nil:1 E:383 M:3 ?:9 French:31 Spanish:9 mixed:11 Italian:1 Latin:1 Romance:2 nil:46 E:2,416 -

Source: Condo Directory; SB – street-name based; NSB – not street-name based; E – English, M – Malay, C – Chinese, T – Tamil, Misc – miscellaneous; ? – uncertain

are organized in terms of the periods, and within that whether the names are based on the street name or not. The main elements and the other elements are then analyzed according to the linguistic source. A number of tendencies can be observed. The main elements are predominantly English-based and account for 70% of the main names. The dominance of English is more obvious if the other elements are examined: 93% of them are English-based. An examination of the percentages across different time periods do not seem to reveal a clear pattern in relation to the presence of English in building names. Street-based and non-street-based names are roughly in a ratio of 40:60, and they do not seem to affect the proportion of English-based building names. In general, Malay seems to have a higher representation in street-based names. This might be to do with Malay having a higher representation than Chinese as a result of the ‘Malayanization’ policies of the 1960s (Yeoh, 1996). The four official languages, English, Malay, Chinese and Tamil, are represented. It has to be noted, however, that Tamil names receive meager representation.

2006

P.K.W. Tan Table 110.2 Distribution of building names: Percentages

Period

Percent of total

Period 0 39.0 – − – − Period 4 1.8 – − Period 3 10.1 – − – − – − Period 2 21.0 – − – − – − – − – − Period 1 28.2 – − – − – − – − – − – − – − – − – − – − TOTALS 2, 599 – −

Percent whether Percent main element SB of period language of SB/NSB names

Percent suffix of SB/NSB names

SB: 37.1 NSB: 62.9 – SB: 53.2 NSB: 46.8 SB: 40.1 NSB: 59.9 – – SB: 41.1 – – NSB: 58.9 – – SB: 32.2 – – – – NSB: 67.8 – – – – – SB: 37.2 NSB: 62.8

E: 92.3 E:92.6 (French: 4.1, nil: 1.6) E:100.0 E:90.9 ?:5.4 nil:5.4 E:95.2 French:2.9 nil:1.9 E:86.6 French:5.1 Spanish:3.2 nil:3.2 other:1.9 E:85.3 ?:3.6 French:6.3 Spanish:2.7 others:1.8 nil:0.4 E:88.5 French:5.0 Spanish:3.7 ?:0.6 mixed:1.6 nil:0.6 E:76.7 C:0.4 M:0.8 ?:11.9 mixed:3.8 French:5.1 Spanish:0.8 nil:0.4 – E:77.2 M:0.6 ?:1.8 French:6.3 Spanish:1.8 mixed:2.2 Italian:0.2 Latin:0.2 Romance:0.4 nil:9.3

E: 60.2 M: 13.8 C: 13.3 T: 1.1 E:69.7 M:4.2 C:17.7 T:0.3 – E: 88.0 M:4.0 Semitic:8.0 E: 86.4 C:5.4 ?:5.4 E-Latin: 5.4 E: 67.6 M:8.6 C:8.6 T:1.0 E:72.6 M:3.8 C:7.6 – – E:69.2 M:14.7 C:6.3 T:0.9 – – E:72.6 M:3.1 C:5.3 French:3.4 Spanish:2.5 Italian:1.6 ?:4.0 – E:82.2 M:5.1 C:3.0 T:1.3 ?:2.5 Semitic:1.3 French:0.8 Spanish:0.8 Dutch:0.4 German:0.4 Burmese:1.3 mixed:0.8 E:68.6 M:2.8 C:2.4 ?:7.3 French:3.8 Italian:3.8 Spanish:3.2 Portuguese:1.0 Latin:0.8 Greek:0.6 other European:1.6 mixed:3.4 others:0.6 E:70.0 M:6.3 C:8.7 T:0.5 –

E:93.0 –

Source: Condo Directory; SB – street-name based; NSB – not street-name based; E – English, M – Malay, C – Chinese, T – Tamil, Misc – miscellaneous; ? – uncertain

Examples of elements from the official languages include the following. (Note that the symbol > means ‘derived from’ in this case, street names.) • Eng Hoon Mansions (Hokkien Chinese: given name of a 19th-century Chinese merchant + English) > Eng Hoon Street • Mei Hwan View (Mandarin Chinese: ‘beautiful palace garden’ + English) > Mei Hwan Drive • Duku Apartment (Malay: local fruit + English) > Duku Road • Kovan Melody (Tamil: kovan> govan, ‘herdsman’ + English) > Kovan Road It might also be noted that non-official forms of the official languages might also be used: Eng Hoon is the non-official Hokkien Chinese, rather than Mandarin Chinese; and Mei Hwan uses a non-official romanization of Mandarin Chinese.

110

Subversive Engineering: Building Names in Singapore

2007

The vast majority of names contain other elements, although a recent trend is to use names with only the main element. English is even more highly represented in the other elements than the main elements and constitutes the source of 93% of the other elements. Other elements from English include the italicized parts of these names: Cashew Gardens, Chapel Mansion and Hullet Court. Non-English examples are: Casa Uno (casa: ‘house’, Spanish) and Le Gambir (le: ‘the’, French). There appears to be a steady increase in foreign names (in other words, nonofficial languages). In the past, there were representative foreign names often as a result of street names based on toponyms in the British empire (e.g., Burma: Mandalay Court > Mandalay Road; Bassein Court > Bassein Road) or prominent denizens (e.g., the Armenian Sarkies brothers who founded Raffles Hotel: Sarkies Mansions > Sarkies Road). Some of the more recent buildings have names based on French, Spanish and Italian, with very little apparent local relevance, although sometimes they are translations of the street name. Examples include: • Papillon (French: ‘butterfly’) > Jalan Rama Rama (Malay: ‘butterfly’) • Montebleu (faux French: ‘mount blue’) > Minbu Road (phonological similarity; Burmese toponym). This is slightly more complicated because of the choice of monte instead of mont. Of course, monte could arguably by Italian, Spanish or Portuguese; or is a joke with a play on French monte (‘copulation’). It could also be plain ignorance. We shall never know. • Le Reve (French: ‘The dream’ – presumably rêve is intended) – no apparent local relevance • Nuovo (Italian: ‘new’) – no apparent local relevance • Alessandrea (Italian form of Alexandra) > Alexandra Road • Ventuno Balmoral (Italian: ‘twenty-one’) > building number 21 (Balmoral Road) • Costa del Sol (Spanish toponym: ‘sun coast’) Also noteworthy is the fact that consistency is not always aimed for. Apart from the approximations towards a particular language (as in Montebleu, mentioned above), the building names are a mix of a range of sources. • Casa Merah (Spanish: ‘house’ + Malay: ‘red’) > Tanah Merah Kechil Avenue (Malay: ‘Little Red Land’) • Chuan Villas (Mandarin Chinese: ‘river’ + English) > Chuan Close • Mutiara Crest (Malay: ‘pearl’ + English) > Jalan Mutiara (jalan = Malay: ‘road’) • Le Wood (French: ‘the’ + English) • Tierra Vue (Spanish: ‘earth’ + French: ‘view’) Among the more recent names, a noticeable tendency is to coin new names, constituting 7.3% of main elements that are not street based in Period 1: • Viz @ Holland • Mandale Heights > Mandalay Road [phonological similarity to the street name, and dale is a possible suffix]

2008

P.K.W. Tan

• The Beccagayle (probably two given names Becca [>Rebecca] + Gayle) • The Sensora: probably English sense with a made-up ending, probably also to look ‘Continental’ • The Inspira: probably a shortening of English inspiration (inspira could be conjugated forms of the French verb inspirer or Italian inspirare, but unlikely as it is used as a noun), probably to look ‘Continental’ Some of these could perhaps have private meanings, not accessible to the outsider, and could be described as anti-language, a term coined by linguist Michael Halliday (1978). I will comment on this further in the next section.

110.7 Discussion From the statistical information provided, English-based signs occupy a dominant position. In relation to street names, Yeoh notes that: the exercise to use Malays street-names to signify independence and provide a common toponymic language to draw together the plurality of local worlds did not succeed; ironically, people preferred road signage and residential addresses in English, the language of the colonial masters, which they perceived as neutral if not superior (Yeoh, 1996: 302).

Building developers might therefore have picked up this preference and reflected this in their choice of building names. For the social actor in Singapore, we can say that English-based signs constitute part of the habitus, although the presence of signs in the ‘mother tongue’ languages (Chinese, Malay and Tamil) points towards social and class differentiation within the community. As Bourdieu puts it: The conditionings associated with a particular class of conditions of existence produce habitus, systems of durable, transposable dispositions, structured structures predisposed to function as structuring structures, that is, as principles which generate and organize practices and representations that can be objectively adapted to their outcomes without presupposing a conscious aiming at ends or an express mastery of operations necessary in order to attain them (Bourdieu, 1990: 53).

The dominance of English also suggests a strengthening of the position of English in its evolution and taking root in Singapore, following Schneider’s (2007) Postcolonial English thesis. Names very much form part of the identity construction of social groups. On the other hand, the language shift phenomenon can also be seen negatively as the case of major languages causing the ‘language death’ of minor languages, causing English to be called a ‘killer language’ (Skutnabb-Kangas, 2000). This is not the place to discuss the merits or problems arising out of an increased presence of English, through globalization, in the linguistic landscape, but it clearly has the potential to disrupt the local linguistic ecology. This also flies in the face of the four-language formula set up in relation to official signs described above. Globalization does not, however, explain the increased predilection for names based on French, Italian or Spanish as these are languages not generally spoken in Singapore. Their use can be related to the reasons for employing what is known

110

Subversive Engineering: Building Names in Singapore

2009

as ‘decorative English’ in places like Japan or Korea. McArthur defines this as the term for: English used as a visual token of modernity or a social accessory on items of clothing, writing paper, shopping bags, pencil boxes, etc., in advertising, and as notices in cafés, etc. The messages conveyed are ‘atmospheric’ rather than precise or grammatical, as in ‘Let s sport violent all day long’. Use of decorative English appears to centre on Japan, but has spread widely in East Asia and elsewhere (McArthur, 1992: 281).

Elsewhere, this phenomenon has been described as impersonal multilingualism, a situation where foreign languages ‘serve to stimulate the reader’s feelings and to create a pleasant mood of “cosmopolitanism”’ (Haarmann, 1986: 110). It is of course not impossible that some of the English-based names, as well as the French-, Italian- and Spanish-based ones, are also decorative in nature. Using Bourdieu’s notion of capital which should extend beyond the economic sphere, we might consider the notion of linguistic capital, where languages may be pitted against each other, some claiming further advantage in the light of globalization and other social forces. Ultimately then, languages are commodified. Finally, the mélange of official, non-official languages and anti-language in the names, and even within individual building names can be seen as a sneer at the official multilingual policy. Russian thinker Bakhtin describes this situation of many-languagedness as heteroglossia (see, for example, Bakhtin (1981)). Central to his view is the fact that there are many voices, many Others in what he calls dialogism. Established and powerful voices can, therefore, become thwarted or subverted, and the principle of the carnival infuses culture. Bakhtin made it plain that Carnival was not simply to be found in revelry or riots, but also in everyday speech, conceptions of the body, and so on. As the dialogical Other of official culture, Carnival must always be present; it contaminates the supposedly monological utterances of the powerful. Carnival may be a weakened force, but its currents still run through popular culture. In this sense, we should be looking for elements of everyday life which can become ‘Carnivalised’, just as novelness refers to Carnivalised literature: open to the play of dialogue, resisting the “last word” (Holloway & Kneale, 2000: 81).

The carnivalesque spirit can be said, therefore, to inhabit the linguistic mélange of building names. The building names present clear patterns with the establishment of a clear dominance of English as a source language. In an officially multilingual state, the other official languages do get a look in but not very evenly, partly as a result of the different perceived values of these languages. What has begun to emerge too is the establishment of continental languages, particularly French, Italian and Spanish, as source languages for naming which seems to run against the official multilingual policies, and even ‘carnivalize’ them.

110.8 Conclusion This chapter began by focusing on how the state can be centrally involved in multilingual nations by reinforcing the ideology of ethnic, and therefore linguistic,

2010

P.K.W. Tan

harmony through the control of the linguistic landscape. In Singapore, this means balancing the ‘mother tongue’ languages. Chinese, Malay and Tamil, and maintaining them in some way as they supposedly provide ‘cultural ballast.’ English is promoted as the ‘neutral’ and ‘working’ language. The patterns found in the building names suggests that English has a prominent position. But while multilingualism is in evidence, it is a kind of multilingualism that does not seem to conform to the state’s view of multilingualism for Singapore. The building developers’ practices can therefore be construed as subversive engineering, carnivalizing the state ideology, as they steer the linguistic landscape of Singapore towards a different vision. The linguistic landscape can therefore become a site of contention with different agencies promoting different visions of society. It remains to be seen how these tensions will be resolved. The relationship between the different naming practices might bear further investigation. The difference between patterns between street names and building names has also been noted, and remains something that is worth exploring further. Yeah (2003) has already noted that naming practices might be contested. In the case of street names, she mentions unofficial names that existed alongside official ones. In our data, the contestation was evidenced in the official names themselves in that name givers took on board a different vision and therefore partook in alternative engineering practices. This probably also relate to the different ways in which the Street and Building Names Board (SBNB) and its precursor agencies were involved in the naming practices. Rather than actively proposing names, the SBNB appears to have taken on the role of approving authority as far as building names are concerned. Elsewhere, I have explored personal naming (Tan, 2004), where the state intervened in naming practices particularly in the 1980s, so there is strong evidence of social engineering. Subsequently, a more hands-off approach prevailed. Like building names, personal names have also been evolving towards English-style naming and therefore threaten to undermine the ‘cultural ballast’ of Asian-style naming. Finally, it remains unclear to me whether the engineering and naming practices in Singapore can be viewed under the rubric of globalization, or whether these are the result of a conglomeration of unique circumstances. Thus far, there was been very little research on building names as part of the linguistic landscape. Results from other parts of the world would therefore be helpful in throwing light on this puzzle.

References Alsagoff, L. (2008). The commodification of Malay: Trading in futures. In P. K. W Tan & R. Rubdy (Eds.), Language as commodity: Global structures, local marketplaces (pp. 44–56). London: Continuum. Backhaus, P. (2007). Linguistic landscapes: A comparative study of urban multilingualism in Tokyo. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters. Bakhtin, M. M. (1981). Discourse in the novel. In M. Holquist (Ed.), The dialogic imagination: four essays, C. Emerson & M. Holquist (Trans.) (pp. 301–331). Austin, TX: University of Texas Press.

110

Subversive Engineering: Building Names in Singapore

2011

Barr, M. D. (2002). Cultural politics and Asian values: The tepid war. London: Routledge. Ben-Rafael, E. (2009). A sociological approach to the study of linguistic landscapes. In E. Shohamy & D. Gorter (Eds.), Linguistic landscape: Expanding the scenery (pp. 40–54). London: Routledge. Ben-Rafael, E., Shohamy, E., Amara, M. H., & Trumper-Hecht, N. (2006). Linguistic landscape as symbolic construction of the public space: The case of Israel. In D. Gorter (Ed.), Linguistic landscape: A new approach to multilingualism (pp. 7–30). Clevedon: Multilingual Matters. Bourdieu, P. (1990). The logic of practice, tr. Richard Nice. Cambridge: Polity. Census of Population. (2000). Resident population by age group, ethnic group, sex and residential status. Retrieved May 19, 2009, from http://www.singstat.gov.sg/pubn/ popn/c2000adr/adr(r).pdf Dunlop, P. (2000). Street names of Singapore. Singapore: Who’s Who. Edelman, L. (2009). What’s in a name? Classification of proper names by language. In E. Shohamy & D. Gorter (Eds.), Linguistic landscape: expanding the scenery (pp. 141–153). London: Routledge. Goh, C. L. (2009). Learning dialects ‘adds to burden’. The Straits Times (Singapore), 18 March, A6. Gorter, D. (Ed.). (2006). Linguistic landscape: A new approach to multilingualism. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters. Haarmann, H. (1986). Verbal strategies in Japanese fashion magazines – a study in impersonal bilingualsm and ethnosymbolism. International Journal of Sociology of Language, 58, 107–121. Halliday, M. A. K. (1978). Language as social semiotic. London: Edward Arnold. Holloway, J., & Kneale, J. (2000). Mikhail Bakhtin: dialogics of space. In: M. Crang and N. Thrift (Eds.), Thinking space (pp. 71–88). London: Routledge. Landry, R., & Bourhis, R. Y. (1997). Linguistic landscape and ethnolinguistic vitality: An empirical study. Journal of Language and Social Psychology, 16(1), 23–49. McArthur, T. (Ed.). (1992). The Oxford companion to the English Language. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rymes, B. (2001). Names. In A. Duranti (Ed.), Key terms in language and culture (pp. 158–161). Oxford: Blackwell. Savage, V. R., & Yeoh, B. S. A. (2003). Toponymics: A study of Singapore street names. Singapore: Eastern Universities Press. Schneider, E. W. (2007). Postcolonial English: Varieties around the world. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Scollon, R., & Scollon, S. W. (2003). Discourses in place: Language in the material world. London: Routledge. Shohamy, E., & Gorter, D. (Eds.) (2009). Linguistic landscape: Expanding the scenery. London: Routledge. Singapore Government Directory Interactive. Street and Building Names Board. Retrieved from http://app.sgdi.gov.sg/listing.asp?agency_subtype=dept&agency_id=0000001350. Singapore Statues Online. Chapter 254, Property Tax Act: Part VI, paragraph 49. Retrieved from http://statutes.agc.gov.sg/ Skutnabb-Kangas, T. (2000). Linguistic genocide in education – or worldwide diversity and human rights? Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum. Tan, P. K. W. (2004). Evolving naming patterns: anthroponymics within a theory of the dynamics of non-Anglo Englishes. World Englishes, 23(3), 367–384. Tan, P. K. W. (2007). The struggle for a standard: Evidence from place names. Names: A Journal of Onomastics, 55(4), 387–396. Yeah, B. S. A. (2003). Contesting space in colonial Singapore: power relations and the urban built environment. Singapore: Singapore University Press. Yeoh, B. S. A. (1996). Street-naming and nation-building: Toponymic inscriptions of nationhood in Singapore. Area, 28(3), 298–307.

Chapter 111

Empire, Names and Renaming: The Case of Nagorno Karabakh Benjamin D. Foster

111.1 Introduction The area of Nagorno Karabakh,1 encompassing 4,400 km2 (1,699 mi2 ) in Western Azerbaijan, was the site of a bloody conflict between Azerbaijan and Armenia from 1988 to 1994. Both nations claim it as an inseparable part of their countries’ territory, history, and culture. These claims appear in bitter arguments that include arguments over the origins of the area’s toponyms. In Azerbaijani President Heydar Aliyev’s 1998 decree declaring 31 March the Day of Genocide against Azerbaijanis, he described cultural destruction that included the changing of geographic names of Karabakh during the 20th century (Aliyev, 1998). Aliyev addressed the destructive component of the grand plan to create a new geographical reality in the Soviet Union, but he omitted that the “destruction” took place within the larger scope of the Soviet leadership’s socio-geographic engineering project. This project consisted of the creation and cultivation of codified national identities. These identities and cultures were built within geographical spaces via territorial autonomy (Brubaker, 1994). Within these autonomous regions, geographic features were renamed to reflect the “official” nation within. As a result, the cultural terrain of the officially multiethnic and multinational Union was entirely reshaped. As Nagorno Karabakh’s history and demography will show, this reshaping resulted in disastrous differences between the organic borders between nations and the territorial borders drawn by the Soviets (Fig. 111.1). The toponymic landscape of Nagorno Karabakh is the result of centuries of political and social turbulence. During the second millennium A.D. numerous empires conquered the area, each leaving new toponyms that were destroyed, left alone, or shared by successors. For several centuries, the Persian and Ottoman fighting in the Caucasus became such that at times, one empire or the other would pursue a “scorched earth” strategy, deporting Kurdish, Armenian, or Georgian inhabitants to Tabriz or Istanbul (Saparov, 2003: 181). In 1603 the Persian Shah Abbas led

B.D. Foster (B) U.S. Board on Geographic Names, Foreign Names Committee, Washington, DC, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_111,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2013

2014

B.D. Foster

Fig. 111.1 Reference map. (Source: U.S. Central Intelligence Agency)

a massive deportation of Armenians to Tabriz. In 1796, the town of Shusha was completely emptied of inhabitants (Hewsen, 2001: 146). In each case the town’s subsequent occupiers would either not be able to decipher the foreign alphabet or simply ignore markers indicating place names, and would make up their own names (Saparov, 2003: 182). The Russians invaded in the 19th century and, with the exception of regional trade or government centers such as Yelizavetpol and Alexandropol, left alone the area’s toponyms. In other words, the Russian Empire did not project Russian culture onto the area by means of toponyms, as had previous empires. Russian maps published in 1915 show a Caucasus featuring mostly Turkic

111

The Case of Nagorno Karabakh

2015

names with Persian elements, with the more prominent features – Yelizavetpol for example – labeled with Russian names. When the Soviets arrived in 1921, they projected cultural power in a different way. Though Russians constituted a majority in the Soviet Union, the Bolshevik leadership was clear about renouncing any legacy of Russian imperialism. The Soviets did not capture the Caucasus Regions in order to russify them, that is, in order to change the local national identities to match that of an existing, conquering, people. This was intentional, and the fact that the Soviets were concerned with identities at all made them unique among previous empires in the Caucasus. Part of their concern with national identities concerned their treatment of the toponym. In contrast to the Russian practice in the Caucasus, the toponym mattered and toponymic activity increased dramatically once the Soviets arrived. They renamed features, but differently than previous empires. While Ottomans left Turkic names, Persians left Persian names, and Russians left Russian names, the mostly ethnic Russian Soviets removed Russian names. In renaming geographic features, the Soviet policy was to shun the “imperialist” tendency of finding culturally internal names for nationally external features. For the first time in centuries, the Caucasus was united under a single political entity but became toponymically diverse, due to cultural terraforming. If projecting linguistic culture through toponyms was a method of past empires, the Soviet method was to project political power while preserving local cultural forms. As we will see later, the Soviet project in the Caucasus, and in Karabakh in particular, was to build a state in which ethnic identity would be diluted in favor of a united socio-political identity. The toponym remained a local form, obeying phonological and linguistic constraints of the local language, and in some cases even honoring national figures or themes. The content of these toponyms was socialist, as socialism determined who the heroes were. Stepan Shahumyan, after whom the capital of Stepanakert was named, was a prominent Armenian member of the Communist Party in the Caucasus. Naming the NKAO capital after Shahumyan solidified his place in not only the political narrative of Communism in the Caucasus, but also in the national narrative of Karabakh. This type of cultural terraforming would bind the Armenians’ ethnic legitimacy and the political legitimacy of the Soviets. In addition to the content of the names being socialist, the Party leadership in Moscow remained the engineers of the socio-geographical change. Due to a law passed by the Supreme Soviet of the Union, name changes could not be carried out at the national level, but required Union-level consent. No name was approved, even a name “entirely” Armenian, Azerbaijani, or Georgian, without approval by the all-Union Supreme Soviet (Saparov, 2003: 185) (Fig. 111.2).

111.2 Problems of Toponyms in Nagorno Karabakh As Nagorno Karabakh has been subject to such a succession of empires throughout its history, toponyms there have a very short life. An objective argument of what lands legitimately belong to which people in Nagorno Karabakh would be difficult,

2016

B.D. Foster

Fig. 111.2 Road sign (reproduced with permission from BBC and Conciliation Resources)

if not impossible, to create. Each ethnic group inhabiting the area has left a patchwork of cultural, linguistic, and historical markers. In this context, any attempt to determine the ethnic ownership of one place or another based solely on the form assigned to the toponym would ignore the history of the many peoples and place of Nagorno Karabakh. Though some have called the toponym the “most valuable source for resolving the problem of ethnic origins” (Geybullayev, 1986: 3), there are numerous linguistic and historical obstacles to determining these origins by toponymic study.2 One such obstacle is the consideration that a toponym’s form and content are dependent on the one naming the referent feature. This paper will examine the course of toponymic practice in 20th century Nagorno Karabakh. Sources include maps from 1915, 1941, 1979, and 1994; policy documents detailing the birth of the Nagorno Karabakh Autonomous Oblast’ (NKAO) and toponymic guidelines; and other textual sources, such as the Territorial’noe-Administrativnoe Deleniye (Administrative-Territorial Division) catalogs of Soviet Azerbaijan. These changes and policies enlighten as to how the Soviets created a new toponymic landscape, and how quickly the post-Soviet independent states “corrected” the names of Soviet-named features. As the catalogs were limited to indicating changes made to names of populated places only, the scope of this paper is similarly limited. It is expected that toponyms in Karabakh from the Soviet period mixed Armenian, Azeri, and “Soviet” names, due to the designation of Karabakh as an autonomous oblast’. If this is the case, then Soviet toponymic policy resulted in a confusing geographical landscape which has fueled local tensions since the collapse of the Soviet Union. By bringing this aspect of Karabakh’s history to light, the

111

The Case of Nagorno Karabakh

2017

perspective on the area will be broadened to one that considers the consequences of a project like the Soviet nationality experiment. The first section briefly explains the role of autonomy in the Soviet Union, and in regards to Nagorno Karabakh in more detail. The intended use of Nagorno Karabakh as an autonomous oblast will allow predictions about what the Soviet toponymic practice in the oblast should be and provide a framework with which to analyze the findings of the survey of the toponyms therein. The next section looks at the ethnic makeup of the area, and the major ethnic and demographic changes that may have affected the desired name for a given geographic object. The third section will present the data: the number of geographic objects catalogued; the ethno-linguistic categories to which toponyms belong; and changes to toponyms made in the Soviet era. The conclusions made earlier will inform the final section, which will compare the trends to the expectations from the first section. An assessment of the legacy of Soviet toponymic practice in Nagorno Karabakh, and its effects on the ongoing conflict will conclude this study.

111.3 The Role of Autonomy in Nagorno Karabakh The framers of the Soviet Constitution learned what dangers to the union could be presented by disenfranchised nationalities. In prewar Vienna during the 1910s, Josef Stalin observed the effects of the Austrian nationality policy, which ascribed a separate national status to non-Austrians. He criticized the Austrian model for dividing the proletariat, preventing them from any sense of class unity (Stalin, 1913). He instead advocated a territorial autonomy, which, when practiced in the Soviet Union in the 1920s, would lead to the creation of non-Russian republics and autonomous regions. Within these regions, national cultures, national elites, and education were allowed to flourish (Brubaker, 1994: 52). Thus the Soviet Union could assert not a national supremacy of Russians, but a political supremacy of the Party, regardless of the nationality of its constituents. Autonomy in the Soviet Union served several purposes, though all of these purposes were ultimately subservient to winning the loyalties of non-Russian peoples who for the most part lived at the geographic fringes of the new Union. First, if the new empire was to be a force for the international movement of communism, it would not work for the borders to dramatically shrink back to a scale comparable to those of 18th century Russia. The revolution and collapse of the Russian Empire emboldened the new Turkish state, as well as western powers interested in supporting new Baltic States. The Soviets wanted to secure the allegiances and convince the indigenous people and secure their loyalty away from the advancing Turks, British, and French in Anatolia and the Caucasus. Second, autonomy for non-Russian nationalities could serve as a step in the eventual “withering away” of nations. While the nationalism of Europe sought to divide people along ethnic, linguistic, and cultural lines, the Soviet Union aimed to unite people according to economic class. The hope was that by bringing about a state in which different nationalities could participate and in which economic and

2018

B.D. Foster

class development reached a similar level, the Soviets could “drain nationality of its content while legitimizing its form, to promote long-term withering away of the nationality as a vital component of life” (Brubaker, 1994: 49). Autonomy within the USSR would “create” nations with their own schools, educated leadership, and national culture. Autonomy, however, would not be so generous as to allow separate SSRs to actually emancipate themselves from the binding socialist principles, but would only be so extensive so as to make culture serve the purposes of building socialism. Third, autonomy served as a rhetorical tool, used to distance the new Soviet leadership from their Imperial Russian predecessors. The leadership claimed solidarity with the smaller nationalities of the Empire by pointing to the similarities between the class oppression that the working class had suffered at the hands of the tsars and national oppression that the non-Russian nationalities had suffered. The minorities of the Russian Empire had been exploited and used the same way that the working class of Russia had been exploited, so the logic went. By considering minorities of the erstwhile empire as an exploited people, a sort of “national proletariat” was created. Autonomy for these peoples would include them in the “dictatorship of the proletariat.” The Soviet experiment here was not in changing the allegiance of conquered peoples; it was assuring allegiance to a political system not intentionally tied to one nation. The terraforming of the Soviet geographic plane was two-fold in its aims: to delineate autonomous regions for the nations of the Soviet Union and to assign a geographic space to the previously spaceless concept of socialism. Nationalterritorial autonomy would be reflected in toponymy by changing geographic names to those which would agree with national forms of language. At the same time, many toponyms would evoke a socialist theme, indicating that a feature was as much a socialist feature as it was a Russian, Azeri, or Armenian feature. Thus a Soviet city would be one identified with both a nation and a political-economic system. As such, toponyms with tsarist content such as Yekaterinburg would become Stalingrad, Yelizavetpol eventually became Kirovabad, and in Nagorno Karabakh, Xankendi (a Turkic name) became Stepanakert. Elsewhere, many populated places were renamed with Soviet themes, but were unique in their national forms: Leningori, in Georgia; Sovietabad, in Tajikistan, or Kyzyl-Orda (“kyzyl” meaning “red”) in Kazakhstan. Nagorno Karabakh stands as a unique exception among autonomous regions of the Soviet Union. Each republic and autonomous region (from here on represented collectively by “autonomous region”) was named to indicate “titular” nationalities or ethnic groups not represented in another republic or region. Nagorno Karabakh, however, was home to Azeris and Armenians, who were represented in the Union by the Azerbaijani and Armenian Soviet Socialist Republics.3 This uniqueness provided a problem with regard to toponymy: should names be represented according to Armenian or Azerbaijani conventions? Some characteristics of Nagorno Karabakh complicate the why and how of the oblast’s designation. The history of the region does not provide legitimacy for any one ethnic group’s claims, as seen by the sheer number of occupying forces in the area. Its Soviet name sets it apart as the only autonomous region

111

The Case of Nagorno Karabakh

2019

that does not explicitly state the ethnicity for which it was formed. While there were regions created and designated as homelands for specific groups (Adyghea, Karakalpak, Kyrghyz), each indicating with their toponym who would live there, Nagorno Karabakh contained no such explicit indication. In addition, stability was a factor in the formation of the new oblast’. The new Turkic state advanced into the Caucasus in 1920, forcing the weakened Soviet State, now in the grip of a civil war, to the Treaty of Moscow that would decide Karabakh’s fate. On the other hand, Armenians in Karabakh, reacting to the pro-Turkish conditions of the treaty, threatened internal stability (K Istorii, 1989: 41). At the same time, British and French forces had designs for an independent Armenia in the Caucasus. If the Soviet Union was going to resolve the problem of Nagorno Karabakh, it needed to find a solution that satisfied various requirements. The internal conflict needed to be solved in order to assert Soviet sovereignty in the Caucasus; the external threat of the Turks needed to be removed; the ideological enemies from the West needed to be neutralized; and Armenia’s allegiance guaranteed. The Soviets resolved to leave Karabakh in Azeri territory, but created an autonomous oblast’ that would be populated by both Armenians and Azeris (K Istorii, 1989: 155). Given the conditions of the formation of the NKAO, a diverse set of toponyms is expected. The Soviets, wishing to promote solidarity among Azeri and Armenians there (K Istorii, 1989: 155), would be expected to make several name-changes to represent the Armenians of the oblast, but would retain the Turkic names as well. Given the 1924 ban on name-changes without the all-Union Presidium’s approval, most populated places would retain their pre-1917 names. As is consistent throughout the rest of the Union, a small percentage of names can be expected to feature a “socialist” name, though even toponyms socialist in content must contain a national (local) form. We can expect these to be shared between Azeri and Armenian forms.

111.4 Demography and Toponyms in Nagorno Karabakh So far the focus has been on external factors, having to do with those living outside of NKAO. The experiment here is a sort of socio-cultural engineering, in that distant actors determined the toponymic landscape, and therefore the linguistic, social, and cultural space over NKAO. What set the Soviets apart from previous occupying empires is the fact that in addition to Moscow’s aims for the periphery in general, the ethnic makeup of the region determined the shape of the Soviets’ plans on it. This section reviews the demographic history of Nagorno Karabakh and how it led to competing narratives about the “rightful” inhabitants of the region.

111.4.1 Geopolitical Situation The Persian and Ottoman Empires clashed in the Caucasus for centuries, drastically changing the ethnic makeup of the area. Armenians, Kurds, Persians, and Turks were exiled, relocated, and resettled. Until the systematic slaughters of the late 19th

2020

B.D. Foster

and early 20th centuries, the Armenians enjoyed a certain favored minority status in both empires. Those deported during the wars to Istanbul or Tabriz became a vital part of the commercial sectors there (Hewsen, 2001: 11). The Armenian land itself, however, became emptied of most Armenians. Upon repopulation by Turkish, Iranian, and Kurdish settlers, the Armenian settlements lost their Armenian character and in effect became Turkish, Iranian, or Kurdish, as these new settlers had no reference by which to name them with any but their own language, resulting in “the total replacement of the cultural landscape” (Saparov, 2003: 182). When the Russians entered into the Caucasus at the beginning of the 19th century, the Armenians began to return. Depending on the nationality of the source, the Armenians either returned under the impression that the Russians, being Christian, would make Armenia safer for Armenians; or they were brought back by the Russians in an attempt to Christianize their newly acquired territory (Geybullayev, 1986; Saparov, 2003; Yamskov, 1991). At any rate, the ethnological makeup of eastern Anatolia changed dramatically in the 19th century. Armenians, long since gone to Tabriz, Istanbul, or elsewhere, returned in such numbers as to render Turkish, Kurdish, or Persian towns Armenian again (Geybullayev, 1986; Hewsen, 2001; Saparov, 2003). As many as 105,000 Armenians arrived in the South Caucasus between 1828 and 1831 (Yamskov, 1991). Even by then, half of the population of the Armyanskaya Oblast’4 including Nagorno Karabakh was non-Armenian, but more Armenians flooded the region throughout the rest of the 19th century through 1917. By the 1926 census, Armenians constituted over 84% of the population of the Armenian SSR. The Russians did not populate the area themselves (Saparov, 2003: 183), beyond the major commercial and administrative centers of Alexandropol and Yelizavetpol. As a result, the toponyms of Karabakh’s populated places remained Turkic, according to pre-revolutionary Russian maps, indicating that state toponymic practice had less to do with the inhabitants of the area than with other factors pertaining to the state. Toponymy became a state matter under the Soviet regime. Under Soviet rule the toponyms of Nagorno Karabakh became more Armenian, as over 80 changes to populated places’ names were made, reflecting the mixed population of Armenians and Azeris. The Soviets desired a multiethnic NKAO, as the oblast’s own toponym was the only one out of all of the autonomous regions not to indicate a specific ethnic group. From official documents, this intentional decision would promote good-will among peoples of the Caucasus (K Istorii). Given the korenizatsiya practices of the 20s and 30s, in which the national identities of the consituent republics of the Union were emphasized rather than suppressed, the resulting toponymy attempted to reflect the oblast’s ethnic makeup and do away with the either-or discussion about the ethnicity of the area.

111.4.2 Demographic Situation From the brief historical survey above, it is expected that the demographic trends in Karabakh for the last 150 years would have generally shifted in favor of the

111

The Case of Nagorno Karabakh

2021

Fig. 111.3 Population trends in Nagorno Karabakh. (Source: Yamskov, 1991)

Armenian population. In 1845, when sources began to note significant changes in the area, Azeri Turks constituted about two-thirds of the population there (92,000, Fig. 111.3). By 1897 the Armenian and Azeri populations were almost equal to one another. When the NKAO was created in 1921, the Soviet census found that out of 131,500 people accounted for, 94.4% were Armenian, with the rest being Azeri Turk. The census did not, however, include seminomadic inhabitants, who wintered in the lowlands outside of the oblast’s border (Saparov, 2003). Even considering that Azeri Turks in Karabakh numbered as many 50,000 in the previous century, the low population density associated with seminomadic life indicates that they still would be outnumbered by the nearly 125,000 Armenians there. Over time, the Soviet practices of urbanization, collective farming, and forced emigrations led to the end of the seminomadic way of life. More Azeris were included in the 1979 census, in which Azeris numbered 37,000 (22.8% of the population), while the figure of Armenians living in Karabakh numbered at 123,000 (77.2%). The trend of Armenian growth there would continue through 1991, with 4000 more Azeri Turks and 20,000 more Armenians in the oblast’. The beginning of armed conflict in Nagorno Karabakh can account for the continual growth, with Armenians fleeing into Karabakh, and Azeris persecuted and expelled from Karabakh.

111.5 Soviet-Era Toponyms of Nagorno Karabakh Determining the ethnolinguistic “belonging” of toponyms in Nagorno Karabakh can appear deceptively simple. Both languages feature toponyms with endings indicative of one language or the other. These endings would indicate a given toponym’s

2022

B.D. Foster

ethnicity. In addition, each language features certain letters or letter combinations that the other does not have. For example, the consonant clusters –dz- and –ts- are not part of the phonological inventory of Azeri. Toponyms with these combinations can be considered at least partly Armenian. There are complexities, however, of determining the ethnolinguistic root of Karabakh’s toponyms. These complexities are the legacy of the region’s difficult history. While Armenian and Azeri are very distinct from one another, both have been heavily influenced by Persian (Hewsen, 2001: 11). Even the name Karabakh is evocative of Persian, as –ba˘g means “garden” in Persian. Therefore, names that feature Persian characteristics could be claimed either by Armenians or Azeris. The Persian ending –abad appears in several toponyms, meaning that endings may not be as indicative, and one must look elsewhere for evidence of local linguistic influences. In addition, the Turkic and Armenian cultures have mixed. Powerful Armenians under Turkic rule were given the title Melik (the Armenian version of malik, Arabic for “king”). Eventually, the title found its way into local toponymy. “Melikjanli,” for example, is a town in Karabakh with a Turkic ending using an Armenian term. Some toponyms with Armenian endings use Turkic titles in the same way, such as “Mkhtarishen,” which has as its root the Turkic title muhtar, meaning “headman.” Another phenomenon that appears in Nagorno Karabakh’s 20th century toponymy is the Sovietization of toponyms. Some toponyms feature distinct Azeri or Armenian endings, but contain Soviet roots. Most of these toponyms are either clearly Azeri or Armenian in their endings, such as Leninkend or Leninavan, but the name Leninabad features a Soviet root with a Persian ending. The intended representative Soviet nationality in this town cannot be determined by the toponym alone. In this context, the first step to determining what choices the Soviets made in toponyms would be to examine which toponyms have distinctive Armenian or Azeri elements, and to determine the types of toponyms existing in the area. Informed by the Soviet instructions for transliterating Azeri and Armenian names and Geybullayev’s Toponimiya Azerbaidzhana, I have classified the names of Nagorno Karabakh into six categories: 1. Armenian names – names can be identified as Armenian if they contain solely Armenian characteristics. Such characteristics include the digraphs rr, dz, or ts, which do not occur in Azeri names; the endings –bert, -van, -kert, -gyukh, -tag,5 -shen, -shat, -gomer, -dzor, -zur, and –tekh; the descriptive terms nerkin, verin, or lerr; or consonant clusters, such that appear in Mkhtarishen. 2. Azeri names – names can be identified as Azeri if they contain solely Azeri characteristics. Such characteristics include vowel agreement across an entire word, such that one will seldom see the letters i and y in the same word; the appearance of vowels at the end of a name; or the endings –li, -ly, -kend, -bey, -peya, -gaya, -qaya, -lar, -lyar, -chi; otherwise containing memme, bazar, kuscu, guscu, kun, gul, or kul; or the descriptive terms ashaghi, yukhari, chay, su, or dag.

111

The Case of Nagorno Karabakh

2023

3. Armeno-Azeri names: toponyms featuring an Armenian root with an Azeri generic or ending, such as Melikjanli, from the Arabic-Armenian melik, meaning “king,” and the Azeri suffix –li, indicating the inhabitants of a place (Geybullayev, 1986). 4. Azero-Armenian names: toponyms featuring an Azeri root with an Armenian generic or ending, such as Dashushen, from the Azeri word dash, meaning “stone,” and the Armenian shen, meaning “town.” 5. Sovietized Azeri names: toponyms with the form of an Azeri word, but featuring an element of Soviet culture, such as Leninkend, Mir-Bashir. 6. Sovietized Armenian names: toponyms with the form of an Armenian word, but featuring an element of Soviet culture, such as Leninakan or Stepanakert. Maps from pre-revolutionary Russia show that Karabakh was covered in Turkicnamed settlements. General Staff maps from 1915 do not display boundaries for Nagorno Karabakh, but within the approximate area I counted 334 names, including those of settlements, mountains, passes, and rivers. Only 30 of these features had Armenian names, with 5 Azero-Armenian or Armeno-Azeri names. Existence of the latter categories indicates that adaptation of Turkic or Muslim conventions had been used to form Armenian names, in the case of Allaberd from Allah and –berd, meaning fortress. Armenian titles were also used in order to form Turkic names, such as the case of Melikli, from melik, the Armenian variation of the Arabic word for “king,” and –li, a common Azeri suffix. In toponymy this practice likely denotes the inhabitants of a given settlement (Geybullayev, 1986: 36). Nearly all of the changes towards Armenian names took place between the founding of NKAO in 1921 and publication of the 1961 Administrativno-Territorialnoye Deleniye of Azerbaijan. Out of 269 toponyms6 listed in that publication that fall within NKAO, 82 are Armenian names, with at least 9 Sovietized Armenian names, 6 Azero-Armenian names, and 1 Armeno-Azeri name. There are three Sovietized names which indicate no affiliation with either ethnic group, and one Sovietized Azeri name. The increase in names with Armenian elements from 35 to 95 names shows a practice of name changing inclined towards creating cultural space for the Armenian toponyms at the expense of the Azeri names. It is important to note that the remaining 156 names catalogued in the publication are Azeri names without overt socialist references or Armenian elements. It appears that, from the numbers alone, toponymic practice did not directly coincide with the change in demography. Given the pre-Soviet state of toponymy in Nagorno Karabakh and the distance between the Caucasus and Moscow, a majority of Turkic (Azeri) names should have been expected. The dynamics of the features renamed show that the scales are tipped significantly in favor of Armenian names. In the list of “the most significant” name changes in the 1961 version of Administrativno-Territorial’noe Deleniye, four names of NKAO features are listed, and each is changed to an Armenian name.7 The existence of more than 90 toponyms with Armenian elements in 1961, in comparison with less than 40 in 1915, indicates that there were more changes during

2024

B.D. Foster

this period. Finding changes from Turkic name to Turkic name would be more difficult, excepting names such as Mir Bashir, Krasnyy Bazar, Leninkend, etc. Looking elsewhere in Azerbaijan, it appears that the majority of name changes removed Persian, imperial Russian, religious, or Armenian elements, and did not change from one Turkic name to another (Deleniye). The removal of religious or “imperialistic” elements can be expected, as these were considered contrary to socialism. One must keep in mind that not all geographic objects are equal in political significance. For example, a minor stream will not have the same significance as a village, and a village will not be as significant as a major city. In the same way, not every toponym will carry the same political significance. A similar phenomenon in ethnolinguistic research has been called the incongruent nature of languages, and it is useful to consider this phenomenon in the study of toponyms as well (Viechnicki, 2008). Therefore it is necessary here to view the types of objects renamed. The administrative divisions of NKAO, for example, provide an example of significant features that underwent name changes. Before the revolution in 1917, the area of NKAO lay within the province of Yelizavetpol. When the Soviets absorbed Azerbaijan (and Karabakh), the province and borders of Yelizavetpol were dissolved and rayons were created which did not include a mention of Karabakh (Deleniye, 1961). However, when the Autonomous Oblast of Nagorno Karabakh was created in 1923, each administrative division within it featured names with Armenian elements: Stepanakert, for Stepan Shahumyan, a notable Armenian communist; Mardakert, Hadrut’, Shusha, and Martuni. Since the dissolution of the Soviet Union, the NKAO’s toponyms lost their socialist and Armenian content and form: the Azerbaijani government reshaped Karabakh again by dissolving the Karabakh rayons in 1993, and the cities from which the administrative divisions took their names have all been renamed, with the exception of Shusha. While the majority of settlements retained Azeri names, those that were changed to names with Armenian elements carried either administrative significance or socialist themes (Kolkhozashen) (Fig. 111.4).

Fig. 111.4 Number of toponyms by linguistic association. (Source: AdministrativnoTerritorial’noye Deleniye, 1961; author’s research)

111

The Case of Nagorno Karabakh

2025

111.6 Conclusions The initial hypothesis was that one would find a mix of Armenian and Azeri names in Nagorno Karabakh, due to the supposed intentions of pacifying the Turks and integrating two (or more) antagonistic ethnic groups into one region. The most precise guess was that there may be more Azeri toponyms in NKAO, but that the majority of renamings would be toward Armenian names. The actual result was that the commercial and political centers of Nagorno Karabakh were renamed to reflect the Armenian majority, while smaller settlements officially retained their Turkic names. The initial hypothesis, and the Soviet experiment in Karabakh toponymy, both neglected a few important aspects of cultural geography. First, spatial distribution of geographic data is often the first noticed, but it was an aspect apparently ignored in Soviet toponymy. A spatial display of the categories of toponyms (Fig. 111.5) indicates no frontier between “Azeri” and “Armenian” cities in Soviet Nagorno Karabakh. Given the Soviets’ prediction regarding nationalities, the possibility of Nagorno Karabakh becoming a nonethnic oblast’ may have appeared viable. But it became clear in 1988 that ethnicities were still very pronounced, as Karabakh’s people became casualties of the non-frontier between the warring ethnicities. Toponymy does not account for the Karabakh War. However, tensions between the two ethnic groups were exacerbated by the inconsistency created between toponymic and administrative structures: the Soviets did not rename settlements in spatial groups. Rather, towns with Armenian toponyms existed mixed in with Azeri-named towns. The second neglected aspect, that toponyms are incongruent, was mentioned above. In order to perform a significant study of toponymy in any region, a “weighting” of geographic features will be necessary. This weighting would differ according to the political and geographic context of the region considered. In the case of NKAO, where populated places and administrative regions constituted the majority of features surveyed, a simple weighting would be performed according to commercial and administrative importance, and population size. Third, the hybrid toponyms found in NKAO provide another phenomenon seen in ethnolinguistics that applies to toponymy: the heterochthonous nature of toponyms, or the lack of linguistic purity featured in the region’s toponyms. In the context of the Soviet experiment in creating a non-ethnic region in the Union, it should not be a surprise that toponyms were heterochthonous. The pre-revolution maps from 1915 showed a few hybrid names already in existence. In addition, Armenian and Turkic names, as functions of Armenian and Turkic languages which both feature words borrowed from each other, featured political and cultural phenomena of the other culture, as demonstrated in the toponyms Mkhtarishen and Melikjanli. Given the Soviet perspective on nations (Brubaker, 1994), and Nagorno Karabakh specifically (K Istorii. . .), it should be expected that more names would “belong” to more than one language. The Soviet attempt to mix the toponymy of the ethnic groups was frustrated by the administrative structure, which appears to have had the intention of dividing the

2026

B.D. Foster

Fig. 111.5 Spatial distribution of toponyms by linguistic association. (Source: Author)

peoples. The very existence of NKAO symbolically distanced the Karabakh Azeris from Baku via autonomy, but divided the Armenians from Yerevan via administrative division. To the Armenians and Azeris living there, it appeared as a place of limbo between the two republics, instead of an intersection of the two (Yamskov, 1991). Administrative oversight was another difficulty. NKAO was not placed under the direct administration of a Union-level body; rather, it was placed under the administration of the Azerbaijan Soviet Socialist Republic. Armenians frustrated with leadership in Baku had no alternatives or avenues for appeal, given the Union’s strictly hierarchical structure in political and economic matters. The juxtaposition of

111

The Case of Nagorno Karabakh

2027

Fig. 111.6 Stepanakert in its many forms. (Sources: Publishing House #1, Yerevan, 1989; Atlas Angelina, 1989; Azerbaijani Geographic Institute, 1992)

toponymic mixing and administrative division renders the prediction that the ethnic identities would wither away in favor of a universal proletarian identity disastrously inaccurate (Brubaker, 1994: 52). A more critical stance would consider it a deliberate attempt to direct the smaller nations’ frustrations toward each other and create conflict that only a more powerful actor could control (Fig. 111.6). In 1993, only 2 years after declaring independence and despite (or perhaps, because) of the Karabakh War, the government of Azerbaijan began their own renaming campaign in the region. The government renamed the rayons of the former oblast’ and dissolved the oblast’s own boundaries. No less than 116 name-changes took place within those 2 years, as Karmirgyukh (red settlement) was renamed Qızıloba (same), and Chiragidzor became Çıraqdr (PCGN, 1993). Some names, however, such as Yekhtsaog, an Armenian name even according to Azeri sources (Geybullayev, 1986: 119), retained its name. Others were renamed to an Azeri name, but still retained an Armenian element: the new name for the Soviet-era name Khintaglar is Köhne Ta˘glar, from the Armenian tag, meaning chief or head of family.8 Toponymic homogeneity appeared for the first time in the region. And it coincided with the similarly homogeneous administrative structure, even if it did not agree with the demography. The toponymic aspect of the Soviets’ social engineering project in Nagorno Karabakh provides a strong example of the complexity of the toponym. First of all, the Soviet-era toponyms of Nagorno Karabakh provide a good look at the 20th century history of the area: beyond indicating what ethnicities are present, the Soviet attempts to create toponyms with socialist content allow a look into the values, heroes, and symbology of the 20th century socialist state. The narrative also tells quite a bit about the toponym. Rather than treating it as a static label from which it is possible to assign legitimacy, whether ethnic, political, or otherwise, it should be understood that the toponym is ephemeral. For example, the pre-revolutionary town of Krasnyy Bazaar became Qirmizi Bazar after the Soviet Union fell. Mir Bashir became Terter. Second, the names Verin Chayly and Vankly indicate that toponyms are not linguistically exclusive. Both of these toponyms, and others in Nagorno Karabakh, exhibited both Armenian and Azeri elements. Third, toponyms are dependent on the linguistic environment in which they are placed,

2028

B.D. Foster

and just as importantly, they are instruments in the hands of the powerful. In the case of Nagorno Karabakh, they have been used to create political and ethnic legitimacy, secure peaceful borders, and calm irredentist turmoil. Further study regarding history or national identity would do well to keep in mind that toponyms are not immutable monuments, but have authors of their own. The toponymic experiment was but a piece of the Soviets’ project of creating a Soviet identity, but a piece which is often overlooked in favor of the events of mass deportations and colonizations, and the efforts of national education programs. This is not the place to argue which of these comes first, but rather to suggest that toponymy provides an important perspective into building an identity, or in the Soviets’ case, many identities all at once. National education systems in the Soviet Socialist Republics would provide a means of transmitting new identities, via schools, language instruction, and cultural elites (Brubaker, 1994). It stands to reason that the geographic space in which to cultivate this identity would also be necessary.

Notes 1. A note on spelling of geographic names: due to the era researched in this project, sources were mostly Soviet and rendered in Russian. Toponyms are romanized from the Cyrillic alphabet and may not agree with direct Romanization from the Azeri or Armenian forms. 2. Geybullayev (1986) also notes that, even in antiquity, the Caucasus presented a dizzying array of languages. For example, the name Albania, from which both Azerbaijanis and Armenians draw for legitimacy, refers to places in modern-day Armenia, Azerbaijan, Georgia, and even Dagestan. This kind of ambiguity of the toponym undermines the level of accuracy possible with this method. 3. The Karachay-Cherkessian and Kabardino-Balkarian autonomous regions were each home to two nationalities, but these nationalities had no “home” territory elsewhere, as the Azeris and Armenians did, and each ethnicity’s legitimacy was confirmed in the name of the autonomous region. 4. This oblast consisted of the Yerevan (present-day Armenia) and Nakhichevan (made Azeri in 1921) provinces. 5. -tag, meaning “crown,” is problematic, due to its proximity to the Turkic word and toponymic suffix da˘g, meaning “mountain.” I have refrained from using tag as a definitive indicator of either language and used other elements in the toponym instead. -da˘g is considered an Azeri element. 6. The discrepancy between the 334 names collected from the 1915 map and the 251 collected here lies in absence of a boundary of Karabakh in the 1915 maps surveyed, so a larger area was surveyed; also, only populated places are indicated in the Deleniye. 7. These are Hadrut Rayon (from Dizak), Leninavan (from Margushevan), Mardakert Rayon (from Jerabert), and Martuni (from Nerkin Karanlug). 8. Even if it is an alternate spelling of da˘g, meaning mountain, it would have been very easy to remove ambiguity by naming it Da˘glar, instead of Ta˘glar.

References Aliyev, H. (1998). Decree of the president of the Republic of Azerbaijan on the genocide of the Azerbaijani people.

111

The Case of Nagorno Karabakh

2029

˘ Trtib Edilmi¸sdir. ˙ ˙ Iyulun ˙ Azrbaycan SSR: Inzibati-razi Bölgüsü: 1968-ci Il 10-dk Olan Vziyyl Gör (1968). Azrbaycan Dövlt Nsriyyatı. Azerbaydzhanskaya SSR: Administrativno-Territorial’noye Deleniye. (1961). Baku: Azerbaydzhanskoye Gosudarstvennoye Izdatel’stvo. Brubaker, R. (1994). Nationhood and the national question in the Soviet Union and post-Soviet Eurasia: An institutionalist account. Theory and Society, 23, 47–78. Geybullayev, G. A. (1986). Toponimiya Azerbaydzhana: Istoriko-Etnograficheskoye Issledovaniye. Baku: Academy of Sciences of Azerbaijan Soviet Socialist Republic. Hewsen, R. H. (2001). Armenia: A historical atlas. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hovannisian, R. G. (1973). Armenia and the Caucasus in the genesis of the Soviet-Turkish Entente. The International Journal of Middle East Studies, 4, 129–147. Instruktsiya po Russkoy Peredache Geograficheskikh Nazvaniy Armyanskoy SSR. (1974). Moscow: Tsentralnyy Nauchno-issledovatel’skiy Institut Aerogeodezii, Aeros”emki i Kartografii. Instruktsiya po Russkoy Peredache Geograficheskikh Nazvaniy Azerbaydzhankoy SSR. (1972). Moscow: Tsentralnyy Nauchno-issledovatel’skiy Institut Aerogeodezii, Aeros”emki i Kartografii. K Istorii Obrazovaniya Nagorno-Karabakhskoy Avtonomnoy Oblasti Azerbaidzhanskoy Sovetskoy Sotsialistikoy Republiky: Dokumenty i Materialy. (1989). Baku: Azerbaidzhanskoye Gosudarstvennoye Izdatel’stvo. Permanent Committee on Geographic Names. (1993). The geographical names of Nagornyy Karabakh. London. Saparov, A. (2003). The alteration of place names and construction of national identity in Soviet Armenia. Cahiers du Monde Russe, 44, 179–198. Stalin, J. (1913). Marxism and the national question. Prosveshcheniye. Saint Petersburg, Russia. Viechnicki, P. (2008). Language Mapping for 21st century intelligence operations: A case study of Chitral, Pakistan (unpublished paper). Yamskov, A. (1991). Ethnic conflict in the Transcaucasus: The case of Nagorno Karabakh. Theory and Society, 20, 631–660.

Chapter 112

Reconstructing Post-Conflict Human Landscapes: The Land Administration Domain Model Douglas E. Batson

112.1 Introduction U.S. military forces in Iraq and Afghanistan have assumed the unconventional roles of megaengineers as they labor under fire to transform the chaos of post-conflict societies toward economic, social, and political well-being. A titanic reordering of the human landscape in Afghanistan is necessary to thwart the armed brigandage, to use a term employed by attorney and former U.S. military attaché officer Geoffrey Demarest, that thrives in failed states and ungoverned areas of the world. Brigands understand the opportunities that under-supervised territory presents. They quickly impose (their own) ownership regimes, offer services to offended claimants, create loyalties and obligations, and sow fear. . ..These groups immediately focus on property rights. (Demarest, 2008: 277)

This chapter argues for U.S. foreign policy and foreign aid to also focus on transparent property ownership, without which the desired economic, social, and political goals of U.S. Stability Operations remain elusive. Even if secure environments existed in Iraq and Afghanistan, a smooth transfer of nation-building responsibilities from military members to civilian specialists is problematic. Consider the experience of Deborah Alexander. In spring 2002, the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) sent her to Afghanistan to prepare the way for agency experts to aid in that country s reconstruction. Alexander would land at a clandestine airfield and then hitch a ride with a passing United Nations convoy to get to a military base. Once there, she would find the civilaffairs unit: ‘Hi, I m from the government and I m here to help.’ Soldiers were always happy to see her, even if they didn t know she was coming, and they would quickly brief her on the local water, agricultural, and health challenges. She made friends and learned about the needs to be filled by the USAID experts–who arrived 18 months later. (Hegland, 2007)

D.E. Batson (B) Political Geography Division, National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, Washington, DC, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_112,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2031

2032

D.E. Batson

Alexander explains: It takes a while to get them recruited, trained, and out there. Unlike the military, neither USAID nor State has a standing reserve of civilian experts ready to deploy. They can send a few people quickly, but for such substantial operations as those in Afghanistan or Iraq, both have to recruit staff, write and sign contracts, and conduct training – a time-consuming process for which the situation on the ground can t wait. In an ideal world, the military would be a supporting partner to a broader civilian-led operation. But that s challenged by the very real fact that the civilian agencies are under-resourced. Even if they started building capacity today, it would still take a long time. As a result, in the short term, the burden falls on the military. (Hegland, 2007)

By necessity NATO nations, including the US, are retooling military doctrine, organization, planning, and training to conduct non-combat missions. Canada, for example, has implemented a Defense, Development, and Diplomacy (3D) approach: . . .in developing a new external conflict and internal catastrophe/disaster paradigm in which traditional military and police organizations continue to play major roles, but are closely coordinated with all the other instruments of power under the control of the civil authority. The 3D concept is rapidly growing into a broader and more effective strategic whole-ofgovernment and grand-strategy whole-of-alliance paradigm. (Manwaring, 2006: 3)

This chapter examines one overlooked feature of civil-military Stability Operations: land administration. Whether caused by natural or human-made disasters, future social and economic upheavals to fall on populations far greater than the roughly 30 million people each in Afghanistan and Iraq require a tool engineered to register people to their landscapes. Modeling the world’s varied and complex interrelationships between persons and geographic places is made exponentially more difficult in a post-conflict environment where masses of people have been displaced. Yet, for the first time in history the systemic recording of non-title based land rights and interests is feasible with the Land Administration Domain Model (LADM). The LADM, with spatial and legal/administrative components, possesses the needed flexibility to geo-locate, describe, and record the informal settlements and customary socio-tenure relationships typical of non-Western human landscapes.

112.2 An Unsung History of U.S. Military Stability Operations With increasing frequency the first responders to worldwide post-disaster and postconflict crises are the U.S. and allied armed forces. In 1997 former U.S. Marine Corps Commandant Charles Krulak coined the term “three-block war” to describe the combat, peace enforcement, and humanitarian missions that the U.S. military could be expected to perform within a three-block radius of a given urban center. This is a striking contrast with conventional wars of bygone eras. For that reason, a new U.S. Army Field Manual (FM) 3-07 represents a milestone in Army doctrine; a much needed roadmap from conflict to peace, a practical guidebook that institutionalizes the hard-won lessons of the past. FM 3-07 also outlines the military history of the United States, contrary to popular belief, “as one characterized by stability operations, interrupted by distinct episodes of major combat. . .. Since 1775 U.S.

112

Reconstructing Post-Conflict Human Landscapes

2033

military forces have prepared for and fought only 11 conventional wars. Of the hundreds of other military operations, most are now considered to have been stability operations.”(Department of the Army, 2008: 1–1) Three recent examples from FM 3-07 are the following. First, the occupations of Germany and Japan following World War II served as models for modern post-conflict stability operations as the Army reorganized and retrained its forces for a peacetime role that focused on the reconstruction and development of war-torn nations. The postwar occupation of Japan provides apt lessons. The initial 60 days of occupation focused on disarmament and demobilization, essential to the demilitarization of the Japanese military complex and the democratization of Japanese society. Part of the successful democratization was land reform, imposed by victorious U.S. occupation forces, that between 1946 and 1950 saw an increase from 52.8 to 61.8% of owner-cultivators of Japanese farming households, and a dramatic drop in purely tenant households from 28.7 to 5% in the same period (Olson, 1974: 42). Second, Vietnam earned America invaluable experience with the complexity of conducting operations among the people. Military forces contended with an established insurgency while working alongside the other instruments of national power to bring peace and stability to South Vietnam. Through the Civil Operations and Revolutionary Development Support, the efforts of the Departments of State and Defense were integrated under a “single manager concept” that effectively achieved the civil-military unity of effort vital to success. While the overall war effort was ultimately unsuccessful, Civil Operations and Revolutionary Development Support provided valuable lessons that helped shape contemporary approaches to stability operations (Fig. 112.1).

Fig. 112.1 U.S. military assists displaced persons in the wake of a Central American natural disaster. (Source: Department of Defense)

2034

D.E. Batson

Third, following the end of the Cold War, the Army began reducing force structure while preparing to reap the benefits of a new era of peace. The benefits of this “peace dividend” were never realized. The strategic environment evolved from one characterized by the bipolar nature of the relationship between the world’s dominant powers to one of shared responsibility across the international community. In the decade after the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Army led or participated in more than 15 stability operations, intervening in places such as Haiti, Liberia, Somalia, and the Balkans. Many of these efforts continued into the new century, and incursions into Afghanistan and Iraq revealed a disturbing trend throughout the world: the collapse of established governments, the rise of international criminal and terrorist networks, and a seemingly endless array of humanitarian crises, and grinding poverty (Department of the Army, 2008: 1–2)

112.3 Stability Operations and Human Landscapes Yet the lightening quick U.S. military victories in Iraq in 1991 and 2003, and in Afghanistan in 2001 failed to win the peace. “While securing a lasting peace is an evitable task for the U.S. Army in any conflict, it is one that arguably receives little attention from the public, from policymakers, or, until, recently the military itself” writes Operation DESERT STORM veteran and military historian Kendall Gott. (Gott, 2006: 1) That lacuna is finally relegated to the past now that Stability Operations have become a core military mission on par with combat operations. In his foreword to FM 3-07, Lieutenant General William B. Caldwell IV notes that U.S. civil-military Stability Operations will “promote participation in government, spur economic development, and address the root causes of conflict among the disenfranchised populations of the world.” (Department of the Army, 2008) Not only are many post-conflict populations disenfranchised, but also dispossessed. One could argue that post-Cold War conflicts have not been primarily over land. But even if control over, or access to, land resources have not directly caused conflict, according to McGill University geography professor Jon Unruh, “conflicts that had no land component initially can lead to tenure problems in the peace process, due to the spatial nature of both land tenure and armed combat” (Unruh, 2002: 338). Unruh continues: An end to armed conflict, especially a prolonged one, prompts the affected population to begin to seek access, or solidify claims, to land resources. Often, large rural populations have been displaced. As a result, local land tenure and property rights issues can emerge quickly, over large geographic areas, for considerable numbers of people. Complex histories of property, land, and territory lead to conflict scenarios. Likewise, the postwar reestablishment of ownership, use, and access rights will also be complex. Left unattended, they promote renewed confrontation. (Unruh, 2002: 337)

Colonel Steven Fleming, professor of geography at the U.S. Military Academy, relates that resolving land conflicts is indispensable for Stability Operations. Regarding Operation Iraqi Freedom, Fleming notes that “from a military position, warfighting, for example, ‘the March to Baghdad,’ did not concern itself much with

112

Reconstructing Post-Conflict Human Landscapes

2035

land ownership. However, post-conflict nation-building and reconstruction inherently involve mass movements of people. Therefore knowledge of land ownership is central to the success of those missions” (Fleming, 2007; personal interview). In other words, for two of the three missions of the three-block war concept, land administration is important. For first responders, early assessment of the state of post-conflict land records, land institutions, and land problems is an integral part of restoring peace and stability. However, the urgency of round-the-clock food, water, medical, and shelter distribution often eclipses land tenure and property rights assessments, assuming first that the responding civil-military force possesses the know-how to conduct such assessments. Compared with the high visibility provision of emergency aid, a lack of public clamor about land issues invites further postponements. Meanwhile, armed brigands consolidate their power, anonymity, and impunity in unregistered properties. Analysis of cadastral (land and property) data has the potential to identify a group’s ideologies and economic pillars and to provide military commanders with detailed knowledge of the human terrain, i.e., identification of power brokers on the ground whose support or obstruction may determine mission success at reengineering the area. By tying a name to a place a cadastre can answer the difficult “who” question: who is behind a given problem. Citing his experience in Liberia, Unruh cautions stability practitioners not to be fooled: in postwar countries a surge of land tenure problems tend to surface three to five years after the fighting ceases. This is because in the immediate postwar lull, people are upgrading livelihoods in rudimentary ways. But, at about three to five years, continued upgrading needs a property rights system and it is then that the problems emerge. While social unrest connected to land and property issues is unlikely while UNMIL [United Nations Mission in Liberia] has a large presence in the country, at some point the peacekeeping forces will be stepped down and the rule of law needs to step up. (Unruh, 2007: 3)

Naturally, the ideal time to head off a post-conflict land crisis, as occurred in East Timor in 2006 as an aftershock to its 1999 civil war, is to anticipate it and, soon upon arrival in a country, develop a cadastral framework in advance of the inevitable problems. Demarest explains how cadastres reduce the means and motivations for violent conflict, undergird megaengineering projects, and expose the assets with which brigands finance their illicit operations to seizure. First, ownership outside the bounds of formal property maps is possession by force; logically any country that does not formalize property ownership is doomed to internal violence or tyranny. Secondly, concerning the billions of dollars spent on Stability Operations and foreign aid, developmental projects waste time and money when attempted where property rights and transparent records do not exist. Thirdly, the strategic intelligence and law enforcement uses of property data are spectacular – land records, when placed in a geographic information system (GIS) uncover money laundering, extortion, and corruption (Demarest, 2004: 1). Of course cadastres and land tenure reforms that reengineer the human landscape can be threatening to parties who want to maintain a status quo that cements their prestige, power, and profit.

2036

D.E. Batson

Slum organizers, political bosses and tribal chiefs can often view tenure regularization as eroding their privileged social and economic position. Municipal officials and ministries that exhibited near absolute power over land decisions do not easily give up control. Political sympathy for squatters is frequently low. Change, which improves the situation for some, will necessarily erode political, cultural, and/or economic power for others. For all these reasons and more, the process is often complicated, political and violent (Durand-Lasserve & Royston, 2002: 241)

Land records support effective law enforcement with asset forfeiture and geographic crime prediction. When anonymity of wealth and impunity are gone, the local populace is less likely to support the purveyors of instability: armed brigands better known as terrorists, insurgents, crime bosses, narco-traffickers, and slum lords. Demerest concludes, “the consequence is obvious, and, among other things, advises industrial-level GIS cadastral projects for countries of special interest” (Demarest, 2004: 1). In addition to resolving causes of civil strife and violence, transparent, systematic cadastres also strengthen host nation governance, economic development, and the rule of law. And for Stability Operations to achieve agreedupon economic, social, and political end states for a war- or disaster-ravaged nation, cadastres have the potential to become the active ingredient for conflict transformation. Conflict transformation is the process of reducing the means and motivations for violent conflict while developing more viable, peaceful alternatives for the competitive pursuits of political and socio-economic aspirations (Department of the Army, 2008: 1–6). Where a cadastral system is in use, the rule of law is evident, “the system acts as the backbone of society,” states International Federation of Surveyors (FIG) President Stig Enemark (ITC, 2005: 17). That backbone is lacking in the U.S’s nearest neighbor, Cuba. A post-Castro Cuban crisis, with out-migration, racial and retributional violence, transnational organized crime, black marketing of military hardware, ecological disasters, and every form of fraud regarding property claims, would pose a great challenge to U.S. foreign policy (Demarest, 2008: 102). For that reason, Cuba presents a golden opportunity for the U.S. to marshal its civil-military Defense, Diplomacy, and Development (3D) programs around a megaengineering of Cuban property rights before a Caribbean calamity strikes. The island nation of 11 million Spanish-speaking people is ideally suited to hone the land administration skills of U.S. civil-military officials on a small scale. Stability Operations in the aftermath of a future civil war or a natural disaster in South Asia or Africa, with peri-urban slums home to more people than Cuba’s 11 million, speaking strange languages and writing in unintelligible scripts, are nightmarish scenarios even for veteran development and aid cadres who were under fire in Afghanistan and Iraq.

112.3.1 Cadastres Aiding Post-Conflict Afghanistan It is clear that if costly and lengthy commitments to win the peace, for example, Stability Operations, are truly to be on par with commitments to win the war, then

112

Reconstructing Post-Conflict Human Landscapes

2037

building cadastres and the human resources capacity to maintain them is an absolute necessity. Sadly, land tenure and property rights topics and land administration systems are not yet part and parcel of U.S. Stability Operations planning, training, and operations. The efforts of local level Afghanis to themselves engineer their political and socio-economic spaces can, however, only be viewed as encouraging. By mapping and registering their land interests years before a reconstructed central government could do so, the following examples bode well to elevate the attention registered human landscapes should receive in the post-Iraq/Afghanistan Stability Operations era. Little assistance in settling land disputes and registering rights and interests in lands is forthcoming from the Afghan national government, and even less from the meagerly resourced provincial and district governments of that country. Thus, moving beyond the morass requires initiative at the community level. Nearly all Afghan pastureland, while state-owned, is customarily managed by families, clans, or tribes, and not by private owners. These parties, settled agricultural families and also nomads, raise livestock and gather fuel and medicinal herbs on semiarid pastures. Agreements about who has rights to these lands for what purposes during what time of the year have, for centuries, been verbal ones. Most rural families, and also many urban ones, do not use the formal, court-prepared title deeds to document property transactions. Yet the lack of court-prepared documents does not leave Afghans who conduct business informally without any form of tenure security. Customary arrangements, even verbal agreements, witnessed by family members and respected elders have sufficed for centuries because most dealings are inheritance matters and intra-family or intra-tribal agreements. Non-related persons privately draft documents, again witnessed by locally respected people, which are retained by the parties to the transaction without the involvement of any government official (Stanfield, 2007). In response to increasing insecurity of tenure on Afghan rangelands, which occurred only in recent, post-conflict years, a Terra Institute Rural Lands Administration Project (RLAP) team sprung into action. The Terra Institute is a Wisonsin-based non-profit, which, since 1974, has focused on land tenure, land policy reform, land administration and management, immovable property registration, environmental protection, natural resources management and privatization issues. Administered through the auspices of Afghanistan’s Ministry of Agriculture, Irrigation and Livestock, the RLAP team created a community-based initiative to produce and record community agreements about who has the legitimate rights to use pasture lands for particular purposes during specific times of the year. Local land stakeholders agree in writing on the legitimate uses and users of pasturelands, delineate boundaries using satellite imagery, and develop plans for improving productivity of defined parcels of rangeland. Following the customary signing and witnessing by village elders, often including local leaders known as maliks, the documents are archived in the village with copies sent to government land institutions. There is trust in this system for several reasons: (1) because local leaders have indicated their concurrence with the agreements, (2) the documents describing legitimate use rights are kept in village archives; and (3) the agreements are

2038

D.E. Batson

facilitated by the efforts of educated maliks to represent the local people in court disputes or in dealings with government agencies and other outside organizations. The RLAP initiative has summarized the tested procedures for producing the rangeland agreements with the acronym A-D-A-M-A P (Stanfield, 2007): Ask for community cooperation Delineate the boundaries of rangeland parcels Agreements are prepared concerning the legitimate users of the rangeland parcels Meet, discuss and approve the agreements and delineations Archive the agreements and delineated images Plan for the improvement of the rangeland parcels

There have been discussions of expanding RLAP’s rangeland agreements into a national effort. Their method has resulted in increased security of tenure and a decrease in rangeland disputes. Village leaders may desire a similar approach to council-supervised identification of private agricultural lands. Satellite imagery identifies parcel boundaries; forms noting ownership and other rights to the parcels are prepared, signed, witnessed, and retained by the village councils (shuras or jirgas) with copies sent to provincial government agencies. Nomadic peoples, whose livelihoods for centuries have been dependent on animal husbandry, in post-conflict years have had serious problems with access to land for feeding and watering their flocks. Traditional seasonal migration routes are often interrupted in Afghanistan by local militia commanders trying to stop nomads from traveling their traditional routes to and from mountain pastures in the summer. To counteract these demands with evidence of long term traditional easements, steps are being taken by the nomads to document those routes. GPS information facilitates the negotiations of agreements with villagers for rights of passage (Fig. 112.2 and Stanfield, 2007). Concerning the pasturelands experience and the incremental step to extend the method to agricultural lands with ADAMAP, Dr. J. David Stanfield, Senior Scientist Emeritus at the University of Wisconsin – Madison and President of Terra Institute, concludes: The legitimization of rights to pasture lands, a potentially very complicated process, shows that community definition of such rights is entirely feasible and normally quickly accomplished. Moreover, villagers are quite willing to keep those records and commit to updating the agreements when the conditions change requiring changes in the written agreements. Taking that experience another step and applying the same principles of community legitimization of property rights to agricultural land showed that the generation of property records at the community level is not only feasible but that village elders are organizing to do the work themselves, using the satellite imagery provided to them. (Stanfield, 2007)

112.3.2 Land Policy in Afghanistan Another success to tout is the work of Dr. Yohannes Gebremedhin, formerly USAID/Land Titling and Economic Restructuring of Afghanistan (LTERA), Land Titling/Legal Team Leader, and former advisor to the Afghan Ministry of

112

Reconstructing Post-Conflict Human Landscapes

2039

Fig. 112.2 Afghan villagers view satellite image. (Source: Terra Institute)

Agriculture, who assisted the Inter-Ministerial Land Working group in preparing a national land policy for guiding the massive, multi-billion dollar development programs in his country, which, to date, have met with very limited success. In 2007 the Land Policy was approved by the Afghan Cabinet, but a shift in priorities, especially by weary donors that gravitate toward short-term projects yielding visible results, has precluded its implementation. This land policy would be very helpful in encouraging Afghan ministries, as well as donors, to work with a single strategic view. Intelligent leadership is needed to move this excellent work by the Inter-Ministerial Working Group into widespread acceptance and to apply it to rural, urban, and range land issues. The adoption of a national land policy would establish the foundation for a desperately needed National Land Administration Agency, distinct from the entity now administering rural land records and state-owned lands. Resting on the national land policy, a consolidated Land Administrative System could formalize land tenure, integrate formal and informal processes to register property freely, and link cadastral with other maps to create a parcel-based cadastre. Such lofty goals in a stable and well-resourced environment would take years to achieve; in Afghanistan two decades at a minimum, even assuming that the insurgency completely disappears.

112.3.3 A USAID Project in Urban Kabul The Land Titling and Economic Restructuring of Afghanistan (LTERA), USAIDfunded and implemented by Emerging Markets Group (EMG), has presented a

2040

D.E. Batson

Fig. 112.3 Satellite image of Kabul District 7. (Source: LTERA)

five-prong integrated approach to land titling and economic restructuring efforts (Gebremedhin, 2005): The steps are: • • • • •

Land Registration System Mapping and Land Information System Tenure Regularization Policy and Legal Framework, and Release of Public Land

The project has done important work in rehabilitating and re-organizing deeds in Provincial Court archives, although little progress has been made in simplifying land titling procedures, or clarifying the property rights legal framework, reducing the cost of transactions or re-organizing land administration agencies. LTERA ended its five years in Afghanistan in 2009. The complete report for 2004-2009 projects is available at http://pdf.usaid.gov/pdf_docs/PDACP698.pdf. One LTERA project is worth mentioning, viz., the upgrading of informal settlements in two districts of Kabul (Figs. 112.3 and 112.4). LTERA selected two Community Development Councils (CDCs) that were established by UN-HABITAT in two gozars (neighborhoods) in Districts 7 and 13. This decision was based, in part, because the community had already established representative bodies (shuras) and both residents and the municipality were willing to participate in the program. Although the shuras had been involved in previous upgrading projects, the issue of tenure security had not been addressed prior to the LTERA project’s program. In District 13, newly established land clarification boards

112

Reconstructing Post-Conflict Human Landscapes

2041

Fig. 112.4 Old cadastre map of Kabul. (Source: LTERA)

review property deeds presented by the informal settlers; 95% of these are informal, customary deeds. Disputes settled at the community level avoid the bureaucratic and uncertain procedures of the Kabul courts. Once community consensus is reached about who lives, or has the right to live, where, LTERA requests a municipality to issue a "certificate of comfort." While not a property deed, it is a valuable form of tenure security (LTERA, 2007). Out of this pilot effort to formalize informal settlements, LTERA has developed preliminary proposals to create a legal basis for regularizing tenure in other such contexts. The team has developed a replicable and cost-effective methodology that upgrades basic services, regularizes tenure, and formally integrates informal settlements into the municipality’s urban planning process. The projects in Districts 7 and 13 are testing an incremental, community-based method of upgrading and tenure regularization. These neighborhoods were chosen because their problems were obvious. Informal settlers lived in fear of forced eviction and, therefore, had no incentive to improve their dwellings, start businesses, or upgrade their neighborhoods. An LTERA employee informed the author: We estimate that in Districts 7 and 13, the implementation of the 1978 Kabul Master Plan would result in evicting 2000 households (about 14,000 people). We are preparing a land use

2042

D.E. Batson

plan for the Districts. The plan contains alternative land development options which better reflect current land patterns, provide residents access to basic services, and considerably minimize the number of evictions. Once approved by the municipality, it will halt forced evictions. (LTERA, 2007)

A 2006 preliminary study of the LTERA project in District 7, was conducted by an Afghan NGO well versed in the techniques and philosophy of community action planning, the Cooperation for the Reconstruction of Afghanistan (CRA). CRA identified the possibility of improved tenure security in terms of increased business activity and housing construction, especially where improvement in security of tenure was accompanied by community organization and the physical upgrading of the District’s streets and drainage systems. Interviews with community leaders and residents also showed that people’s perception of tenure security and general community conditions have improved significantly since the implementation of the project. The shura and community leaders involved with the property adjudication process reiterated their support for the project and confirmed that it had resulted in improved perceptions of security and increased economic activity. Lessening fear of the forced eviction bulldozer, resolving disputes, demarcating plots, providing funds for community infrastructure upgrading, actually enabled community development. Each success, no matter how small, builds upon the other to provide security of tenure and eventual upgrading of the settlement into formalized, registered properties.

112.4 The Land Administration Domain Model As long as people have owned property, they have also sold it, bought it, and passed it on to their heirs. In antiquity to affect a transaction the parties involved would meet at the city gates in the presence of the community elders, or congregate in the marketplace in presence of a government official, or assemble somewhere else in public, and there agree upon their terms. The transaction may or may not have been written, depending upon local custom. But whether recorded in parchment, books, or peoples’ memory, the transaction was public, and therefore considered legitimate. But cadastres cannot be compared across borders. “Each land system reflects the unique cultural and social context of the country in which it operates,” (Steudler, Rajabifard, & Williamson, 2004: 4) which is why deed- or title-based land registries have been unworkable in informal settlements, customary tenure, and post-conflict situations, all replete with competing land claims. Until now there has never been an internationally accepted standard or method for evaluating land administration systems. In the late 1990s Juerg Kaufmann and Daniel Steudler co-authored Cadastre 2014, a pioneering approach to model the cadastral domain based not on parcels, but on legal land objects. Kaufmann notes that a cadastre, with its traditional role of documenting land rights, restrictions, and responsibilities, can be viewed as a bookkeeping or "accounting system" for land issues, ultimately supporting a post-conflict

112

Reconstructing Post-Conflict Human Landscapes

2043

reconstruction period through the transition to sustainable development (Kaufmann, 2002). Indeed, the ability to measure, compare, and analyze the world’s various cadastral systems is forthcoming. International cadastral experts Rajabifard, Binns, Williamson, and Steudler have begun development of a cadastral template that can link the operational aspects of a country’s land administration systems with its land policy. Side-by-side country comparisons and statistics, available on a public website at www.cadastraltemplate.org, are already useful for analysis. In 2008, for example, 42 nations’ self-reports indicate that 72% have title-based cadastral systems, 21% deed-based, and the remaining 7% a mix of the two. Significant inventiveness on the part of Dutch academicians Christiaan Lemmen, Peter van Oosterom, and Paul van der Molen, and Nairobi-based, chief of the Land Tenure Unit at UN-HABITAT, Clarissa Augustinus has resulted in the Land Administration Domain Model (LADM). The LADM is compelling because it makes explicit the various types of land rights, restrictions, or responsibilities. It is flexible enough to record land tenure types not based on the traditional cadastral parcel, that is, customary, informal land rights such as occupancy, usufruct, lease, or traverse. Still in development and undergoing field testing, the LADM has garnered support from standardization and professional bodies such as the FIG, Open GIS Consortium (OGC), UN-HABITAT, and the Infrastructure for Spatial Information in Europe (EU-INSPIRE) (van Oosterom et al., 2006: 629). In February 2008 the International Standards Organization (ISO/TC211), the body responsible for determining all international standards, accepted the LADM as New Work Item Proposal 1954. At this writing the working draft has progressed to a committee draft and, by the end of 2009 the LADM, as ISO 19152, is poised to become a Draft International Standard. The timeline suggests that by 2011, the LADM could become the world’s first internationally standard for cadastre (Lemmen, van Oosterom, Uitermark, Thompson, & Hespanha, 2009: 20).

112.4.1 The Recordable Ties Between People and Their Landscapes Imagine a well-watered valley. Every year a family of herders do what their ancestors have done for centuries, bring their flocks to pasture in the valley every spring (Layer A in Fig. 112.6). In that same valley there are farmers practicing their ancestral livelihood (Layer B), who, honoring a longstanding verbal agreement, to allow the herders water rights every spring. Recently, a major drought forced a related ethnic group from a neighboring country to settle in the valley. The government does not enjoy friendly relations with the neighboring country and considers these new arrivals as illegal squatters. Decades ago, unbeknownst to either the herders or the farmers, the newly emergent government laid claim to the entire valley as State domain (Layer D). The government never attempted to develop the land until now, when a foreign mineral company notified the government of a valuable resource in part of the valley, and negotiated a lease (Layer C). For each of these four parties a different land right is at work (Figs. 112.5 and 112.6).

2044

D.E. Batson

Fig. 112.5 Complexities and conflicts resulting from different types of tenure. (Source: Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) of the United Nations)

The LADM has reduced the complex database models that underlie titlebased cadastres to a simple principle: that a relationship (rights, socio-tenure) always exist between land (spatial objects) and people. No matter how messy or difficult the world’s land disputes, nothing falls outside this basic principle. The LADM then translates these three categories into Unified Modeling Language (UML) to establish three classes for its cadastre: Person–Right–Spatial Object, in that order. The LADM enables registration and maintenance of “relationships between people and land irrespective of the nature of the country’s jurisprudence; this ability offers opportunities for the integration of statutory, customary, and informal arrangements within conventional land administration systems” (Lemmen, Augustinus, van Oosterom, & van der Molen, 2007: 7). Because the LADM should be able to accommodate any legal framework, it allows tremendous flexibility in describing the persons and places involved and in the systemic recording of rights that are not title-based legal rights, but claims that may need adjudication. The LADM possesses the critical functionality to merge formal and informal land tenure systems, and urban and rural cadastres, into one data environment; it defines a reference model, covering all basic information-related components of Land Administration. In brief, the LADM offers the following features (Lemmen et al., 2009: 4–5). LADM provides:

112

Reconstructing Post-Conflict Human Landscapes

2045

Fig. 112.6 Hand drawn parcels sketch in San Luis Potosi, Mexico. (Source: Mexico Indigena Project)

• an abstract, conceptual schema with five basic packages, related to: (1) people and organizations (parties in LADM terminology), (2) parcels (spatial units in LADM terminology), (3) property rights (rights, responsibilities, and restrictions in LADM terminology), (4) surveying, and (5) geometry and topology, • a terminology for Land Administration, based on various national and international systems, as simple as possible in order to be useful in practice. The terminology allows a shared description of different practices and procedures in various jurisdictions, • a basis for national and regional profiles, and • the combining of land administration information from different sources in a coherent manner.

2046

D.E. Batson

The LADM links spatial data from very different systems. In the past this linking has been very problematic for land information, in part because of the database structure. Registering human landscapes with a myriad of social tenures to land requires the linkage of disparate data, and this is where the LADM excels. LADM is less a database than a word processor. Anything, even photographs, hand drawn sketches, and oral testimony, can be put into the document, as long as it records all evidence relevant to a property and the rights various people claim on it. Thus, LADM is especially suited to recording deeds. Furthermore, the LADM promises the following features: (Lemmen et al., 2007: 12): • Formal and informal tenure systems can be held in one data environment. • The computer-based system is reversible to and from a paper-based one. • Spatial information can be represented in existing geodetic networks and in new spatial frameworks. • Spatial data can be linked to other systems. • The environment is distributed and decentralized, simultaneously processing on multiple, geographically separated computers over a network, making it usable centrally and locally. • Source data can be of disparate types, with different geospatial accuracies. • Different tenures can be allowed to overlap. • Places can be identified by a range of identifiers: geo-referenced parcels, unreferenced parcels, lines, points, and • Conflicts can be recorded, women’s access to land can be ensured, and highly complex relationships can be described. Engineering the earth via land information systems should serve decision makers at national, regional and local level, with the emphasis on decentralized decision making. This is the basic concept behind the LADM: to produce and provide (1) land registration (the administrative/legal component) and (2) geo-referenced cadastral mapping (the spatial component) for land administration in a decentralized environment. The model will allow better vertical coordination, between “bottom up” local/community interests and “top down” information and policy guidance. National development policies can be harmonized with local programs (Lemmen et al., 2007: 13) Thus, LADM facilitates the rehabilitation of both local and central governance.

112.4.2 Registering Pro-Poor Landscapes The Social Tenure Domain Model (STDM), as a specialization of the LADM, is included as an informative annex in the ISO 19152 LADM draft standard. The STDM, as it stands, has the capacity to broaden the scope of land administration by providing a land information management framework that would integrate formal, informal, and customary land systems and integrating administrative and spatial components. This is hugely important because property, even real property, is not a

112

Reconstructing Post-Conflict Human Landscapes

2047

thing. Property is a concert of rights, associated with the thing, that regulates relationships between people (Demarest, 2008: 265). The LADM/STDM makes large scale, engineering the earth projects such as the reconstruction of Afghanistan and Iraq entirely possible through tools that facilitate recording all forms of land rights (and even claims), all types of rights holders and all kinds land and property objects (spatial units) regardless of the level of formality. Not only in regard to formality, but the idea behind STDM also makes a departure in terms of going beyond some established conventions. The STDM thus provides an extensible basis for efficient and effective system of land rights recording. It focuses on land and property rights, which are neither registered nor registerable, as well as overlapping claims, that may have to be adjudicated both in terms of the “who”, the “where” and the “what right?” Finally, the STDM’s emphasis on social tenure relationships reflects the continuum of land rights concept promoted by Global Land Tool Network (GLTN), UN-HABITAT, and the international community. (Lemmen et al., 2009: 13). Major Dan E. Stigall, a U.S. Army Judge Advocate (JAG) trained in continental civil law at Louisiana State University, deployed to Iraq in 2004, and has published widely on Iraqi civil law since that time. Stigall noted that Iraqi property law is derived primarily from continental civil law but also contains elements of Ottoman and Islamic land law. Though there is still a great need to increase the administrative capacity of the judiciary, Iraq has been and remains capable of sound land administration (Stigall, 2008: 20–21). In Afghanistan, sadly, this is not the case and building the capacity of land administration and the judiciary in that shattered nation will take decades.

112.5 Conclusion Keeping the peace in post-conflict landscapes requires many forms of action; one very specific action is a focus on land tenure and property rights. This focus would, which possibly more than any other kind of U.S. foreign aid, transform a volatile state into a capable one, has not been evident in U.S. led-reconstruction efforts in Afghanistan and Iraq. The coming political changes in Cuba represent a challenge for the U.S. to retain the strategic initiative over non-state actors able and willing to give succor to the wide variety of post-Castro land and property ownerclaimants. A land registration system can prevent or lessen conflict by bringing simmering land and property disputes into the public forum and recording the resulting local adjudications. "A good cadastre will be the greatest achievement in my civil code," said Napoleon, who 200 years ago implemented a megaengineering project, a universal type of property right whose perennial representation would eliminate disputes and facilitate uniform taxation. For two centuries formalized property rights have been foundational to Western civil peace and prosperity. Cadastres, along with security of tenure, land policy, and dispute resolution are key tools in efforts to restore sound land administration to post-conflict nations. With the advent of ISO 19152, the LADM aspires to be everything land administrators and civil-military Stability Operations practitioners want to address the land issues

2048

D.E. Batson

of post-conflict societies. For large-scale, post-disaster and post-conflict megaengineering projects especially, the LADM merits close attention by NATO, the U.S. State and Defense Departments, USAID, and other entities seeking to bring about stabilization because it stands to be a breakthrough tool for aiding countries with weak or totally absent land administration.

References Demarest, G. (2004). Cadastres (Land Registries) and Global Security. Paper presented at the Environmental Systems Research Institute (ESRI) Users Conference. Retrieved April 29, 2009, from http://proceedings.esri.com/library/userconf/proc04/docs/pap2177.pdf Demarest, G. (2008). Property & peace: Insurgency, strategy, and the statue of frauds. Fort Leavenworth, KS: Foreign Military Studies Office. Department of the Army. (2008). Field Manual (FM) 3-07 Stability Operations. Retrieved April 29, 2009, from https://rdl.train.army.mil/soldierPortal/atia/adlsc/view/public/9630-1/fm/307/chap1.htm# Durand-Lasserve, A., & Royston, L. (2002). Holding their ground: Secure land tenure for the urban poor in developing countries. London: Earthscan Publications Ltd. Fleming, S. (2007). Personal interview by the author, 10 August. Gebremedhin, Y. (2005). Legal Issues Pertaining to Land Titling and Registration in Afghanistan, prepared by Land Titling and Economic Restructuring in Afghanistan (LTERA). Retrieved April 29, 2009, from http://www.terrainstitute.org/pdf/Legal_Analysis_of_Land_Laws.pdf Gott, K. D. (2006) Mobility, vigilance, and justice: The U.S. army constabulary in Germany, 1946– 1953. Occasional Paper 11. Fort Leavenworth, KS: Combat Studies Institute Press. Hegland, C. (2007) Pentagon, State Struggle to Define Nation-Building Roles. Government Executive, 30 April 2007. International Institute for Geo-Information Science and Earth Observation (ITC). (2005). Land administration: The path towards tenure security, poverty alleviation and sustainable development. Enschede, Netherlands: ITC Lunstrum Conference: Spatial Information for Civil Society. Paper presented. Kaufmann, J. (2002). Future cadastres: The bookkeeping systems for land administration supporting sustainable development. Bogota, Colombia: First International Seminar on Cadastral System, Land Administration and Sustainable Development. Paper presented. Land Titling and Economic Restructuring of Afghanistan (LTERA). (2007). Providing Land Tenure Security in Afghanistan. Retrieved September 9, 2009, from www.ltera.org/USAID_ LTERA_LAND_TENURE.html#Teaming_Up_With_the_WorldBank_KURP_Program_> Lemmen, C., Augustinus, C., van Oosterom, P., & van der Molen, P. (2007). The social tenure domain model—Design of a first draft model. Hong Kong, SAR, China: International Federation of Surveyors (FIG). Paper presented. Lemmen, C., van Oosterom, P., Uitermark, H., Thompson, R., & Hespanha, J. (2009). Transforming the Land Administration Domain Model (LADM) into an ISO Standard (ISO19152). Eilat, Israel: International Federation of Surveyors (FIG). Paper presented. Manwaring, M. G. (2006). Defense, Development, and Diplomacy (3D): Canadian and U.S. Military Perspectives. The Strategic Studies Institute of the U.S. Army War College. Retrieved April 29, 2009, from http://www.strategicstudiesinstitute.army.mil/pubs/ display.cfm?pubID=732 Olson, G. (1974). U.S. foreign policy and the Third World peasant: Land reform in Asia and Latin America. New York: Praeger Publishers. Stanfield, J. D. (2007). Community recording of property rights: Focus on Afghanistan. Charlotte, NC: International Association of Clerks, Recorders, Election Officials and Treasurers (UIACREOT). Annual Conference and Trade Show. Paper Presented.

112

Reconstructing Post-Conflict Human Landscapes

2049

Steudler, D., Rajabifard, A., & Williamson, I. (2004). Evaluation of land administration systems. Land Use Policy, 21, 4. Stigall, D. E. (2008). Refugees and Legal Reform in Iraq: The Iraqi Civil Code, International Standards for the Treatment of Displaced Persons, and the Art of Attainable Solutions. Social Science Research Network. Retrieved April 29, 2009, from http://papers.ssrn.com/ sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=1157449 Unruh, J. (2002). Local land tenure in the peace process. Peace Review, 14(3), 337–342. Unruh, J. (2009). Land rights in postwar Liberia: The volatile part of the peace process. Land Use Policy, 26, 425–433. Van Oosterom, P., Lemmen, C., Ingvarsson, T., van der Molen, P., Ploeger, H., Quak, W., et al. (2006). The core cadastral domain model. ScienceDirect: Computers, Environments and Urban Systems, 30, 629.

Part XIV

Political Organization of Space

Chapter 113

Zoning as a Form of Social Engineering Bobby M. Wilson and Seth Appiah-Opoku

113.1 Introduction Zoning is the division of a community into districts or zones in which certain activities are prohibited and others are included. This chapter discusses the history and evolution of zoning as a land use regulatory tool in the U.S. The nature, purpose, legal basis and the socioeconomic impact of zoning as practiced in the U.S. are discussed. The Supreme Court case that has provided a convenient description of the U.S. approach to zoning is Euclid v. Ambler decided in 1926. Under the Euclidian approach to zoning, the districts or zones took the shape of a pyramid in structure. At the apex of the pyramid is residential use, especially the single family home, the least restrictive, whereas commerce and industry are the most restrictive. All zoning is in essence a form of social engineering that arranges and channels land uses “to create a high probability that effective social action will occur” (Alexander & Schmidt, 1996: 1). But one unintended consequence of this social engineering experiment has been damage to our environment by segregating land uses and forcing people to drive everywhere thereby clogging our arteries and our streets. As a result, the Euclidean form of social engineering is no longer typical of zoning in the U.S. (Fischel, 1985: 21). A major criticism of Euclidean or traditional zoning was its inflexibility. In response, local governments have increasingly enacted sophisticated zoning tools designed to resolve rigid and conflicting interests in land use. As a form of social engineering, zoning has also been used by local governments to achieve social control over a target population. Through zoning, local governments are social engineers that transform their communities, embarking on major interventions in the name of social order and morality. We discuss some of these engineering practices and their socioeconomic impacts and legal concerns using specific case examples.

B.M. Wilson (B) Department of Geography, University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa, AL 35487, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_113,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2053

2054

B.M. Wilson and S. Appiah-Opoku

113.2 History and Evolution of Zoning Zoning is a planning tool by which local governments divide land areas into districts according to the potential use of the land and regulate the type, size or bulk, and placement of use within those districts. What set zoning apart from other forms of land use regulation is the territorial division of land into districts and the application of land use regulations that are uniform for each district. The underlying rationale is that certain uses are incompatible with other uses and should therefore be segregated. Zoning originated in Frankfurt, Germany in 1891 as a tool to improve the living conditions of the working class by: (a) promoting safety from fire, hygiene and traffic; (b) reducing housing densities; (c) segregating industrial uses from residential use or excluding undesirable uses; and (d) limiting the development of skyscrapers. As the practice spread in Germany, pioneers of modern planning in the U.S. watched the development with great admiration. An expanded concept of local authority to regulate land use accompanied the transformation of American society from rural-agricultural to urban-industrial between the mid-1880s and the early 1920s. When America was basically an agrarian society, farmers mainly decided how best to use their land. With increasing urbanization, land use becomes more complex, requiring land for different types of housing, industry, transport, recreation that compete against one another for space. It was the reality of the market that gave rise to land use regulation, which made its historical appearance as a result of the urban dislocations, irrationalities, and conflicts associated with the free market economy. In a land market largely devoid of governmental regulation, the price a willing buyer is willing to pay to a willing seller determines land use. Market allocation of urban land gave rise to inefficiency, instability, and disharmony. The deplorable conditions of tenement houses in New York City led Jacob Riis to write How the Other Half Lives (1890). Urban dislocations also got the attention of people like Frederick Law Olmsted who brought to the attention of local governments the need for public open space in cities. With Calvert Vaux in 1869, he developed the first planned suburban community, Riverside, Illinois, that became a model for future suburban planning. Making use of English garden principles, Olmsted and Vaux engineered a system of gently curving tree-lined streets and single family detached houses with deep setbacks of lawn and trees (So & Getzels, 1988: 26). Prior to 1900, land use regulation, as it did exist, was effected largely through the common law of nuisance and restrictive covenants that were largely the result of private rather than governmental initiative. The few restrictions that local governments did impose were narrowly construed by the courts (Greenbaum, 1978: 98). In 1867 San Francisco passed an ordinance that prohibited “specific” obnoxious uses including the building of slaughter houses, hog storage facilities, and hide curing plants in certain districts of the city. New York enacted the first Tenement House law, setting the stage for further evolution of land use regulation in America. In the landmark case of Mugler v. Kansas (1887), the U.S. Supreme Court upheld a statue that prohibited the manufacture and sale of intoxicating liquors, rendering worthless a brewery lawfully in business prior to the prohibition. In 1915 the City

113

Zoning as a Form of Social Engineering

2055

of Los Angeles passed an ordinance which effectively prohibited the operation of a brick factory in the countryside that had been in operation since 1902. As residential development spread to the countryside, the city of Los Angeles annexed the area and the brick factory became a nuisance to the local inhabitants. The Supreme Court upheld the ordinance with the reasoning that private interests must yield to the good of society in the march towards progress. Although effective, the nuisance or noxious use doctrine was too limited in scope to serve as an effective tool of land use planning. By the turn of the century, the need for land use planning was becoming clear. The “City Beautiful” movement of the 1890s and the “City Practical” movement of the early 1900s emphasized the need for planning while the courts began to take a more comprehensive view of governmental regulation (Greenbaum, 1978: 98). Cities and municipalities adopted comprehensive zoning ordinances based on the underlying premise of land use planning. Zoning allowed communities to control land uses that the court had never found to constitute a nuisance. It represented a far more generous distribution of entitlements to the community than nuisance law (Fischel, 1985: 27). While the regulation of business competition is not a proper object of zoning, an inevitable consequence of zoning is to interfere with the free market laws of supply and demand. In 1889 New York City became the first American city to reach a population over 1,000,000 and the first to develop a comprehensive zoning ordinance. With the invention of the elevator and the use of structural steel, the city would accommodate even more growth through the use of vertical space, which ushered in the age of the skyscraper. Skyscrapers cast long shadows that robbed their smaller neighbors of sunlight and air. Edward Bassett, considered the father of zoning in America, was concerned about the impact of these megaprojects and sought to regulate their height. In 1913 a New York Commission on Building Height recommended that not only should height be regulated in the interest of public health and safety, but also the size, and use. In 1916 New York City passed the first comprehensive zoning ordinance excluding incompatible uses from residential districts. It was comprehensive because it covered the entire city and controlled the type of use, size or bulk, and placement of use in one set of regulations. The New York Supreme Court upheld this ordinance in 1920. Bolstered by this experience, the U.S. Department of Commerce drafted a model zoning act defined as a Standard for State Zoning Enabling Act (SZEA). Released in various drafts and editions between 1922 and 1926, the SZEA was intended to guide states to delegate their land use regulatory powers to municipal governments and thus remove doubts over municipal authority regarding zoning ordinance. By 1926, forty-three of the then forty-eight (48) U.S. states had adopted zoning enabling acts allowing at least 425 municipalities with more than half the urban population of the U.S. to enact zoning ordinances using the New York model (Nelson 1977: 8–9). Elements of the original provisions in the SZEA are still featured in contemporary zoning ordinances throughout the U.S. (Smith, 1993). Court reactions to zoning varied until the legal acceptance of zoning was established by the 1926 Village of Euclid v. Ambler Realty Co. U.S. Supreme Court case. Euclid, an independent suburb of Cleveland, Ohio adopted its first zoning ordinance based on the New York City ordinance of 1916. The ordinance zoned an important part

2056

B.M. Wilson and S. Appiah-Opoku

of the property owned by the Ambler Realty Company for residential use only. The company argued that zoning exclusively for residential use reduced the value of its property and that the ordinance be invalidated as a violation of due process. The court disagreed, ruling that zoning was a legitimate exercise of municipal authority.

113.3 Zoning Ordinance In a regulated market, the courts determine the standard to mean the highest and best use, which is also the goal of land use planning. The tool for implementing the land use plan is zoning, the division of a community into districts and determining what can and cannot be built on the parcels of land within each district. The zoning ordinance is a local government law designed to implement planning decisions regarding the appropriate use and development of land. It is the exercise of governmental power to legally regulate the use of land and the structures thereon in such a way as to protect the health, safety and welfare of the public. A zoning ordinance consists of a text and a map. The text stipulates the type of use, size, bulk and placement of use. These include the permitted height and floor area of buildings, minimum lot area and the position of buildings on a lot, parking, loading and service requirements, and other restrictions such as commercial sign controls and landscaping requirements. The map, which is the social engineer’s blueprint, shows the location of various use categories including residential, commercial, industrial and other uses. The use categories not only include permitted uses, but also accessory uses, conditional uses and special exceptions. Principal or permitted uses are primarily allowed in a specified zoning district and are compatible or share reciprocal benefits with their surroundings while accessory uses are incidental to the principal uses. Examples of accessory use include a storage shed and swimming pool in a residential district. Conditional uses or special exceptions are uses that are compatible with principal uses but may require additional review or comply with some additional standard without which the health, safety, and welfare of the public could be compromised. A good example is a proposed fire station in a residential district.

113.4 Impact of Zoning Zoning affects private property and, therefore, personal enjoyment, profits, and perceptions of basic human rights. It provides property owners and the market with predictability and certainty (Leung, 1989). It can also be used to protect critical resources such as historic buildings and environmentally sensitive areas. In contemporary America, a house or land parcel is the single largest and most important investment most people will ever make. And because zoning allows certain uses in specified districts while discouraging other uses, it can easily bestow windfall gains to some property owners and impose economic losses on others.

113

Zoning as a Form of Social Engineering

2057

Although a zoning ordinance does not operate retroactively, it can be used to prevent nonconforming uses from being converted to a new rightful use. Legal nonconforming refers to a lawfully established use of a building, land or structure that does not conform to the requirements of a new or current zoning ordinance. Municipalities often place limitations designed to ensure conformity to the zoning ordinance as soon as practicable or reasonable. The limitations include the following: (a) change in use (b) expansion or intensive use (c) repairs or alterations, (d) destruction of a nonconforming structure, (e) abandonment, and (f) nuisance. A mere change in ownership does not end a legal nonconforming use. In some municipalities, a zoning ordinance may specify that if a use is discontinued or a building is vacant for a period of time, often one year, it loses its legal nonconforming status. Any subsequent use of the site or structure must be in conformity with the current zoning ordinance. Similarly, legal nonconforming uses are often not allowed to be physically expanded, enlarged, or intensified. For instance, a non-conforming private hunting club will be illegal if it increases its membership or allows nonmembers to use the property. However, some municipal zoning ordinances may allow natural expansion. For instance, a zoning ordinance that allows the housing of a baby elephant cannot evict the animal when it has grown up. Also, a legal nonconforming structure is not allowed to undergo substantial alterations and structural repairs. The reason is that such repairs may prolong the life of the nonconforming use. However, some zoning ordinances allow alterations that are necessary to assure the safety of nonconforming structures. Most zoning ordinances do not allow a destroyed nonconforming structure to be rebuilt unless the destruction is involuntary or partial. If the owner abandons the nonconforming use, lawful use is lost after one year. Finally, where a legal nonconforming use becomes a nuisance, it could be terminated by the zoning ordinance. All social engineers are moralists, behaving as if they know good from bad in the social sphere (Alexander & Schmidt, 1996: 3) Of the alternative methods of eliminating nonconforming uses, amortization has been found to be the best combination of fairness, practicability and effectiveness. Amortization ordinances typically place a time period on the nonconforming use to terminate. This is not a new method for eliminating nonconforming uses. In two 1929 cases, State ex rel. Dema Realty Co. v. McDonald and State ex rel. Dema Realty Co. v. Jacoby, the Supreme Court of Louisiana upheld ordinances involving nonconforming business uses in residential zones. The attempted elimination of nonconforming uses is one of the most persistent problems in zoning. While the landmark decision in Euclid v. Ambler Realty Co. (1926) upheld zoning as a valid exercise of municipal authority more than 80 years ago, it did not resolve the problem of nonconforming uses and their elimination (Riegler, 1978).

113.5 Exclusionary Zoning Zoning by its very nature is exclusionary, which is an example of social engineering by government to maintain social status quo. When zoning is purposely designed to exclude certain social or racial groups, it is discriminatory. In 1917 the U.S.

2058

B.M. Wilson and S. Appiah-Opoku

Supreme Court in Buchanan v. Warley ruled unconstitutional a zoning ordinance that prohibited blacks and whites from residing in the same zone (Connerly & Wilson, 1997). Taking advantage of the fact that the court had not ruled unconstitutional the doctrine of “separate but equal” litigated in Plessy v. Ferguson (1896), some cities in the South fashioned zoning statues that included a “separate but equal” clause, arguing that the constitution prohibits discrimination, not segregation, which may be required by local governments to preserve the public peace and promote the general welfare of the community. The zoning ordinance litigated in Buchanan was not discriminatory because it did not deny blacks and whites the right to own properties in any zone. It only prohibited occupancy, which was not an absolute right protected by the constitution. Property ownership has greater sanction than the right to reside where one chooses, which the government could regulate in the public interest. However, the Buchanan decision did address the “separate but equal” clause by noting that “property was more than the mere thing which a person owns. It is elementary that it includes also the right to use.” Since the court had not overturned the Plessy decision, many local jurisdictions in the South ignored the Buchanan decision and continue to design and erect structures to maintain racial status quo. Zoning statues that excluded outright blacks proliferated, especially, following the 1926 Euclid decision upholding the constitutionality of zoning. A major alternative to land use control is the “restrictive covenant.” Outside the South, the Buchanan decision was effectively contested by the proliferation of “restrictive covenants,” private agreements among signatories not to sell to blacks or Jews. In Corrigan v. Buckley (1926), the U.S. Supreme Court upheld restrictive covenants in the same year that it upheld zoning in Euclid. Property owners have only to agree among themselves to affect the same end as exclusionary zoning. The underlying assumption of restrictive covenants was the right to exclude – that important strand in an owner’s bundle of property rights that allowed all of the owners in a restrictive territory the right “to sue for damage in the event that any of them violate the agreement” (Delaney, 1998: 152–153). In the 1940s, more than 80% of the property in Detroit outside of the inner city came under the scope of restrictive covenants. Realtors encouraged restrictive covenants to preserve the racial homogeneity of a neighborhood (Surge, 1996: 44). In Shelley v. Kraemer (1948), the Supreme Court held that judicial enforcement of restrictive covenants constituted a form of social engineering by government that is unconstitutional under the equal protection clause of the Fourteenth Amendment. No longer able to employ racial zoning, local governments used urban renewal and the massive interstate highway program to erect buffers between black and white neighborhoods (Connerly, 2005: 129–166). From 1949 to 1973 when urban renewal ended, more than 2,000 projects were undertaken on 1,000 square miles of urban land. Approximately 600,000 housing units, the residences of nearly 2 million people, were demolished but only 250,000 units were built on the same sites, thereby tightening the housing market in which the poor must find shelter. The deficit of housing caused by urban renewal forced people to move (Levy, 2000: 164). Ironically, the tightening housing market caused by urban renewal increased

113

Zoning as a Form of Social Engineering

2059

the competition between blacks and whites for housing that racial zoning sought to prevent.

113.6 De Facto Exclusion Zoning ordinances which unduly burden a particular racial or minority group may be found just as discriminatory as do ordinances that attempt an outright ban. Social engineering methods that are less direct than outright banning of a social group include (a) minimum lot size requirements, (b) minimum floor space requirements, and (b) prohibition of low-income housing. Unfortunately, many low income households and ethnic minorities continue to be victims of such zoning in the U.S. Due to zoning, suburbs generally did not share in the provision of low and moderate income housing to the same extent as their central cities. Since the 1920s zoning has provided a device for protecting the homogenous single family suburbs from influxes of racial minorities and low income groups (Babcock, 1966; Moskowitz, 1977; Rose & Rothman, 1977). In the tradition of Euclidian zoning, the courts often look with disfavor upon the encroachment of low income multifamily housing units into single family housing neighborhoods. The influx of European immigrants and black rural migrants from the South to the tenement houses of the northern cities created undesirable conditions that became associated with multifamily rental housing or apartments, setting the stage for another round of social engineering. As a result of their perception of the relationship between multifamily housing and social problems such as crime and low moral standards, the courts as early as the 1920s upheld the prohibition of buildings designed or intended for the housing of two or more families in suburban location. In the 1926 Euclid decision, the U.S. Supreme Court noted: . . . the apartment [multifamily unit] is a mere parasite, constructed in order to take advantage of the open spaces and attractive surrounding created by the residential character of the district . . . detracting from their safety and depriving children of the privilege of quiet and open spaces for play, enjoyed by those in more favored localities – until, finally, the residential character of the neighborhood and its desirability as a place of detached residences [single family units] are utterly destroyed. (Euclid v Ambler, 1926: 394)

Located at the apex of the pyramid, protecting the character of their single family residential areas was the primary purpose of many jurisdictions. Whereas all zoning is exclusionary, the term “exclusionary zoning” is applied to uses that are banned by zoning from an entire municipality, not between districts within a municipality. . . . [it] has come to characterize ordinances challenged as unreasonable and invalid in that they serve to erect walls on the municipality’s boundary, according to local selfishness for socially improper goals, beyond the legitimate purposes of zoning (McCarthy, 1995: 238).

Between the landmark 1926 Euclid case and 1974, approximately 10,000 state court zoning decisions supported exclusionary zoning. However, the federal courts issued only a few decisions pertaining to zoning. This was a natural reaction, given

2060

B.M. Wilson and S. Appiah-Opoku

the historic reluctance of the federal courts to get involved in local land use matters and the many jurisdictional barriers to suiting local governments in the federal courts. But in Monell v. New York City Department of Social Services decided in 1978, the Supreme Court ruled that municipalities and local governments are “persons” within the meaning of the federal Civil Rights Act and can therefore be sued (Strom, 1978: 74). Beginning in the early 1970s, exclusionary zoning was a major focus in a series of court decisions against discriminatory zoning laws, especially those which prohibited multifamily housing units from an entire municipality. The first of these zoning controversies involved the community of Black Jack, Missouri, a suburb of St Louis. In the U.S. v. City of Black Jack (1974), the Federal District Court found that the exclusion of multifamily housing decisively limited the housing opportunities of low and moderate income blacks within the St. Louis metropolitan area where the proportion of black households living in such housing units was twice that of the white population (see also Kirby, de Leeuv, & Silverman, 1972). In Township of Mount Laurel v. Southern Burlington County NAACP (1975), the U.S. Supreme Court upheld a New Jersey Supreme Court decision that ordered the town of Mt. Laurel, New Jersey, a developing community, to revise its zoning ordinance to include low and moderate income housing. The court ruled that “developing” municipalities owe an affirmative duty to structure their land use regulation so as to allow low and moderate income housing to be built. If a municipality zones for commerce and industry for local tax benefit, it must also zone to permit adequate housing within the means of the workers. Two years later the New Jersey Supreme Court in Pascack Association, Ltd. v. Township of Washington, 74 N.J. 470, 379 A.2d 6 (1977) upheld the right of older, “fully developed” communities to bar middle and lower income housing, even where there is a demonstrated regional need (Rose and Rothman 1977). In Village of Arlington Heights et al. v. Metropolitan Housing Development Corp. et al. (1977), the Supreme Court decided that discriminatory intent rather than mere discriminatory effect was necessary to establish a violation of the Equal Protection Clause. If there is no record of intent to discriminate, the act of discrimination does not exist. However, the court later ruled that intent was not necessary to prove a violation of the Fair Housing Act. In many ways social and economic segregation is closely related with financing municipal services. One’s economic status is likely to be related to one’s demand for housing and thus the local property-tax base. Fiscal zoning, a social engineering tactic used by municipalities, erects income boundaries around the municipality. While de facto segregation by social class has become more difficult to accomplish by zoning, it can be accomplished if municipalities are careful to rationalize their zoning policies as pursuing more innocent goals. Zoning by direct reference to income or race remains unacceptable by the courts and legislatures (Fischel, 1985: 62–63). Between 1997 and 2003, the number of working families with critical housing needs increased by more than 5 million. Many communities mentioned affordable housing as a goal in their master plan and adopted inclusionary zoning methods as means to reach this goal. As social engineering, inclusionary zoning designs and erects the necessary structures to increase the availability of sites for affordable

113

Zoning as a Form of Social Engineering

2061

housing, reduce red tape and other regulatory barriers. One of the most common methods used to include affordable housing is density zoning that allows the developer to increase the number of houses built on the property in return for building a certain percentage of affordable housing units. Density zoning can also be used to decrease the minimum lot size and floor area thereby directly lowering the cost of housing (Inclusionary Zoning, 2009).

113.7 Legal Limits of Zoning There are four major areas of legal concerns regarding municipal zoning ordinances. The first is that a zoning ordinance might run afoul of the First Amendment of the constitution. Provisions adopted to control sign regulations, adult entertainment, and religious-related activities, are particularly vulnerable. With regards to sign control, a zoning ordinance can regulate large billboards, “for sale” signs, temporary or permanent inscriptions, and mobile or portable signs (Juergensmeyer & Roberts, 2007). The adult entertainment includes theaters, live entertainment and clubs or bars. Often, legal challenges arise when a regulation goes further than what is reasonable or necessary to obtain a consistent standard of behavior or appearance. With regards to religious-related activities, the First Amendment prohibits governmental action establishing or preferring a religion. In other words, zoning ordinances cannot aid or promote a religion over others, coerce a person to believe or not to believe in a particular religion. According to the Religious Land Use and Institutionalized Persons Act (2000), unless a government can demonstrate a compelling interest, “No government shall impose or implement a land use regulation in a manner that imposes a substantial burden on the religious exercise of a person, including a religious assembly of institution . . .” [S. 2869, Sec. 2(a)(1)]. Significant first Amendment rights are also at issue in any attempt to regulate billboard and signs bearing a political or religious message (Buckley v. Valeo, 1976). If a sign communicates a political or religious message, the state must produce more than a rational regulatory justification to prohibit it constitutionally (Polisky, 1978: 52). The second area of concern emanates from the Fifth Amendment. The persistent tension between the needs of the community and the rights of private property owners has existed throughout American history and is recognized by the provision of the Fifth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution that “no person shall . . . be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law, nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.” A “taking” may arise from zoning ordinances that deprive a property owner of all economic value of his or her property. Our society has long noted that private property ownership confers certain rights and that any attempt on the part of government to regulate property without compensation that results in a different use other than one desired by the property owner would be in violation of the Fifth Amendment. A growing property rights movement is using this argument to expand landowners’ rights, arguing that government regulations that reduce any property value are a “taking.” Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote in a 1922 court opinion that “the

2062

B.M. Wilson and S. Appiah-Opoku

general rule at least is, that while property may be regulated to a certain extent, if regulation goes too far it will be recognized as a taking. . .” (Pennsylvania Coal v. Mahon, 1922: 415). The court, however, never laid down a specific rule or litmus test of what constitutes a “taking.” The property rights movement views the rights of owners as “absolute.” While the courts have ruled that government regulatory action could result in a taking, the courts never assumed “absolute” property rights. The current legal system is one that weighs the needs of the individual with the safety and welfare of the public, an idea that is vital for community living. But in support of the property rights movement, some states proposed legislation that seriously weakened local zoning ordinances. Under some proposed legislations, the following scenario could occur. If you own land near a residential area, and want to put a solid waste landfill on the property, but were denied the proper zoning from the county, you would either receive compensation for the loss of value for the use of your land or you would be able to sue the county to give you the proper zoning. On the other hand, if you were a nearby neighbor and the rezoning was issued to accommodate the landfill, you could sue the county for compensation for the loss of value to you property. Both ways the county government would have to pay and the cost would be passed on to the taxpayers. Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes in the same 1922 court opinion warned that government “could hardly go on” if compensation was required for every adverse effect that government action has on property values (Pennsylvania Coal v. Mahon, 1922: 413). Another concern stems from the due process clause in the Fifth Amendment. There are two types of due process that are distinguished – substantive and procedural due process. Substantive due process requires that zoning ordinances treat property owners fairly and reasonably. In other words, restrictions imposed by a zoning ordinance must not be arbitrary or unrealistic. A zoning decision must reasonably reflect a legitimate governmental objective. Section 3 of the SZEA required that zoning be done “in accordance with a comprehensive plan.” In Golden v. Planning Board of the Town of Ramapo (1972), the court ruled that a comprehensive plan was a valid defense of local growth policy. Although almost eighty years have passed since the SZEA, there is no universal trend requiring every local jurisdiction to adopt a comprehensive plan and make zoning decisions with reference to that plan (DiMento, 1981: 89). Procedural due process requires that the procedure for enacting or enforcing a zoning ordinance must be fair, prudent or guided by the rule of law. A final legal concern is related to the equal protection clause in the Fourteenth Amendment. It requires that zoning ordinances treat all people equally unless there is a valid governmental purpose for dissimilar treatment. The equal protection clause is especially stringent regarding exclusionary zoning.

113.8 Innovative Zoning Traditional or Euclidian zoning is static, not taking into account changing technology, community values, and economic and social conditions. Its adherence to

113

Zoning as a Form of Social Engineering

2063

rigid height, bulk, setback and design requirements is a primary cause of the monotony and homogeneity of many developments. Euclidian zoning designed and erected structures that insulated and isolated people, forcing them in automobiles for even the shortest trip (Wickersham, 1978: 66). During the past few decades, increased flexibility has been introduced in zoning to stabilize and protect economic fortunes of property owners. New York City replaced its 1916 zoning ordinance with one that allowed for a more flexible setback requirement, special incentives such as bonuses for provision of plazas, arcades, and pedestrian walkways. Municipalities are increasingly finding that traditional zoning is not sophisticated enough to respond to dynamic growth and development issues. In response to the Euclidian experiment in social engineering, planners are creating zoning techniques which include floating zones, overlay zones, cluster zoning, and performance zoning. Floating zones are zoning districts in which certain types of uses are authorized but are assigned no fixed location in the community at the time the use is authorized. Such uses are said to float above the community until conditions become ripe for the uses to be anchored at a specific location. Unlike Euclidian zoning, it is not a pre-mapped zoning district that is depicted on a city’s zoning map (Cullingworth & Caves, 2003: 99). Overlay zone is a special zone placed on top of existing zoning districts, over part of a district, or over a combination of districts that require special protection. The overlay often provides requirements intended to either streamline development or protect specific resources. The most common use of overlay zone is in dealing with development in environmentally sensitive areas including wetlands, floodplains, and hillsides. Another common use of overlay zones is for historic preservation. In this case, the overlay applies to designated historic properties or to specific areas within the community. Cluster zoning is a special engineering technique for accommodating projects in which structures are grouped closely together on a limited part of a site, so that the remainder can be preserved in its natural state. The rationale is that there are certain types of irreplaceable natural resources which are extremely important to protect such as natural landscape features like wetlands. The courts have gradually come to accept the extension of governmental power to include preservation of the natural environment or the regulation or prohibition of development in environmental sensitive areas (see Zabel v. Tabb, 1970). The clustering allows flexibility in layout so that a developer can provide open space, amenity, and recreation for community members and preserve environmentally sensitive areas (Daniels, Keller, & Lapping, 1995). It provides a sense of community among residents, particularly if some of the open spaces are used for recreational activities. As noted earlier, traditional land use zoning is based on the principle that incompatible land uses should be separated from one another. And within each zone, permitted uses are specified in detail. In this sense, traditional zoning is said to be prescriptive. This approach is ill-equipped to respond to recent trend towards mixed-uses and the pressures for rezoning. Performance zoning is a reasonable alternative to traditional land use zoning. Industrial performance zoning theoretically would permit the location of specific industrial activities anywhere in the community based on measurable pollution impacts on surroundings as opposed to Euclidian

2064

B.M. Wilson and S. Appiah-Opoku

zoning which would permit an activity only in a designated zone or district. It is based on the premise that within broad limits different urban uses can coexist with one another. The intensity with which land is used, how it impacts surrounding areas, rather than the purpose for which it is used is the key to compatibility. Comparatively, performance zoning allows greater flexibility and can accommodate mixed use projects more readily than the prescriptive approach. Flexible zoning is more inclusionary than traditional zoning.

113.9 Conclusion Zoning, which affects almost every aspect of life, is meant to be a rational way to handle community development problems. It helps determine where and how homes, factories, parks, hospitals, schools, roads, sewers and other essential services are located in our communities. Strong market forces, as well as individual and societal values play a major role in decisions regarding types and intensity of land uses. Developers, preservationists, homeowners, renters, businesses, planners and politicians have respectable but different perspectives concerning the use of land. In this sense, zoning mirrors the clash of values in our society and is the most important social engineering activity undertaken by local governments, bringing large scale changes in the social domain.

References Alexander, J., & Schmidt, K. H. W. (1996). Social engineering: Genealogy of a concept. In A. Podgorecki, J. Alexander, & R. Shields (Eds.), Social engineering (pp. 1–19). Ottawa, ON: Carleton University Press. Babcock, R. F. (1966). The zoning game. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Buckley v. Valeo. (1976). 424 U.S. 1. Connerly, C. (2005). The most segregated city in America: City planning and civil rights in Birmingham, 1920–1980. Charlottesville, VA: University of Virginia Press. Connerly, C., & Wilson, B. M. (1997). The roots and origins of African American planning in Birmingham, Alabama. In M. Thomas & M. Ritzdorf (Eds.), Urban planning and the African American community: In the shadows (pp. 201–219). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Corrigan v. Buckley (1926). 271 U.S. 323. Cullingworth, B., & Caves, R. W. (2003). Planning in the USA: Policies, issues and processes (2nd ed.). New York: Routledge. Daniels, T. L., Keller, J. K., & Lapping, M. K. (1995). The small town planning handbook (2nd ed.). Chicago, IL: APA Press. Delaney, D. (1998). Race, place, and the law 1836–1948. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. DiMento, J. (1981). The consistency doctrine: Continuing controversy. Zoning and Planning Law Report, 4, 89–96. Euclid v. Ambler Realty Co. (1926). 272 U.S. 365 (1926). Fischel, W. A. (1985). The economics of zoning laws: A property rights approach to American land use controls. Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press. Golden v. Planning Board of the Town of Ramapo (1972). 30 N.Y.2d 359, 334 N.Y.S.2d 1381, 285 N.E.2d 291, app. dism’d, 409 U.S. 1003.

113

Zoning as a Form of Social Engineering

2065

Greenbaum, R.(1978, December). Zoning, taking, and inverse condemnation. Zoning and Planning Law Review, 2, 97–104. Inclusionary Zoning. (2009). Conference Resources. American Planning Association. Retrieved May 13, 2009, from www.planning.org/audioconference/inchous Juergensmeyer, J. C., & Roberts, T. E. (2007). Land use planning and development regulation law. St. Paul, MN: West Group. Kirby, R. F., de Leeuv, F., & Silverman, W. (1972). Residential zoning and equal housing opportunities: a case study in Black Jack, Missouri. Washington, DC: Urban Institute. Leung, H. K. (1989). Land use planning made simple. Kingston, ON: Ronald Frye and Company. Levy, J. M. (2000). Contemporary urban planning (5th ed.). New Jersey: Prentice Hall. McCarthy, D. J. (1995) Local government law. St. Paul, MN: West. Monell v. New York City Department of Social Services. (1978). 98 S. Ct. 2018, 56 L. Ed.2d 611 (No. 75-1914). Moskowitz, D. H. (1977). Exclusionary zoning litigation. Cambridge: Ballinger. Mulger v. Kansas. (1887). 123 U.S. 623. Nelson, R. (1977). Zoning and property rights: An analysis of the American system of land-use regulation. Cambridge: The MIT Press. Pennsylvania Coal v. Mahon. (1922). 260 U.S. 393. Polisky, P. S. (1978). Regulation of signs and billboards. Zoning and Planning Law Report, 1(May), 49–56. Religious Land Use and Institutionalized Persons Act. (2000). 106th Congress, 2d Session. Riegler, E. (1978) Amortization of nonconforming uses. Zoning and Planning Law Report, 2, 89–96. Riis, J. A. (1918 [1890]). How the other half lives: Studies among the tenements of New York. New York: C. Scribner’s Sons. Rose, J. G., & Rothman, R. E. (1977). After Mount Laurel: The new suburban zoning. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers: The State University of New Jersey. Smith, H. H. (1993). The citizen’s guide to planning. Chicago, IL: American Planning Association. So, F. S., & Getzels, J. (1988). The practice of local government planning (2nd ed.). Washington, DC: International City Management Association. State ex rel. Dema Realty Co. v. McDonald, (1929) 168 La. 172, 121 So. 613, cert. denied, 280 U.S. 556 (1929). State ex rel. Dema Realty Co. v. Jacoby (1929), 168 La. 752, 123 So. 314. Strom, F. A. (1978). Local zoning and the federal courts. Part I and II. Zoning and Planning Law Report, 1(September and October), 73–88. Surge, T. (1996). The origins of the urban crisis: Race and inequality in postwar Detroit. Princeton: Princeton University Press. U.S. v. City of Black Jack, (1974) 372 F. Supp. 319 (E. D. Mo.) Village of Arlington Heights et al. v. Metropolitan Housing Development Corp. et al. (1977) 429 U.S. 252. Wickersham, K., Jr. (1978). Reform of discretionary land-use decision-making: Point systems and beyond. Zoning and Planning Law Report, 1, 65–72. Zabel v. Tabb, 430 F. 2d 199, 215 (5th Circuit 1970, cert. denied 401 U.S. 910 (1970).

Chapter 114

Engineering Borders and Border Landscapes: The Schengen Regime and the EU’s New Internal and External Boundaries in Central-Eastern Europe Milan Bufon

114.1 Introduction The management of the EU’s external borders, which is an integral part of Europe’s so-called “Global Approach to Migration,” is certainly one of the region’s major policy challenges to be faced in the years ahead. Increased movements of migrants have gradually eroded member states ability to control their national borders and this “diminishing power” has become a permanent feature of today’s Europe. Migratory pressure, however, is not the only policy issue commanding Europe’s attention. There are also pressing external security threats, such as terrorism and drug and weapons smuggling. In the face of these cross-border challenges, there are demands for more action and more security both nationally and Europe-wide. But it is also important that Europe should continue to deliver and develop the area of justice, freedom and, more generally, social integration, both within its internal boundaries and in relation to its neighborhood. Borders thus embody a clear geopolitical concept, as they incorporate both geographical and political aspects. In the last half of the 20th century, however, these two dimensions were joined by a third dimension, viz., a human dimension based on a cross-border integration process, which has gradually become more politically relevant than the other two border components. Thus, the functional social and economic dimensions of borders must also be given equal weight in the EU’s concepts and policies. Obtaining a visa and crossing the external border must be simple and quick for bona fide travelers. People-to-people contacts in border regions and between family members must be facilitated. Border management must support, not stifle, economic growth in border regions of neighboring countries (Leresche & Saez, 2002). The ultimate challenge is to maintain the credibility for the abolition of internal borders and to extend the Schengen area still further. This article seeks to identify the key stages in development of the Schengen acquis and the recent Schengen enlargement, and to explore the effects of the

M. Bufon (B) Department of Geography, Faculty of Humanities, University of Primorska, Koper, Slovenia e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_114,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2067

2068

M. Bufon

introduction of the Schengen regime on the Central-Eastern European border areas, now transformed into the new EU’s internal and external boundaries. Given the challenges posed by globalization, the previous territorial border management is neither adequate nor effective. The more basic question is not whether Europe should place a greater number of controls at its external borders with a view to turning it into an impenetrable fortress. The fundamental question is how to make Europe’s controls more effective, more technologically advanced, and more responsive to the new challenges posed by globalization with a certain degree of success, all this without impinging on the principle of free movement of people and the benefits produced by past cross-border cooperation and integration processes.

114.2 The Schengen Agreement and Its Instruments The Schengen agreement was probably triggered by the success of the Benelux arrangement and the Nordic Passport Union, but more probably by the intricate negotiations that led to the adoption of the Single European Act. This act signed in 1986 sought to transform the Common Market into a Single Market by 31 December 1992. Since no consensus could be reached within the Council on the concept of the free movement of persons, which remained subject to unanimous voting, Belgium, France, Germany, Luxembourg and the Netherlands decided to establish an area with no internal border controls outside the EU framework. Their original plan considered the dismantling of internal border controls not only as a step further towards closer practical cooperation at European level, but also as a prerequisite to facilitate the free movement of goods. They rightly considered it essential for Europe’s single market to ensure the free movement of goods and people at the same time. Consequently, they decided to make use of the possibility offered by intergovernmental cooperation. Economic reasons also helped these countries to take this decision, as border controls are barriers to trade, which in turn are major factors in economic growth. The intergovernmental agreement was signed on 14 June 1985 in Schengen, a small town in Luxembourg, near the border with France and Germany. In the years which followed, the politically courageous philosophy underlying this intergovernmental cooperation soon gained more political support among other European member states, as they started to see the benefits of greater practical cooperation in the area of border management. Sharing data and information were the main components of this new approach towards more efficient border management. This momentum was first translated into the Schengen Convention, which was signed in June 1990 and came into effect in March 1995, by which time Greece, Italy, Portugal and Spain had also joined the Schengen area. The main purpose of this Convention was to abolish internal checks between signatory states while at the same time establishing a common external border where checks were to be carried out in compliance with a jointly agreed set of rules. These included common requirements for granting visas and closer cooperation between the authorities responsible for performing border controls. These rules were accompanied by a further set of operational instructions and procedures to respond to the increased challenges of

114

Engineering Borders and Border Landscapes

2069

border controls. Border surveillance and controls were also enhanced by the introduction of an information system, called the Schengen Information System (SIS), which was specifically designed to exchange data on certain categories of people and on lost or stolen goods. In a nutshell, the most successful visible outcome of this intergovernmental cooperation was a new “cross-border community” governed by a set of common rules for carrying out checks at its external borders only. On the operational side, this new community was able to secure further cooperation on external borders and thus to increase the efficiency of common measures. The underlying principle was to facilitate the free movement of people while at the same time ensuring a higher degree of security (Tassinari, 2005). Enhanced security was provided, in turn, by closer cooperation between police, customs and consular staff and by any other measures that might be useful in combating external security threats such as terrorism and cross-border organized crime. The Schengen intergovernmental agreement was brought within the legal and institutional framework of the European Union via a Protocol attached to the Treaty establishing the European Community. By May 1999, 15 countries were party to the Schengen acquis, thereby giving substance to the objective of the free movement of persons enshrined in the Single European Act of 1986. The acquis measures have led to a number of related ones (European Commission, 2002) that include: • a common definition of the rules for crossing external borders; • the separation in air terminals and ports of people travelling within the Schengen area from those arriving from countries outside the area; • the harmonization of the rules regarding conditions of entry and visas for short stays; • the coordination between administrations on surveillance of borders (liaison officers, harmonization of instructions and staff training); • the definition of the role of carriers in the fight against illegal immigration; • a requirement for all non-EU nationals moving from one country to another to lodge a declaration; • the drawing up of rules for asylum seekers (the Dublin Convention); • the introduction of rights of surveillance and hot pursuit; • the strengthening of legal cooperation through a faster extradition system and a faster distribution of information about the implementation of criminal judgments; and • the creation of the Schengen Information System (SIS). Since the Tampere European Council (held in October 1999) the EU decided to establish a common area of freedom, security and justice in the EU, and to protect the EU’s borders, all which became a major political priority for policy-makers and other stakeholders seeking to develop a more effective migration policy. This strategy on border management had to be accompanied by other important measures, such as asylum, legal migration and integration, closer cooperation with third countries and combating illegal immigration. At the base of this political initiative,

2070

M. Bufon

therefore, was the assumption that tougher border enforcement measures at the EU’s external borders would be the solution to the complex issue of illegal immigration. One of the biggest problems is measuring this phenomenon, is that it depends on national laws which make certain types of immigration illegal. But those laws change with dizzying speed which has the result of increasing or decreasing the numbers substantially. The enlargement of the EU also has an impact on illegal immigration as nationals of states which become member states of the EU cease to be illegal immigrants when they become citizens of the Union. "More effective control of external borders" was one of the main Presidency Conclusions of the Laeken European Council in December 2001. In the aftermath of the dramatic terrorist attacks of 11 September, Europe’s leaders believed that better management of the EU’s external borders could have helped "in the fight against terrorism, illegal immigration networks and the traffic in human beings". To this end, The European Council asks the Council and the Commission to work out arrangements for cooperation between services responsible for external border control and to examine the conditions in which a mechanism or common services to control external borders could be created.

For the first time, member states recognized that their makeshift attempts to tighten controls at their national borders were unable to cope with the need for a common management of the external border (Tassinari, 2005). While continuing to retain full jurisdiction over the control and surveillance of their own national borders, member states asked Europe to provide added value and to propose specific measures designed to improve the management of the EU’s external borders. The Commission lost no time in putting forward its own proposal on how to enhance the EU’s border management by based on the fact that the security of the European Union’s external borders was being hindered by the minimal coordination between member states. To correct this weakness, the Commission proposed closer practical cooperation and the development of a common policy on the management of the EU’s external borders (European Commission, 2003), the main focus being movements of people across the borders. This common policy should include five mutually interdependent components which all add up to a truly European corps of border guards: (1) a common body of legislation; (2) coordinated operational mechanisms (3) common integrated risk analyses; (4) staff trained in European matters, and (5) financial and other burden-sharing obligations between member states.

114.2.1 Border Management The role of the Commission proved to be indispensable in breaking down some initial resistance and seeking to convince reticent member states that closer practical cooperation added value both for the member states themselves and for Europe as a whole. This was particularly true at a time when the EU needed to prepare for an enlargement of its territory and to manage growing migration flows more effectively. As a result, the Seville European Council of October 2004 established the future European Agency for the Management of Operational Co-operation at the External

114

Engineering Borders and Border Landscapes

2071

Borders (Frontex) and gave credence to the idea of the integrated management of external borders (Hobbing, 2005). For the first time, the European Council endorsed a detailed plan on border management to be implemented with strict deadlines and targeting numerous innovative initiatives such as joint operations at external borders, the creation of a network of member states’ immigration liaison officers, the development of a common risk analysis model, the burden-sharing between member states and the EU, and the establishment of a common core curriculum for border guard training. Since Europe was not yet ready to embrace a common migration policy, EU Heads of State and Government believed the time was politically ripe to support the new approach on border management which included joint control of the EU’s external borders with the assistance of a European corps of border guards. The ultimate goal was to achieve a common, orderly, and effective EU external border control which would ensure the EU’s integrity. For this purpose, a common Visa Information System (VIS) was set-up, although it is still not supported by a unified Community return policy. The European Council welcomes the Commission’s intention to submit a proposal for the creation of a Border Management Agency in order to enhance operational cooperation for the management of external borders. They were convinced that this new Agency would be the best cure to their splitting “immigration headache.” Although this Agency should have started its activities either on 1 January or on 1 May 2005, the actual starting date was 1 October 2005, meaning that Frontex came into being after the negative outcome of the French and Dutch referendums, which have significantly changed the way Europe is perceived by policy-makers and officials in the national capitals, not to mention Europe’s citizens. They have become less interested in Europe’s construction, as exemplified in the declining rates of participation in the European Parliamentary elections (in 1979 the turnout was 63%, while in 2004 it was 45.7%). This referendum heralded a new “European era” where Europe is regularly called upon to demonstrate its added value in whatever initiative it devises and undertakes. Despite this adverse political environment, where national practices are back in fashion in the area of migration and asylum policy-making, the EU was particularly productive between 2004 and 2007 and a large pool of ideas and proposals were submitted to EU governments. While some of these proposals were adopted swiftly, others fell short of consensus within the Council, in particular in the areas of justice and police cooperation. The job assigned to Frontex (the seat of the Agency is located in Warsaw) is not easy, as ensuring effective border management is like trying to regulate a moving target. If it is to continue to carry out joint operations effectively, Frontex needs a stable pool of technical equipment, resources and staff in order to provide effective and coherent border management. If delivery is crucial to the success of Frontex operations, it is equally so for member states whose borders are under growing pressure from immigration. To this end, in September 2007 the Centralized Records of Available Technical Equipment (CRATE), managed by Frontex was set up. This technical equipment will be made available on request to any member state lacking the tools necessary to deal with a particular situation at its border and also for joint operations. Another success story is the creation of Rapid Border Intervention

2072

M. Bufon

Teams, which will provide "support for a limited period of time" and "in exceptional and urgent situations.” For the first time Europe will be able to deploy, under the command of the requesting member state, some 600 experienced border guards to cope with emergencies at its external borders (Bertozzi, 2008). Frontex has developed some other specific instruments as the BorderTechNet which is a tool aimed to facilitate interaction between the member states as well as between these states and the research community. The purpose of BorderTechNet is to support the development of capacities and technologies facilitating cooperation between member states in the field of border security for the management of external borders. BorderTechNet will bring together technology users (e.g., border guards, police, immigration services) and researchers/technology providers (e.g., research institutes, universities, and industry) which are involved in border control and surveillance. The BorderTechNet is still under construction and activities partially started at the end of 2007 and the beginning of 2008. Frontex has also sought to secure practical cooperation with Europe’s neighbors and certain countries of origin and transit. Thus far, working arrangements have been agreed upon with the Russian Federation, Ukraine and the Swiss Confederation. The Management Board of the Agency has also given it a mandate to negotiate similar arrangements with Cape Verde, Croatia, Egypt, Macedonia, Libya, Mauritania, Morocco and Senegal. By the end of 2008 the tasks and terms of reference of the Agency were to be carefully reviewed by the Commission.

114.3 The Schengen Facility Nine of the ten member states that joined the European Union on 1 May 2004 (Cyprus being the only exception) are now legally bound by the entire Schengen acquis, as controls at land and maritime borders were abolished on 21 December 2007 and air border control on 30 March 2008. The Schengen area is now composed of 24 countries. To help them meet all the requirements contained in the Schengen acquis, new member states were provided with a new tool, known as the “Schengen Facility,” which was part of the enlargement expenditure adopted by the European Council in Copenhagen. The Schengen Facility has been used mainly for investments in operating equipment and border infrastructure at the EU’s external borders, the upgrading of diplomatic and consular representations, and preparations for the SIS and the VIS as well as operational and language training. In compliance with the legal basis for the Schengen Facility, the rate of Community financing may be up to 100% (national co-financing is not obligatory for this program (Table 114.1). Introduced on 26 March 1995 the SIS is today the most effective and most powerful system of police cooperation thanks to its extremely short upfront delays, its ease of use, and the fact that all police forces within the participating countries have a direct and immediate access to the database. Provided initially mainly with records of undesirable foreigners, an increase in the records for international/European warrant of arrest, as well as an increase in the descriptions of objects it now observed. A

Source: Bertozzi (2008)

2004 2005 2006 Total SF/country National co-financing Total costs

25.35 25.48 26.17 77.01 4.93 81.95

Estonia

26.24 26.37 27.08 79.70 12.67 92.37

Latvia 49.58 67.95 34.11 151.60 26.66 178.32

Lithuania 54.58 54.86 56.34 165.70 39.530 205.33

Hungary 103.35 103.85 106.66 313.87 8.98 288.34

Poland 39.46 39.64 40.72 119.80 51.54 171.3

Slovenia

Table 114.1 Breakdown of 2004–2006 Schengen facility funding (in million C)

17.64 17.72 18.20 53.58 10.24 64.50

Slovakia

316.23 335.91 309.30 961.45 154.55 1082.11

Total/year

114 Engineering Borders and Border Landscapes 2073

2074

M. Bufon

second technical version of the system is in preparation (SIS II), which will include new types of data and a greater number of institutions (for example, the legal authorities, Europol, and the security services). But the SIS II also represented one of the major obstacles to Schengen enlargement. On the one hand, member states also were not entirely convinced that the right solution to their “SIS II doubts” was to hand over this intergovernmental instrument to the Commission. On the other, they were also not ready to shoulder the enormous responsibility of developing SIS II alone. Second, as SIS II was an essential component of the Schengen acquis, the Commission insisted on having full control of its development and use since the entry put into force of the Treaty of Amsterdam on 1 May 1999, it strengthened the Commission’s hand. Thus, the Schengen enlargement is the final outcome of a highly technical discussion within the Council which started when it became apparent that the SIS II was not going to come on stream on time. In political terms, this delay, mainly due to technical difficulties, would have kept new member states outside the Schengen area. On the one hand, some “old” member states were solidly against Schengen enlargement and were particularly pleased that the Commission did not deliver on SIS II to the original timetable. On the other hand, some of the “new” member states were well behind the jointly agreed timeframe, as they lacked the experience and did not have the trained human resources to develop such a highly complex system as SIS II. The Commission had serious problems with the initial underperformance of the external company responsible for developing the central unit of SIS II. It thus found itself in an uncomfortable position vis-à-vis the Council. In addition, the final development of SIS II played hostage to the ongoing negotiations between the European Parliament and the Council. Agreement on the “legal package” was crucial to the development of SIS II as the new configuration of the system, including the additional functions, was to be voted on by both the European Parliament and the Council. Without this political agreement, the Commission could take no further steps to complete the central unit of SIS II, as its final configuration was not definitive.

114.4 SISone4all In September 2007 the Portuguese Presidency started a new project, called “SISone4all.” which would minimize the delay in lifting the EU’s internal border controls while making the fullest use of the existing SIS. The Portuguese idea immediately gained strong currency with the new member states, who decided to throw themselves behind what they considered to be a timely and sensible solution. To put it simply, the Portuguese proposal consisted of integrating the new member states into SIS as a patchwork solution, while giving member states and the Commission more time to complete the development of SIS II. The new timetable envisaged the completion of the “SISone4all” project in the second half of 2007, thereby enabling the Council to complete the inspection visits and to set a new target date for lifting the EU’s internal border controls. The perseverance of the Portuguese delegation,

114

Engineering Borders and Border Landscapes

2075

accompanied by mounting political pressure, made the SISone4all solution acceptable to all Schengen member states, which eventually saw it as the only way out of the SIS II impasse. To help complete “SISone4all” and to help member states bear the additional costs of this new task, the Commission proposed increasing to 75% the co-financing of the External Borders Fund that would have been made available for the development of SISone4all. Thanks to the Portuguese idea, mutual distrust and anger did not degenerate into outspoken hostility to Schengen enlargement, which would have created an irreparable rift between the old Schengen member states and the “Schengen candidates.” The inspection visits took place in the course of 2007 and were completed in October 2007. Consequently, following a peer-topeer evaluation, the Council alone decided that all the new Schengen member states could join the area without internal borders by the end of 2007 (Bertozzi, 2008).

114.5 Current Borders and Border Crossings According to Eurostat, today about 405 million people live in the Schengen area. It should be noted that among the current participants, only Iceland and Norway are not EU members. Although Ireland and the United Kingdom have not signed the SAAC (the Schengen Agreement Application Convention), they take part in all security and data-sharing areas of the Schengen arrangements. Switzerland joined the Schengen space on 1 November 2008. The total length of Europe’s external land borders is 4,278 km (2,658 mi), while its maritime borders are 2,120 km (1,317 mi) long. There are 1,792 designated and controlled border crossing points at the external EU borders; of them, 665 are located at air borders, 871 at sea borders, and 246 at land borders. About 880 million persons crossed the external borders of the EU 25 member states in 2006, of which about 300 million were “external” (non-EU citizens) border crossings. In the same year, about 900,000 persons were refused entry at external EU borders, 600,000 of them in Spain, in particular at the borders between the Kingdom of Morocco and the two enclaves of Ceuta and Melilla. The estimated figure of illegal immigrants who stayed within the EU in 2006 is 8 million, of which 75% were nationals which require a visa to the EU. More than 500,000 illegal immigrants were apprehended in 2006; most arrived from Romania, Albania, Morocco, Iraq, Ukraine, Senegal, and Brazil. Usually there is no fence along borders in the terrain, but there are exceptions like the Ceuta border fence between this Spanish exclave and the Morocco territory. However, surveillance camera systems and equipped infrared technology are located at some more critical spots, for example, at the border between Slovakia and Ukraine. Along the southern coast of the Schengen countries, coast guards are making a substantial effort to prevent private boats from entering without permission. A new intergovernmental agreement was signed on 27 May 2005 by Germany, Spain, France, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Austria, and Belgium at Prüm, Germany. This agreement, based on the principle of availability, began to be discussed after the Madrid bomb attack on 11 March 2004, could enable these countries to exchange all DNA and fingerprint data of concerned persons and to cooperate against terrorism.

2076

M. Bufon

Furthermore, it contains provisions for the deployment of armed sky marshals on intra-Schengen flights, joint police patrols, the entry of (armed) police forces into the territory of another state for the prevention of immediate danger, and cooperation in cases of mass events or disasters. Sometimes known as the Prüm Convention, this treaty is becoming known as the Schengen III Agreement; it was adopted into EU regulation for Schengen states in June 2007. Although progress has been made on the implementation of SIS II, the original plan to migrate to the new system in mid-December 2008 has become more and more unrealistic. In the first half of 2008 the Slovenian Presidency prepared a paper which provided for an update of the SIS II project and suggested that all the SIS II testing phases should be completed by the end of 2008. Under this proposal, the migration to SIS II can take place, at the latest, by September 2009. In February 2008 the Commission also tabled two new proposals on border management which will give more steam to the process of implementing Europe’s forward-looking vision in this area (Bertozzi, 2008). One proposal dealt with an automated entry/exit system, which could become an effective measure to prevent terrorism by monitoring the movements of potentially dangerous third-country nationals more efficiently. The system should record electronically the dates of entry and exit of each thirdcountry national admitted for a short stay, which means up to 90 days. The records should include the use of biometrics, which are to be stored in the VIS database. The other Communication will draw up a roadmap for stepping up the national capacity for border surveillance and promoting cooperation and exchanges of surveillance information in the short run. In the medium run, it will develop new tools, such as satellites that allow joint application of such tools for the benefit of every member state. In the long term, the Commission intends to suggest new ways of setting up an integrated maritime surveillance system by connecting all the existing surveillance and reporting systems covering Europe’s maritime borders. In short, these two proposals, combined with the one on the evaluation of Frontex, will give more impetus to building Europe’s integrated border management system.

114.6 The Impact of the Schengen Regime on EU’s New Internal and External Boundaries The rise of freedom of movement rights in Europe, now codified with the legal category of European Union citizenship, represents a startling reversal of the historical tradition of state sovereignty. States have historically been defined in terms of insiders (citizens) and outsiders (foreigners). The new supranational rights supersede this traditional distinction by reducing or even removing the ability of European states to discriminate between their own citizens and those of other EU member states. Borders within the EU still matter, but the remaining barriers to freedom of movement within “fortress Europe” are practical rather than legal, and even they are rapidly disappearing. Exceptions to Schengen also continue to exist, such as the phase-in period for workers from most of the new member states, or security controls at special events

114

Engineering Borders and Border Landscapes

2077

such as the European Soccer Cup, for which Belgium and the Netherlands in 2000 and Portugal in 2004 and Austria in 2008 were granted a temporary elimination on the Schengen regulations. On the whole, however, the picture that emerges for freedom of movement within Europe is one of a continent in which Europeans can move about freely, and in which state borders (though clearly not the borders between “fortress Europe” and the rest of the world) have lost most of the significance they once possessed.

114.7 Visa-Free Europe It is quite evident that the visa-free European space strengthens the control and security demands at the external borders of the EU (Sherr, 2000; Tassinari, 2005). The question of an expansion of visa-free European space on the region of CentralEastern Europe (CEE) has a special and particular character and could be perceived either as a visible effect of the European re-integration or as a inevitable negative compound factor of the new geopolitical division between “proper Europe” and the “outer Europe.” To avoid closures in the economic, social and ethno-political spheres at EU’s external boundaries, interstate relations of the CEE countries with their eastern neighbors should be developed by taking into the consideration: the specific features of the historical development of CEE, peoples’ socio-cultural ties and socio-economic needs, existing legislative alternatives between the EU memberstates, and strengthening instruments such as the EU program INTERREG-III. The implementation of the Schengen acquis, undoubtedly, will have strong influence upon the CEE’s minority agenda and generally on the socio-cultural and socioeconomic cross-border interdependence, so common for this part of Europe. Both the procedure of visa registration, as well as the slowed procedure of crossing a border, create an extremely negative image and handicap the formation of positive image of the EU in future. By implementing the Schengen visa, all small crossing points will be automatically liquidated and only those which meet the criteria of international standards will function. In turn, it will have a significant impact on the cross-border economic co-operation and trade, and in particular, the shuttle business, to which both minorities and local communities living in the border areas are involved. In practice, there are sensitive cases arising almost the entire distance along the EU’s eastern borders (Apap & Tchorbadjiyska, 2004). At the border between Moldova and Romania, many Moldovans are acquiring dual Moldovan and Romanian citizenship because of the Romanian accession to the EU combined with the prospected Schengen border regime. At the Narva-Ivangorod border between Estonia and Russia, Russian communities are living directly alongside each other, but they are not treated as full citizens in the EU’s side of the border. At the borders of Russian Kaliningrad with Lithuania and Poland, the issue is illustrated by the fact that Kaliningrad has become a sort of Russian enclave within the territory of the EU, while at the borders between Ukraine and the new EU member states (Poland, Hungary, Slovakia and Romania) as well as between Belarus and Poland. In these

2078

M. Bufon

cases there are many illegal cross-border movements for purposes of trade and personal connections. Then there is the case of the borders in South Eastern Europe, where an outer ring of visa-free states (Slovenia, Hungary, Greece, and now also Romania and Bulgaria) are surrounding an inner core subject to visa requirements (Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Macedonia, Serbia, Montenegro, Albania and Kosovo). Problematic is also the situation of the Aegean islands of Greece which are very close to the Turkish coast and where tourist movements are now being, very unfortunately, hampered at a time of improving Greek-Turkish relations, not to mention the divided situation on the island of Cyprus. The Schengen requirement on external border controls has required many of the Central- Eastern European EU members to re-examine their border management policies (Sherr 2000). These countries now need strong controls at their eastern borders once they eliminated such checks at their western borders, which, in the recent past, represented the Iron-Curtain border type. Possible solutions might include: 1. The provision of adequate consular services for people living in frontier regions and cooperative arrangements between neighboring states, which could provide the facility of issuing a standard 3-month Schengen visa; 2. The upgrading of border facilities to provide for rapid passage of large numbers of peoples without the multi-hour queues so often experienced today, which are indicative of existing problems irrespective of Schengen rules; 3. Special bilateral agreements for border regions, such as long term multi-entry national visas at low or zero charge, very short-term visas for one or two days to facilitate local family contacts, tourism and small scale commerce, and (outside Schengen jurisdiction) long-term or permanent resident permits; 4. Customer-friendly consular and border services, with training of personnel to eliminate the undignified interrogation styles, cut visa queues and delays, and make available application forms by post or from Internet sites; 5. The development of new Euro-region programs to boost cross-border regional cooperation; and 6. To promote efforts by the neighboring states, which seek to ease or abolish visa requirements and improve consular and border services. In fact, Schengen States which share an external land border with a nonSchengen country are authorized by virtue of an EU regulation to conclude or maintain bilateral agreements with neighboring third countries for the purpose of implementing a local border traffic regime. The regulation stipulates the conditions which have to be met by such agreements. The agreements have to provide for the introduction of a local or bilateral border traffic permit under the relevant scheme. Such permits must contain the name and a photograph of the holder, as well as a statement that its holder is not authorized to move outside the border area and that any abuse shall be subject to penalties. The border area may be comprised of any administrative district within 30 km (18.6 mi) from the external border (and, if any district extends beyond that limit, the whole district up to 50 km (31 mi) from the border).

114

Engineering Borders and Border Landscapes

2079

Holders of such a permit may cross the external borders, once there has not been issued an alert in the SIS for refusal of entry, and they do not pose a threat to public policy, internal security, public health or the international relations of any Member States. The question is whether an additional identity document is required for crossing the border (and which type may be used), how long the permit holder may stay in the border area, and how it would be regulated bilaterally. The maximum permitted period of stay may not exceed three months. The features of the permit form have to comply with the uniform format for residence permits for third-country nationals. Permits are valid from one up to five years. Permits may only be issued to persons having been lawful residents in the border area of a country neighboring a Schengen State for a period specified in the relevant bilateral agreement, which is generally at least one year. The applicant for the permit has to show legitimate reasons to cross an external land border frequently under the local border traffic regime, and must meet the specific entry requirements as described above. Schengen states must keep a central register of the permits issued and have to provide immediate access to the relevant data to other Schengen states. Before concluding an agreement with a neighboring country, the Schengen state must receive approval from the European Commission, which has to confirm the legality of its draft. The agreement may only be concluded if the neighboring country grants at least reciprocal rights to the relevant Schengen state and if the readmission of illegally staying persons from the neighboring country is ensured. For local border traffic, fast lanes or special border crossings may be introduced.

114.8 Central-Eastern Europe These agreements could be particularly useful in Central-Eastern Europe where the collapse of communism resulted in an enormous increase in international crossborder mobility (Apap & Tchorbadjiyska, 2004). In Poland out of nearly 65 million incoming foreigners, the number of arrivals from the former Soviet Union fluctuated between 11 and 13 million, of which about 4 million were Belorussians, about 5.5 million Ukrainians and about 2 million Russians. The introduction of visas in 2003 led to a temporary decline in arrivals through Poland’s eastern border but the trend was rapidly reversed and by the end of 2005 levels had returned to their previous levels. In regards to irregular entries, the data on foreigners captured by Poland’s Border Guard, who attempted to illegally cross the country’s borders, show a stable trend between 2000 and 2006, fluctuating between 3100 and 3600 per year. The only exception is the year 2004, when it reached a peak of almost 4500; this number is explained by the increased in the mobility of Chechen immigrants who started moving with the EU’s eastern enlargement. The unexpected migration outflow from Poland after 1 May 2004 to the countries that had opened their labor markets, primarily the UK, caused a serious labor shortage in Poland. This development in turn forced it to partially open its own labor market to foreigners from neighboring countries. On 31 August 2006 the right was granted to employ workers from the Ukraine, Belarus and Russia without work

2080

M. Bufon

permits for three months in any given six-month period of six months. This privilege was originally only applicable to the agricultural sector, but in June 2007 the right to employ workers without work permits from Poland’s neighboring countries was extended to other sectors, including the construction sector. However, the pressure in the labor market for both skilled and unskilled workers led to further developments and in February 2008 the duration of legal work without a work permit was extended from three to six months in any given period 12 month period. Since Schengen rules conflicted with Poland’s policies regarding ethnic Poles, in September 2007 an “Act of the Polish Chart” was approved in an attempt to facilitate the entry into Poland of ethnic Poles living in the East. According to this act those who meet the relevant ethnicity requirements will be able to take up employment or conduct economic activities on the same basis as Polish nationals. They will be given Polish residence visa (free of charge) and after a given period of time will be able to apply for residence permits and Polish citizenship. A similar attempt to protect co-ethnics from the results of Schengen enlargement was made by Hungary through the “Status Law” and is now proposed both by Romania and Bulgaria in relation to Moldavian ethnic Romanians and to Bulgarian affiliated Macedonians, respectively. The most recent estimate on Poland’s immigrant stock was presented by the Central Statistical Office in 2008 and referred to data as of December 2006. According to this source, the number of immigrants residing in Poland is around 200,000, of which Ukrainians constitute the predominant category. Ukrainians also comprise the biggest national group working in Poland illegally. The massive shuttle migration into Poland from Ukraine, beginning in the 1990s, was the result of strong historical and cultural ties between the two countries, their geographical and linguistic proximity, Poland’s pro-Ukrainian foreign policy after 1989 (exemplified by Polish help during the Ukrainian Orange Revolution and Poland’s Eastern Neighbourhood Strategy) and its benevolent visa practices. Before joining Schengen, Poland’s visa regime was highly liberal and visas were issued to Ukrainians free of charge, while Russians and Belarussians allowed entry for a number of reasons for which they did not need to pay. Ukrainians were often given multiple entry visas. According to recent estimates there are 300,000 (perhaps even up to 500,000) Ukrainians employed in Poland annually as short time/temporary immigrants. Most entered Poland with a tourist visa (before 21 December 2007), but work in a shadow economy in rather unusual conditions. Poland’s admittance to the Schengen space has had as its immediate consequence a dramatic decline in the number of border crossings by Ukrainians, a decrease that could have negative consequences for the Polish economy. As far as South-Eastern Europe is concerned, visa free regime negotiations between the EU and the Western Balkans were launched in the first half of 2008 and are currently underway. The Western Balkans (Albania, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Macedonia, Montenegro, and Serbia) already enjoy a facilitated visa regime with the Schengen states (UK and Ireland excluded), including shorter waiting periods, free or low visa fees, and fewer documentation requirements when compared to other countries whose citizens require visas. The visa free negotiations are being

114

Engineering Borders and Border Landscapes

2081

conducted on an individual basis roadmaps with a list of conditions to be fulfilled and customized for each Western Balkan state. These negotiations could be concluded as early as in the first half of 2009, and soon thereafter those Western Balkan citizens will be able to enter the Schengen area without a visa. There is an exception to the above rules in the case of citizens of Croatia. Based on the Pre-Schengen bilateral agreements between Croatia and its neighboring EU countries (Italy, Hungary and Slovenia), Croatian citizens are allowed to cross the border with an ID card only (passport not obligatory). There were many disputes about whether Croatian citizens would lose this right on 21 December 2007 when Schengen control was established on the Croatian land borders with Hungary and Slovenia as well as on the Croatian sea border with Italy. Many people living near the border cross it several times a day (some work across the border or have property on the other side of the border), especially on the border with Slovenia, which was unmarked for more than 40 years when Croatia and Slovenia were both part of Yugoslavia. Since Croatia is about to join EU in a matter of years, an interim solution, which received permission from the European Commission, was found: every Croatian citizen is allowed to cross the Schengen border into Hungary, Italy or Slovenia with an ID card and an “evidention” card that is issued by Croatian police at the border exit control. Police authorities of Hungary, Italy or Slovenia will then stamp the evidention card both on entry and on exit. Croatian citizens, however, are not allowed to enter any other Schengen agreement countries without a valid passport and entry stamp, though they are allowed to travel between Hungary, Italy and Slovenia. This practice will be abandoned once Croatia becomes an EU member state, which will allow its citizens to enter any member country with an ID card only.

114.9 Restructuring Borders and Border Landscapes: The Case of Slovenia The present status of Slovenia as a EU borderland is clear from the ratio between the surface of the state and the total length of the political borders (1160 km; 721 mi). On the basis of these two data we can calculate that there is 5.7 km (3.54 mi) of borders per 100 km2 (38.3 mi2 ). A higher proportion of borders to land is present only in Luxembourg (nearly 9 km (5.59 mi) per 100 km2 (38.3 mi2 ). The “bordercharacter” of Slovenia can also be understood by calculating the ratio between the bordering municipalities, i.e., the municipalities, which are located within a 25 km (15.5 mi) distance from the border and other municipalities of Slovenia. According to this measurement, 61% of the Slovenian municipalities are bordering municipalities. Even if we limit the border belt to a width of 10 km (6.2 mi), the percentage of bordering municipalities still account for more than 50%. The “border character” of Slovenia is furthermore made evident by the fact that the nation-state’s capital Ljubljana is by road only 54 km (31.6 mi) away from the Austrian border, 81 km (50.3 mi) from the Italian border, and 82 km (50.9) from the Croatian border. The most distant border is the Hungarian, about 193 km (199.9 mi) away (Bufon 2002a).

2082

M. Bufon Table 114.2 Slovenia: structure of border crossings per sectors, 1992–2002 Million passengers

SLO/I SLO/A SLO/H SLO/CRO Total

Percent

1992

1995

2002

1992

1995

2002

51.4 39.4 1.9 50.2 142.9

74.5 50.7 4.8 50.3 180.3

64.9 48.6 4.1 61.3 178.9

36.0 27.6 1.3 35.1 100.0

41.3 28.1 2.7 27.9 100.0

36.3 27.1 2.3 34.3 100.0

Source: Statistical Office of the Republic of Slovenia

The cross-border traffic is also coherent with the Slovenia’s borderland status. The number of people crossing the Slovenian border by car increased between 1992 and 2002 from about 140 million to 180 million. On average half a million people are crossing borders daily. If we consider that 30% of these are Slovenian citizens, who make about 50 million border crossings a year, we find that about 140,000 Slovenian citizens, or 7% of the resident population, transit the border daily. This information is also an important feature in measuring the “border character” of Slovenia. It enables us to calculate that each Slovenian citizen (including children and elderly people) visits a foreign country in average once a fortnight. According the Statistical Office of the Republic of Slovenia, of all foreigners who have crossed the Slovenian border in 2002 22% were residents of Croatia, followed by Italy (21%), Austria (13%), Germany (12%), the Czech Republic (2%), Hungary (2%), Switzerland (1.1%), Slovakia (1.0%) and The Netherlands (1.0%). The inhabitants of other former Yugoslav republics account for about 2.5 million border crossings. The above results reveal that the structure of border crossing is a combination of dominant local or inter-state, and international transitional traffic, which is more frequent in summer. Table 114.2 shows the structure of border crossing between the years 1992–2002. There was a 45% increase in cross-border traffic on the Slovenian-Italian border between 1992 and 1995: from 51 to 74 millions. The flow has stabilized since then to about 65 million border crossings which is the consequence of the introduction of fuel cards in Friuli-Venezia Giulia, which enabled Italian residents of the province to purchase fuel in Italy and in Slovenia at the same equal price. The traffic across the Austrian-Slovenian border increased between 1992 and 1995 by one-fourth, and has stabilized at about 50 million border crossings a year. The biggest increase of cross-border traffic occurred on the Slovenian-Hungarian border. This border used to be virtually closed before the 1990s. The cross-border traffic increased 1992–1995 for 150% and has since stabilized at about 4 million border crossings a year. Such an intense increase is the result of the democratization and liberalization of the Hungarian society and economy, and by the modification of the Hungarian borderland and its adjustment to the cross-border gateway function. Changes are noticed on the Slovenian-Croatian border as well. There, the maximum was reached in 1994 with 66 millions border crossings, a 33% increase compared

114

Engineering Borders and Border Landscapes

2083

Table 114.3 Selected characteristics of borders of the Republic of Slovenia, 2002 Number border posts in accordance with Total border the relevant length (%) cross-border traffic SLO/I 17.4 SLO/A 27.9 SLO/H 7.6 SLO/CRO 47.1 Total 100.0

35 24 6 26 91

Border posts in relation to Number of border length border posts (%) per 100 km

Total crossborder traffic (%)

38.5 26.3 6.6 28.6 100.0

38.0 27.6 2.2 32.2 100.0

17.3 7.4 6.8 4.8 7.8

Source: Statistical Office of the Republic of Slovenia

to 1992. The next year, however, the numbers of cross-border traffic dropped, but they have improved recently and is now continues to rise due to Croatia’s improved position in world tourism. In 2005 about 35% of the total passenger traffic crosses the Italo–Slovenian border, about 34% the Croato-Slovenian border and about 27% the Austro-Slovenian border. The traffic on the Hungaro-Slovenian border is in a constant rise and is at present close to 4%. From Table 114.3 it is evident that the most intense cross-border traffic was and still is on the Italo-Slovene border. It is just 17% of the entire nation-state border length, but it handles as much as 38% of the whole cross-border traffic. The traffic across the Austro-Slovenian border is more proportional with length, whereas it is disproportional on the borders with Croatia and Hungary. The Italo-Slovene border is also the most permeable, as we find there close to 40% of all border posts. In average, the Italo-Slovene border has 17 border-posts per 100 km (62.1 mi), in the southern part of the border, in the section Trieste–Gorizia, the density is even bigger and comes to about 25 border-posts per 100 km (62.1 mi), or one on every 4 km (2.48 mi) of the border length. The average for the nation-state is 8 border posts per 100 km (62.1 mi). The Croato-Slovene border has the lowest number of border posts – just 5 border-posts per 100 km (62.1 mi) of the border. With the entrance of Slovenia into the Schengen space, border controls on the new internal EU borders with Italy, Austria and Hungary are eliminated, while controls on the new external EU border with Croatia are reinforced, both at border posts and along the border line. The Slovene and EU external border with Croatia represents the longest Slovenian border (670 km; 416 mi), currently equipped with 54 border posts, of which 10 are devoted to only bilateral traffic. Actually, the Croato-Slovene agreement forecast a higher figure of local cross-border posts (22) to avoid the possible negative effects of the establishment of the Schengen border regime. But the difficult inter-state relations caused by border disputes in the Gulf of Piran and other border sections have presented severe obstacles to the full implementation of a more open bilateral border regime (Bufon, 2002b). A recent analysis of cross-border interdependence at Slovene borderlands that we conducted in 2007 reveals small functional differences, but more pronounced psychological differences between attitudes of dwellers at “internal” and “external”

2084

M. Bufon

border areas. The highest intensity of cross-border visits could be found at the ItaloSlovene border where almost 20% of border dwellers used to cross the border either every day or at least once per week, while in other border areas this percentage ranges from 4.5 to 8.2%. About 30% of border dwellers usually cross the border at least once per month, except at the Croato-Slovene border where this percentage is lower (20.2%). Occasional cross-border visits (some times per year) are more typical for border areas with Hungary and Croatia where they account for about 51– 57%. The percentage of border dwellers who never visit the neighboring countries consists of about 16–20%; this figure is significantly lower only at the border with Italy (7%). In consideration of motivations for cross-border traffic, “work” is more often considered in the border areas with Italy (5.6%) and Croatia (3.6%); “shopping” is the most often cited motivation in all border areas, ranging from 45 to 48%, except at the border with Croatia where this motivation is much lower (<9%). “Visits to relatives and friends” are generally cited as a motivation for cross-border visits by about 15% of respondents; only at the border with Hungary is it considered less important (cited by only 9% of the respondents). Finally, “recreation” is considered as a major motivation for cross-border movements by about 14% of respondents at the borders with Italy and Austria, by about 25% of respondents at the border with Hungary, and 48% of respondents at the border with Croatia. Future expectations in consideration of the enlargement of the Schengen space to Slovenia, reveal that better cross-border relations are expected by the majority of border dwellers at the border with both Italy and Austria (about 48–49%); at the border with Hungary the majority of the respondents (about 51%) expect that these relations will remain at the same level, while the majority of the respondents at the border with Croatia (about 52%) expect that cross-border relations will get worse. The support of socio-cultural cross-border links and a cultural affinity of the population on both sides of the border are crucial for a successful and prosperous arrangement of/in border regions. The Slovenian minority in Italy, for instance, tactually used to maintain a large part of the “institutional” cross-border links in regard to sport, culture, economy, information, and municipality co-operation. They represented, as he border became open in the 1960s, a kind of Yugoslavia’s “gateway into Europe.” as a substantial part of Yugoslavia’s transactions with Italy and Europe passed through the banks owned by the Slovenian minority in Trieste. Since Slovenian independence in 1991, more formal and institutionalized types of cross-border integration between border municipalities and institutions began (Bufon, 2003). Some co-operation forms are now similar to those existing in several European “Euroregions” (Perkmann, 2002), others are innovative and often go beyond the limited bilateral interests, in particular within the so called AlpsAdriatic context (including the border regions of Italy, Austria, Slovenia, Croatia and Hungary), where we can find initiatives such as broadcasting cooperation or common development of EU’s Interreg projects. The bid to organize the Winter Olympic Games in the Three Border Area of Slovenia, Austria and Italy in 2006 was another such step.

114

Engineering Borders and Border Landscapes

2085

With the Slovenian inclusion into the EU in 2004, southwestern Slovenia, including Istria, is re-directing its interest and potential towards the Adriatic, opening up the question of inter-port cooperation between Trieste and Koper, which could contribute to the development of a new cross-border urban conurbation in the Upper Adriatic. The expected consequence of the cross-border integration will be that Trieste and its broader hinterland will again become more multicultural and play an important function in the communication between Slovenian and Italian cultural spaces. Another increasing development “line” is related to the Graz-Maribor cross-border area where the border created after World War One has divided the previous multicultural Austrian region of Styria. But we can say that an increase of socio-economic cross-border relations will support the “Europeanization” of all Slovenian “internal” border areas seeking a pragmatic and peaceful relationship, and thus a “normalization” of inter-community and inter-ethnic relations as well (Bufon, 2006b).

114.10 Conclusion There is no doubt that Europe is in a remarkable state of change. Clearly, CentralEastern Europe is changing rapidly and radically. There are many shocks associated with these processes and more yet to come. In addition to traumas, the region in general has experienced many positive advances since 1991. Acting out of the Slovenian experience, cooperation and integration perspectives in today’s Europe may be discussed on two different but inter-related levels: (1) The first regards what could be called “regional globalization,” namely the integration of an increasing number of Central European countries in a wider trans-continental dimension; (2) The second concerns local aspects of cross-border co-operation. A direct consequence of this process will be the elimination of the (negative) mental and historical legacies in the region. And good cross-border relations are crucial in this regard (Bufon & Gosar, 2007). The case of Slovenia’s borders also provides an interesting illustration of an apparently paradoxical process within borderlands: the greater the conflicts created by the political partition of a previous homogeneous administrative, cultural and economic region (like many sections on the border towards Italy, Austria and Hungary), the greater – in the longer run – are the opportunities for such a divided area to develop into an integrated cross-border region. Reflecting on the border landscape concept on the basis of Slovenia’s border areas, it becomes clear that the political or economic “macro” approach in studying cross-border regions is limited. The true nature and qualities of these regions may only be established when local cultural and social elements of cross-border relations are considered. The great variety of micro-transactions at the local level, supported by the border population, is namely the result of its spatial mobility in satisfying daily needs in regard to such basic functions as work, leisure/recreation, supply, and education. These functions are also the result of the activity of the border population in maintaining the many

2086

M. Bufon

traditional cultural links that are rooted in the relatively stable period preceding political partition. Nevertheless, the study of border regions, undoubtedly, brings additional aspects to bear on the standard theory of the center-periphery relations, while opening up a range of new problems, which are becoming increasingly more topical in today’s world, as we try to enhance mutual understanding in the culturally rich and diverse European space (Blatter, 2003). The geography of border landscapes in its social and cultural dimensions is thus definitely assuming an important role in the “humanization” of the traditional geographical approach to borders and border conflict resolution. Three major factors which contribute towards a positive evaluation of cross-border co-operation could be detected (Bufon, 2006a): (1) By orchestrating a functional, in intensity strong cross-border mobility, existing relations determine a generally positive evaluation of co-operation; (2) By stimulating cultural/ethnic affinity between the resident populations on both sides of the border, cross-border activities become natural, more intense, definitely impacting the evaluation of the relationship in the long run; (3) By stressing how cross-border co-operation is greater in areas where differences in the socio-cultural and socioeconomic structure of border landscapes on both sides of the border are small and/or compatible with a modern society. All three areas should be taken into account in the process of engineering borders and the management of cross-border cooperation and integration, as they are representing the pre-conditions for a true re-integration of the European continent (Calhoun, 2003). They cannot be treated just as “sideeffects” of the Schengen regime and the EU’s bureaucracy’s attempt to consolidate the “European fortress.”

References Apap, J., & Tchorbadjiyska, A. (2004). The impact of Schengen along the EU’s external borders. CEPS Working Document No. 210. Brussels: Centre for European Policy Studies. Bertozzi, S. (2008). Schengen: Achievements and challenges in managing an area encompassing 3.6 million km2 . CEPS Working Document No. 284. Brussels: Centre for European Policy Studies. Blatter J. K. (2003). Debordering the world of states: toward a multi-level system in Europe and a multi-polity system in North America? Insights from border regions. In N. Brenner et al. (Eds.), State/space – A reader (pp. 185–207). Oxford: Blackwell. Bufon, M. (2002a). Slovenia – a European contact and border area. Annales, 11/2, 445–472. Bufon, M. (2002b). Entre centre et périphérie, les effets de l élargissement de l U.E. sur la géographie politique de la Slovénie. Mosella, 27/3–4, 293–305. Bufon, M. (2003). Cross-border Cooperation in the Upper Adriatic. In J. Anderson, L. O’Dowd, & T. M. Wilson (Eds.), New borders for a changing Europe – Cross-border cooperation and governance (pp. 177–196). London: Frank Cass. Bufon, M. (2006a). Between social and spatial convergence and divergence: An exploration into the political geography of European contact areas. GeoJournal, 66/4: 341–352. Bufon, M. (2006b). Geography of border landscapes, borderlands and euroregions in the enlarged EU. Rivista Geografica Italiana, 113/1, 47–72.

114

Engineering Borders and Border Landscapes

2087

Bufon, M., & Gosar, A. (2007). New borders in a new Europe: Eliminating and making borders in Central Europe. In W. Armstrong & J. Anderson. (Eds.), Geopolitics of European Union enlargement (pp. 160–176). London: Routledge. Calhoun C. (2003). The democratic integration of Europe. In M. Berezin & M. Schain (Eds.), Europe without borders (pp. 243–274). Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. European Commission. (2002). Towards integrated management of the external borders of the member states of the member states of the European Union. Com 233. Brussels: EU. European Commission. (2003). The development of a common policy on illegal immigration, smuggling and trafficking in human beings, external borders and the return of illegal residents. Com 323. Brussels: EU. Government of the Republic of Slovenia. (2007). Ljubljana: Slovenian Statistical Office. Hobbing, P. (2005). Integrated border management at the EU level. CEPS Working Document No. 227. Brussels: Centre for European Policy Studies. Leresche, J. P., & Saez, G. (2002). Political frontier regimes: towards cross-border governance? In M. Perkmann & Sum, N. L. (Eds.), Globalization, regionalization and cross-border regions (pp. 77–99). New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Perkmann, M. (2002). Euroregions: institutional entrepreneurship in the European Union. In M. Perkmann & N. L. Sum (Eds.), Globalization, regionalization and cross-border regions (pp. 103–124). New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Sherr, J. (2000). The Schengen agreement, EU enlargement and European security. National Security & Defence, 9, 38–43. Tassinari, F. (2005). Security and integration in the EU neighbourhood: The case for regionalism. CEPS Working Document No. 226. Brussels: Centre for European Policy Studies.

Chapter 115

Engineered Healing and the Northern Ireland Question: Collaboration Across an Increasingly Invisible Border Caroline Creamer, John Driscoll, Neale Blair, and Brendan Bartley

115.1 Introduction Border areas face considerable challenges in responding to an environment in which they are subject to the increasing influences of globalization and transnational movements of people, goods and services. With border regions covering over 40% of the European Union’s territory (Beck, 2008), it is not surprising that the landscape of Europe is strongly shaped and influenced by the opportunities and challenges arising from their existence. In recent years, it has been estimated that there are currently over 200 land borders between nation-states in Europe (Newman, 2006; Prakash & Lerougetel, 2008); the re-engineering and metamorphosis of which brings with it challenges in relation to governance and legislation (politics), identity (culture) and the economy (Donnan & Wilson, 1999). Borders are “scars of history” (AEBR, 2004); as witnessed for example, in IsraelPalestine, Cyprus, the dissolution of the former state of Yugoslavia, Karelia on the Finnish-Russian border and Ireland-United Kingdom/Northern Ireland. In the case of Ireland-Northern Ireland, the Irish border region was, for almost eighty years, “a contested border” (Coakley & O’Dowd, 2004), both physically and mentally with many citizens either believing or perceiving the border to be inconsistent with local economic, community and social linkages and patterns. From a spatial development perspective, it was noted by Francois Vigier of the Institute for International Urban Development, during the 2008 annual conference of the International Center for Local and Regional Development (ICLRD), that “Borders are the bane of regional planners,” not only because of their association with “back-to-back” policy development but also because of their interference with natural hinterlands and the collection and collation of data-sets. Because of their presence, planners cannot always take account of evolving growth patterns and, as such, are prevented from making informed decisions on future spatial patterns. Vigier further noted that when it comes to implementing plans, frameworks and strategies “on-the-ground,” the C. Creamer (B) National Institute for Research and Spatial Analysis (NIRSA), National University of Ireland, Maynooth Co. Kildare, Ireland e-mail: [email protected] S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_115,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2089

2090

C. Creamer et al.

process “can be stymied by the patchwork of administrative borders of independent local units of government, each with its own view of a more desirable future” (Vigier, 2008: 1). This chapter reports some of the findings and issues of a qualitative research study undertaken by the ICLRD in recent years on the developmental challenges experienced by, and opportunities open to, settlements on either side of the Irish border; with a specific emphasis on the changing policy environment as it relates to collaboration on mobility, trade, and shared services such as health and education.

115.2 The Irish Border Region Up until the mid-1990s, areas adjacent to the border between the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland were synonymous with socio-political conflict, tension and socio-economic stagnation and decline. All were largely associated with the partition of the island, dating from 1921, and the subsequent Northern Ireland conflict (known across the island of Ireland as “The Troubles”). However, since April 1998, with the signing of the Belfast Agreement (also known as the Good Friday Agreement), the Irish border has become increasingly porous to the extent that it is now virtually seamless or invisible. While tensions still remain, the mutual benefits and advantages to be achieved through cross-border collaboration has led to the majority of local stakeholders along the Irish border region becoming strong advocates of cooperative efforts in order to achieve economies of scale in business and cost savings in service delivery. However, it has taken almost eighty years (and most of the 20th century) for this situation to (re)materialize. The partition of Ireland in 1921, as laid out in the Government of Ireland Act 1920, and the resulting political struggle between northern unionism and southern nationalism, witnessed a “fuzzy political frontier” being “translated into a stark constitutional border which separated two increasingly differentiated administrative systems” (Coakley & O’Dowd, 2007: 5). This struggle intensified an already emerging North-South disconnect not only in general terms but also, and more specifically, between neighboring cross-border towns and villages. As such, the Irish border translated into “a tale of unintended and unforeseen consequences” (Harvey, Kelly, McGearty, & Murray, 2005: 12) with the border itself being more than just a line on a map but rather, as with other boundaries, an articulation of a power network (Donnan & Wilson, 1999; Paasi, 2002; Sideway, 2001). In political-economic terms, the North-South divide is represented by each jurisdiction being governed by a different state, as highlighted by each operating its own currency and legislative framework. Socially, the divide is much more intricate; with the division having, for almost four decades, been badged as an ethno-religious split. In branding the divisions of the island as such, the Irish borderlands have become a “complex melange of place, culture and identity”; with its’ meaning varying between individuals and across interest groups (Greer & Murray, 2003: 7). Added to this is a socio-political conflict – transcending nation, state and territory – which constitutes an additional layer of difficulty (Galtung, 1996, quoted in O’Brien,

115

Engineered Healing and the Northern Ireland Question

2091

2007; Newman, 2006). This has been inimical to the spatial development of border corridors on the island; a scenario that is clearly visible when one reviews the development history of the Irish border territories.

115.2.1 Defining the Irish Border Region A recurring question in border research is “how should a ‘border region’ be defined”? More often than not, this is usually decided on the basis of its socioeconomic impacts over distance (Anderson, 2006); that is, at what distance, from the territorial boundary, does the impact of the border “taper-off”? In the case of the Irish border region, there is no one agreed geographical boundary. Based on a questionnaire on the “border effect” and cross-border contacts, Anderson (2006) defines the border region as the area spanning a distance of 12 mi (19 km) either side of the borderline. Over this same period, based on geographical analysis focusing on observed travel patterns and access to services, the All-Island Research Observatory (AIRO) located in the National University of Ireland (NUI), Maynooth has confirmed Anderson’s findings and determined the geographical area of the border as being between 9.5 and 12.5 mi (15–20 km) each side of the actual border-line. This variance acknowledges that “distance-decline” varies for different aspects of life, e.g., social, economic, cultural, and political (Anderson, 2006). The distance of the border effect is also influenced by the transportation networks and types of activities, such as commercial activities including retail, that serve local and regional markets. On this basis, and taking account of the increased mobility of people over the past decade, particularly with the reopening of roads that would have been barricaded during the height of the Troubles, the border region is being defined using the higher of the distance variables for the purpose of this chapter i.e. as the area spanning 12 mi (19 km) from the actual border itself (Fig. 115.1).

115.2.2 Characteristics of the Irish Border The Irish border region covers 11% of the island of Ireland. In 2001/2002 (the last time that the Census of Population for the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland coincided) the population of this region was approximately 523,000, which was 13% of the population living on the island of Ireland at that time. As part explanation / part reason (cause-effect) for this low population density, the area is considered remote and isolated and, in developmental terms, “weak” (Fig. 115.2). In terms of its typology, when the classification devised by the OECD (1996) is applied to the border region, it highlights the remoteness and peripherality of this area; over 55% being classified as “remote.” This, in turn, is largely supported by the rural typology developed by NUI Maynooth in 2001 (McHugh, 2001); the predominant classifications emerging for the Irish border corridor being “marginal” and “structurally weak,” with some “economic diversification.”

2092

C. Creamer et al.

Fig. 115.1 The Irish border region

(a)

(b)

Fig. 115.2 Application of development typologies to the Irish border region. (a) Application of the OECD typology – areas about 12 m either side of the border; (b) NUI Maynooth’s rural typology as applied to the area about 12 m either side of the border

Socially and culturally, the border region has been synonymous, from the mid1960s onwards, with societal schisms (Greer & Murray, 2003: 3) that are not only represented by the segregation of space and symbolic forces (Shirlow, 2008), but also by a nationalist versus unionist debate, which in turn is further characterized by internal fractions within both unionism and nationalism (Bew & Gillespie, 1999). In fact, some would argue that both jurisdictions are borne of a “sectarian head

115

Engineered Healing and the Northern Ireland Question

2093

Fig. 115.3 Symbols of a political-religious divide include commemorating fallen comrades

count” (Tonge, 2008) – the geographical distribution of Catholics and Protestants across the island being key to how the island was partitioned; the preference being “. . .a ‘six county Northern Ireland’ with its ‘safe’ 66–33% Protestant majority” (Anderson, 2008: 90). Together, this difference has led to a deeply divided plural society in Northern Ireland and the Irish borderlands (Douglas & Shirlow, 1998; Morrissey & Gaffiken, 2006); as visualized by the demarcation of spaces through political (paramilitary) paraphernalia and the use of language (Fig. 115.3). While the majority-status of the Protestant population in Northern Ireland has been diminishing over the decades (Fig. 115.4), these politically-driven divisions (with religious undertones) continue to impact on how the region is planned for and serviced, and associated policies.

2094

C. Creamer et al.

(a)

(b)

Fig. 115.4 Religious affiliation along the Irish border. (a) Percent Protestant; (b) Percent Catholic

115

Engineered Healing and the Northern Ireland Question

2095

115.2.3 The Function of Borders From a geographical perspective, borders are regarded as “socially (re)produced phenomena” which differ across countries in both their meaning and form (van Houtum & Struver, 2002: 142). Borders are considered the primary means through which order is created, while also generating a sense of belonging to place (Newman, 2006). To this end, borders have a role to play in creating – or reflecting – difference and constituting the separation line not only between states and geographical spaces, but also between the “us” and “them”, the “here” and “there”, and the “insiders” and “outsiders” (Newman, 2006: 148).

Where their traditional function was once to create barriers, the majority of borders are now regarded as spaces of cooperation and reconciliation, as “bridges enabling contact” (Newman, 2006: 150). This bridging element is increasingly evident within the wider European Community and across the borders of the 27 member States. Within the context of the island of Ireland, this change, building on the work of Buchanan (2008), has not been brought about by “outsiders”. Rather, it has been enacted by the “insiders” who have been directly affected by the conflict over the past thirty-plus years – socially, economically, and mentally. In the Irish border region, the contribution of “insiders” to the peace process and the engineering of healing at the local level is captured in the ICLRD research program on the nature, focus and extent of cross-border cooperation between border towns and villages pre-, during and post-Troubles; an involvement more fully explored in the remainder of this chapter.

115.3 Partition – An Engineered Disconnect The border, labeled at times as “sectarian” (Howard, 2007), has had significant negative impacts on the economic and social viability and vitality of settlements, even in areas with the same ethno-nationalist background. It can be argued that there are three distinct phases to the (under)development of the Irish border region: pre-1970s; 1970s to mid-1990s; and mid-1990s to the present day. Partition in 1921 had varying impacts on communities and towns along the Irish border. In many areas, citizens continued to cross the border to shop, to socialize, to farm and to work, and the pattern of daily life was often not greatly affected. However, the negative impacts of partition were clearly manifest at many levels. For example, Harvey et al. (2005) regard Clones, located in County Monaghan, as the Southern town that was most adversely affected by the imposition of the border; with customs barriers and price differentials from 1924 onwards resulting in it – and similar border towns and villages – losing much of their trade to near by towns in the North (Fig. 115.5). Ireland’s entry into the European Monetary System (EMS) in 1979 ended the link between the punt and sterling, leading to constant fluctuations between the two currencies.

2096

C. Creamer et al.

Fig. 115.5 The old customs hut on the Pettigo-Tullyhummon (Donegal/Fermanagh) border

Fig. 115.6 Map showing road closures spanning the North Monaghan/South Tyrone Border. The three images are of cratered roads that once spanned the North Monaghan/South Tyrone border. © Fr. Sean Nolan, Truagh Development Association

These factors, together with the closure of cross-border rail connections and the Irish Republican Army (IRA) Border Campaign in the late 1950s, adversely affected cross-border interaction in economic, political and social terms. The onset of the “Troubles” and ensuing road closures from the early 1970s onwards further inhibited the development of the region, and has left sizeable challenges for those seeking to promote cross-border collaboration (Fig. 115.6). Yet, cooperation between the partitioned jurisdictions of Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland existed throughout the Troubles – some predating partition; for example, the Commissioners of Irish Lights, the Irish Congress of Trade Unions

115

Engineered Healing and the Northern Ireland Question

2097

(Coakley & O’Dowd, 2007), the Irish Rugby Football Union (Bairner, 2008) and the agribusiness sector (Kingon, 2008). Other connections continued up until the late 1950s; for example officials from both jurisdictions meeting on the maintenance of the rail network and, on occasion, the protection of shared river systems such as the River Foyle (Greer, 2003). From 1968 onwards, however, cross-border cooperation began to destabilize. This condition was largely a result of politics in the North being played out on the streets via the civil rights marches and the reaction of the Northern Ireland government at Stormont – and to a certain extent, the Republic of Ireland government in Dublin – to them (Kennedy, 2000). During the “Troubles” era, from the early seventies to the mid-nineties, the border as a barrier to socio-economic development became even more difficult to surmount. As a result of over 70 years of back-to-back policy development, the region had become characterized by its continuing peripherality from Dublin and Belfast (Fig. 115.7); a lack of joined-up action on spatial planning; an infrastructure deficit; the decline of traditional economic activities such as farming and textiles; high unemployment and under-employment; and low educational attainment. In economic terms, border towns and villages were cut off from their natural trading and retailing hinterlands. The region was also characterized by increased sectarian tensions, a by-product of the Northern Ireland conflict (Fig. 115.8). To address this situation, the 1990s witnessed a mushrooming in the number of both formal and informal cross-border networks as part of the emerging peace process. These initiatives were assisted by generous EU and other largely overseas funding through organizations like the International Fund for Ireland (IFI) and the EU-based Peace and Reconciliation and INTERREG programs. Since the mid-1990s, local border communities have striven to build on existing cross-border linkages, and forge new ones, with varying degrees of success. In recent years, local stakeholders face the additional challenges of competing within a changing political landscape brought about by devolution in Northern Ireland, the cessation or reduction of funding, and securing buy-in from a wider range of stakeholders, including local governments and the business community. An increasingly globalized economy has also changed the economic landscape within the border region and the manner in which rural communities link to each other and to larger towns and cities where an increasing number of employment opportunities are located. The cumulative result of the “border-effect” is that the island of Ireland has been characterized by in excess of half a century of back-to-back policy development (Busteed, 1992; Harvey et al., 2005); with the government of each jurisdiction failing to take account of the impact of its policies on its nearest neighbor. Surprisingly, however, the development trajectory of the island since partition has taken similar paths in geographic terms. In the early years of both Northern Ireland’s and the Republic’s existence, that is, following partition, the economic viability of both jurisdictions was heavily dependent on the industrialized east coast (Neill & Ellis, 2008);1 a focus that can be attributed to the island’s long-standing dependence on the United Kingdom as an export-market for its products – and indeed its proximity in turn to mainland Europe. Parallel to this development, the west coast of the island was to become the source of agricultural produce (Neill & Ellis, 2008). These trends

2098

C. Creamer et al.

Fig. 115.7 The dearth of rail crossings in the Irish border region

have continued up to the present; albeit they are not as significantly demarcated as has traditionally been the case – a transition that is the result of a more mobile service economy and changing regional development policies in both the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland to encourage more balanced regional development. The resulting North-South and East-West divide, together with a lack of joinedup action across government, has contributed to arrested development within and

115

Engineered Healing and the Northern Ireland Question

2099

Fig. 115.8 The military check-point beside the GAA pitch in Crossmaglen, Co. Armagh

across both jurisdictions; this process aided by the region’s distance from Belfast and Dublin and other areas of growth (InterTradeIreland, 2006; Neill & Ellis, 2008). As noted by the ICLRD in its 2008 publication on the inter-relationships between border towns and villages: The gradual withdrawal of public services, and in particular the closure of railways, compounded this peripherality and disconnect. The Troubles, between the late 1960s and the early 1990s, deepened the physical, social and political divide between North and South. Areas along the Border suffered from military and paramilitary incursions and violent attacks on property, civilians and the security forces. (Creamer, Blair, O’Keeffe, Van Egeraat, & Driscoll, 2008: 20)

This lack of joined-up policy across jurisdictions has detrimentally impacted on the delivery of services in the region. In the case of the postal service (Fig. 115.9), it can take between four and five days for a letter posted in the town of Strabane to reach an address in Lifford; yet these cross-border communities are located less that 1mi (1.61 km) from each other across the Tyrone/Donegal border. Currency exchange facilities were available in some settlements along the border only (Fig. 115.10). In the case of public transport, the shortest possible travel time between the towns of Lifford and Castlederg, again spanning the Donegal/Tyrone border and covering a distance of 13 mi (or 21 km), is one hour and forty-nine minutes. Using the further example of Castleblayney-Crossmaglen, spanning the Monaghan/Armagh border, traveling from one town to the other via public transport currently entails either

2100 Fig. 115.9 Postal service delivery challenges

Fig. 115.10 Service delivery challenges: Currency exchange

C. Creamer et al.

115

Engineered Healing and the Northern Ireland Question

2101

Table 115.1 Locations at which citizens currently access services Service

Lifford

Strabane

Blacklion

Belcoo

Doctor’s surgery Medical Emergency Service/A&E unit Fire Station

In town Letterkenny (19 mi)

In town Derry∗ (16 mi)

In village Sligo (31 mi)/Cavan (29 mi)

In village Enniskillen (11 mi)

Ballybofey (9 mi) In town

Dowra (11 mi)

Second Level School Public Library

Raphoe (7 mi)

In town

In town

In town

Post Office Banking

In town In town

In town In town

Manorhamilton (14 mi) Manorhamilton (14 mi) In village Manorhamilton (14 mi)

Enniskillen (11 mi) Enniskillen (11 mi) Mobile Library∗∗

∗ Ambulance

In village Enniskillen/ Belleek (11–35 mi)

service locally, ∗∗ Every two weeks

Table 115.2 Location of the closest service by distance (irrespective of border) Service Doctor’s surgery

Lifford In town

Strabane In town

Blacklion In village

Belcoo In village∗

Medical Emergency Service/A&E unit Fire Station

Derry (17 mi)

Derry (16 mi) Enniskillen (11 mi)

Enniskillen (11 mi)

Strabane (<1 mi)

In town

Dowra (10 mi)

Second Level School Public Library

Strabane (<1 mi)

In town

Enniskillen (11 mi)

In town

In town

Kiltyclogher (10 mi)

Post Office Banking

In town In town

In town In town

In village Dowra∗∗∗ (10 mi)

Enniskillen (11 mi) Enniskillen (11 mi) Enniskillen (11 mi) In village Enniskillen∗∗ (11 mi)

∗ Part-time

surgery hours between Florencecourt, Kinawley and Belcoo (all within Northern Ireland), ∗∗ Credit Union in Blacklion and Belcoo on part-time basis, ∗∗∗ Since closed down (Source: Adapted from Creamer et al, 2008)

traveling from Castleblayney to Dundalk in County Louth, taking a connection to Newry in County Down and then getting a third bus to Crossmaglen; or traveling Castleblayney to Dundalk, disembarking at Cullaville and walking 3 miles! These examples are symptomatic of the breakdown in a shared services agenda between these neighboring jurisdictions in a wide range of areas, including also education and health (Tables 115.1 and 115.2).

2102

C. Creamer et al.

In terms of education, the nearest second-level (or post-primary) school for citizens of Lifford is located in Strabane – less than one mile away. However, most teenagers from Lifford attend secondary school in Raphoe – 7 mi (11 km) away. This apparently unnecessary need to travel long distances to attend school is thought to be contributing to the high school drop-out rate at secondary level in the area. In the case of fire services, up until early 2008 the .people of Lifford were reliant on the service based 14 mi (23 km) away in Ballybofey – despite Strabane having a fire station. In the case of the cross-border villages of Blacklion – Belcoo (on the Cavan/Fermanagh border), a clear anomaly emerges in respect of access to hospital and medical emergency services. The current access patterns work against the residents of Blacklion in particular as its residents are currently obliged to travel approximately 30 mi (48 km) to hospital in Sligo – even though Enniskillen has a hospital with an emergency unit and is only 11 mi (17.6 km) away. To prevent further loss of, and improve accessibility to, services there is a strong case to be made for sharing of services on a cross-border basis; and it is to this area that community-led collaborative programs have increasingly been turning their attention.

115.4 Community as Architects of a Post-Troubles Landscape The weak institutional and governmental structures, skills deficiencies and braindrain driven by economic and education emigration, and lack of investment monies in the region had devastating consequences for the border territories (Breathnach, 2009; Bacsi & Kovacs, 2006) which were compounded by the inability of policymakers and border communities to compensate by adopting a neo-endogenous approach to development. The marginalization of rural border communities was further enhanced by the ways in which both governments approached (or not) spatial planning and the provision of infrastructure and services; policies of the time tended to prioritize the center over the periphery. In addition to social networks being fractured, it was no longer feasible for children to go to school across the border (even if that happened to be the school closest to them); while farmers with land on both sides of the border found themselves having to travel long distances to farm this land due to local road closures. Despite attempts by communities to overcome these barriers and initiate development from the bottom-up, it is only since the mid-1990s with the commitment of EU policy and funding to tackle regional disadvantage and support cross-border cooperation, and the signing of the Belfast Agreement in 1998 signaling the end of the Troubles, that both governments, together with border communities, have been in a position to (re)generate their local economies and kick-start a balanced development process. Up until this point collaborative efforts tended to be informal in nature and driven by communities themselves, and more often than not by specific individuals within these communities. It tended to be a case of neighbor helping neighbor (irrespective of religious or political background) in the absence of a clear policy / political commitment to these areas; with the overall objective being to remove the sense of isolation and “forgottenness” felt by border

115

Engineered Healing and the Northern Ireland Question

2103

communities. Such collaborative efforts – whether formal or informal – tend to be based on the recognition of the individuality of place. The social and economic challenges and opportunities differ across cross-border communities. Over the past two decades, different structures and players have become involved in cross-border cooperation; the exact arrangements being determined by local circumstances. For example, in Lifford-Strabane collaboration has been mainly driven by the businessled Strabane-Lifford Development Commission; in Kiltyclogher-Cashel (on the Leitrim/Fermanagh border) it was the community-led KiltyCashel Project; and in Clones-Lisnaskea (Monaghan/Fermanagh border), the local authority-led ClonesErne East Partnership. The resulting projects, generally uncontentious in nature and with a focus on environmental, cultural, economic or social development, have significantly contributed to local healing. Tourism and cultural initiatives have been employed by almost all border communities on both a cross-border and cross-community basis to symbolize healing and the reopening of these communities to business. The Border Arts initiative, launched in 2000 between counties Donegal and Tyrone, includes projects in the areas of music, arts and crafts, painting, carpentry and design. A community-run initiative, its success is largely due to the commitment, vision and enthusiasm of its project team and volunteers. The Lough McNean Sculpture Trail Committee is a partnership between the Manorhamilton Arts Group (Leitrim) and the Belcoo and District Development Group (Fermanagh). In 1999, the Committee began to develop a sculpture and visual arts project; its objective being to promote reconciliation between the communities of counties Leitrim, Cavan and Fermanagh. This project involved ten artists working in close collaboration with the surrounding local communities, residents associations, womens’ groups and special interest groups. The resulting sculptures are located around the shores of a cross-border natural resource, Lough McNean (Fig. 115.11). On a more commercial basis, the first designated ecotourism region on the island of Ireland, which is also cross-border in nature, was launched in 2003. Known as the Green Box Tourism Project (see www.greenbox.ie), this initiative is the brainchild of multiple agencies with an interest in tourism and the environment. The Green Box includes most of counties Leitrim and Fermanagh and parts of counties Sligo, Cavan, Donegal and Roscommon. The focus of the project is tourism branding and marketing, and the promotion of ecotourism. All operators who sign up to this program comply with certain environmental standards in areas such as the use of locally sourced produce, waste management and energy efficiency. This initiative is beginning to result in economic growth in the region through the (re)attraction of tourists. It is also supporting the establishment of cross-border business networks around “eco-tourist” products. Other initiatives, such as the cross-border Marble Arch Geopark between counties Fermanagh and Cavan, offer examples of how local initiatives supported by EU funding reinforce the logic of building on the potential available in the border region. The success of these initiatives is dependent on the local stakeholders collaborating with their equivalents – or as close to as possible – on the opposite side of the border (Fig. 115.12). There is a sense that those cross-border communities that have a strong history of cooperation will be successful in the future and are in a strong position to “ride-out” the current economic crisis, irrespective of their accessibility

2104 Fig. 115.11 The role of art in peace. The Lough McNean sculpture trail

Fig. 115.12 Cross-border collaboration through partnership

C. Creamer et al.

115

Engineered Healing and the Northern Ireland Question

2105

and connectivity challenges. For those communities which have a weaker history of collaboration, however, there is a fear that they are at risk of enhanced marginalization; particularly given their disconnectedness and the ongoing reduction in the level of funding, from both EU and central government, available for cross-border initiatives.

115.5 A Politically Engineered Peace As partition was ultimately a political decision, it is unsurprising that the resolution to the Troubles was also the result of political interventions – particularly at the level of the EU and U.S. administrations. The joining of both the Republic of Ireland and Great Britain to the European Union in 1973 not only internationalized the Troubles but also forced both states to acknowledge each others’ jurisdictional boundaries (Coakley & O’Dowd, 2007). To promote mobility across borders, the EU first launched border development funding programs in the early 1980s. Initial attempts in this regard were somewhat basic. Rather than adopting an integrated approach, separate funding was provided for each side of the border. Later initiatives, from 1989 onwards, have however adopted a more holistic approach; with proposals for funding required to be cross-border, cross-community, or both. At a more local level, the political impetus for peace came to the fore in 1993 when talks began to take place at various levels between not only the leaders of the various political parties in Northern Ireland but also the political leaders of Northern Ireland, the Republic of Ireland and Great Britain. These efforts would culminate in the signing of the Downing Street Declaration in December of that year. At the same time, the Northern Ireland conflict was becoming increasingly visible on the radar of the U.S. administration; a shift that would culminate in President Clinton granting a visa in 1994 to Gerry Adams, President of Sinn Fein – a nationalist political party often linked with the IRA – to enter the U.S. and the visits by the Clintons to the island in 1995; the net impact of which was a reinvigorization of the peace talks and a commitment of U.S. resources to a resolution. The appointment of Senator George Mitchell as chair of the International Body on Arms and his subsequent recommendation that decommissioning could only happen in tandem with peace talks was a significant step on the road to peace-building on the island of Ireland. Mitchell was later to become a key broker in the peace talks between the various political parties, recognizing the need for a “venting, visioning, and listening process”, and the governments of Northern Ireland, the Republic of Ireland and Great Britain and Great Britain (Pearson, 2001: 276). The “tipping point” in the peace talks came, it could be argued, in 1997 with both the appointment of Tony Blair as Prime Minister of Britain and the subsequent willingness of all the political leaders involved to sit with representatives of the various political parties and, where relevant, to negotiate their engagement with a peace process. Thus, for example, Sinn Fein welcomed the announcement in early 1998 that an inquiry would take place into the events of Bloody Sunday, a civil rights protest in Derry/Londonderry in 1972 that resulted

2106

C. Creamer et al.

in the death of civilians and which, for many, was equated with the start of the Troubles. The politically-derived Belfast Agreement, published in April 1998 and adopted through referendum across the island, established a power-sharing devolved assembly for Northern Ireland and a new working relationship between the governments of Belfast-Dublin-London. The border was (re)opened as were many of the border roads over the intervening years; with military installations at border crossings also removed. In parallel with improved mobility, funding programs with a specific focus on peace and reconciliation were operationalized by the EU. The peace accord also included a commitment to preparing a regional development strategy for Northern Ireland. The resulting framework, published in 2001, aimed to tackle the problems of a divided society and promote social cohesion by enhancing the environment and developing the region’s infrastructure the environment and developing the region’s infrastructure (Department for Regional Development, 2001). These political developments, together with progress on the roll-out of EUfunded collaborative initiatives along the Irish border, occurred in parallel with the evolution of increased cross-border collaboration throughout the European Union. The EU has strongly advocated and supported a regional development agenda and, to this end, has committed considerable resources to enabling regions to overcome peripherality and to develop their potential in a sustainable way. The publication of the European Spatial Development Perspective (ESDP) by the European Commission in 1999, for example, led to member states adopting medium-term visionary strategies in the form of national and sub-national spatial development frameworks over the following years. On the island of Ireland, this translated into the publication of complementary frameworks for the elaboration and implementation of spatial development policies (Walsh, 2009); namely the Regional Development Strategy (RDS) in Northern Ireland in 2001 (Department for Regional Development, 2001), and the National Spatial Strategy (NSS) and Regional Planning Guidelines (RPGs) in Ireland in 2002 and 2004 respectively (Department of Environment and Local Government, 2002; Department of Environment and Local Government, 2003). They recognize the importance of sustainable development principles and advocate balanced regional and territorial development (Department of Environment and Local Government, 2002; Department for Regional Development, 2001). The ESDP in particular is explicit on the need for connectivity between rural and urban areas, and it advocates a valorization of rural assets, including landscape, heritage and environment (European Commission, 1999). To this end, international funds and EU-led initiatives such as the aforementioned INTERREG and the Peace and Reconciliation Programs, operated in conjunction with national and regional authorities, have stimulated and promoted regional development on a cross-border basis (Fig. 115.13). In line with the holistic and integrationist aspirations of the ESDP, both the RDS and NSS have sought to engineer a close intra- and inter-regional (including cross-jurisdictional) relationship between national public policy and spatial planning, and promote vertical and horizontal integration in social, economic, cultural

115

Engineered Healing and the Northern Ireland Question

2107

Fig. 115.13 Importance of various funding streams to local regeneration in the Irish border region

and environmental policy areas as they apply nationally, regionally and locally. But such a movement was only possible because of the political push to secure peace across the island which preceded the publication of these frameworks (Bartley & Kitchin, 2007).

115.6 Conclusion As noted by Lundy and McGovern (2008: 29), “The place of the past in the present and future has become a growing concern for thinkers in a range of disciplines.” Initiatives undertaken over the past twenty or so years along the Irish border region have not only involved a wide range of stakeholders, but also redressed decades of decline and promoted innovation, thus demonstrating a shift in mindset from dwelling on challenges and issues to focusing on opportunities and potentiality. Territories along borders are predominantly rural. Thus, cross-border collaboration dovetails with the rural development agenda and the on-going diversification of the rural economy. Low population densities and a strong sense of local identity imply that the most appropriate approach to territorial development lies in interventions at the micro-level. Strategies pursued on the island of Ireland, for example, have tended to be more localized and smaller in scale than those pursued in frontier regions on the European mainland with civil society generally playing a pivotal role in initiating and promoting collaboration (unlike other EU countries where local and regional governments tend to be to the fore in coordinating cross-border development).

2108

C. Creamer et al.

Collaboration is never immediate and the development of social capital on a cross-border basis is generally preceded and accompanied by the development of physical and infrastructural connectivity. Indeed, increased mobility and the freedom and capacity to move goods, services and people across the border is a prerequisite for the development of social, community and governance linkages. Advancing collaborative governance and enhancing integrated spatial planning on a cross-border basis requires strong institutional support, responsiveness and flexibility on the part of agencies, investment in agency capacity-building and the empowerment of local representatives. These efforts, over time, are essential in progressing from initial cross-border contacts to developing inter-community networks, and ultimately to underpinning collaborative partnerships with a multi-sectoral remit and an approach that is guided by the principles of sustainable development. Crossborder collaboration is most effective, and its contributions to regional development are maximized, when initiatives are promoted and implemented by integrated, multi-sectoral and inclusive partnerships; with the bottom-up and top-down actors working in collaboration to agreed strategic initiatives and / or plans. Political, sectarian and inter-ethnic conflict between the 1920s and 1990s has left a scar on the island of Ireland and in particular on communities along the border. And despite historical legacies of underdevelopment and political conflict, stop-go funding streams, institutional differences, and the persistence of some back-to-back planning, organizations and individuals engaging in cross-border collaborative initiatives have succeeded in delivering tangible local economic, social and ecological benefits. Such collaborative initiatives have all contributed, directly and indirectly, to the healing of that scar; and have shown a determination to be genuinely inclusive of persons from all political backgrounds. A commitment to community development approaches at local level and institutional support from national authorities serves to make cross-border initiatives less-threatening and truly all-embracing. This cooperation also has wider geographical and economic implications, in effect creating a bridge rather than a barrier to the movement of goods, services and people within the wider regional economy. These principles, and the good practices presented here, ought to be central to future approaches to engineered healing; not only across the Irish border region, but in other EU and international border regions afflicted by political, religious, economic and social tensions; for example, Cyprus, Karelia and former Yugoslavia. If done in a thoughtful, constructive and informed way, the processes and projects applied can contribute to harnessing the potential to promote development, consolidate harmony, promote reconciliation and understanding, and nurture mutual respect and a lasting peaceful co-existence.

Note 1. In Northern Ireland, for example, over 60% of all manufacturing jobs were located in the Belfast County Borough in 1935 (Neill & Ellis, 2008). Acknowledgements The authors of this article would like to acknowledge the contribution of colleagues from a number of academic institutions who have worked with the International

115

Engineered Healing and the Northern Ireland Question

2109

Center for Local and Regional Development (ICLRD) over the past three years on a series of projects focusing on cross-border cooperation, namely Dr. Brendan O’Keeffe, Mary Immaculate College, University of Limerick; Dr. Karen Keaveney, Queens University Belfast; Dr. Chris Van Egeraat, NUI Maynooth; and Justin Gleeson of the All-Island Research Observatory (AIRO), NUI Maynooth. For further information on the work of the ICLRD, see www.iclrd.org.

References AEBR. (2004). European charter for border and cross-border regions. Gronau: AEBR. Anderson, J. (2006). Spatial behaviour and political identities in border communities: Some research questions. Paper presented to the European Urban and Regional Studies (EURS) Conference on ‘Boundaries and Connections in a Changing Europe’. 21–24 September 2006, Roskilde, Denmark. Anderson, J. (2008). Partition, consociation, border-crossing: some lessons from the national conflict in Ireland/Northern Ireland. Nations and Nationalism, 14(1), 85–104. Bacsi, Z., & Kovacs, E. (2006). The role of cross-border cooperation in rural development – A new European perspective. Proceedings from the First International Conference on Agriculture and Rural Development, Topuska, Croatia, 23–25 November 2006. Bairner, A. (2008). Still taking sides: sport, leisure and identity. In C. Coulter & M. Murray (Eds.), Northern Ireland after the Troubles: A society in transition (pp. 215–231). Manchester: Manchester University Press. Bartley, B., & Kitchin, R. (Eds.). (2007). Understanding contemporary Ireland. Dublin: Pluto Press. Beck, J. (2008). Lessons from an Institute for cross-border cooperation on the Franco-German Border. The Journal of Cross Border Studies, 3(Spring), 38–49. Armagh: Centre for Cross Border Studies. Bew, P., & Gillespie, G. (1999). Northern Ireland: A chronology of the Troubles, 1968–1999 (2nd ed.). Dublin: Gill & Macmillan Ltd.. Breathnach, P. (2009). Regions in the globalised economy: Theories and contemporary processes of regional development. Paper presented as part of the Balanced Development Module, Graduate Research and Education Program, NUI Maynooth. 30–31 March 2009. Buchanan, S. (2008). ‘Transforming conflict in Northern Ireland and the border counties: Some lessons from the peace programs on valuating participative democracy. Irish Political Studies, 23(3), 387–409. Busteed, M. (1992): The Irish border: From partition and confrontation to cooperation? Boundary Bulletin, 4, 13–17. Coakley, J., & O’Dowd, L. (2004). Studying border change in Ireland: A briefing paper. Discussion Paper (DO1-iii) as part of Mapping Frontiers, Plotting Pathways: Routes to North-South Cooperation in a Divided Island, Presented to Study Group 1, 9 December 2004, Armagh. Coakley, J., & O’Dowd, L. (2007): The “new” Irish border: Changing political, economic and social dimensions. In J. Coakley & L. O’Dowd (Eds.), Crossing the Border: New relationships between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland (pp. 3–28). Dublin: Irish Academic Press. Creamer, C., Blair, N., O’Keeffe, B., Van Egeraat, C., & Driscoll, J. (2008). Fostering mutual benefits in cross-border areas: The challenges and opportunities in connecting Irish border towns and villages. Armagh: ICLRD. Department of Environment and Local Government. (2002). The national spatial strategy 2002– 2020: People, places and potential. Dublin: Government Publications Office. Department of Environment and Local Government. (2003). Implementing the National Spatial Strategy: Preparing Regional Planning Guidelines. Dublin: Government Publications Office. Department for Regional Development. (2001). Shaping our future – Regional development strategy for Northern Ireland 2025. Belfast: Corporate Document Services.

2110

C. Creamer et al.

Donnan, H., & Wilson, T. M. (1999). Borders: Frontiers of identity, nation and state. Oxford: Berg. Douglas, N., & Shirlow, P. (1998). People in conflict in place: The case of Northern Ireland. Political Geography, 17(2), 125–128. European Commission. (1999). European spatial development perspective: Towards balanced and sustainable development of the territory of the European Union. Luxembourg: Office for Official Publications of the European Communities. Greer, J (2003): Planning and development networks in the borderlands of Ireland. In J. Greer & M. Murray (Eds.), Rural planning & development in Northern Ireland (pp. 241–258). Dublin: Institute for Public Administration. Greer, J., & Murray, M. (2003). Unravelling the rural in Northern Ireland: A planning and development perspective. In J. Greer & M. Murray (Eds.), Rural planning and development in Northern Ireland (pp. 3–35). Dublin: Institute of Public Administration. Harvey, B., Kelly, A., McGearty, S., & Murray, S. (2005). The emerald curtain: The social impact of the Irish border. Carrickmacross: Triskele. Howard, K. (2007). Civil society: The permeability of the North-South border. In J. Coakley & L. O’Dowd (Eds.), Crossing the border: New relationships between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland (pp. 87–103). Dublin: Irish Academic Press. InterTradeIreland. (2006). Spatial Strategies on the Island of Ireland: Development of a Framework for Collaborative Action. Prepared by the International Centre for Local and Regional Development (ICLRD). May 2006. Newry: InterTradeIreland. Kennedy, M. (2000). Division and consensus – The politics of cross-border relations in Ireland, 1925–1969. Dublin: Institute of Public Administration. Kingon, S. (2008). Cooperation in trade and business. Presentation at the Center for Cross Border Studies Conference, Cross-Border Cooperation as part of the Northern Irish Peace Process: Some Lessons for Europe, Crowne Plaza Hotel, Dundalk, County Louth, 12–13 June 2008. Lundy, P., & McGovern, M. (2008). Telling stories, facing truths: memory, justice and post-conflict transition. In C. Coulter & M. Murray (Eds.), Northern Ireland after the Troubles: A society in transition (pp. 29–48). Manchester: Manchester University Press. McHugh, C. (2001). A Spatial Analysis of Socio-Economic Adjustments in Rural Ireland, 1986–1996. Unpublished PhD Thesis. NUI Maynooth. Morrissey, M., & Gaffiken, F. (2006). Planning for peace in contested space. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 30(4), 873–893. Neill, W. J. V., & Ellis, G. (2008). Spatial planning in contested territory: the search for a place vision after the ‘troubles.’ In C. Coulter & M. Murray (Eds.), Northern Ireland after the Troubles: A society in transition (pp. 88–109). Manchester: Manchester University Press. Newman, D. (2006). The lines that continue to separate us: borders in our ‘borderless’ world.’ Progress in Human Geography, 30(2), 143–161. O’Brien, C. (2007). Integrated community development / conflict resolution strategies as ‘peace building potential’ in South Africa and Northern Ireland. Community Development Journal, 42(1), 114–130. OECD. (1996). Territorial Indicators of Employment – Focusing on Rural Development. Paris: Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) Publications. Paasi, A. (2002). Regional transformation in the European context: Notes on regions, boundaries, and identities. Space & Polity, 6(2), 197–201. Pearson, F. S. (2001). Dimensions of conflict resolution in ethnopolitical disputes. Journal of Peace Research, 38(3), 275–287. Prakash, A., & Lerougetel, A. (2008). The EU strengthens ‘Fortress Europe’ against migration due to climate change. Article. World Socialist Web Site. Retrieved December 16, 2009, from http://www.wsws.org/articles/2008/may2008/clim-m07.shtml Shirlow, P. (2008). Belfast: a segregated city. In C. Coulter & M. Murray (Eds.), Northern Ireland after the Troubles: A society in transition (pp.73–87). Manchester: Manchester University Press.

115

Engineered Healing and the Northern Ireland Question

2111

Sideway, J. D. (2001). Rebuilding bridges: A critical geopolitics of Iberian transfrontier cooperation in a European context. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 19, 743–778. Tonge, J. (2008). From conflict to communal politics: the politics of peace. In C. Coulter & M. Murray (Eds.), Northern Ireland After the Troubles: A society in transition (pp. 49–72). Manchester: Manchester University Press. van Houtum, H., & Struver, A. (2002). Borders, strangers, doors and bridges. Space & Polity, 6(2), 141–146. Vigier, F. (2008). Introduction to fostering cross border cooperation panel. Presentation to the Third Annual Conference of the International Center for Local and Regional Development, ‘Fostering Cross-border Cooperation for Local and Regional Development through CrossBorder Spatial Planning’, Armagh, 17 January. ICLRD Website. Retrieved November 14, 2009, from http://iclrd.org/documents/Jan17_08_conf/Francois%20Vigier.pdf Walsh, J. (2009). Space and place in the national spatial strategy for the Republic of Ireland. In S. Davoudi & I. Strange (Eds.), Space and place in strategic spatial planning (pp. 95–124). New York: Taylor & Francis Ltd (Routledge).

Chapter 116

Liquid Urbanity: Re-engineering the City in a Post-Terrestrial World Philip E. Steinberg

116.1 Introduction For several years, the media has been abuzz with warnings about the danger that climate change-driven sea level rise poses to the world’s cities. Estimates of the degree and speed of future sea level rise vary widely (Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, 2007), but few doubt that huge numbers of coastal residents will be impacted. 634 million people, about 10% of the world’s population, live fewer than 10 m (32.8 ft) above sea level (Wagner, 2007), and many of these individuals will be endangered by climate change, either directly as their homes become permanently flooded or indirectly as their cities become increasingly vulnerable to storm surges and other coastal hazards. In most instances, the response of city planners and engineers has been to build new structures that further divide the city from the encroaching sea, whether by raising ever-higher levees, installing ever-higher capacity pumps, or renourishing estuarine wetlands so that they can better absorb storm surges before waters reach densely populated urban areas. This is, perhaps, the intuitive strategy for civil engineers to pursue in a world where (a) state power is generated and expressed through the control of fixed properties and areal units of land (Biggs, 1999; Sack, 1986; Scott, 1998; Soja, 1971), (b) the key social functions of production, reproduction, and consumption are understood as occurring at fixed points in place (Cresswell, 2006; Steinberg & McDowell, 2003), and (c) social (and, in particular, urban) development is signaled by the idealized abstraction of material life from the vicissitudes of nature (Smith, 1990). The goal of most civil engineering projects is to protect us from nature by controlling nature. Because society is typically seen as occurring on land, this generally involves protecting society from the sea through attempts at excluding its contaminating waters. By contrast, in this chapter I consider the implications of alternative engineering solutions that rework the relationship between city and sea. In turning to these

P.E. Steinberg (B) Department of Geography, Florida State University, Tallahassee, FL 32306, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_116,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2113

2114

P.E. Steinberg

alternative solutions, I draw on the work of a range of theorists who have suggested that we reconceptualize societies not so much as rooted in places, but rather as being constituted by routes, or crossings, across space (Clifford 1997). A number of scholars in this tradition have turned to the ocean, or the ship, as a space wherein crossings, and hence social formations, occur (Casarino, 2002; Gilroy, 1993; Lambert, Martins, & Ogborn, 2006; Rediker, 1993; Steinberg, 2001). Others have turned to beaches or coastlines as emblematic arenas of interconnection that blur the apparent distinction between land (or city) and sea that grounds the modern notion of a rooted society (Carter, 1987, 1996; Dening, 1986; Jolly, 2001; Teaiwa, 1994). If the culture of the city is understood as emerging from passages across its borders, then the “external” marine nature that is typically seen as threatening the city might instead be incorporated into its foundation. This reconceptualization of the city-sea relationship poses a challenging question for civil engineers: What if, instead of engineering urban development so as to keep the sea out of the city, engineers were to apply their talents to new modes of urban development wherein urban design (and urban life) are adapted to marine nature, joining the city and sea together? As engineers adapt to these challenges, a parallel question can be posed to social theorists: What would the implication of this re-engineering of the city-sea distinction be for our notion of the sovereign territorial (and terrestrial) state that undergirds modern society? In this chapter, I ask these questions of both engineers and social theorists as I consider a new breed of engineering project that deterritorializes the polity in a liquid world.

116.2 The City and the Sea The relationship between cities and their surrounding seas has long been a topic of curiosity and contention among social theorists (Gottman, 1973). Plato (2005) wrote that the ideal city, or polis, should be established in a space that is antithetical to the ocean: an island. Furthermore, the polis should be located inland on the island, so as to better protect itself from the influences of the sea and overseas peoples. Aristotle (2000), by contrast, saw the city as an emporion, a global market. Proximity to the sea thus was key for a well-functioning city. Indeed, Aristotle recommended that city-states have their own navies, effectively blurring the boundary line between the limits of the city and the maritime world beyond. Early modern state theorists appear to have taken Plato’s admonition to heart, frequently heralding the island, whose apparently unambiguous boundaries could be secured so as to limit the influence of the sea and overseas people, as the prototype for the emergent norm of the sovereign, territorial state (Casey, 2002; Gillis, 2004; Knapp, 1991; Steinberg, 2005). Even as state theorists adopted the Platonic perspective, however, economic forces that spurred the growth of cities were in line with Aristotelian ideals that urge states to capitalize on the opportunities afforded by maritime relations. Today, eleven of the world’s fifteen largest cities are on the coast or an estuary (Greenpeace n.d.) and, in the US, ten of the fifteen largest cities and 53%

116

Liquid Urbanity

2115

of the nation’s population are located in coastal counties (National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration, 2004). In fact, most cities today, and certainly most coastal cities, attempt to achieve a balance between the idealized security of insularity promoted by Plato and the pursuit of opportunity through porosity advocated by Aristotle. This tension can be seen particularly clearly in Peirce Lewis’ (1976) classic work on New Orleans. Lewis celebrates that city’s “situation” at the juncture point between the Ohio-MissouriMississippi River system and the Atlantic maritime world (a locational advantage that Aristotle surely would have appreciated), while bemoaning it’s unfortunate “site” below sea level and hemmed in by two bodies of water that leave it open to the ocean and cut off from its hinterland (the kind of vulnerability against which Plato warned). In an effort to manage this vulnerability, most cities (and the engineers in their employ) have adopted a Platonic perspective, building levees and other fortifications to keep the materiality of the sea out of the city’s streets and relocating ports to fringe areas so as to keep the social and economic influences of the sea at bay. Below I explore a number of counter-examples that, following the lead of Aristotle, seek to integrate the city with the sea to the point where a clear distinction between the two ceases to exist.

116.3 Floating Cities of Science Fiction and Legal Speculation Following the Aristotelian tradition, there are a number of cities whose urban designs reflect the surrounding marine environment. Perhaps the best known example is Venice. However, even Venice, with its myriad canals that bring the sea into the space of the city, exists in opposition to the sea. The structures of Venice are supported by pilings that fix “ground” in place, insuring stability in an otherwise mobile, maritime environment. Urban life in Venice is achieved in spite of its integration with the sea. When high waters, the acqua alta, come to Venice, the normal life of the city comes to a halt. By contrast, in a truly floating city the urban area would incorporate the nature of the sea into its very design, location, and everyday social and spatial practices. The environment of a floating city would be indistinguishable from marine nature. This revisioning of the city-sea interface presents such a radical break in conventional urban design that it is useful to turn to science fiction for inspiration (if not, perhaps, for technical solutions). It is with this intention that architectural critics Geoff Manaugh and Nicola Twilley look to the city of Armada in China Miéville’s novel The Scar (2003) as an inspiration for alternative plans for rebuilding post-Katrina New Orleans that do not depend on futile attempts to fix the city’s location against a dynamic geophysical background. “Armada,” they write, is a city of maritime flux and flexibility, made from the hulls of captured ships that have been lashed together into one floating metropolitan unit. It is a “flotilla of dwellings. A city built on old bones” (Manaugh & Twilley, 2008: 68–69). In Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash (1991), the Raft is a similar entity, an anti-state of human-made flotsam and human

2116

P.E. Steinberg

jetsam that perpetually drifts through the ocean. The Raft is perpetually changing shape and picking up new “citizens,” its porous borders, unstable location, and maritime foundation suggesting a defiant renunciation of Plato’s ideal of the ordered and bounded polis. The political and legal implications of hypothetical entities like these are considered in detail by legal scholar Kent Keith (1977). Keith defines floating cities, much like Armada or the Raft, as entities that “move around the world as ships, position themselves offshore as structures, and support populations large enough to claim for themselves the status of new states” (Keith, 1977: 190). He goes on to consider whether these floating cities would be classified under international law as ships, structures (like oil platforms), or states, and he concludes that they would not fit neatly into any of these classifications. This finding leads Keith to conclude by speculating what might happen if such cities were to “float away,” literally and metaphorically, from the states that sponsored them and that initially had offered them legal protection: Floating-city states may grow up under a patron coastal state, enjoying the jurisdictional immunities of the high seas, free from the restrictions placed on citizens living on land. As floating-city states find economic niches in which their services become important to other states, floating cities may grow in autonomy and power in the international community. . .. As ocean-floating populations gain in numbers and influence, they could raise a new voice in the international community favouring flexible diplomatic relations, world peace, and freer trade. . .. Thus, the concept of the nation may begin to fade, just as the concept of the feudal state faded; and the lifestyles and values of the new floating-city states, international communities moving freely throughout the world, may begin to influence the creation of a truly transnational world order (Keith, 1977: 203–204).

There are many grounds on which one could challenge Keith’s vision of floating city-states bringing about a cosmopolitan utopia. For instance, the implication of his vision might just as well be a dystopia of floating maquiladoras (Steinberg, 2001; see also Woodliffe, 1978). Nonetheless, his article is intriguing as it raises questions about what the practical and political implications would be of new social formations that, instead of constructing the polis in opposition to the sea, incorporate the sea , and mobility across its surface, into its very fabric. Indeed, given the long history, dating back to Plato, of association between states and islands, it is interesting that Keith fails to entertain the possibility that these “floating cities” be classified as islands. Perhaps he was put off by the mobility of “floating cities,” but this should not have dissuaded him, given that numerous societies, from medieval Europe to more recent Micronesia, have viewed islands as mobile, floating entities (Gladwin, 1970; Lestringant, 1989). More likely, Keith neglected the possibility of an island classification because, when he wrote his article in 1977, the dominant Western conception of islands was a Platonic one in which the island was a discrete, disconnected, inward-looking entity, and this image would have borne little resemblance to his ideal of the floating city as a dynamic “internation.” However, when viewed with the hindsight of thirty years of critical island studies (e.g. Baldacchino, 2006), the island emerges as a useful template for conceptualizing new social formations that cross the land-sea divide. Keith’s vision,

116

Liquid Urbanity

2117

like that of Miéville in The Scar and Stephenson in Snow Crash, is not that different from that of people like Epeli Hau’ofa (2008), for whom islanders spin complex networks around the world, blurring the distinction between locationally fixed, territorially bounded land as the space of society and the ocean as an external space in between. Other contemporary communities including aircraft carriers and cruise ships similarly begin to blur the epistemological boundary between the city as a place of permanent habitation on land and the ocean as a surface that exists external to society and that one simply crosses in an effort to get from Point A to Point B. For inhabitants of such communities, the fluidity of the sea and the dynamism of location is incorporated into the meanings of place, sovereignty, and being. In the remainder of this chapter, I turn to three examples wherein engineering is taking this rethinking of the city-sea distinction to new levels.

116.4 Beyond the Boundary of City and Sea 116.4.1 Maasbommel The first example of a floating city considered here is the village of Maasbommel in The Netherlands. After a series of floods in the 1990s, the Dutch construction firm Dura Vermeer developed a community of homes along the River Meuse that are located on buoyant foundations and tethered to the land via flexible electricity and plumbing connections. When the river floods, the houses simply rise; the houses are engineered to withstand a rise in the water table of up to 4 m (13.1 ft). Inspired by this development, other Dutch architects and engineers, as well as Dura Vermeer, have visions of entire, multi-use floating cities, with floating roads and buildings powered by tidal energy (Burkeman, 2005; Kessler, 2006; Kolbert, 2005, 2006; Kroeger, 2007; Manaugh & Twilley, 2008). As Fritz Schoute, formerly of Delft Technical University and a leading designer in floating construction, explained to the BBC, the guiding principle behind these designs is an attempt to transcend the opposition between the city and the sea that has characterized social thought (and urban design) since Plato: "Our traditional way of just fighting the sea with dykes has to give way to alternatives, like going with the water" (Kroeger, 2007). Chris Sevenbergen of Dura Vermeer echoed this sentiment: “When you can create a community which coexists with water, then you have a very sustainable solution” (Kroeger, 2007). Notwithstanding the radical way in which Maasbommel incorporates the vertical mobility of the River Meuse into the foundation of the city, the experiment’s social ramifications are relatively minor. So long as communities like Maasbommel are located in horizontally-fixed points that in turn are located within the territory (or territorial waters) of nation-states, the fundamental notion of the state as an entity that controls a bounded swathe of space (that, in turn, consists of points that may be developed) is not called into question. By bringing water into the city, and, indeed, by making water the “foundation” of the city in a manner much more radical than is the case in, say, Venice, Maasbommel forces us to reconsider the assumptions

2118

P.E. Steinberg

about a necessary division between land and water that underlies modern notions of state sovereignty. But while the state is reterritorialized with water replacing land as its foundation, this reterritorialization does not involve bringing social (or geophysical) processes of (horizontal) mobility across space into the constitution of state practices. Thus the experiment’s social impacts likely will be limited.

116.4.2 The World A second, and very different, example of urban design outside the accepted distinction between bounded land as the space of stable state-society units and the ocean as a threat against which the polis must be defended can be found in the example of permanent residency cruise ships on which individuals own floating condominiums. At present, there is only one permanent residency cruise ship sailing the seas, The World, operated by ResidenSea Inc., although other firms have sought to launch similar ventures. A number of scholars have noted the ways in which the ship, as a countercivilization that is “routed” in the anti-foundation of a mobile in-between space, historically has served as a site for defining alternative futures (Gilroy, 1993; Rediker, 1993). Whether one focuses on the communitarian ethics of the pirate ship, the transnational solidarity of merchant mariners, or the sexual and grastronomical hedonism of the modern cruise ship, the ship emerges as the “heterotopia par excellence” (Foucault, 1986: 27). Others, however, contend that just because a social formation challenges the spatial groundings of modern society, it is hardly necessarily socially transformative. For instance, David Harvey writes, Ultimately [Foucault’s] whole essay on heterotopia reduces itself to the theme of escape. “The ship is the heterotopia par excellence,” wrote Foucault. “In civilizations without boats, dreams dry up, espionage takes the place of adventure, and the police take the place of pirates.” I keep expecting these words to appear on commercials for a Caribbean cruise. But here the banality of the idea of heterotopia becomes all too plain because the commercialized cruise ship is indeed a heterotopic site if there ever was one; and what is the critical, liberatory, and emancipatory point of that?... I am not surprised that he left the essay unpublished (Harvey, 2000: 538).

Harvey raises the point that a reworking of the materiality behind the state-idea does not necessarily constitute a challenge to its underlying structural or institutional sources of social power. Given Harvey’s criticism, it is telling that the marketers of permanent residency cruise ships have been careful to note that, notwithstanding their peripatetic nature, these ships still exist within the state system. For instance, ResidenSea requires every owner of a condominium on the The World to have a permanent address on land (Hamilton, 2002), effectively ensuring that residents do not surrender their citizenship to the ship (or to the state in which The World is registered). The ship can exist as a location of temporary escape, but the escape that it provides is not so profound as to challenge the underlying logic of the state system in which all inhabited spaces are placed within the authority of a single, territorially-defined sovereign.

116

Liquid Urbanity

2119

By fusing the lived-space of the ship with the shifting ground of the sea, The World constructs itself less as an alternative state than as a cosmopolitan civic zone that is overlain across a universe of spatially fixed states and cities. Residents of the The World claim, “We feel like true citizens of the world – in every sense. And what’s more, we do all this without leaving home. . .. We’re at home and yet we have the world at our feet. Literally” (ResidenSea nd: 11, 23). Elsewhere on The World’s website, a resident relates the experience of “making a snack in the kitchen – from ingredients bought yesterday at a floating market fragrant with fresh mangos and orchids” (ResidenSea no date). In this quotation, the domestic and pedestrian is fused with the cosmopolitan and the exotic, all mediated by the fluidity of the sea. Much as in Aristotle’s original emporion (Kristeva, 1994), ResidenSea associates life on The World with an elitist pairing of cosmopolitanism and provincialism (or particularism). By engaging with the sea, the residents of The World are urbane and exclusive: They can draw on the less sophisticated cultures that they encounter as they travel around the world to make their own cosmopolitan “local.” This elitist blend of cosmopolitanism and provincialism is indicated even more clearly by another firm, Residential Ocean Liners, that seeks to launch a competitor to The World: “Our amenities and facilities are like a city, and are all within walking distance from home. . .. Our private community is a multicultural society on the oceans and seas. An exclusive community that respects family values” (Residential Ocean Liners, 2007).

116.4.3 SeaCode My final example of the reengineering of the city-sea interface is SeaCode, a venture that was launched in 2005 by two California-based information technology industry executives. SeaCode’s plan (which has been actively promoted but which to date has not been implemented) is to purchase a used cruise ship, anchor it just over three nautical miles off the coast of Los Angeles, and stock it with approximately 600 high-level computer programmers from around the world who would do contract work for U.S. corporations. The advantage of this arrangement, SeaCode notes, is that when one offshores programming jobs to a distant location, problems frequently emerge as long flights and time-zone differences inhibit direct supervision, leading to quality control problems, especially in projects that require rapid turnaround. By moving “offshore” production to just off the coast of California, the programmers will be only a 30-minute water taxi ride (or a short flight to Los Angeles plus a 30minute water taxi ride) from the firms that are contracting their work. At the same time, though, by locating the ship outside the three-mile limit of California’s territorial waters, the workers, who will technically be classified as merchant seamen, will be exempt from California environmental and labor laws and employers will not be required to obtain expensive (and difficult to acquire) H-1B visas (SeaCode, 2005). The success of SeaCode, like that of Maasbommel and The World, will depend on utilizing new technologies to engineer a new integration of the sea into the space of the polis. At the same time, like those two other ventures, even as it redefines

2120

P.E. Steinberg

the polis as a porous entity that incorporates flows, liquid spaces, and border crossings, it does so within the existing structure of the state system. SeaCode promotes itself less as an alternative to the state system than as an extension of it. Potential clients are assured that, because data from the ship will be transmitted directly to the U.S., American intellectual property laws will apply to all work performed onboard. Indeed, SeaCode markets its “Hybrid-Sourcing” initiative as a pro-American answer to offshoring: Its website boasts that the firm is a California-based company paying California taxes and that only 10% of its expenses will be spent on programmers’ wages, with the other 90% recirculating in the U.S. economy. Even some of the programmers’ wages will be recycled into the U.S., as these “merchant seamen” (or “nautical nerds,” as one article described them (Bray, 2005)) spend part of their earnings on shore leave. Recognizing the criticism that the ship would effectively imprison itinerant programmers (several newspaper articles have used the term “sweatship”), SeaCode markets itself as both constrained by and contributing to the American polis. Its slogan is “Hybrid-Sourcing: Bringing US jobs and dollars back to America.” In promoting itself not as an alternative to the US but as a portal, or, to use Aristotle’s term, an emporion, SeaCode suggests that its ship would be analogous to neither a pirate ship nor a floating maquiladora but rather a floating Hong Kong.

116.5 Conclusion In his book Liquid Modernity, Zygmunt Bauman (2000) uses the metaphor of liquidity to describe an era in which the solidity of social structures and institutions is being undermined by a new world of flexible connections. In this chapter, I have suggested that this “liquification” of modern life is not just metaphorical. Rather, in this era of “liquid modernity,” the sea, a truly “liquid” element, is insinuating its materiality into two of the fundamental social institutions of modernity: the city and the state. Utilizing new advances in engineering and new approaches wherein engineers seek not to resist nature, but to incorporate nature into the physical and social structures of society, the threats of (and opportunities afforded by) marine nature are leading urban theorists and designers to find new ways of incorporating the sea into the space of the polis, not as an external space that serves the city through its exteriority (as traditionally has been the case with port cities), but as a material actant whose liquidity is literally interwoven into the foundations of urban structures and the spaces of urban lives. At the same time, however, the three cases presented in this chapter reveal that the social transformations brought about by these “liquid urbanities” have been relatively minor. Rather than forming the foundation for new social formations outside the system of land-based, bounded, and geographically fixed territorial states, these new engineering feats have served to reaffirm and extend state power. Even as engineering innovations reconfigure the physical structure and social meaning of space, the social structures within which these engineering innovations occur persist, limiting the social ramifications of potentially transformative projects.

116

Liquid Urbanity

2121

References Aristotle (2000). Politics. Mineola, NY: Dover. Baldacchino, G. (2006). Islands, island studies, island studies journal. Island Studies Journal, 1, 3–18. Bauman, Z. (2000). Liquid Modernity. Cambridge, UK: Polity. Biggs, M. (1999). Putting the state on the map. Comparative Studies in Society and History, 41, 374–405. Bray, H. (2005). A plan to offshore. . .just 3 miles out. The Boston Globe, 25 April. Retrieved November 29, 2008, from http://www.boston.com/business/technology/articles/2005/04/25/ a_plan_to_offshore____just_3_miles_out/?page=1 Burkeman, O. (2005). Water world. The Guardian, 30 June. Retrieved November 29, 2008, from http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2005/jun/30/climatechange. climatechangeenvironment7 Carter, P. (1987). The road to Botany Bay. London: Faber & Faber. Carter, P. (1996). The lie of the land. London: Faber & Faber. Casarino, C. (2002). Modernity at sea: Melville, Marx, Conrad in crisis. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Casey, E. (2002). Representing place: Landscape painting and maps. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Clifford, J. (1997). Routes: Travel and translation in the late twentieth century. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Cresswell, T. (2006). On the move: Mobility in the modern western world. London: Routledge. Dening, G. (1986). Islands and beaches: Discourse on a silent land – Marquesas, 1774–1880. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Foucault, M. (1986). Of other spaces. Diacritics, 16, 22–27. Gillis, J. (2004). Islands of the mind: how the human omagination created the Atlantic world. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Gilroy, P. (1993). The black Atlantic: Modernity and double consciousness. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Gladwin, T. (1970). East is a big bird: Navigation and logic on Puluwat atoll. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Gottman, J. (1973). The significance of territory. Charlottesville, VA: University of Virginia Press. Greenpeace (n.d.). Sea level rise. Retrieved November 29, 2008, from http://www.greenpeace.org/ international/campaigns/climate-change/impacts/sea_level_rise Hamilton, W. L. (2002). On ship of condos, life’s an endless cruise. The New York Times, 1 September. Retrieved November 29, 2008, from http://query.nytimes.com/gst/ fullpage.html?res=9E01E0D9103FF932A3575AC0A9649C8B63 Harvey, D. (2000). Cosmopolitanism and the banality of geographical evils. Public Culture, 12, 529–564. Hau ofa, E. (1998). We are the ocean: Selected works. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (2007). Working group II: Fourth assessment report. Geneva: IPCC. Retrieved November 29, 2008, from http://www.ipcc-wg2.org Jolly, M. (2001). On the edge? Deserts, oceans, islands. The Contemporary Pacific, 13, 417–466. Keith, K. M. (1977). Floating cities: A new challenge for transnational law. Marine Policy, 1, 190–204. Kessler, K. (2006). Bobbing Buildings. Urban Land, May. Retrieved November 29, 2008, from http://commerce.uli.org/AM/Template.cfm?Section=Home&CONTENTID=77170& TEMPLATE=/CM/ContentDisplay.cfm Knapp, J. (1991). An empire nowhere: England, America, and literature from Utopia to The Tempest. Berkeley: University of California Press. Kolbert, E. (2005). The climate of man – Part III. The New Yorker, 9 May.

2122

P.E. Steinberg

Kolbert, E. (2006). Watermark: Can southern Louisiana be saved? The New Yorker, 27 February. Retrieved November 29, 2008, from http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2006/02/ 27/060227fa_fact_kolbert?currentPage=all Kristeva, J. (1994). Strangers to ourselves. New York: Columbia University Press. Kroeger, A. (2007). Dutch pioneer floating eco-homes. Retrieved November 29, 2008, from http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/6405359.stm Lambert, D., Martins, L., & Ogborn, M. (2006). Currents, visions, and voyages: Historical geographies of the sea. Journal of Historical Geography, 32, 479–493. Lestringant, F. (1989). Îles. In M. Pelletier (Ed.), Géographie du monde au moyen age et à la renaissance (pp. 165–167). Paris: Editions du Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. Lewis, P. F. (1976). New Orleans: The making of an urban landscape (1st ed.). Santa Fe, NM: Center for American Places. Manaugh, G., & Twilley, N. (2008). On flexible urbanism. In P. Steinberg & R. Shields (eds.), What is a city? Rethinking the urban after Hurricane Katrina (pp. 63–77). Athens: University of Georgia Press. Miéville, C. (2003). The scar. London: Pan Books. National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration. (2004). Population trends along the coastal United States: 1980–2008. Washington: NOAA. Retrieved November 29, 2008, from http://www.oceanservice.noaa.gov/programs/mb/pdfs/coastal_pop_trends_complete.pdf Plato (2005). The laws. New York: Penguin Classics. Rediker, M. (1993). Between the devil and the deep blue sea: Merchant seamen, pirates, and the Anglo-American maritime world, 1700–1750. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. ResidenSea, Inc. (n.d.). Welcome to the world. Retrieved November 29, 2008, from http://digital. virtualmarketingpartners.com/vmp/residenSEA/theworld/index.php Residential Ocean Liners, Inc. (2007). Luxury lifestyle. Retrieved November 29, 2008, from http://residentialvessels.com/lifestyle.htm Sack, R. D. (1986). Human territoriality: Its theory and history. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Scott, J. (1998). Seeing like a state: How certain schemes to improve the human condition have failed. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. SeaCode, Inc. (2005). SeaCode website. Retrieved November 29, 2008, from http://www.seacode.com Smith, N. (1990). Uneven development: Nature, capital, and the production of space (2nd ed.). Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Soja, E. W. (1971). The political organization of space. Washington, DC: Association of American Geographers. Steinberg, P. E. (2001). The social construction of the ocean. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Steinberg, P. E. (2005). Insularity, sovereignty, and statehood: The representation of islands on portolan charts and the construction of the territorial state. Geografiska Annaler, B 87, 253–265. Steinberg, P. E., & McDowell, S. D. (2003). Global communication and the post-statism of cyberspace: A spatial constructivist view. Review of International Political Economy, 10, 196–221. Stephenson, N. (1991). Snow crash. New York: Bantam Books. Teaiwa, T. (1994). Bikinis and other s/pacific n/oceans. The Contemporary Pacific, 6, 87–109. Wagner, T. (2007). Major cities warned against sea-level rise. The (Cape Town) Independent Online, 28 March. Retrieved November 29, 2008, from http://www.iol.co.za/index.php? click_id=31&set_id=1&art_id=nw20070328024424684C606123 Woodliffe, J. C. (1978). Floating cities: Further thoughts on their legal status. Marine Policy, 2, 79–81.

Chapter 117

Living on the Grid: The U.S. Rectangular Public Land Survey System and the Engineering of the American Landscape Gerald R. Webster and Jonathan Leib

The American landscape makes sense from the air. Denis Cosgrove (1996: 3)

Anyone who has flown over the agricultural areas of the Midwestern or Western portions of the United States has almost certainly seen a landscape below defined in terms of large squares with edges running north and south, and east and west. In more arid areas these squares may be punctuated with large circles due to the use of center pivot irrigation agriculture (Hart, 1968; Johnson, 1957; Linklater, 2002: 223). Ground travel in the same areas will likely find exceedingly straight local roads and highways named “Meridian” and “Baseline,” fence lines that ignore topography to maintain their fidelity to the cardinal directions, and cities and towns exclusively using the grid pattern for their streets. Those examining maps of state and county boundaries will find the increasing use of straight lines following the cardinal directions as one moves from east to west across the U.S., beginning in the Midwest (Brunn, 1974: 134). An examination of the county boundaries found in Virginia versus those in Iowa provides a stark contrast in the designs of local government boundaries in different historical periods. A comparison of state boundaries not only indicates an increasing reliance upon squares and rectangles with boundaries using the cardinal directions, but also similar dimensions (Stein, 2008: 1–10). Such geometric regularity between the spatial designs of counties and states in the eastern United States is comparatively rare. The landscape contrasts between the eastern and western United States noted above reflect the implementation of the Rectangular Public Land Survey System (RPLSS) in the late 18th century. Championed by Thomas Jefferson in 1784 (Pattison, 1961), passed by Congress in altered form in 1785, and modified several times in subsequent years, the survey wielded dramatic sway over settlement patterns, the organization of agricultural land, road layout and density, administrative boundaries, the ecological disruption of local faunal and floral communities, receptivity to the grid pattern of town streets and lots, and likely upon our national sense of G.R. Webster (B) Department of Geography, University of Wyoming, Laramie, WY 82071, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_117,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2123

2124

G.R. Webster and J. Leib

geographic symmetry (Johnson, 1976; Thrower, 1966). Arguably, few if any pieces of legislation have had so dramatic an effect upon the built or natural landscapes of the United States. While we may assert that all landscapes occupied by humans have been “engineered” to facilitate settlement, the land survey system did so on a monumental scale by creating in repetitive format geometric cells of land on the American landscape from Ohio to the Pacific Ocean. In the eastern portion of the country, early surveying reflected existing human patterns of settlement and ownership claims. But in the western United States patterns of Anglo settlement and land ownership commonly reflected the design imposed upon the landscape by the Rectangular Public Land Survey System. Nearly 70% of the area of the lower 48 states was surveyed using the rectangular land survey system, a system focused on easy definition, sale and resale of land parcels with little regard to resource management or topography (Johnson 1976: iii). Thus, our definition of “earth engineering” includes all changes to a natural landscape to facilitate human occupation, but most particularly those aspects of the design that ignore the ecological and topographical setting to make land an ordered economic commodity. The purpose of this chapter is to identify and analyze the broad effects of the U.S. Rectangular Public Land Survey System (RPLSS) upon the landscape of the United States. We first begin with the incorporation of the Northwest Territory into the public domain, followed by an overview of the land survey systems used prior to the adoption of the RPLSS. The subsequent discussion examines the RPLSS’s purpose, development and implementation. The effects of the adoption and implementation of the RPLSS are then examined including the U.S. resistance to the metric system, the survey system’s emphasis upon squares as supportive of democracy, the system’s impact upon state and local government boundaries, its facilitation of the adoption of the grid street pattern for towns and cities, its impact upon agricultural landscapes and transportation networks, and the RPLSS’s neglect of environmental features and biotic communities.

117.1 The Northwest Territory and the Public Domain At the end of the French and Indian War (1754–1763), England gained all French territory between the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers which included the area of the present states of Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, and Wisconsin, and part of what is today northeastern Minnesota. Collectively, this region was referred to as the “Northwest Territory” (Jensen, 1936). The states of New York, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, Massachusetts and Virginia had existing and frequently overlapping claims to parts of the Northwest Territory. Those states without existing claims objected to the use of federal outlays “for the protection and development of this region, the advantages of which would inure to the benefit of only a favored few” (Douglas, 1932: 64). As a result, in 1779 Congress passed a resolution requesting that “unappropriated lands” be ceded to the control of the federal government (Jensen, 1936). The first to respond was New York in 1781, followed by Virginia, Massachusetts and Connecticut. These cessions of land by the states created the

117

Living on the Grid

2125

“public domain,” which was added to by subsequent deeds of cession of land to the west of several southern states including South Carolina, North Carolina and Georgia (Douglas, 1932: 63–68; Jensen, 1939). The size of the public domain continued to grow along with the country with 1.8 billion (730 million ha) of the nation’s 2.3 billion acres (930 million ha) having been at one point part of the public domain. Of these 1.8 billion acres (730 million ha), over 1 billion acres (405 million ha) have been transferred to individual ownership (Linklater, 2002: 234). The land in the Northwest Territory was commonly viewed as unoccupied though several Native American nations such as the Miami, Huron, Illinois and Kickapoo were present (Johnson, 1976: 123). In spite of their occupation, Anglo movement into the region was already well underway by the late 18th century (Hart, 1972). As a result, political leaders placed an emphasis on providing an incremental and orderly foundation for the continuing settlement of the region (Johnson, 1976: 40– 42; Meinig, 1986: 342). George Washington, for example, wished to encourage a pattern of contiguous settlements as the country grew westward (Johnson, 1976: 44). The division, settlement and surveying of these lands became a focus of Congress in the 1780s, resulting in the creation of the United States Rectangular Public Land Survey System in 1785. However, the creation of the survey system was not solely about an orderly management of the settlement process. For Thomas Jefferson distributing the lands of the Northwest Territory to American settlers was also about further promoting the idea of democracy. Given the importance placed in Europe on property ownership, Jefferson s guiding principle for the survey system was to get land into the hands of individual settlers quickly and equitably so that "as few as possible shall be without at least a little portion of land" (quoted in Corner & MacLean, 1996: 31). As Corner and MacLean (1996: 30–31) suggest, to Jefferson “The measuring of the American landscape was therefore less about dominion and possession than it was about the democratic and legal sale of land and its subsequent settlement. Any person could own a piece of the American dream and share in its bounty” (see also Koelsch, 2008).

117.2 Existing Survey Systems An additional reason prompting political leaders to devise a new land survey system pertained to their experiences with the systems in place in the late 18th century. A wide range of different systems existed in different parts of the U.S., frequently based upon the origins of the early settlers (Harris, 1953; Hart, 1998: 109–166). Among these were the French long lot system, the “unregulated divisions of the Spanish,” and the metes and bounds system associated with the British (Hart, 1968, 1998). As a result, early settlement in the U.S. was at times “uncontrolled and chaotic” with many land owners marking their holdings to include only those areas they wanted “while ignoring systematic shapes and contiguity with neighboring properties” (Johnson, 1976: 25). This was particularly problematic in those areas using the metes and bounds system which predominated throughout the southern

2126

G.R. Webster and J. Leib

states. The metes and bounds system employs landscape markers such as trees, rocks or streams to describe a parcel of land. The system was particularly cumbersome when defining large and irregularly shaped tracts, and of course markers such as trees die and stream channels move leaving highly debatable parcel descriptions. Consider the segment of a 1914 deed of conveyance for the land of the Stage Coal Company in Perry County, Kentucky: Beginning, at a beech ten inches in diameter and a dogwood five inches in diameter on the west side of Lost Creek at the mouth of a small drain, the beginning corner of the Tolbert Holliday 400 acre survey dated September 6, 1846, and in line of Tolbert Holiday 100 acre survey dated February 11, 1843 as located in the deed of Joab Allen to the Kentucky Coal Land Company; thence running with the lines of the Tolbert Holliday 100 acre survey and the lines of said Joab Allen, S 86 30 E 980 feet to a stake on the North side of Big Fork; thence up a hill S 3 30 W 1320 feet to a stake by a poplar on the South side of Big Fork; N 86 30 W 210 feet to a stake on the ridge between Big Fork and main Lost Creek, corner to the lands of T.G. Napier . . . . (Webster, n.d.)

The full description of the parcel of land runs nearly 800 words, using as markers several different species of trees, many stakes, an “X” on a cliff, and several references to other abutting land descriptions. In total, the description defined only 400 acres (162 ha).

117.3 The Surveying and Design of the RPLSS The Ordinance of 1785 called for the RPLSS to begin in Ohio at the point where an imaginary extension of the southern boundary of Pennsylvania would intersect with the Ohio River. To undertake this effort surveyors were to be appointed from each existing state and were to be directed by a geographer, the first of which was U.S. Captain Thomas Hutchins (Meinig, 1993: 241; Linklater, 2002). The purpose for the Ordinance was manifold but laid down the rules for lands in the newly acquired western territories to be passed from the public domain to private ownership, the entry of new states into the Union, and to raise funds to pay off the national debt left over from the Revolutionary War (Linklater, 2007: 67). The Rectangular Public Land Survey System made defining a parcel of property relatively easy and the system was implemented with various modifications in the territories beyond the state of Ohio to the Pacific Ocean. Under this system westward migrants could occupy and initially purchase for as little as $2.00 per acre (0.4 ha) of surveyed land far from established population centers to the east, and legally define their holdings with ease (Johnson, 1976: 57). To divide the public domain, surveyors created a series of principal meridians and baselines from which to measure (Fig. 117.1). Thirty-six square mile townships (93.3 sq km) were then surveyed from these fixed lines. A township’s location could be easily defined in less than a sentence. For example, the shaded township in Fig. 117.2 is the second township north from the baseline, and the first east from the principal meridian, or “Township 2 North, Range 1 East.” Included in each township were 36 sections, each being one-square mile (2.6 km2 ), or 640 acres (259 ha)

117

Living on the Grid

2127

Fig. 117.1 Baselines and Meridians for U.S. rectangular public land survey system

(Fig. 117.3). These sections were also commonly divided into quarter sections of 160 acres (64.7 ha), at the time considered to be the appropriate size for a family farm (Stein, 2008: 62). Legally, the definition of the southwestern quarter of section 24 is “Township 2 North, Range 1 East, Southwest 1/4 of Section 24.”

Fig. 117.2 Township and range in the RPLSS

2128

G.R. Webster and J. Leib

Fig. 117.3 Sections and fractional sections in the RPLSS

Clearly the system’s simplicity and ease of legal notation made it far preferable to both owners and government when compared to the inexact and cumbersome definitions used in the metes and bounds system described above. As a result, conflict and litigation over competing claims on the same parcel of land significantly decreased (Thrower, 1966: 128). The Ordinance of 1785 also required that section 16 be used to support the public schools in the township, with this section selected as a potential school location due to its centrality (Thrower, 1966: 79). The use of this section was handled differently in different states. Some all but ignored the requirement while others sold the land to raise revenues in support of public education. In contrast, when Wyoming entered the union in 1890 it agreed to use both sections 16 and 36 for support of the public schools. In 1998, for example, Section 36 of a township in Laramie County was leased as grazing lands for $6,000 with the proceeds used to support local schools (Western, 2002: 9).

117.4 Effects of the RPLSS There are a myriad of effects resulting from the design and implementation of the rectangular land survey system ranging from agricultural field patterns and road patterns to even the U.S. resistance to the metric system. The purpose of this section is to provide overviews of the many effects the Rectangular Public Land Survey System had upon the landscape of the United States. We begin with Thomas Jefferson’s emphasis upon the use of decimals. As noted earlier, Thomas Jefferson was an early architect of the Rectangular Public Land Survey System (Koelsch, 2008). In 1784 Jefferson submitted to

117

Living on the Grid

2129

Congress a plan to survey the Northwest Territory into ten mile (16.1 km) by ten mile (16.1 km) square units comprised of one-hundred one-square mile (1.61 km) “lots” (Pattison, 1961). The surveying of these units was to be based upon baselines and meridians following the cardinal directions. Jefferson was particularly interested in weights and measures, and this effort was in part to move the United States towards a decimal system for surveying, one he developed based upon the length of the equator (Linklater, 2002: 6). Prior to congressional consideration of Jefferson’s proposal he was appointed U.S. envoy to France and he was unable to personally champion his plan before the legislative body (Linklater, 2002: 72–73). While many of the elements of Jefferson’s 1784 proposal remained, the ordinance passed in 1785 reduced the ten by ten mile (16.1 km) units including 100 “lots” to six by six mile (9.7 km) units including 36 sections (Pattison 1961). Corner and MacLean (1996: 31) suggest that at the time this was “believed to be a reasonable distance for [a] horse and wagon to get to market and back.” This turn of events, and the system of measurements it institutionalized, made it highly difficult for the country to later embrace and convert to the metric system. Thus, a first effect of the Rectangular Public Land Survey System was to create the circumstances under which the land measurement systems of the United States contrast with most of the rest of the countries of the world (Linklater, 2002: 260–261). A second and far reaching effect emanating from the implementation of the RPLSS pertains to the use of the squares from Jefferson’s original system. He believed that “the simplicity of the square made it democratic” since anyone could measure it easily (Linklater, 2002: 110–111). Jefferson had earlier argued that Virginia’s counties should be squares and further subdivided into square wards. So enamored with the square, he also emphasized it in his plans for Washington, D.C. and Monticello. Jefferson (Linklater, 2002: 111–112) also argued that the Constitution’s three branches of government needed “a fourth to balance it, a Bill of Rights for the people.” Thus, Jefferson even metaphorically emphasized the square with respect to the structure of government. Arguably the square as a geometric form has affected the national sense of symmetry whether in terms of states, counties, farms, or legislative districts. Cosgrove (1996: 8) elaborates this point, noting that, we should recall its [Rectangular Survey] original intention within the context of a European culture, in which citizenship had always been founded upon ownership of immobile property, that is, upon land. Opening American space in equally sized parcels, at an affordable price, to individual farmers appeared the precondition for stable and open democracy. The rectangular grid is the perfect spatial expression of the republic s democratic imperative. Although the axially converging lines of the princely renaissance city or the baroque garden speak of aristocratic power and centralized authority, the grid privileges no one point above another. It is the landscape measure of America s commitment to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, distributing power equally across space.

In the 1780s, Thomas Jefferson not only suggested the ten by ten mile grid plan, but also proposed requirements for the admission of new states in the western territory. For example, he suggested that a territory should be eligible for statehood when its population exceeded 20,000. He also proposed boundaries for fourteen

2130

G.R. Webster and J. Leib

Fig. 117.4 New states proposed by Thomas Jefferson in the Northwest territory

new states from the Great Lakes to the Deep South (Pattison, 1957: 15–36; Johnson, 1976: 41). As a basic principle, each of these fourteen proposed states would have north–south extents of two degrees of latitude with most boundaries oriented in line with the cardinal directions (Fig. 117.4). While none of these states were actually created, an examination of the state boundaries in the United States suggests that Jefferson’s basic principle of similar sizes for states in part survived, and was arguably facilitated by the adoption of the Rectangular Public Land Survey System (Fig. 117.5). Thus, a comparison of state boundaries not only indicates an increasing reliance upon squares and rectangles with boundaries using cardinal directions, but also similar dimensions – North Dakota, South Dakota, Wyoming, Colorado, Washington and Oregon are quite close in the east-west distances, while Montana, Wyoming and Colorado are very nearly identical in their north-south extent (Stein, 2008: 1–10).

117

Living on the Grid

2131

Fig. 117.5 U.S. state and county boundaries

The implementation of the rectangular survey system further influenced the delineation of other types of boundaries as a comparison of the county boundaries in Georgia and Michigan will underscore (Fig. 117.5). While straight lines are largely absent in the county boundaries in Georgia, straight lines dominate the design of Michigan’s counties. There is also a substantial amount of uniformity in the design and size of Michigan’s counties not found in Georgia. This uniformity is an outgrowth of the RPLSS. As noted by Thomas (2009: 443), “The survey also influenced the political geography of Michigan. In the vast majority of cases, county boundaries follow the survey township lines, reinforcing the grid pattern. Michigan’s 1,242 political townships are also based upon the survey lines” (see also Thrower, 1966: 45–50). This uniformity and resulting geometry are also reflected in the Michigan state constitution’s requirements for state house and senate districts – state house districts are to be as nearly square in shape as possible and state senate districts are to be “as rectangular in shape as possible” (Grofman, 1985: 181). Thus, the RPLSS’s emphasis on squares, rectangles and uniformity has arguably led to a national sense symmetry which in this circumstance was enshrined in a state constitution. When the Ordinance of 1785 was passed the overwhelming majority of Americans were farmers. As a result, a central purpose of the Ordinance was to transfer land in the public domain to private ownership with the assumption it would be put into agricultural production. The typical size of surveyed land units sold from the public domain changed through time starting with sales limited to a full section of 640 acres (259 ha) prior to 1800, with as little as a quarter-quarter section or 40 acres (16.2 ha) in 1832 (Johnson, 1957: 338–339). In spite of these changes the 160 acre (64.7 ha) “quarter section became a tradition, haloed by the Homestead Act of 1862" (Johnson, 1957: 339). The Homestead Act allowed citizens to acquire a 160

2132

G.R. Webster and J. Leib

acre (64.7 ha) claim by simply settling and improving the parcel during a five year time period. With a subsequent payment of a $15 filing fee, the settler became a landowner. The division and sale of public domain lands into square parcels of 160 acres (64.7 ha) for farmsteads had enormous effects on the agricultural landscape. In areas of sufficient precipitation the landscape was converted to farmsteads one quarter mile square. These might be further subdivided into four smaller fields of 40 acres (16.2 ha), each possibly used for different purposes in areas of mixed farming. By 1832, 40 acres (16.2 ha) (1/16th or a quarter-quarter section) became the minimum amount of land that a settler could purchase from a government land office. Indeed, 40 acres (16.2 ha) became a standard unit of land thought to be “the minimum area that was needed to support the average family” (Linklater, 2002: 166). As a result the 40 acre (16.2 ha) subdivision worked its way into American lore and lexicon with such common references as the “back 40” or the “lower 40.” The assumption that a 40 acre (16.2 ha) plot was the minimum necessary for a family farm became so engrained that at the end of the Civil War, Union General Sherman’s Special Field Order 15 proposed giving freed slaves up to 40 acres (16.2 ha) each from the lands of the abandoned plantations along the South Carolina and Georgia coast (the proposal, which ultimately failed to be implemented, led to the famous phrase “40 acres and a mule”). Notably, this area had never been subdivided under the RPLSS (Alexander, 2004; Linklater, 2002; Rose 1964). Due to the RPLSS, “the farm landscape of the United States is famous throughout the world for its overwhelming rectangularity” (McKnight, 1979: 70). But today throughout much of the Great Plains this checkerboard agricultural landscape has been modified with giant embedded crop circles, the result of the widespread adoption of center-pivot irrigation systems in the past half century (Splinter, 1976). The rise of center-pivot irrigation has produced a visually striking change to the Great Plains agricultural landscape (Fig. 117.6). First developed and introduced in Nebraska in the 1950s, center-pivot irrigation systems became widely adopted in

Fig. 117.6 Center Pivot irrigation and the RPLSS in Kansas. (Photograph by Jonathan Leib)

117

Living on the Grid

2133

the Great Plains in the 1970s, greatly increasing the amount of land in that region under irrigation (McKnight, 1979). As suggested by Splinter (1976: 90), centerpivot irrigation “is perhaps the most significant mechanical innovation in agriculture since the replacement of draft animals by tractors.” While found from Florida to Washington state, center-pivot systems have been most widely adopted in the Great Plains and Western United States. Gollehon and Quinby’s (2000) study shows that about 1/3 of the irrigated cropland in the Great Plains and American West is irrigated via center-pivot systems, with approximately 10% of all cropland (both irrigated and non-irrigated) in these areas using center-pivot irrigation. Center-pivot is ideally suited for rectangular survey areas, irrigating a large circle within the square fields. The most common center-pivot systems are designed for a quarter-section (160 acres/64.7 ha), though such systems have also been constructed for use on a full section (640 acres/259 ha) (Splinter, 1976: 93). While center-pivot irrigation systems, by their very nature, leave the corners of the field without irrigation (approximately 133 (53.8 HA) of 160 acres (64.7 ha) is irrigated with center-pivot), the efficient use of water made center-pivot systems attractive (McKnight, 1979; Opie, 2000). An additional impact of the Rectangular Public Land Survey System pertains to its dramatic impact upon the country’s road network. The Ordinance of 1785 did not specify how road patterns were to be delineated. Because farmers did not want roads to bisect their fields, they were commonly limited to the edges of sections running only in the cardinal directions and as perfectly straight along the survey lines as possible. As Raitz (1996: 65) suggests, “property owners along the section lines were expected to donate the right-of-way to build the roads that would run along most section lines. Of course, not every section line became a road, but many did and the resulting network became an organizational grid along which 19th-century settlers aligned their farmsteads.” Thus, travelers wishing to make their way to the northeast or southwest, for example, of necessity undertook a series of zig-zags on their journeys as they followed section lines. To limit travel time to any part of their 160 acres (64.7 ha), settlers also commonly located their homes at the center of their holdings. While possibly quite rationale to limit travel times to their fields, such a pattern also engendered relative isolation of neighbor from neighbor than would have been the case if they had each located their farm houses along common section-line intersections (Linklater, 2002: 230–231; Raitz, 1996: 65), leading to greater isolation than found in long-lot agricultural societies (such as in Quebec’s St. Lawrence River Valley and in southern Louisiana) where farmers aligned their farmsteads next to one another along the river or road (Barnes, 1935). Thus, the RPLSS had enormous engineering effects upon not only agricultural field organization, but further house distribution and patterns of social interaction. Thrower (1966: 86) notes that “perhaps the most obvious difference between systematic and unsystematic surveys is the nature of the transportation network developed under these contrasting types of land subdivision.” In his detailed comparative analysis of two areas in Ohio, one unsystematically surveyed and settled prior to the RPLSS, and one after its implementation, he found a number of significant differences. Roads in areas surveyed by the RPLSS nearly always followed

2134

G.R. Webster and J. Leib

section lines, and were nearly always straight. The density of roads was also greater in the area systematically surveyed, suggesting greater costs to maintain the public roads in this area relative to the unsystematically surveyed area. Johnson (1976: 170) notes that section lines do not necessarily connect towns and villages. Thus, while it might be “natural” to follow section lines, such a road network can be both wasteful and inconvenient (see also Barnes, 1935). Thrower’s (1966) study also found inefficiencies in bridge construction in the systematically surveyed area since great effort was made to maintain the cardinal directions of the grid when streams were encountered. Thus, while in areas not using the grid, bridges were generally placed along streams at narrower points, they were frequently constructed in areas using the RPLSS wherever a section line met a stream. Thrower (1966: 98–99) therefore found both more bridges and more costly spans in the systematically versus unsystematically surveyed areas he examined in Ohio. This grid road network pattern continues to exist in much of the rural Midwest and Great Plains, as evidenced in the roadmap of Huron County, Michigan (Fig. 117.7). The impact of RPLSS on road networks is not limited to rural areas, but is also found in both urban and suburban areas as well. For example, today the road network of much of metropolitan Detroit beyond its downtown core is based on the grid system, a result of the RPLSS. In southeastern Michigan it is common to encounter roads named “1 Mile,” “5 Mile,” or “8 Mile.” These roads follow the east–west section lines with their names referring to how many sections or miles (1.61 km) the roads are from a point in the city of Detroit (with 8 Mile Road being

Fig. 117.7 Huron County, Michigan Road Network

117

Living on the Grid

2135

the baseline for the surveying of southern Michigan). “8 Mile” also became part of the national lexicon through the music of the Detroit-area native rap star, Eminem, and his 2002 semi-autobiographical movie, “8 Mile.” For Detroit-area residents, 8 Mile Road, which serves as the northern boundary for the city of Detroit, also serves as a perceived racial and class boundary between the city and its suburbs (Bowles, 2002). There have been notable intrusions upon the grid road network established by the implementation of the RPLSS. Schein (1996) points out that the specific routes chosen for the federal Interstate Highway System in the 1950s ignored the existing rectangular survey lines in places, bisecting landholdings that were shaped by the survey. Examining how limited-access Interstate 70 cuts through sections rather than following the section lines in Muskingum County, Ohio, Schein (1996: 326) notes that the highway “limits access and this functionally splits landholdings – sometimes leaving farm buildings on one side of the roadway and fields on the other. Not only has the farm lost its road access, it has become fragmented and parts are inconveniently isolated.” Schein (1996: 326) argues that it is ironic that while the rural landscape of Muskingum County was constructed on the basis of the RPLSS as implemented by the federal government in the late 1700s, the mid-20th century federal interstate highway program in contrast, “was a strategy implemented after effective settlement of the territory, and thus had the effect of ramming (I70) through the settlement landscape, often splitting landholdings and individual farms.” Notably, the RPLSS was centrally about organizing the agrarian landscape, while the Interstate Highway System reflected the country’s desire to connect the urban centers of an industrialized America. The gridiron pattern for town and city streets was not new to the Americas during westward movement of the 18th and 19th centuries, having been used elsewhere as early as 5000 years BP (Rose-Redwood, 2008; Stanislawski, 1946; Thrower, 1966: 8). It was also used in some of the larger American gateway cities such as New York (Linklater, 2002: 176–180), familiarizing new immigrants with the town grid street system before their further movement westward. In spite of criticism of the “monotonous character” of western towns (Johnson, 1976: 177), “Once the U.S. land survey established its pattern . . . it was hard to resist its rectangularity” (Linklater, 2002: 183). This was particularly the case with respect to those towns laid out by the railroads who wished to rapidly survey and sell lots (Linklater, 2002: 183). Thus, while it would be erroneous to suggest that all villages, towns and cities adopted and implemented the grid street pattern without variation (e.g., Johnson, 1976: 177–188), the implementation of the RPLSS created greater receptivity and acceptance of the pattern in Midwestern and Western settlements. The effects of the RPLSS also remain visible on the American landscape due to road naming. Dozens of streets and roads are named “Meridian” or “Baseline,” taking their names from their function during the implementation of the grid. Thus, north-south streets named Meridian are found from Tallahassee, Florida to Bellingham, Washington. Baseline Road in Boulder, Colorado is an east–west thoroughfare running along the parallel at 40◦ N. It is part of the baseline set for implementing the RPLSS in Kansas, Nebraska, Wyoming and Colorado.

2136

G.R. Webster and J. Leib

A final, though surely not least important, effect of the RPLSS is its neglect of environmental features and considerations. For example, in 1878 John Wesley Powell advocated jettisoning the RPLSS in the arid West and delineating private land holdings based upon watersheds. From Powell’s perspective the aridity of the region necessitated access to water for irrigation, something that the survey could not guarantee (Dunlap, 1999: 79). It is also the case that the grid’s insistence on straight lines, ninety degree angles, and squares largely ignores topography, environmental contrasts, and delicate ecosystems. Commenting on the physical landscape features that preceded the RPLSS by tens of thousands of years, Cosgrove (1996: 9) observes “what is remarkable in their appearance from the air is that it is these features of nature that seem out of place in a paper landscape rather than the human measure seeming inappropriate in the context of such huge and ancient natural forces.” As stated by Meine (1997: 53), “The triumph of the grid and the tenacity with which the surveyors served the ideal, remains mind-boggling. The consequences, for biotic and human communities alike, are pervasive.” For example, he notes the structures that follow the grid including roads, ditches, and fences “serve as corridors for (or, alternatively, barriers to) the dispersal of organisms and the exchange of their genetic material. Roads in particular have been shown to have differential impacts on spiders, insects and small and large animals.” In the forests of the Great Lakes wolf populations have been found to be inversely proportional to the density of roads (Meine, 1997: 53). In other cases fidelity to the cardinal directions forced section lines directly through hydrological features such as ponds, disrupting if not destroying their fish, animal and insect populations. Johnson (1976: 222) notes that “The form least easily adjusted to environmental features is the square,” and that this form “hardened into plane geometry” makes it difficult to appreciate the “roundness of nature” (Johnson, 1976: 222–235). Given the dramatic engineering effects on the American landscape of the Rectangular Public Land Survey System over the past two centuries, the environmental impacts of the grid are arguably among its least noted and explored, but among its most substantial, and are therefore deserved of additional focused research attention.

117.5 Conclusions The land engineering effects of the Rectangular Public Land Survey System are clearly immense. The system worked effectively and efficiently to transfer land from the public domain to private land owners on a historically monumental scale. It also reduced the potential conflict over ill-defined land claims given the ability of the grid to define a parcel of land in exacting fashion. But the RPLSS also limited flexibility in road and bridge location, increased the isolation of settlers from their neighbors, and all but ignored topography and environmental diversity to secure fidelity to straight lines and the imposition of squares and rectangles on the landscape. Thus, in spite of its geometric simplicity, its political, social and economic effects are both substantial and complex. It can therefore be argued that the Rectangular Public Land

117

Living on the Grid

2137

Survey System is one of the most significant and far-reaching efforts of landscape engineering ever implemented in the history of humankind.

References Alexander, D. (2004). Forty Acres and a Mule: the Ruined Hope of Reconstruction. NEH Humanities, 25(1): (January/February). Retrieved January 6, 2009, from http://www.neh.gov/ news/humanities/2004-01/reconstruction.html Barnes, C. P. (1935). The economics of the long lot farm. Geographical Review, 25, 298–301. Bowles, S. (2002). Riding Detroit s 8 Mile. USA Today. November 8. Retrieved January 5, 2009, from http://www.usatoday.com/life/movies/news/2002-11-07-8mile-cover_x.htm Brunn, S. D. (1974). Geography and politics in America. New York: Harper and Row. Corner, J., & MacLean, A. S. (Eds.). (1996). Taking measures across the American landscape. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Cosgrove, D. (1996). The Measure of America. In J. Corner & A. S. MacLean (Eds.), Taking measures across the American landscape (pp. 3–13). New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Douglas, E. M. (1932). Boundaries, areas, geographic centers and latitudes of the United States and the several states. Washington, DC: U.S. Department of the Interior, Bulletin 817. Dunlap, T. R. (1999). Nature and the English diaspora. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gollehon, N., & Quinby, W. (2000). Irrigation in the American West: Area, water and economic activity. Water Resources Development, 16, 187–195. Grofman, B. (1985). Criteria for districting: A social science perspective. UCLA Law Review, 33(1), 77–184. Harris, M. (1953). Origin of the land tenure system in the United States. Ames, IA: Iowa State College Press. Hart, J. F. (1968). Field patterns in Indiana. Geographical Review, 58, 450–471. Hart, J. F. (1972). The Middle West. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 62, 258–282. Hart, J. F. (1998). The rural landscape. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Jensen, M. (1936). The cession of the Old Northwest. Mississippi Valley Historical Review, 23(1), 27–48. Jensen, M. (1939). The creation of the national domain. Mississippi Valley Historical Review, 26(3), 323–342. Johnson, H. B. (1957). Rational and ecological aspects of the quarter section. Geographical Review, 47, 330–348. Johnson, H. B. (1976). Order upon the land: The U.S. Rectangular Land Survey System and the Upper Mississippi Country. New York: Oxford University Press. Koelsch, W. A. (2008). Thomas Jefferson, American geographers, and the uses of geography. Geographical Review, 98, 260–279. Linklater, A. (2002). Measuring America: How an untamed wilderness shaped the United States and fulfilled the promise of democracy. New York: Walker Publishing. Linklater, A. (2007). The fabric of America: How our borders and boundaries shaped the country and forged our national identity. New York: Walker and Company. McKnight, T. L. (1979). Great circles on the Great Plains: The changing geometry of American agriculture. Erdkunde, 33, 70–79. Meine, C. (1997). Inherit the grid. In J. I. Nassauer (Ed.), Placing nature: Culture and landscape ecology (pp. 45–62). Washington, DC: Island Press. Meinig, D. W. (1986). The shaping of America: A geographical perspective on 500 Years of history, Vol. 1: Atlantic America, 1492–1800. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Meinig, D. W. (1993). The shaping of America: A geographical perspective on 500 Years of history, Vol. 2: Continental America, 1800–1867. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.

2138

G.R. Webster and J. Leib

Opie, J. (2000). Ogallala: Water for a dry land (2nd ed.). Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Pattison, W. (1957) [1979]. Beginnings of the American Rectangular Land Survey System, 1784–1800. Chicago: University of Chicago, Department of Geography, Research Paper 50. Reprinted by Arno Press (New York). Pattison, W. (1961). The original plan for an American rectangular land survey system. Surveying and Mapping, 21, 339–345. Raitz, K. (1996). The face of the country. In K. Raitz (Ed.), The national road (pp. 45–72). Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Rose, W. L. (1964). Rehearsal for reconstruction: The Port Royal experiment. Indianapolis: BobbsMerrill. Rose-Redwood, R. (2008). Genealogies of the grid: Revisiting Stanislawski’s search for the origin of the grid-pattern Town. Geographical Review, 98, 41–58. Schein, R. H. (1996). The Interstate 70 landscape. In K. Raitz (Ed.), The national road (pp. 319– 347). Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Splinter, W. (1976). Center-Pivot irrigation. Scientific American, 234(6/June), 90–99. Stanislawski, D. (1946). The origin and spread of the grid-pattern town. Geographical Review, 36, 105–120. Stein, M. (2008). How the states got their shapes. New York: Smithsonian Books. Thrower, N. J. W. (1966). Original survey and land subdivision. Chicago: Rand McNally. Thomas, M. O. (2009). The United States public land survey system. In R. J. Schaetzl, J. T. Darden, & D. Brandt (Eds.), Michigan: Geography and geology (pp. 430–445). Boston: Pearson Custom Publishing. Webster, G. R. (n.d.). Deed of conveyance—The Stage coal corporation—Land Description. August 14, 1917, copy from author’s files available upon request. Western, S. (2002). Pushed off the mountain, sold down the river: Wyoming’s search for its soul, Moose, WY: Homestead.

Chapter 118

Traces of Power: Europe’s Impact on the Political Organization of the Globe Corey Johnson and George W. White

118.1 Introduction We were asked by the editor of this collection to address a seemingly innocuous question: Why is the world political map organized the way that it is? A comprehensive answer to this question could result in a set of volumes. For the purposes of this chapter, we will focus on providing a general overview of the imprimatur of Europe on the political geography in regions such as Latin America, Asia, and Africa. Given the focus of this volume on megaengineering, our analysis pays particular attention to the technocratic nature of organizing and bounding territory. In practical terms, mapping and surveying were in essence technical solutions to social and political challenges in that they were pursued to fill gaps in knowledge about places so that these colonial territories could be more fully utilized or exploited. However, these activities profoundly altered the political organization of space and thereby also social identity and thus constitute a form of social engineering. The chapter is organized as follows. In order to understand the nature of Europe’s impact on the political map and its societies, it helps first to understand pre-colonial ways of organizing space and understanding basic spatial ideas (e.g., distance and direction). The next section is then a discussion of the “European gaze” on non-European space and the following fundamental questions: what was it that Europeans believed about far off lands about which they had little direct experience, and what ideologies emerged that influenced the course of colonial projects? The chapter then moves to a section detailing the Europeans’ approaches to claiming space in various parts of the world. The European colonizers employed various techniques in order to claim space. These techniques in turn had material consequences that are often still evident on the landscape in the form of political boundaries, land tenure regimes, and toponymy. Still in existence long after direct colonial rule, they are the calcified remains of the rationalization and reorganization of space undertaken by European colonizers. Unfortunately, conflicts in many parts of the

C. Johnson (B) Department of Geography, University of North Carolina, Greensboro, NC 27402, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_118,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2139

2140

C. Johnson and G.W. White

Fig. 118.1 European influence in the world. (Source: after Zelinsky, 1966)

post-colonial world often have had their roots in these territorial arrangements and understandings. Though much of this chapter’s focus is on the historical explanations of current spatial patterns, we conclude with a discussion of contemporary forms of spatial (re)organization, such as supranationalism, that Europeans have exported around the world in recent years. The limited space and the broad topic assigned to us warrant some cautionary notes at the outset. First, Europe is no monolith and the attention here will be paid to just a handful of colonial powers (e.g., Portugal, Spain, France, The Netherlands, England/Great Britain, Germany, and Belgium) over very long time spans (Fig. 118.1). Accomplishing this task in just a few pages is accompanied by the risk of overgeneralization. Second, any number of gray areas may determine the full extent of the European colonial imprint. For example, are the Russians Europeans? If so, does the 1860 Treaty of Peking, negotiated among the Russian and Chinese empires and establishing the boundary between their respective empires along “mountains, great rivers and the . . . lines of Chinese permanent pickets,” constitute a European colonial influence (Kratochwil, 1986: 31)? Cases like this one notwithstanding, this chapter employs examples and conceptual framings from literature as a means of providing this topical overview which we hope will help readers better understand the European imprint on the organization of space across the globe.

118.2 An Un-Blank Canvas: Pre-European Organization of Space Prior to widespread colonialism by Europeans, the organization of space in much of the world bore little resemblance to the familiar lexicon of contemporary political geography. In many non-European places, attachment to territory was relative rather than absolute, what Mbembe (2000: 263) calls “itinerant territoriality.” Allegiances

118

Europe’s Impact on the Political Organization of the Globe

2141

overlapped, both spatially and temporally. The territorial organization of polities throughout the world consisted of a vast array of kingdoms, confederations, empires, sultanates, clans tribes, city states, etc. (Warner, 2003). The notion that someone would draw an imaginary line around a chunk of territory was essentially a foreign concept in much of the world (Trocki, 2000). Most societies did not implement mapping techniques that showed a vertical, “bird’s-eye” view of territories, which is so familiar in the modern industrialized world (White, 2004: 130). Such maps depend on latitude and longitude, which is Euclidean geometry. Instead, most societies had a horizontal, not a vertical, view of their lands. Thus, rather than employing abstract lines of vertically conceptualized maps, the horizontal perspective relied on physiographic features to demarcate on the ground the limits of political control. State officials in Southeast Asia, for example, oriented the maps they drew to rivers and coasts, not to polar antipodes (Thongchai, 1994; Vandergeest & Peluso, 1995). On Borneo, watersheds and hilltops were viewed as the basic units of land division since access to rivers determined the usefulness of a given parcel (Trocki, 2000). Beliefs about land ownership, another important form of human territoriality, differed greatly around the world. Seldom did European settlers encounter property division and ownership practices that in any way resembled what they knew from home. In pre-colonial Southeast Asia, state control was based on the control of labor, not of land (Vandergeest & Peluso, 1995). Even for purposes of agriculture, which from a European perspective would seem to beg for the demarcation of clear lines, lest one’s neighbor plant his crop on your land, usufruct (the “fruits of use”) in much of the world was not absolute. Scott’s work in Southeast Asia demonstrates that usufruct was redistributed every few years according to family size and how many able bodied workers one had in his family (Scott, 1998). Even within the same year, land might rotate between exclusive use and common use after harvest, when grazing and fowling were the common land uses (Scott, 1998). Most farmers who existed near the subsistence margin were interested not in how many acres they “owned,” but rather whether the mouths in the family would be fed by the area under cultivation in a given year. Moreover, generalizing about land ownership in this part of the world is complicated by the fact that each village had its own traditions based upon the local physical geography, custom, and kinship arrangements (Scott, 1998). In general, community ownership usually took precedence over any sense of individual ownership. Ways of marking time, measuring distance, and area, were likewise very different around the world. Measurements were frequently relative rather than absolute. Thus, the question of how far it is to the next village, when asked in Malaysia, and as recounted by Scott (1998: 25), might receive an answer such as “three rice cookings,” since that was the locally meaningful measurement of time.

118.3 Europe’s Gaze: How Europeans Saw the World The processes by which European elites sought to distinguish a European place/identity from non-Europe are well documented (see Soja, 1971). They

2142

C. Johnson and G.W. White

involved creating binary cultural identities (i.e., “othering”). Initially, “others” were simply non-Christians. This binary vision never completely lost meaning, but new criteria for “othering” were added with each new era. In the Enlightenment, “the others” were the less fortunate. During the Romantic period, language became significant. Afterwards, Darwinism and environmental determinism added race to the matrix. By the end of the 19th century, Europeans saw non-Europeans as poor, “dark-skinned,” non-Christians who spoke exotic languages. The title of Rudyard Kipling’s book, The White Man’s Burden (1899), encapsulates this perspective and illustrates that many Europeans felt that their colonial projects were not only justified, but imperative. Indeed, Kipling wrote his book to implore Americans to adopt the European imperialist project and employ it in the Philippines. The practice of “othering” also had its spatial dimensions. It is illustrated by the evolving ideas concerning the placement of the boundaries between Europe and non-Europe. Initially, with European identity narrowly defined, so were Europe’s boundaries. Excluded from Europe were the lands inhabited by Celts, Iberians, Slavs, Sami, Balts, Hungarians, Illyrians, and Hellenic peoples, as well as those who lived in what is now southern Italy (Jordan-Bychkov, 1996: 21). Slowly the boundaries of Europe expanded to the Ural Mountains, but the Russians are not wholly embraced as fellow Europeans (Murphy, Jordan-Bychkov, & Bychkova Jordan, 2008: 1–16). Hence, the previous question, are the Russians Europeans? Though Europeans conceptions of themselves evolved in the wake of the Age of Discovery, they continually believed that their imperative was to colonize the world, because colonization was the means of imposing their beliefs and systems. “Colonial occupation,” writes the postcolonial theorist Achile Mbembe, was a matter of seizing, delimiting, and asserting control over a physical geographical area—of writing on the ground a new set of social and spatial relations. The writing of new spatial relations (territorialization) was, ultimately, tantamount to the production of boundaries and hierarchies, zones and enclaves; the subversion of existing property arrangements; the classification of people according to different categories; resource extraction; and, finally, the manufacturing of a large reservoir of cultural imaginaries. (Mbembe, 2003: 25–26)

Territory is the “natural ground of the state” (Biggs, 1999: 375), and the territorialization strategies of colonial powers are thus crucial to understanding the broader impacts of colonialism over time. It has been well established by now that the modern state system had its genesis in Europe and was exported throughout the world via the colonial and imperial exploits of European powers (e.g. Agnew, 2007; Murphy, 1996). Beginning in around the late 15th century, European powers, notably Spain and Portugal, became interested in spreading their influence beyond the confines of Europe. Documenting the work of the Scottish historian of early America, William Robertson, Anthony Pagden quotes that this is when “Providence decreed that men were . . . to open themselves to a more ample field wherein to display their talents, their enterprise and courage” (Pagden, 1995: 11). As this quote suggests, religious mission was a primary concern since technically any of God’s lands and riches belonged to the “universal and omnipotent” church in Rome. Consequently, it was

118

Europe’s Impact on the Political Organization of the Globe

2143

the pope who mediated early disputes between colonizing powers (i.e. the Treaty of Tordesillas in 1494). It was here that the first political division of the world on a large scale occurred, and of course the lasting legacy of Tordesillas is witnessed to this day in the division of South America between Spanish and Portuguese speakers. Interestingly, though the Spanish and Portuguese saw non-Europeans as nonChristians, the boundaries between these two Christian peoples and their lands were seen differently than today. Language standardization had not made their languages as distinct as they are now, nor was language distinction as important then. Being Christians, the Spanish identified their language as “cristiano.” At the time, the Spanish and Portuguese were only beginning to adopt modern mapping practices. They, like other Europeans, still relied heavily on physiographic features for their boundaries. Such features were used primarily for the boundaries of Spain and Portugal. In the Treaty of Tordesillas, it was the Atlantic Ocean. It was only later that it was realized that a portion of South America extend east, across the Portuguese side of the line. Parceling the world among two powers in a salon in the Vatican certainly kept early geopolitics elegantly simple, but it was not to last long. England and France, nascent colonial powers in their own right, were not at all pleased with subsequent papal bulls and treaties, particularly when they were excluded from them. “Where was the clause in Adam’s will,” Pagden quotes Francis I as having asked Holy Roman Emperor and King of Spain Charles V, “which had bequeathed to him half the world?” (Pagden, 1995: 47). Francis was certainly aware of at least some of the possibilities of the space that expeditions were being found “on an unimagined scale” (Agnew, 2003: 17). As time progressed and the colonial enterprise broadened the geographical horizons of Europeans, new ways of visualizing global space arose. John Agnew highlights two characteristics of the ways in which global spaces were envisioned that are useful here. The first was the process of removing the self who is viewing the world from the world itself, where the observer sees the “world as an ordered structured whole” and frames it “apart from and prior to the places and people it contains” (Agnew, 2003: 15). In other words, scientists and other educated elites began to apply Enlightenment-era knowledge about science and mathematics to world space in a practice of abstraction and rationalization. Reason and rationality were indeed the “Enlightenment religion” (Edney, 1997: 301), and sciences such as geodesy were employed on these newly discovered oceans of space in order to understand the rank order of the Earth and man within the universe (Edney, 1997). Statistics (meaning “science of the state”) too was a product of the Enlightenment. Later, in the 1820s, the mapping endeavor began assigning colors and patterns representing numerical values to territories, marking the invention of the choropleth map (Crampton, 2003: 137–138; Robinson, 1982: 156–170; White, 2004: 92, 153). As these ideas developed, European explorers, colonialists, and administrators, saw fit to parcel space for ease of administration and minimization of conflict, which they did, quite naturally, according to their knowledge and belief systems. The compartmentalization of space, whereby units were assigned at least the capacity for self-government and sovereignty, began spreading around the world quite rapidly after the 1815,

2144

C. Johnson and G.W. White

according to Jean Gottmann (1973), but of course the spread was temporally and spatially highly uneven. The second process described by Agnew is that of seeing the world beyond the horizon as “dark, chaotic and dangerous” (Agnew, 2003: 15). This was in a sense merely a continuation of the pre-colonial othering that sought to define Europe as distinct from everywhere else: as a geographic container for virtue and piety versus the iniquity and wickedness beyond the Urals or across the Bosporous, as examples. In order to make such dark regions governable for the exploitation that was in store for them, space would have to be made to conform to European norms. This was important for the administration of resources, for parceling land for agriculture, for delimiting military zones, and for keeping the native populations compliant.

118.4 Discovering the World: European Expansionism and Imprints 118.4.1 Mapping and Claiming Imperialism and mapmaking intersect in the most basic manner. Both are fundamentally concerned with territory and knowledge. . . To govern territories, one must know them. (Edney, 1997: 1)

The first step in claiming the territories encountered abroad was mapping them (Harley 1992). Consider for a moment the returning explorer, trying to drum up support among the courts in Madrid, Lisbon, or London for additional investments in a distant (and invisible) locale. These distant places first had to be “invented” and brought into the consciousness of Europeans (Harley, 1992: 532), as it was not always or even often self-evident how distant, dangerous lands might be of use. By mapping these places, explorers began to paint the possibilities of the nearly endless space beyond the shores of Europe. They also constructed “empty boxes” that could then be filled with imagination’s desire (Vandergeest & Peluso, 1995). When the decision was made to move forward with colonial expansion, maps became instrumental in the planning for settlement and colonization (Zandvliet, 1998). Since the mapping of territories was a crucial first step in the enterprise of laying claim, mapping was itself an act of expropriation (Harley, 1992). As the settlement by colonialists progressed, it became necessary to partition space, and it is this partitioning of space is what would probably be recognized as the most visible and lasting legacy of European imperialism on a contemporary political map of the world. One need only look at the nearly ramrod straight line dividing the island of New Guinea into two halves, for example, and it is clear that Cartesian linearism made a visit to the East Indies. As another example, the boundary between British Kenya and German Tanzania was initially just as straight, but it now jogs around Mt. Kilimanjaro because Queen Victoria decided to give the feature to her grandson Kaiser Wilhelm II for his birthday (Thomson, 2000: 23). Once territories had been claimed, the cartographic enterprise only intensified. For as Michael Biggs has argued, maps also helped determine the “shape of power:”

118

Europe’s Impact on the Political Organization of the Globe

2145

The acquisition of cartographic knowledge helped rationalize the activities of rule. . . .As lands were surveyed and mapped, they were reshaped into a territory: a homogeneous and uniform space, demarcated by linear boundaries. The old dynastic realm was transformed into a distinctively new shape, the territorial state. This spatial rationalization was modeled on the map (Biggs, 1999: 385).

All that accompanied a colonial project, from military operations and the construction of infrastructure to the actual extraction of resources, depended heavily upon cartographic visualizations of space. Maps were also used as political statements by powers of hegemony as documents which served to “naturalize the territorial claims of both empires and nation-states and to claim authority and grandeur on behalf of both” (Padrón, 2004: 8–9). The Dutch were perhaps the most audacious users of cartography as a means of staking claim. To them, the ability to show that one of their skilled mapmakers had depicted a foreign land was “a critical sign of possession” (Day, 2008: 29). Maps were also a medium for what Day (2008) calls “claiming by naming.” The Spanish giving the Caribbean islands names, for example, in effect tied those islands to their new “owners,” and showing this on a map lend such claims an air of authority in days before international law (Day, 2008: 50). Although the Virgin Queen, Elizabeth I, protested this practice to the Spanish ambassador in 1580 by claiming that “giving Names . . . does not entitle [the Spanish] to ownership,” this did not prevent her from employing precisely the same tactic in England’s new colonial possessions in North America. She directed Sir Walter Raleigh to stake claim to “Virginia” on the east coast of North America perhaps in part because she recognized the symbolic importance of the practice (Day, 2008).

118.4.2 Examples of Claiming Space Given the interesting work in the history of cartography on the role of mapping in the imperial enterprise, it would be easy to devote much space to this issue. Let us instead focus on just two examples of the role of mapping in claiming space: the Indonesian archipelago and Africa, particularly the so-called “Scramble for Africa” during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The most important event in determining the European imprint on the political geography of Southeast Asia came with the signing of the Anglo-Dutch Treaty on 17 March 1824. This treaty affirmed Dutch control over much of the insular Dutch East Indies, including Sumatra, while the British received control over territories on the other side of the Strait of Melaka (separating the Malay peninsula and Singapore) (Trocki, 2000). Thus the current border between Indonesia and Malaysia dates to this time, and is a product of delineating spheres of influence. The treaty also set precedent for dividing Borneo into Dutch and British spheres by dividing Sabah and Sarawak from Kalimantan, which belongs today to Indonesia (Trocki, 2000: 2). In what Trocki calls the “rationalist arrogance of modernism,” these two European powers – or diplomats operating in offices in London, divvied a large chunk of

2146

C. Johnson and G.W. White

the world’s surface amongst themselves and laid the groundwork for much of the contemporary political geography (Trocki, 2000: 3). In Africa, the free trade imperialist system that had existed in West Africa since the earliest colonial contacts was replaced as a result of the Berlin Conference of 1884–1885 with one of territorial ambition; mapping would obviously be essential in staking territorial claim (Stone 1988). The General Agreement that was signed at Berlin in 1885 was intended as a guide for the interested parties (all European) in West Africa, while the Anglo-German agreement of 1890 provided guidance for claims on East Africa. Unsurprisingly, neither of these agreements showed any concern for the political organization of native peoples (Gottmann, 1973). The process of colonizing the heart of Africa, which Hegel had called “true Africa,” (Mbembe, 2000: 274), was slowed in part due to the lack of comprehensive maps. The importance of mapping to the scramble for Africa is perhaps best illustrated by the call to action by the various geographical societies. As noted by Colonel Sir T.H. Holdich, who later went on to be president of the Royal Geographical Society of Britain: We have, first of all, to recognize the fact that the field of geographical enterprise presented by the terra incognita of Africa is growing exceedingly narrow. . . .We have arrived at a day of comparatively small things, a prosaic day of patient local enterprise, of regulation Government surveys, and of contracted geographical exploits under Government direction. (Holdich, 1901: 592)

In other words, mapping out the unknown lands of Africa presented a golden opportunity for the advancement of geographical science, and geographers could simultaneously advance the goals of empire. British geography was not alone in becoming the handmaiden of the state (Fig. 118.2). In Spain, at the height of the scramble for Africa, the secretary of the Spanish geographical society pleaded for intensified teaching of geography, since the earth “will belong to whoever knows it best” (Day, 2008: 40). All colonial powers mapped African space, but the lines that ended up on the map were not exclusively drawn according to colonial whim or arbitrariness. Some had their genesis in the mercantile, informal imperial era and were established by missionaries and traders (Mbembe, 2000). The European colonial powers negotiated with one another, of course, but also some negotiations transpired with native populations, particularly in the lead-up to outright colonial control in the late 19th and 20th centuries (Mbembe, 2000). The Anglo-German sphere of influence treaty for Africa, for example, allowed adjustments to borders based on local “requirements” (Kratochwil, 1986: 38), and this is reflected particularly in the relict boundaries between Namibia (formerly German Southwest Africa) and South Africa.

118.4.3 Bordering Many techniques of bordering were employed in the colonial world. Terms such as buffer zones, protectorates, spheres of interest (or influence), suzerainties, and neutral zones are common in the popular lexicon of political geography, and they have their origins in the bordering techniques of colonial powers designed to subjugate

118

Europe’s Impact on the Political Organization of the Globe

2147

Fig. 118.2 Cartoon of Cecil Rhodes spanning Africa. (Source: Reproduced from Cecil Rhodes’ Day’s Conquest, Fig. 15 with permission; Copyright Mary Evans Picture Library)

and order their possessions abroad (Kratochwil, 1986: 37). And the relict imprints of such colonial frontiers remain in many parts of the world, such as the McMahon line in Tibet, which is the source of the border dispute between India and China (Kratochwil, 1986: 37). While it is well known that the geometric boundaries of many former European colonies were drafted on tables in Europe, it is less known that choices for these boundaries resulted from an imperial competition that created a bordering process aimed at keeping rivals at a distance. With resources and trade a primary concern, European powers sought good natural harbors as necessary relay points in their trading networks. These ports tended to be at the mouths of great rivers and served as collection points for goods transported from the interiors of continents. Thus European powers usually first claimed ports and then extended their claims up these rivers which served as the trading routes and the spines of trading networks that fed these ports. It often meant that the “scramble” for colonies involved the exploration and identification of river basins and the locations of natural passes that were the basis of trade routes. Henry Morton Stanley’s mapping of the Congo

2148

C. Johnson and G.W. White

River Basin (1874–1877) is a famous example (Foeken, 1995: 82–83). Such explorations were meant to advance claims to entire self-sufficient trading enterprises. With competition fervent at times, claims often were made hastily with incomplete geographical knowledge. The creation of Namibia is an illustrative example. For a long time, Europeans had little interest is what has become Namibia because initially the Namib Desert had little that interested them. Soon after the German Empire was born in 1871, the Germans, under the leadership of Otto von Bismarck, became interested in establishing their own colonies and began showing interest in the area. To limit a German foothold in the region, the British laid the first claim in 1878. It was to Walvis Bay, the only deepwater port in the region and important to British shipping. In 1883, Adolf Lüderitz, a German trader, established himself in Angra Pequeña (“small cove” in Portuguese), by setting up a trading station, now known as Lüderitz (Bruce, 1958: 588). To prevent the British from laying claim to the region, Lüderitz turned his trading station over to the German government, which proclaimed the station and surrounding region the German Protectorate of Southwest Africa in 1884. The intent was to turn the protectorate into a colony by encouraging German settlers to buy land. The colony’s northern boundary ran along the Kuene and Okavango rivers and a straight line connecting them. The Orange River served as the southern boundary, and straight lines running through the Kalahari Desert served as the eastern boundary. Today’s Namibia also has a peculiar protrusion in the northwest. Known as the Caprivi Strip, it was acquired by German Chancellor Leo von Caprivi in 1890 in an agreement with Great Britain to give the Germans access to the Zambezi River and a route to their East African colony of Tanganyika (today’s Rwanda, Burundi, and Tanzania (excluding Zanzibar)). As with many colonies, Namibia’s boundaries were delineated with little concern for area’s inhabitants and have had lasting consequences. Namibia has more than eleven ethnic groups. The formation of the Caprivi Liberation Army (CLA) in the 1990s in the Caprivi Strip, where the inhabitants share more in common with peoples of neighboring countries than with other Namibians, has led to armed conflict with the Namibian government.

118.4.4 Cadastral and Enumerative Politics Once the land was mapped for its physical and human features, it remained, in the eyes of the European colonialist, “empty” (Blaut, 1993). This initially stemmed from the European belief that non-Christians had no rights. Later, with the Enlightenment and its emphasis on individual rights and private property, Europeans disregarded other cultures’ notions of land use, such as communal ownership. Making the land fit for settlement required wresting control from whatever local notions of spatial organization existed, and therefore the regulation of property rights (in accordance with European norms) was key to this endeavor, in what Edney (1997) calls the “rationality of empire.” The cadastral surveys in the South Asian subcontinent, in Australia, and in parts of Africa, still dictate (to a large extent) property relations in those places (Fig. 118.3). Native populations were seemingly

118

Europe’s Impact on the Political Organization of the Globe

2149

Fig. 118.3 Time sequence map of Colonial Australia. (Source: Reproduced with permission from Kain and Baigent, 1992: 368)

unable or unwilling to understand the notion of private property, so it was incumbent upon the colonial powers in places such as South Asia and Africa to distribute land to willing European settlers (Edney, 1997: 15). As Scott (1998: 51) points out, pre-modern states only needed enough intelligence about the land to maintain order, assess taxes, and raise armies. But the utilitarian modern state, which needed to thoroughly control its territorial possessions, used the tools of statecraft to take inventory of all which inhabited the land (Scott, 1998). The cadastral survey was an important tool in the arsenal of colonial powers. The Dutch East Indian Company, for example, employed large numbers of land surveyors, who were deployed to places such as present-day Taiwan and tasked with creating cadastral and topographical maps necessary to transform the landscape into a desired agricultural colony (Zandvliet, 1998).

2150

C. Johnson and G.W. White

Fig. 118.4 Aboriginal claimant applications as of 2009 in Australia, with rectilinear pattern of the Torrens system evident. (Source: Agnew’s Geopolitics: 18; Copyright Commonwealth of Australia 2009)

The British were perhaps the world champions of cadastral and enumerative politics. The necessity of land titling in Australia and New Zealand resulted in the development of the Torrens system of land titling in the 1860s (Fig. 118.4) (Scott, 1998). This system created a pre-surveyed grid of allotments, which then could be signed over to settlers. As a means of selling land, it was so efficient that it was adopted in a number of other British colonies (Scott 1998: 51). As Scott dryly notes, the “homogenous and rigid . . . was likely to run afoul of the natural features of the nonconforming landscape” (Scott, 1998: 51). The Torrens system was found useful elsewhere, such as in Southeast Asia, where Siamese leaders sought to territorialize state hegemony in response to incursions by European colonial powers. During the late 19th century, the Siamese monarchy in Bangkok adopted a Western-style land code and decreed ownership of unoccupied lands; this was a direct result of the Anglo-French competition for influence, particularly British interest in teak in the region (Vandergeest & Peluso, 1995: 396). Thailand is generally recognized as the only non-colonized part of Southeast Asia, but this example illustrates that their territory – and the methods employed to control space – were certainly not immune to the influence of British and French activities in the region. In India, the British attempted to transform India from an “incomprehensible spectacle into an empire of knowledge” (Edney, 1997: 2). The Great Trigonometrical Survey (GTS) of India (1918–1843) represents perhaps the most

118

Europe’s Impact on the Political Organization of the Globe

2151

Fig. 118.5 Triangulation lines in India and arcs of Great Trigon, Survey of India. (Source: Reproduced with permission from Edney, 1997: 20)

ambitious of several cartographic projects in India lasting from the late 1700s until the early 20th century. It was a massive undertaking through which the British sought to construct “a single, complete, truthful, and ordered archive of geographical knowledge for their empire” (Edney, 1997: 17). The GTS thus formed part of the “numerical gaze” cast upon India that sought to create of control over the indigenous landscape and peoples (Appadurai, 1996: 117–121). It was also important to compel or convince the local populations to think about space and distance in the same rational ways as Europeans did (Edney, 1997: 309). By using mathematical principles of triangulation, the GTS promised what Edney (1997: 319) terms a “perfect geographical panopticon,” or at least the illusion of such (Fig. 118.5). The closer one mapped to a 1:1 scale, the closer the imperial power came to total knowledge about the colonial possession, and the GTS certainly endeavored one of the largest-scale comprehensive map of the colonial possession ever attempted. The

2152

C. Johnson and G.W. White

survey was necessary not only for military and political domination, but also in order to construct India as an object of “British cultural and political sovereignty” (Tickell, 2004: 20). From the GTS survey, land ownership cadasters could be derived; property was from then on was considered a commodity and land tenure was adapted from whatever local traditions existed to the exclusive rights of ownership that were the norm under British common law. It should be noted, as Edney did in his remarkable book on the survey of India, that cadastral surveys remained heterogeneous throughout India and were less important than the GTS to constructing Indian space (Edney, 1997: 28). No less a figure than George Everest wrote about the survey of India that it was “a fundamental inscription of British legitimacy” and a “totalized ‘gridiron’ covering and ‘binding’ the landscape into one uniform map” (Edney, 1997: 21). Although local landscape features, such as temples, played a role in the measurements exacted by surveyors, there can be little doubt that the organization of space in the subcontinent bears the remarkable imprint of a colonial past. Subaltern studies have exhaustively documented the ways in which local structures, from agriculture, to political and social hierarchies were systematically undone by the colonial project in South Asia. Cadastral and census surveys enabled the transformations described by the postcolonial scholar Arjun Appadurai: The huge apparatus of revenue settlements, land surveys, and legal and bureaucratic changes in the first half of the nineteenth century did something beyond commoditizing land, transforming ‘lords into landlords’ and peasants into tenants. . .and changing the reciprocal structures of gift and honor into salable titles, which were semiotically fractured and were rendered marketable, while retaining some of the metonymic force that tied them to named persons. (Appadurai, 1996: 126)

Enumerative politics gradually became a “virtual obsession” of the British (Appadurai, 1996: 116), but there is a shift in approach also worth noting from the “utilitarian” quantifying required for the quotidian operation of empire to the comprehensive quantification that was part of an all-encompassing “colonial imaginary” of control (Appadurai, 1996: 116).

118.5 Broader Impacts Europeans’ mapping of Earth space greatly altered the evolution of social group identities around the world. Indeed, in his seminal work Imagined Communities, Benedict Anderson identifies “the map” as one of three European colonial practices that shaped national identities in Europe’s former colonies. The other two practices, the census and the museum, worked hand-in-hand with the map. Once Europeans delineated their colonial territories on the map, they launched censuses whereby they categorized the inhabitants of these territories according to their understandings of social identity. Museums supported historical narratives for each group. As Anderson notes, the map was by no means a passive phenomenon: Its practice was reasonably innocent—the practice of the imperial states of coloring their colonies on maps with an imperial dye. In London’s imperial maps, British colonies were

118

Europe’s Impact on the Political Organization of the Globe

2153

usually pink-red, French purple-blue, Dutch yellow-brown, and so on. Dyed this way, each colony appeared like a detachable piece of a jigsaw puzzle. As this “jigsaw” effect became normal, each “piece” could be wholly detached from its geographic context. In its final form all explanatory glosses could be summarily removed: lines of longitude and latitude [sic], place names, signs for rivers, seas, and mountains, neighbours. . . . In this shape, the map entered an infinitely reproducible series, available for transfer to posters, official seals, letterheads, magazine and textbook covers, tablecloths, and hotel walls. Instantly recognizable, everywhere visible, the logo-map penetrated deep into the popular imagination, forming a powerful emblem for the anticolonial nationalisms to be born. (Anderson, 1991: 175)

118.6 New Imprints By the early 20th century, European colonization had extended European control around the world through vast trading empires supported by growing transportation and communication networks. Suspicion and distrust motivated each European empire to keep its colonies mostly closed from its other European rivals. With the colonies themselves greatly contributing to the power of Europe’s empires, suspicion and distrust also pushed each European empire into a race to build an ever greater empire for fear that stagnancy would bring defeat. This imperial competition contributed to World War I where the colonies of the European empires supplied the resources to feed a bloody war. Consequent to the war, Germany lost its colonies, mostly to Great Britain and France. However, the intensity of World War II seriously weakened that war’s nominal victors: France, Great Britain, and the Netherlands. Within a few years, they faced nationalist movements, ironically led by indigenous intellectuals with European educations, and began the process of decolonization. Extensively destroyed and in the processes of losing the colonies that provided them with a great source of economic wealth and political power, the Europeans could not reestablish their empires as they were previously to compete with the two new rivals: the United States and the Soviet Union. With fervent nationalism and autarky a contributor to their demise, Europeans sought a new direction where economic cooperation through free trade and political integration offered the hope of revival. With the Treaty of Rome in 1957, the Europeans launched the European Economic Community (EEC), the predecessor to today’s European Union (EU), and with it a new European project: supranationalism. Economic cooperation was initially brought about by the removal of trade barriers, but ever greater economic success has become contingent on ever greater economic, political, and social integration. To the chagrin of some Europeans, this ever-intensifying processing is supplanting individual national identities with an overarching European identity. As the new European project progresses, it has motivated others regions around the world to integrate as well. ASEAN, APEC, the Arab League, NAFTA, LAFTA, ECOWAS, the African Union are just a handful of examples. They are far less progressed than the European Union and are not enthusiastically embraced by many within them, but as Europeans continue to integrate their territories, these other organizations are motivated to move forward.

2154

C. Johnson and G.W. White

Although the relative influence of European states around the globe decreased in the post-World War II period as the Soviet Union and the United States assumed the roles of hegemonic powers with global reach, one could argue that a particular “logic” of spatial control and hegemony originating in Europe continued to make its mark in the world. In this context, Antarctica provides another interesting example of the slicing and dicing of territory. Although the existence of the southern-most continent was known from the early 19th century, it was not until the 20th century that various countries attempted to make exclusive claims to parts of the continent. In 1959, at the height of the Cold War, twelve countries signed the Antarctic Treaty, which subsequently regulated activities on the frozen continent and waters south of 60◦ S Latitude. There are now forty-six so-called “consultative countries,” who have acceded to the series of agreements now known as the Antarctic Treaty System (ATS) (Secretariat of the Antarctic Treaty, 2009). While the major powers at the time, the U.S. and the Soviet Union, made no specific territorial claims, they reserved a “basis” for the right to future claims. Seven countries, meanwhile, did make claims on pie-shaped wedges of various sizes: Argentina, Australia, Chile, France, New Zealand, Norway, and the United Kingdom (Antarctic Treaty Summit, 2009). Argentina, Chile, and the United Kingdom have overlapping claims (see map). The geometrical symmetry of the claims to this irregularly shaped landmass again illustrates just how pervasive the rationalization of space and territory around the globe has been. The seas have also figured prominently into such strategies of laying claim. While one could argue that the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Seas is a remarkably successful example of international treaty law regulating the use of space (Murphy, 1999), areas of the world’s oceans covering or containing particularly lucrative stocks of natural resources are, nevertheless, still prone to conflict between states. The promise of oil and gas lying beneath the Arctic Ocean, for example, has resulted in what might be described as a “scramble” for the Arctic, with Russia, the United States, Canada, and other bordering states attempting to exercise power over the Arctic Ocean region. However this plays out in the future, the Arctic will almost undoubtedly be a significant test for existing treaty regimes governing non-sovereign spaces of the earth’s surface.

118.7 The Political Organization of Space: Thoughts on the European Imprint on the Contemporary Political Map As we have shown, the world political map reflects the influence of the territorialization strategies employed by colonial powers at many spatial scales. The grids overlying the world – from the Tordesillas line, to latitude and longitude, from the Westphalian sovereign state boundaries to cadasters – provide material evidence of the profound and lasting impacts of Europe on spatial organization. The world map,

118

Europe’s Impact on the Political Organization of the Globe

2155

to a great extent, bears the imprint of the dominant hegemonic power in each part of the world at the time when borders and sovereignties were established (Grovogui, 2002). Territorialization entails the exclusion or inclusion of people by means of bordering (Sack, 1986; Vandergeest & Peluso, 1995). Once the territory and its borders have been determined, such facts are communicated to those who are affected. Even in today’s post-imperial world, European integration represents a form of inclusion and exclusion. Each of the objects discussed in this chapter can perhaps be best understood as territorialization strategies, or the efforts by European powers to control space (Vandergeest and Peluso 1995). This does not mean, however, that some kind of global one-space reigns exclusively and that the European imprint on the political map is omnipotent. For as long as imperialism has existed, it has been accompanied by local resistance, and this has in some instances limited the extent of attempts to re-write space (Edney, 1997). Moreover, universal principles of spatial organization were applied inconsistently. For example, the territorial sovereignty of Belgium, recognized in 1830 by other European powers, was substantially different from how the idea was applied to the Congo following the Berlin Conference, even though, like other places in Africa, Belgium arguably lacked the elements associated with “normal” states at the time it was established (common language, religion) (Grovogui, 2002: 316–317). Nevertheless, despite the various forms of European imperialism and integration, Europeans certainly have left and continue to leave their impact on the world political map. It bears mentioning, by way of conclusion, that the ways of seeing space that we have described here are not only relevant as a way of understanding past impacts on the political organization of space. Political geography is being constantly shaped and reorganized, and the point of this chapter is that much of the political organization of the globe bears the imprint of European ways of seeing. Even as terra incognita is practically exhausted on this planet, there is nothing to suggest that one or both of us will not be writing a similarly themed chapter in a matter of decades dealing with the ways of seeing that are impacting terrae incognitae of other celestial bodies.

References Agnew, J. A. (2003). Geopolitics: re-visioning world politics (2nd ed.). London; New York: Routledge. Agnew, J. A. (2007). No borders, no nations: Making Greece in Macedonia. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 97(2), 398–422. Anderson, B. R. O. G. (1991). Imagined communities: Reflections on the origin and spread of nationalism (Rev. and extended ed.). London; New York: Verso. Antarctic Treaty Summit. (2009). The Antarctic treaty system: Background. Retrieved March 2, 2009, from http://www.atsummit50.aq/treaty/background.php Appadurai, A. (1996). Modernity at large: Cultural dimensions of globalization (Vol. 1). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Biggs, M. (1999). Putting the state on the map: Cartography, territory, and European state formation. Comparative Studies in Society and History, 41(2), 374–405.

2156

C. Johnson and G.W. White

Blaut, J. M. (1993). The colonizer s model of the world: geographical diffusionism and Eurocentric history. New York: Guilford Press. Crampton, J. W. (2003). Cartographic rationality and the politics of geosurveillance and security. Cartography and Geographic Information Science, 30(2), 135–148. Day, D. (2008). Conquest: How societies overwhelm others. Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press. Edney, M. H. (1997). Mapping an empire: The geographical construction of British India, 1765– 1843. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Gottmann, J. (1973). The significance of territory. Charlottesville, VA: University Press of Virginia. Grovogui, S. N. (2002). Regimes of Sovereignty: International morality and the African condition. European Journal of International Relations, 8(3), 315–338. Harley, J. B. (1992). Rereading the maps of the Columbian encounter. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 82(3), 522–536. Holdich, T. H. (1901). How are we to get maps of Africa? The Geographical Journal, 18(6), 590–601. Jordan-Bychkov, T. G. (1996). The European culture area: A systematic geography (3rd ed.). New York: HarperCollins. Kain, R. J. P., & Baigent, E. (1992). The cadastral map in the service of the state: A history of property mapping. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Kratochwil, F. (1986). Of systems, boundaries, and territoriality – An inquiry into the formation of the state system. World Politics, 39(1), 27–52. Mbembe, A. (2000). At the edge of the world: boundaries, territoriality, and sovereignty in Africa. Public Culture, 12(1), 259–284. Mbembe, A. (2003). Necropolitics. Public Culture, 15(1), 11–40. Murphy, A. B. (1996). The Sovereign state system as political-territorial ideal: historical and contemporary considerations. In T. J. Biersteker & C. Weber (Eds.), State sovereignty as social construct (pp. 81–210). Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press. Murphy, A. B. (1999). International law and the Sovereign state system: Challenges to the status quo. In G. J. Demko & W. B. Wood (Eds.), Reordering the world: Geopolitical perspectives on the twenty-first century (2nd ed., pp. 227–245). Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Murphy, A. B., Jordan-Bychkov, T. G., & Bychkova Jordan, B. (2008). The European culture area: A systematic geography (5th ed.). Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Padrón, R. (2004). The spacious word: Cartography, literature, and empire in early modern Spain. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Pagden, A. (1995). Lords of all the world: Ideologies of empire in Spain, Britain and France C.1500–c1800. New Haven: Yale University Press. Robinson, A. H. (1982). Early thematic mapping in the history of cartography. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sack, R. D. (1986). Human territoriality: Its theory and history. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Scott, J. C. (1998). Seeing like a state: How certain schemes to improve the human condition have failed. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Secretariat of the Antarctic Treaty. (2009). Parties to the Antarctic treaty system. Retrieved March 2, 2009, from http://www.ats.aq/devAS/ats_parties.aspx?lang=e Soja, E. W. (1971). The political organization of space. Washington,: Association of American Geographers. Stone, J. C. (1988). Imperialism, colonialism and cartography. Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, 13(1), 57–64. Thomson, A. (2000). An introduction to African politics. London; New York: Routledge. Thongchai, W. (1994). Siam mapped: A history of the geo-body of a nation. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Tickell, A. (2004). Negotiating the landscape: Travel, transaction, and the mapping of colonial India. The Yearbook of English Studies, 34, 18–30.

118

Europe’s Impact on the Political Organization of the Globe

2157

Trocki, C. A. (2000). Borders and the Mapping of the Malay World. Paper presented at the Association of Asian Studies Annual Meeting. Retrieved November 19, 2008, from http:// eprints.qut.edu.au/archive/00000092/01/trockiBorderline.pdf Vandergeest, P., & Peluso, N. L. (1995). Territorialization and state power in Thailand. [Review]. Theory and Society, 24(3), 385–426. Warner, C. M. (2003). The rise of the state system in Africa. Review of International Studies, 27(05), 65–89. White, G. W. (2004). Nation, state, and territory: Origins, evolutions, and relationships. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers. Zandvliet, K. (1998). The contribution of cartography to the creation of a Dutch colony and a Chinese state in Taiwan. Cartographica, 35(3/4), 123. Zelinsky, W. (1966). A prologue to population geography. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall.

Chapter 119

Air and Space Demarcation Alexandra Harris and Ray Harris

119.1 Introduction During the last 40 years the development of satellite Earth observation has been an environmental megaproject quietly becoming of increasing importance to society. Earth observation started as experimental, scientific missions that explored technology as much as they explored environmental science, but the sector has quickly matured. Over 200 satellite Earth observation missions have been launched (EOportal, 2006) by countries ranging from the U.S. to Taiwan, from China to Brazil. It can be argued that all countries now have the capability to launch their own Earth observation satellite, as Nigeria and Turkey have recently done, and join the club that was formerly the preserve of rich, western nations. The cost (at its lowest) of an Earth observation satellite, its launch and the associated ground segment has fallen from around US$500 million to around US$10 million. Alongside this growth in Earth observation satellite numbers has been greater international cooperation in the use of the data. Two large scale initiatives spring to mind. The first is the Global Monitoring for Environment and Security (GMES) (Rohner et al., 2007) developed by Europe to take further steps along the road to operational Earth observation services. The second is the Global Earth Observation System of Systems (GEOSS) (Christian, 2005; Lautenbacher, 2006), which is wider in its geographical scope by involving more than just European nations. Both GMES and GEOSS are virtual megaprojects, both working on how to enable society to benefit from the extensive investments in satellite Earth observation technology by bringing together information resources provided by environmental satellites. On a more general level Google Earth is now a commonplace tool on many computer desktops, allowing users rapidly and easily to view Earth observation data for nearly all of the Earth’s land area. As the Earth observation sector has become larger and more organized there has been an interest in more formal statements to cover Earth observation activities

R. Harris (B) Department of Geography, University College London, London, UK, WC1H 0AP e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_119,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2159

2160

A. Harris and R. Harris

(Madders & Thiebault, 2007; Peter, 2007). This is true more generally of science, and in recent years organizations such as the International Council for Science (ICSU) (ICSU, 2004, 2008), the European Union (EurLex, 2006a, 2006b, 2006c) and the World Meteorological Organization (WMO, 1995) have produced formal statements on data relevant to science. A thematic example of this trend is the greater concern for explicit statements of copyright and intellectual property rights, seen by some as providing assurance of quality (Harris & Browning, 2005) and by others as prohibiting legitimate scientific exploration by constraining access to scientific data. One omission in this greater formalization in satellite Earth observation, and in science more generally, is the lack of a defined demarcation between what is regarded as outer space, where Earth observation satellites operate, and what is regarded as air space where aerial photography operates. This chapter explores this topic of demarcation and examines at the same time wider and related policy issues concerned with access to data from space. When satellites were first developed by the U.S. and the USSR in the 1950s and 1960s (Norris, 2008) they were (1) military and (2) quickly inserted into outer space. However the situation has now changed. The U.S. Space Shuttle was built to operate in both outer space and in air space: it is launched vertically on a rocket and is quickly in outer space, but its landing approach is performed as a glider using the atmosphere for support so that the Shuttle can land on a conventional runway. Pegasus rockets are mounted below aircraft which take them to high altitude before the rockets are launched horizontally in the air on their way to outer space. The Virgin Galactic tourist space missions will be spacecraft for most of their flights but aircraft for the final part, and as they will carry paying civilian customers the aircraft part will be comparable in law to a commercial airplane flight. But in all these examples there is no agreed definition of when a craft is in outer space and when in air space. As more states develop the capability to launch their own satellites, both the importance and the complexity of defining the boundary between outer space and air space are becoming more substantial. A common misconception over the extent of the scope of air and space law can be seen in the products of the very high spatial resolution Earth observation satellites such as DigitalGlobe and Quickbird (Toutin, 2009). The best spatial resolution now available from space is one and one half feet (0.5m). These images are often confused with aerial photography because the spatial resolution is comparable, but the legal regime relevant to the capture of these images is space law and the legal regime relevant to aerial photography is air law. This difference has not prevented some countries and their politicians from complaining that these very high spatial resolution images infringe their national sovereignty. This topic was debated at the Congress of the International Society of Photogrammetry and Remote Sensing (ISPRS) in Istanbul in July 2004 when representatives from several Less Economically Developed Countries (LEDCs) noted that very high spatial resolution satellites gave their owners the potential to gather environmental information about a third state at a level of detail greater than the state’s own environmental agencies were capable of doing using conventional technology. The issues in the debate focused on the privacy and security of the sensed LEDCs, issues that were echoed

119

Air and Space Demarcation

2161

on a sub-national scale by North American Indian tribes at a conference in Maine in August 2004. This chapter has at its focus air and space demarcation. In developing the argument that there is a case for a formal statement of the limits of air and space, the chapter examines the background to relevant legislation, the role of the United Nations in developing principles on remote sensing, the different perspectives on the question of demarcation, and the importance of sovereignty. The chapter concludes by stating a case for more explicit statements to govern space activities which in turn will contribute to a greater maturity in the virtual megaproject that is Earth observation.

119.2 Air Space and Outer Space Article I of the International Convention Relating to Air Navigation, signed in Paris as early as 1919, states unequivocally that “The High Contracting Parties recognize that every power has complete and exclusive sovereignty over the air space above its territory.” In 1944 the same principle was confirmed in the first article of the Convention on Civil Aviation, signed in Chicago. This fundamental principle affirms that each state has complete control over its own air space, and other states can only infringe upon that air space after prior agreement through treaties or other internationally recognized measures. By contrast outer space is outside national territorial sovereignty as it is an international area under Article II of the Outer Space Treaty (UNOOSA, 2009b). Territorial sovereignty is unequivocally prevented in outer space by international law. Outer space is agreed internationally as public space, as Article I of the Outer Space Treaty calls it “the province of all mankind”. It is possible for a state to have jurisdiction over objects launched into space, for example Earth observation or communication satellites, but not jurisdiction over outer space itself. Article VIII of the Outer Space Treaty confers control and jurisdiction on the state on whose registry an object is launched into outer space. Two different registries exist for aircraft and space objects and this itself presupposes two different sets of domains, activities or modes of operation for them as well. Therefore it seems important to determine where national sovereignty ends and where the province of all humankind begins, and yet the demarcation problem is still an open question in both air and space law. As Oduntan (2003) argues, the principle of free and equal utilization of outer space must mean there is a limit to national sovereignty where outer space begins. Of the two types of law, air law is the older and does not contain a fixed definition of the vertical extent of air space. There is no precise definition of where the boundary of air space lies in relation to outer space. The questions of boundary definitions have only taken on meaning and importance as the lines between air law and space law have become blurred. Until relatively recently, aircraft flew in air spaces and states had control over the whole operation. Spacecraft operated in outer space and had little impact on states so the definition of outer space was not necessary. It was assumed a customary law was

2162

A. Harris and R. Harris

developing whereby any object in orbit was in space and that was enough for the time being (Reynolds & Merges, 1989).

119.3 United Nations and Earth Observation 119.3.1 UN Principles The United Nations (UN) has had an important role to play in the development of international agreements over the use and exploitation of outer space. The Outer Space Treaty (UNOOSA, 2009b) and the Moon Agreement (UNOOSA, 2009a) are obvious examples. The UN has also played a role in the question of sovereignty in air and in space. During the 1970s and 1980s there were differences of opinion over the vertical extent of national sovereignty. Some nations expressed the view that their national sovereignty extended vertically upwards from their surface borders without limit. The logical conclusion of this view, still held by some states, is that a state would have sovereignty (including ownership) over a cone-shaped section of the universe extending to infinity and covering all the stars and planets in that cone. On the other hand the space-faring nations (U.S., USSR, France, etc) had demonstrated that they could place satellites into polar orbits (and also geostationary orbits) whereby each day a satellite flew over all the countries of the world. These countries expressed the alternative view that territorial sovereignty by a state did not extend to outer space, otherwise the owners of the satellites (states at this early stage) would have to ask permission of all states to fly over them much as aircraft request permission to fly over each state on an air journey. While airplanes can fly around the air space of a state that refuses permission, satellites in fixed orbit cannot. The compromise solution between the two different views was an agreement reached on 3 December 1986, the UN Resolution Relating to the Remote Sensing of the Earth from Outer Space (Jasentuliyana, 1988; Von der Dunk, 2002). Remote sensing in this context is synonymous with satellite Earth observation. The Resolution contains 15 principles on remote sensing that were agreed as a compromise between the perspective of state sovereignty and the principle of the freedom to use outer space that is embodied in the Outer Space Treaty, the “province of all mankind”. Of the 15 UN remote sensing principles four are particularly important to this chapter and are presented and discussed below (Harris, 2009). Principle I. For the purposes of these principles with respect to remote sensing activities: (a) The term “remote sensing” means the sensing of the Earth’s surface from space by making use of the properties of electromagnetic waves emitted, reflected or diffracted by the sensed objects, for the purpose of improving natural resources management, land use and the protection of the environment.

The first principle (of which only part (a) of five parts is reproduced here) provides a definition of the scope of the later principles. At the time of its drafting the phrase “improving natural resources management, land use and the protection of the environment” was thought to apply only to civil remote sensing of the land surface, but since the time of the agreement the term “protection of the environment”

119

Air and Space Demarcation

2163

has taken on a much wider meaning because of the importance of climate change (IPCC, 2007). It is arguable now that all elements of the Earth system (land, ice, ocean, atmosphere) are significant when protection of the environment is considered because all these physical elements are interlinked. So, this first UN principle may now be considered very wide in scope and apply to all Earth observation. Principle IV. Remote sensing activities shall be . . . carried out for the benefit and in the interests of all countries, irrespective of their degree of economic or scientific development, and stipulates the principle of freedom of exploration and use of outer space on the basis of equality. These activities shall be conducted on the basis of respect for the principle of full and permanent sovereignty of all States and peoples over their own wealth and natural resources, with due regard to the rights and interests, in accordance with international law, of other States and entities under their jurisdiction. Such activities shall not be conducted in a manner detrimental to the legitimate rights and interests of the sensed State.

This principle is a summary of the central dilemma that led to the compromise. Principle IV defends the right of states to exploit outer space as long as they follow the rules, but it is also explicit that all states have permanent sovereignty over their own wealth and natural resources. This principle is silent on the vertical extent of outer space. It is firm, however, that any satellite remote sensing should not be detrimental to the legitimate rights and interests of a sensed state. But what happens with failed states or states whose view of legitimate interests conflict with international norms? Principle XII. As soon as the primary data and the processed data concerning the territory under its jurisdiction are produced, the sensed State shall have access to them on a nondiscriminatory basis and on reasonable cost terms.

Principle XII is the answer to the dilemma of Principle IV. It ensures that a sensed state, that is a state for which Earth observation data are collected by an orbiting satellite, does have the right of access to the data of its own national territory, over which it has sovereignty. It has access to the data under three conditions: • as soon as the data are produced, that is, with no artificial delay introduced by the Earth observation satellite owner, the provider of the instrument or the principal investigator on the instrument. • on a non-discriminatory basis, that is no discrimination on the basis of race, religion, creed, gender, etc. • on reasonable cost terms, not defined, but usually taken to mean no more expensive than similar data made available to other states. None of these three conditions is clearly defined (von der Dunk, 2002) and all are open to interpretation and misinterpretation, but Principle XII does give the right to a sensed state to gain access to the satellite remote sensing data gathered of its own territory by a third party. An interesting case in point has been the “buy to deny” policy of the US military where they have purchased all the very high spatial resolution images of Afghanistan from US satellite operators under an exclusive rights agreement, thus preventing the state of Afghanistan from acquiring the same data

2164

A. Harris and R. Harris

of its own territory. This contravenes UN Principle XII, although the U.S. military claims national security concerns as a justification for its actions; national security is an allowable consideration under other, relevant UN provisions. Principle XIV. . . . States operating remote sensing satellites shall bear international responsibility for their activities and assure that such activities are conducted in accordance with the provisions of the Treaty and the norms of international law, irrespective of whether such activities are carried out by governmental or non-governmental entities or through international organizations to which such States are parties. This principle is without prejudice to the applicability of the norms of international law on State responsibility for remote sensing activities.

One part of the payment for outer space being the “province of all mankind” is that states operating remote sensing satellites in this province should behave well and bear responsibility for their actions. This is why, for example, that shooting and destroying other nation’s satellites is treated so seriously by the international community. This Principle also explicitly covers non-governmental organizations and requires governments to license private sector satellites placed into outer space, thus providing a mechanism to encompass private sector companies and other nongovernmental organizations within the 15 UN principles.

119.3.2 International Disasters Charter The United Nations has also been involved in a practical program to exploit Earth observation for the benefit of humankind, the International Charter on Space and Major Disasters. The idea was first proposed in 1999 at the UNISPACE III conference in Vienna by the European Space Agency (ESA) and the French national space agency (CNES). The Charter provides a unified system for Earth observation data acquisition and delivery to those affected by natural or man-made disasters such as a hurricane, an earthquake or a tsunami. The International Charter has two major objectives. • Supply during periods of crisis, to states or communities whose population, activities or property are exposed to an imminent risk, or are already victims, of natural or technological disasters, data providing a basis for critical information for the anticipation and management of potential crises. • Participation, by means of this data and of the information and services resulting from the exploitation of space facilities, in the organization of emergency assistance or reconstruction and subsequent operations. Other members have now joined the Charter including Canada, India, the U.S. Geological Survey and the participants in the Disaster Management Constellation of small satellites (Algeria, Nigeria, Turkey and the UK). Each year there are approximately 20–30 activations of the Charter to acquire Earth observation data of, for example, Hurricane Katrina in the USA, the 2004 tsunami in the Indian Ocean, fires in Australia, earthquakes in Pakistan and floods and landslides in Peru. The United Nations has been important in encouraging the establishment of the Charter and

119

Air and Space Demarcation

2165

encouraging the exploitation of outer space for direct human benefit. The Disasters Charter is concerned with data collected by Earth observation satellites in outer space, emphasizing a need to be clear over what does and what does not constitute outer space.

119.4 Perspectives on the Problem The lack of a clear delimitation between air space and outer space is not a result of disputes over how the boundary should be defined, but rather the opposite – the product of an international lack of impetus to produce a definition as to where the boundary should be. There is a widely held assumption that a definition of outer space and airspace will be made at some time, but that there is no current requirement for one, or the actions necessary to create one. This viewpoint was demonstrated by the USSR delegate in the early work of the UN Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space who concluded that “it is not possible at the present time to identify scientific or technical criteria which would permit a definition of outer space.” In addition, Jessup and Taubenfeld (1959) assumed that a point of delimitation would be defined at some time in the future, based on the practical need for such a definition. During recent years, this definition has become both increasingly necessary and easier to settle. The development of widespread and inexpensive Global Positioning System (GPS) equipment makes it easier for a workable delimitation to be made. In 1987 the U.S. argued that due to the lack of physically observable landmarks in outer space, there could be no practical use for a demarcation (Oduntan, 2003). It argued that without access to specialized equipment, which was not readily available, most states would be unable to monitor any agreed altitude boundary which marked the delimitation between air space and outer space. Although this may have been a tenable argument at the time it was made, the positioning equipment now available through general-purpose GPS or more specific instruments (such as the Doris instrument found on ESA’s Envisat) allow the positioning of satellites and aircraft to be monitored with precision. With GPS equipment becoming more cheaply and widely available, it can be fitted to all craft with much greater ease, so rebutting the argument that an inability to monitor the position of crafts makes any delimitation unworkable in practice. Further to this, the ability of states to protect their national integrity through monitoring the altitude of craft will encourage development or exploitation of positioning technologies if the national territory of all states is protected by a defined boundary between air space and outer space. A defined boundary between air space and outer space has the potential to encourage the development of space technology, based upon the differing activities which are permitted in the two areas. Agreeing to a delimitation now, while the technologies are still at an early stage and can be separated in most cases, will avoid many future problems when technological advances mean that craft and other technology can operate effectively in both air space and outer space. Yet there is no clear control over where they can operate. These craft will certainly need to be controlled

2166

A. Harris and R. Harris

in order that national sovereignty can be protected, and this will only effectively be completed by the demarcation of air space and outer space. The most realistic assessment of the current situation is that the definition of any delimitation between air space and outer space will be required to be based on political agreement, not legal force. This situation exists because the definition is ultimately a political issue based around national integrity, rather than a legal distinction between the permitted uses of air space and outer space. Therefore, as there is no current political consensus on the issue, and because this lack of consensus has not yet led to international disputes and seems unlikely to do so in the near future, it is possible to argue that because no delimitation has yet been made, there is no current need to define one. The impetus for agreement of any boundary certainly has to come from the political arena, and it can clearly be seen that there is no current agreement on this matter. The states which argue in favor of demarcation generally lack the economic or scientific capability to engage in space activities on any large scale. For example, in 1990 Nigeria called for “a clear definition and delimitation of the air space of various countries as distinct from outer space” (UN, 1990). Nigeria had the backing of many non-spacefaring nations in this call, as their concern was not states’ economic interests in outer space, but their national integrity and state sovereignty. Therefore, the countries which mostly benefit from the lack of a demarcation do seem to be those which have dominant political interests, both in outer space exploration, and also on the world political stage. This means that as a political drive is required to produce such a demarcation, the benefits of such demarcation have to outweigh the current, substantial, benefits of a lack of effective delimitation to the countries which dominate world politics.

119.5 Sovereignty State sovereignty and national territory are highly protected in international law, for example in the areas of State Immunity and Use of Force (Brownlie, 2003). The use of national air space is therefore highly regulated, yet there is no similar regulation to be found in the prescribed uses of outer space. This distinction may derive from the lack of a perceived threat to state sovereignty through the use of outer space. However, space technologies are developing fast and developments are being made whereby craft are more easily able to operate in both the earth’s atmosphere and outer space. An example of this is the developments in air-breathing rocket technology, and it is certain that in the near future private companies, as well as sovereign nations, will exploit this technology. Therefore, it seems that the practical necessity to define air space and outer space predicted by Jessup and Taubenfeld (1959) is becoming a reality. The demarcation also has implications for international law. As Prescott (1989) notes, a boundary would “mark the position where international rights are determined and obligations assumed.” As outer space is the province of all humankind, the current lack of delimitation impacts not only national state sovereignty, but also

119

Air and Space Demarcation

2167

the interests of the international community in defining where this province starts. A key question highlighted by this is whether there is a point beyond which there can no longer be a national exercise of power over international spaces. This must be the case if outer space is to be the province of all humankind, but without a specific delimitation it is surely impossible to argue at what point national states cease to have the right to exercise power, so calling into question whether there is any real protection over outer space as a province for all mankind. An agreed boundary is also necessary for the exploitation of electronic resources, for example the allocation of broadcasting and communications wavelengths. Current technology means that broadcasts can use outer space or air space and this technology will only become more complex in the future. The definition of the boundary of air and space law will be a necessity so that states can determine whether they have jurisdiction to allocate broadcasting wavelengths or not. International law prescribes a limited demilitarization of outer space and complete demilitarization of the moon and other celestial bodies. Military use of outer space is restricted by Article IV (para 1) of the Outer Space Treaty which states that: State parties to the Treaty undertake not to place in orbit around the Earth any object carrying nuclear weapons or any other weapons of mass destruction, install such weapons on celestial bodies, or station such weapons in outer space in any other manner.

The use of the Moon and other celestial bodies is restricted to non-aggressive purposes by Article VI (para 2). The prohibition contained in Article IV (para 1) only prevents craft carrying nuclear weapons or weapons of mass destruction from orbiting the earth, not the weapons being stationed on a state’s national territory. The lack of a defined boundary between air space and outer space could be exploited by states employing technology which allows such aggressive weapons to be placed high enough in the atmosphere, or even above the atmosphere to cause a major threat to international security. In addition, the possible confusion between air space and outer space produces a question of where the vertical limit is for attack on another state’s territory, and where the international peaceful area starts, that is, when is a state acting in self defense after an attack high in the atmosphere, or when is it acting on behalf of the international community? Although this may seem a fine definition to make, there are widespread implications for the legality of any potential use of force, which depend on whether a state is acting in its own defense after such attack or in defense of the international province of outer space. It is, therefore, important that states are able to define where their national territory ends, in order that they are able to successfully maintain their national sovereignty and prevent or effectively respond to such attack. Other practical issues which derive from the lack of effective demarcation include the problem of spacecraft using nuclear fuels which discharge nuclear waste. It may be the case that states can prohibit the unauthorized discharge of nuclear waste onto their territory, but the question then to be answered is at what altitude spacecraft are able to discharge nuclear waste, without such discharge being an attack on a nation’s territory.

2168

A. Harris and R. Harris

The mere fact that until now there has been no demarcation of the air and space boundary does not mean that one is not necessary. There may not have been a necessity at the start of space programs because of the easy distinction between air and space law, and because there were so few nations capable of launching spacecraft. As this distinction is closing and the lines are becoming more blurred – and now that more nations have launched their own spacecraft – it is becoming a necessity that a boundary is chosen. Without it, there are many potential problems such as state jurisdiction and military capabilities, which if not dealt with now, are likely to become a major source of friction on the international stage.

119.6 Demarcation Proposal This chapter has outlined the case for a demarcation of air and space in the context of wider policy issues affecting Earth observation. So, what should be done? Gardiner (2003) describes a functional approach to air and space demarcation as the most promising, but it can be shown that there are major flaws in this argument and that vertical demarcation is the most effective way of demarcating air and space. Vertical demarcation is the establishment of an easily determinable boundary at a certain altitude above mean sea level. Functional demarcation is where different functions delimit different spaces: where aircraft fly is airspace and where space objects operate is outer space. There are, however, many problems with the functional approach, not least the example that Gardiner himself gives of the U.S. Space Shuttle. This operates a rocket launch on the way to being placed in orbit above the Earth, and is therefore a spacecraft, but on the way back to the Earth’s surface it uses aerodynamic lift, and would be classed as an aircraft. The problem here is obvious: when is the Space Shuttle governed by space law and when is it governed by air law? The functional approach only covers half of the problem of demarcation as it classifies outer space not as a place, but as a focus of activities. This does not take into account the fact that outer space is a physical place, not just a classification of where activities that are ultimately based on earth are carried out. Outer space must begin somewhere, but it cannot be in the hands of technology to decide at any one time how far into the atmosphere mankind can go and still call it national sovereignty. There needs to be a fixed boundary, not one changeable by technological advances, and this boundary can be provided by vertical demarcation. Oduntan (2003) notes that space is neither solely technology nor solely policy, but a zone where there is a complex interplay of pressures. A vertical demarcation is necessary as there needs to be a definite boundary between air and space law. The demarcation line must be sensitive to technological advances and the possibilities of regulating national jurisdiction; it must not hamper space technology and must not be so high that national air space cannot be regulated. It must also not be so low that states are deprived of part of their territorial sovereignty and the ability to regulate overflight activities which affect them. As the demarcation will affect every state in the world, there must be international agreement before a boundary is decided upon. Demarcation is vital not only for state sovereignty and jurisdiction, but also

119

Air and Space Demarcation

2169

for issues of international stability and the growth of space technology. The complexity of the issues involved combined with the knowledge of future technological developments give urgency to the view that the issue should be dealt with now rather than at some indeterminate point in time in the future.

References Brownlie, I. (2003). Principles of public international law. New York: Oxford University Press. Christian, E. (2005). Planning for the global earth observation system of systems (GEOSS). Space Policy, 21(2). 105–110. EOportal. (2006). Resources of Earth observation. Retrieved July 25, 2006, from http://directory.eoportal.org/res_p1_Earthobservation.html EurLex. (2006a). Council Directive 90/313/EEC of 7 June 1990 on the freedom of access to information on the environment. Retrieved July 20, 2006, from http://eur-lex.europa.eu/ LexUriServ/. EurLex. (2006b). Directive 2003/4/EC of the European Parliament and of the Council of 28 January 2003 on public access to environmental information and repealing Council Directive 90/313/EEC. Retrieved July 20, 2006, from http://eur-lex.europa.eu/LexUriServ/ EurLex. (2006c). Directive 96/9/EC of the European Parliament and of the Council of 11 March 1996 on the legal protection of databases. Retrieved July 20, 2006, from http://eurlex.europa.eu/LexUriServ/ Gardiner. R. (2003). International law. Longman: New York. Harris R. (2009). Remote sensing policy. In T. Warner, D. Nellis, & G. Foody (Eds.), Handbook of Remote Sensing (pp. 18–29). London: Sage. Harris, R., & Browning, R. (2005). Global monitoring: The challenges of access to data. London: UCL Press – Cavendish Publishing. ICSU. (2004). Scientific data and information. Paris: International Council for Science, Report of the CSPR Assessment Panel. ICSU. (2008). Ad Hoc scientific committee on information and data. Paris: Final Report to the ICSU Committee on Scientific Planning and Review, International Council for Science. IPCC. (2007). Fourth assessment report, intergovernmental panel on climate change. Geneva: WMO and UNEP. Jasentuliyana, N. (1988). United Nations Principles on Remote Sensing. Space Policy 4(4), 281– 284. Jessup, P. C., & Taubenfeld, H. J. (1959). Controls for outer space and the Antarctic analogy. New York: Columbia University. Lautenbacher, C. C. (2006). The global earth observation system of systems: Science serving society. Space Policy, 22(1), 8–11. Madders, K., & Thiebault, W. (2007). Carpe diem: Europe must make a genuine space policy now. Space Policy, 23(1), 7–12. Norris, P. (2008). Spies in the sky: Surveillance satellites in war and peace. Chichester: SpringerPraxis. Oduntan, G. (2003). The never ending dispute: Legal theories on the spatial demarcation boundary plane between airspace and outer space. Hertfordshire Law Journal, 1(2), 64–84. Peter, N. (2007). The EU’s emergent space diplomacy. Space Policy, 23(2), 97–108. Prescott, J. R. V. (1989). Boundaries and frontiers. London: Croom Helm. Reynolds, G. H., & Merges, R. P. (1989). Outer space: Problems of law and policy. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Rohner, N., Schrogl, K.-U., & Cheli, S. (2007). Making GMES better known: Challenges and opportunities. Space Policy, 23(4), 195–198.

2170

A. Harris and R. Harris

Toutin, T. (2009). Fine spatial resolution optical sensors. In T. Warner, D. Nellis, & G. Foody (Eds.), Handbook of remote sensing (pp. 108–122). London: Sage. United Nations. (1990). Address by Nigeria to the 33rd session of the UN Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space, June 1990. UNOOSA. (2009a). Agreement governing the activities of states on the moon and other celestial bodies. Vienna: United Nations Office of Outer Space Affairs. Retrieved April 6, 2009, from http://www.oosa.unvienna.org/oosa/SpaceLaw/gares/html/gares_34_0068.html UNOOSA. (2009b). Treaty on principles governing the activities of states in the exploration and use of outer space, including the moon and other celestial bodies. Vienna: United Nations Office of Outer Space Affairs. Retrieved April 6, 2009, from http://www.oosa.unvienna.org/oosa/en/SpaceLaw/gares/html/gares_21_2222.html Von der Dunk, F. (2002). United Nations principles on remote sensing and the user. In R. Harris (Ed.), Earth Observation Data Policy and Europe (pp. 29–40). Lisse, The Netherlands: A. A. Balkema. WMO. (1995). Twelfth World Meteorological Congress, abridged final report with resolutions. Geneva: Secretariat of the World Meteorological Organisation, WMO-No. 827.

Part XV

Earth and Planetary Engineering

Chapter 120

A Perspective on Weather Modification: Planned and Inadvertent Nancy Westcott

120.1 Introduction Weather modification has traditionally had two components, planned and inadvertent. Planned weather modification refers to cloud seeding to increase rain or snow, decrease hail, reduce the destructiveness of hurricanes or dissipate fog. Inadvertent weather modification typically has referred to the impact of large urban cities on the local weather as evidenced by higher temperatures, altered wind circulations, increased aerosols and particles and enhanced precipitation and lightning strikes compared to surrounding rural areas. This chapter primarily will address cloud seeding, then inadvertent weather modification, and follow with a discussion of lessons these endeavors may provide in considering future climate modification.

120.2 Cloud Seeding In modern times, science-based cloud seeding had its beginnings in experiments by Irving Langmuir, Vincent Schaefer, and Bernard Vonnegut in the late 1940s and early 1950s. During their experiments, in the field and in laboratories, Schaefer found that tiny pellets of dry ice could transform supercooled cloud droplets into ice crystals. Vonnegut discovered that silver iodide could do much the same thing, but at much warmer temperatures. Stratus decks could be cleared with dry ice, and cumulus cloud tops could be observed visually to glaciate due to injections of silver iodide. In subsequent years many scientists became interested and major modification experiments were carried out in various regions of the United States, Australia, the Caribbean, Israel, and South Africa. During the 1960s and 1970s, the climax of national weather modification endeavors in the U.S., a number of large research field programs were undertaken. In part, a lack of definitive success led to a decline in federal support and by the 1980s there were only a limited number of N. Westcott (B) Illinois State Water Survey, Institute of Natural Resource Stability, University of Illinois, Urbana, IL 61801, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_120,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2173

2174

N. Westcott

field programs directed at increasing precipitation. Since then, various operational field programs have taken place in China, Thailand and Mexico. However, U.S. governmental funded research directed at understanding the effects of cloud seeding in the United States is nonexistent. In the U.S. cloud seeding is now limited to operational seeding projects. This decline of cloud seeding research can be tied to a number of issues. Among them are unfulfilled high expectations, technological limitations preventing conclusive measurements, large natural variability masking the detection of possible seeding effects, and changes in the funding climate.

120.3 Enthusiastic Conclusions Based on Few Cases or Operational Projects The meteorological support of the World War II effort led to the widespread use of aircraft observations, balloon sounding observations, and the training of weather forecasters and pilots. During WW II, it was found that the recently developed target radar used to locate aircraft also could be used to detect precipitating clouds. In the post WWII period, aircraft, radar and meteorological instrumentation and personnel were in great supply in the U.S. and elsewhere. The field of atmospheric science and in particular cloud physics, blossomed. This was partly through the promise of cloud seeding to solve water supply problems and reduce the impacts of hurricanes and hail storms, and by unverified claims of success. Cloud seeding derived great benefit from innovative scientists and from several spokesmen well known not only to meteorologists, but importantly to the general public, Dr. Irving Langmuir initially on the east coast and Irving Dr. P. Krick on the west coast. Dr. Langmuir, a chemist and physicist, was a world renowned Nobel laureate, and conducted many innovative cloud physics experiments with his colleagues at General Electric, and with the Office of Naval Research, the U.S. Air Force and the National Weather Bureau. His enthusiasm led to the first hurricane cloud seeding experiment on 13 October 1947. Statements were made at the time and in later testimony of visual changes to the seeded clouds. Shortly after seeding with dry ice, the hurricane changed course from north-northeast to west and later struck the coast of South Carolina and Georgia. There was considerable controversy over whether the seeding resulted in the change of course, and it was 13 years before another Hurricane was seeded. Dr. Langmuir made sweeping statements of what could be accomplished with cloud seeding (“with increased knowledge we should be able to abolish the evil effects of hurricanes;” Byers 1974). His advocacy led to the realization that unbiased outside evaluation of projects would be required to ultimately prove the case for cloud seeding. However, his leadership also resulted in enhanced funding for cloud physics and weather modification research. His words and work inspired research programs well into the 1960s and 1970s. Dr. Krick, head of the Department of Meteorology at the California Institute of Technology in 1947, was known for being part of the forecasting team for DDay (Elliot 1974; Cerveny and Holle 2008), and later for high profile forecasts of Hollywood and political events. Krick’s forecasting methodology was controversial

120

A Perspective on Weather Modification

2175

as were his claims of cloud seeding successes. He, as did Langmuir, believed that weather modification held great promise in solving water problems throughout the world. Commercial cloud seeding companies founded by students of Krick still operate today. Unfortunately, questions regarding the effectiveness of cloud seeding also exist (e.g. National Research Council, 2003). The long experience and expertise of the cloud seeders employed by these and other operational projects undoubtedly has benefitted research and led to improvements in cloud seeding deployment technologies. Operational projects, however, must be affordable to the customers who seek their services, and often do not lend themselves to research that will settle whether or not cloud seeding is actually effective in increasing rainfall. Attempts by operational projects to verify cloud seeding effects generally have failed (Fletcher, 2002; National Research Council, 2003). Overselling of cloud seeding technology (Byers, 1974; Cotton & Pielke, 2007) negatively biased the broader scientific community, including both forecast and research meteorologists, against cloud seeding. This perspective also resulted in the application of rigorous standards to cloud seeding research experiments. From the earliest years of cloud seeding experiments, commissions were set up to investigate the validity of experimental results and to assess the state of the art of cloud seeding technology (Byers, 1974). The National Weather Modification Advisory Board (NWMAB) established by the US Congress, conducted a national assessment of operational and research cloud weather modification projects. The report of this board called for more scientific research, use of new instruments like the Doppler radar, and governmental control of operational projects (NWMAB, 1978). Recent reviews were carried out by the National Research Council (2003) and by Fletcher (2002) in a report to the Australian Department of Environment and Heritage. In addition, a consensus opinion derived from a one-day workshop of Australian scientists and senior managers was summarized in a report by the Dept. Environment and Conservation (NSW) and Sydney Catchment Authority (2007). These reports concluded that while interesting and promising results have been observed in cloud seeding projects, conclusive proof of its success is still lacking.

120.4 Technological/Logistical Limitations Perhaps the most difficult technological limitation that still plagues the weather modification community is the measurement of precipitation. The weather radar has been envisioned as the potential answer to measuring precipitation over large areas. Radar measurements of rainfall rates are currently based on a relationship of reflectivity and the diameter of raindrops. They are generally poor with differences in precipitation as measured by gage and radar of +/– 50–100% at best. Hence, rain gages remain the reference standard for precipitation measurements. Dense raingage networks operated by the Illinois State Water Survey provided considerable evidence on the statistical properties of rainstorms, including the density of gages needed to accurately capture rainfall from cloud cells within convective cloud systems. There was, approximately 1 gage per 7 km (4.34 mi) Huff and

2176

N. Westcott

Shipp (1969), and Huff (1970). The deployment of dense gage networks over a large area for multiple years is, to say the least, expensive. Based on an early study by Hildebrand, Towery, and Snell (1979) multi-sensor estimates (radar adjusted by gages) have the potential to provide results superior to sparser gage networks. Today, the National Weather Service is using a combination of radar and gages to derive a daily multi-sensor precipitation product for the continental U.S. at a resolution of 4 x 4 km. Agreement of multi-sensor data with those of gages alone is considerably improved over that of radar-only based measurements, with differences on the order of +/− 25–50% (Westcott, 2009; Westcott, Knapp, & Hilberg, 2008, Young & Brunsell, 2008). However, if one considers that cloud seeding effects are often considered to be on the order of 25% or less, even the multi-sensor approach is inadequate to prove the effectiveness of cloud seeding. Cloud seeding effects have been observed visually in orographic stratiform clouds and single cumulus clouds, and microphysical changes have also been observed by instrumented aircraft in these storms. Under some circumstances, precipitation increases have been observed in orographic clouds (e.g. Super, 1986, Super & Boe, 1988), although results from some experiments which initially showed great promise are still debated (e.g. Rango & Hobbs, 1993). Because precipitation is difficult to measure, proof of the intermediate steps in the various cloud seeding hypotheses are often addressed instead, i.e., changes in microphysical parameters (cloud and rain drop content and size distributions) and changes in cloud top height and storm areal coverage. To verify that cloud seeding results in the desired outcome (increased precipitation, decreased hail), each step in the hypothesis chain must be addressed (National Research Council, 2003). Microphysical properties of clouds are most directly measured with aircraft flying through treated and control clouds. Measurements are typically made for a cloud cell by aircraft passes before, during, and after seeding, over a 20–30 min time period, or the typical lifespan of an individual cloud cell. The difficulty arises in that a cloud may be made up of multiple cloud cells that move and grow over time, and that aircraft can make only a limited number of flight passes through only a small portion of the cloud. The post-seeding passes may or may not be representative of the treated region, and may or may not be representative of the cloud as a whole. Remote sensing measurements must be employed to track cloud cell properties. Documenting how the seeding material disperses, how the treated cloud particles change over time, and what effect these microphysical changes have on cloud growth and raindrop development requires at a minimum, microphysical and chemical instrumentation, research radars, rigorous statistical design, and the expertise to analyze the results. The microphysical and dynamic effects of cloud seeding that affect the updraft and downdraft structure of a seeded cloud cell, and subsequently the neighboring cloud cells, can span an hour or more. In several recent projects, apparent delayed seeding effects on radar-derived parameters were observed (NRC, 2003): In the case of the projects in South Africa and Mexico, the delay in effect was some 20–60 min after seeding, and in the Thailand project, several hours after initial seeding. To establish the within-cloud and between-cloud processes occurring during

120

A Perspective on Weather Modification

2177

these post-seeding period requires remote sensing of both the microphysical and velocity structure of the cloud system. The velocity structure requires measurements that are generally beyond what is provided by single conventional radars. Other specialized radars or multiple radars are often required. As cloud systems typically are moving entities, remote sensing would be required over a vast area, or subject clouds would have to form in just the right area to view the complete lifetime of a cloud system. Studying specific microphysical processes within cloud cells (of a few kilometers or less) and studying the interaction between cloud cells at a fine spatial resolution over an area extending hundreds of kilometers requires a well coordinated, and very well funded project. Stepwise proof of seeding hypotheses is yet to be accomplished.

120.5 Proof of Concept For weather modification experiments to ultimately be successful, as with any scientific experiment, the seeding experiments must follow the scientific method. In medicine for example, some experiments can be confined to a laboratory. For cloud seeding, the laboratory is a large piece of the atmosphere, and the experimental unit, a moving cloud system. Clouds are themselves dynamic systems and furthermore are features of a larger dynamic system, the atmosphere. Envision the atmosphere as a river or ocean of air flowing over a changing landscape with various heat and moisture sources and sinks, and cloud systems as perturbations within the flow that are also subject to various heat and moisture sinks. No two cloud systems behave alike. As of yet, the specific behavior of any particular cell within a cloud system cannot be predicted. Therefore, many seeded and control storm samples are required to account for the natural variability of storm behavior by obtaining a statistical distribution of cloud system properties. It is thought that one could expect an increase of precipitation of perhaps up to 25% (National Weather Modification Advisory Board, 1978). To distinguish such a small seeding effect, many years of randomized seeding operations are required (Huff, 1971). If seeding is limited to specific storm types within a region or to specific hours of the day, the time required to observe a seeding effect lengthens. Project Stormfury, a hurricane cloud seeding project, illustrates an extreme example of this. This project ran for 10 years during 1961–1971 and only 4 hurricanes were treated. During seven hurricane seasons, no suitable hurricanes were available for seeding (Gentry, 1974). Very little likelihood of finding a seeding effect was possible from this small sample, regardless of the limited measurement capabilities of the time. If, however, very large seeding effects are expected, say of more than 50%, the length of time required will decrease (Huff, 1971). Statistically significant results have proved elusive. This results not only from technological limitations and the natural variability of cloud properties within a given region, but also because the results from one storm type to another and from one geographic region to another are not transferable. There are a number of different seeding strategies. These include glaciogenic seeding and hygroscopic seeding, cold cloud seeding and warm cloud seeding, static cloud seeding and dynamic cloud

2178

N. Westcott

seeding, and seeding of cumulus clouds, snowbands, hailstorms, and hurricanes. Hypotheses are developed for each storm type and the specific climate of the targeted region. Depending on the observed effects and available measurements, these hypotheses may be altered over time to fit the results, requiring yet another field program.

120.6 Unexpected Consequences A number of other factors have plagued cloud seeding researchers. A variety of unexpected consequences can be expected in performing atmospheric exploration. The possibility of downwind effects is still being debated. Some believe that by increasing precipitation in one region, the precipitation in a downwind region is decreasing (robbing Peter to pay Paul) (e.g. NRC, 2003). Others contend that the seeding agent (silver iodide specifically) remains in the environment only to affect other clouds on other days (e.g. Bigg, 1995). These downwind effects are very difficult to prove, perhaps more so that targeted seeding effects. Another problem that has arisen is the unexpected behavior of storms, the possibility of storms changing direction or rapidly intensifying. Two notable cases are the Hurricane of 1947 mentioned previously (Byers, 1974), and the 1972 Rapid City Flood (Farhar, 1974). It is generally thought that cloud seeding had no part in either of these cases, but the storm behavior gave the public, the funders, and the scientists involved cause for concern. In comparison to laboratory studies, a single day’s work is on relatively large scale and is more open to public scrutiny. In these days of instantaneous media coverage, questions regarding possible negative effects would be broadcast more widely and more immediately than in the past.

120.7 Funding Priorities Since 1947, great strides have been made in the realm of cloud physics, cloud dynamics, and cloud modeling as a result of cloud seeding projects. There also has been a large effort directed at the planning, conduct, and post-analysis of weather modification experiments. Kahan, Rottner, Sena, and Keyes (1995) outlined an overall methodology to approach cloud seeding experiments. An essential point made by Kahan et al. (1995) and in Changnon (1980a) is the need to know the stakeholders in the targeted region and the areas downwind of the targeted region so that their concerns can be identified and addressed (positive and negative benefits) and to inform them along the way of progress being made and to not oversell the potential or actual outcome of the project. Along with this point there is a strong need to have knowledgeable program leadership that both the scientific community and the stakeholder community can trust. They should be able to address the day-to-day operations, the impacts, the scientific basis and questions on all scales, including legal issues. After years of experience with cloud seeding, this sort of skill is well developed and documented by the cloud seeding community.

120

A Perspective on Weather Modification

2179

By the time this wealth of information on cloud seeding and how to effectively carry out cloud seeding experiments was amassed in the 1980s, funding issues became problematic. No amount of expertise has been able to overcome declining federal budgets for long-term scientific experiments. Changnon and Lambright (1987) and Cotton and Pielke (2007) have traced weather modification history to the ebb and flow of government agency funding. Funding devoted to cloud seeding, however, is not only tied to the economic health of various interested countries, but to scientific priorities. In the case of weather modification, another factor beyond the control of project leadership is the year-to-year climate. When droughts abound, interest in cloud seeding is spurred. When precipitation is normal or above normal, interest wanes. Dedicated long-term funding is required to avoid these funding fluctuations.

120.8 Inadvertent Weather Modification and Relevance to Climate Issues Humans can inadvertently impact weather in several ways. The most obvious is through land use changes: primarily as a result of the growth of urban and suburban areas, and also by changing the natural environment to agriculture use (e.g. Sparks, Changnon, & Starke, 2002), and through irrigation in dry areas (e.g. Adegoke, Pielke, Eastman, Mahmood, & Hubbard, 2003; Barnston & Schickedanz, 1984; Changnon, 1973). The impact of thousands of contrails created by jet aircraft is another area of inadvertent weather modification research (e.g. Changnon, 1981; Carleton, Travis, Master, & Vezhapparambu, 2008; Marquart, Ponater, Mager, & Sausen, 2003). The phenomenal migration from rural to urban areas throughout the world in the past 50 years has resulted in the increasing concentration of the earth’s population in enormous urban centers. As the size and number of these metrocenters grow, their impact on the local scale increases and may become important on the global scale. Urban regions impact weather by changing the landscape and also by the production of gasses and aerosols that may modulate global climate change. The urban heat island effect is well established (e.g. Landsberg, 1981) and is evident in even small to moderate-sized towns. The heat island primarily is caused by increased heat storage in concrete, asphalt and other building materials, as compared to vegetation, and by the increase in surface roughness due to the presence of tall and impervious buildings and minimal vegetation, The increase in temperature could be partially attributed to direct heat sources (engines and people) as well. The addition of heat from the surface to the atmosphere results in a deeper boundary layer in the city, rising motions and an increase in low-level convergence of the wind. This resultant circulation brings in cooler and moister air from the surrounding countryside that can increase the likelihood of precipitation. The Metropolitan Meteorological Experiment (METROMEX), a 5-year (1971– 1975) field program led by the Illinois State Water Survey, the University of Chicago, Argonne National Laboratory and the University of Wyoming, brought to bear the meteorological research technology of the day, focusing on St. Louis,

2180

N. Westcott

Missouri and the surrounding area (Changnon et al., 1981). In METROMEX, the impacts of the urban heat island circulation were extensively studied by surface weather stations, an upper air network of radiosondes, several weather radars, meteorologically instrumented aircraft and a dense rain gage network of 250 gages (1 gage/5 km) encompassed the city and surrounding area. These data indicated a downwind increase in precipitation on the order of 25%, primarily from afternoon storms. An increased number of tall echoes, of merging cloud cells, and of thunderstorms and hailstorms were found over and downwind of St. Louis. It was found that this increase in thunderstorm activity was caused in large part from the warm and aerodynamically rough surface which promoted mixing and convection in the boundary layer, and allowed the clouds to overcome the presence of an “arresting” layer often observed in rural areas. It was suggested that the main effect of the urban area might be to trigger and localize the release of instability from air passing overhead. The role of aerosols in contributing to precipitation increases was also investigated in METROMEX. Anthropogenic cloud condensation nuclei (CCN or hygroscopic aerosol particles) from fossil fuel power plants and from various industrial plants were found to occur in St. Louis. The results from tracer experiments and cloud modeling showed that surface released aerosols could be transported vertically, scavenged, and returned to the ground via precipitation. The CCN worked in two ways: First, the large concentration of CCN resulted in increased droplet numbers but decreased drop sizes and were not thought to contribute to increased rainfall amounts. Secondly, observed giant and ultra-giant CCN (Johnson, 1982) may have increased ice nuclei particle concentrations by the Hallet and Mossop (1974) ice multiplication method, and “seeded” the clouds, resulting in a release of latent heat and an increase in buoyancy. However, direct documentations of these effects were not made. The impact of aerosols on urban precipitation is less well understood, partly because of the same difficulties faced by cloud seeding experiments, that is, largely measurement difficulties. Urban experiments, however, are more likely to result in more definitive results than cloud seeding experiments for several reasons. (1) The study region does not move, so that more permanent installation of equipment can be made and equipment can be placed to examine thunderstorms at a more optimal temporal and spatial resolution. There can be more redundancy of equipment depending on experimental participants. (2) Upwind and downwind areas are clearly defined by the wind fields and heat and moisture sources can be identified and taken into account. (3) Randomization is not required so that all precipitation events can be part of the study. (4) Scientists from various fields, with various objectives can develop their experimental designs with known equipment and operational schedules. (5) With more objectives and known basic observational tools, there are more funding opportunities and more chances for scientists to interact. With different research groups operating, more aspects of any one problem can be addressed. (6) As the group is not attempting to change the weather, there would be little risk of law suit from unexpected storm behavior. (7) Precipitation or storm properties could be correlated with urban growth and climatological records. For instance, clean air

120

A Perspective on Weather Modification

2181

legislation has and may have further effects on aerosol production. The possible effect of this legislation on urban precipitation could be investigated (Bigg, 1990; Cotton & Pielke, 2007). One issue that cannot be addressed is the transferability to other geographic regions, as the climate and aerosol properties will differ. However, while the mean cloud properties of a given region may not be representative of other locations, the natural variability of cloud properties at a given location may encompass clouds properties of another region. Since METROMEX, there have been great improvements in radar and other remote sensing technology, in the measurement of physical and chemical properties of aerosols, and in numerical modeling of clouds and regional scale systems. Some of the questions unanswered by METROMEX now may be better addressed. Much of the information on aerosols to date has been collected on clear sky days, however. The chemical and microphysical changes brought about by ingestion of aerosols into clouds are much less well understood. Further, the impact of aerosols on cloud growth and precipitation and the impact of these altered clouds on climate forcing are also poorly understood. Cotton and Pielke (2007) summarize what is known regarding aerosols and their influence on global climate change based on the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC, 2001) report and the National Research Council (NRC, 2005) report. Both the direct effects (impact on radiation budget) and the indirect effects (affect of aerosols on clouds) and in turn the influence of the affected clouds on the climate are examined. There appear to be both positive and negative feedback mechanisms that could contribute to either warming or cooling of the earth and that moderate the magnitude of climate change. However, the magnitudes of these effects are not well documented. Further study of urban climates may shed light on possible global effects.

120.9 Relevance to Water Resource Issues Water supplies around the world are facing challenges regardless of future changes in climate because of population increases. Mitigation of water problems will have to be addressed. Some of the stress on water resources comes from periodic droughts that are difficult to forecast and which usually do not last longer than a year or two. Much of the water stress comes from increasing populations or from increased irrigation in drier climates. Periodic droughts may arise anywhere. It takes time to develop a cloud seeding operational plan, or to instigate a cloud seeding research project, to increase rainfall. By the time a project is in place, the drought may have passed and the willingness to fund research may have declined. In coastal regions, urban regions, or typically dry regions, other methods to either increase water supplies or to decrease water use may be more effective (Kemp, 2004). Consider that increases in precipitation on the order of 25% may be expected with cloud seeding. Some coastal and urban populations are increasing by a factor of two or more within a decade or two, outstripping any benefit that may be gained from cloud seeding. More direct, provable methods, such as reuse of wastewater for example, may be more beneficial when very large increases in water supply are needed. For

2182

N. Westcott

agricultural purposes, it has been shown that increases in precipitation on the order of 10–15% can be beneficial (Changnon, 1980b), although increases on the order of 40% would be even more beneficial (Hollinger & Changnon, 1993). While increases of 10–25% may improve crop yield, it is not readily measurable. As operational projects are relatively inexpensive, the gain in precipitation from cloud seeding may greatly improve crop yield, particularly if the increase comes during critical times in crop growth stages.

120.10 Conclusions Sixty years of weather modification research has led to great strides in the understanding of cloud systems in different regions of the world and over different seasons. Weather modification researchers indicate great promise for cloud seeding and with better technology and more sophisticated atmospheric models; more will be learned and accomplished. Until the links in the physical chain of events resulting from cloud seeding have been established and verified, and importantly, until precipitation over an area is measured accurately enough to detect expected changes, the promise of weather modification will not be realized. As federal funding for cloud seeding research has been decreasing and interest in climate change has been increasing, focusing on inadvertent weather modification may provide an important bridge between cloud seeding and the impact of aerosols on climate change. Examining a single urban area to determine the impact of aerosols on storms and rainfall may provide more insight into the potential for cloud seeding. Establishing the technological infrastructure in a single region could over many years yield a large enough sample to provide conclusive evidence on the impact of aerosols on cloud droplets and in turn the impact of changes in droplet behavior on the dynamic structure of clouds. Concentrating the resources of many scientists with differing expertise could address complex chemical and microphysical interactions brought about by ingestion of aerosols into clouds, quantify the indirect and direct effects of aerosols and clouds on the radiation budget, and perhaps verify numerical modeling simulations of these effects. Whether the funding cycle for climate research will be sufficient to realize the results of required basic research is yet to be seen. Acknowledgements Special thanks go to Stanley A. Changnon, Jr. for his encouragement and insight into weather modification. The reviews of James Angel and David Kristovich were very helpful. Any opinions, findings, conclusions, or recommendations are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the Illinois State Water Survey.

References Adegoke, J. O., Pielke, R. A., Sr., Eastman, J., Mahmood, F., & Hubbard, K. G. (2002). Impact of irrigation on midsummer surface fluxes and temperature under dry synoptic conditions: a regional atmospheric model study of the U.S. High Plains. Monthly Weather Review, 131(3), 556–564.

120

A Perspective on Weather Modification

2183

Barnston, A. G., & Schickedanz, P. T. (1984). The effect of irrigation on warm season precipitation in the southern Great Plains. Journal of Climate and Applied Meteorology, 23(6), 865–888. Bigg, E. K. (1995). Tests for persistent effects of cloud seeding in a recent Australian experiment. Journal of Applied Meteorology, 23(11), 583–600. Bigg, E. K. (1990). Long-term trends in ice nucleus concentrations. Atmospheric Research, 25, 583–600. Byers, H. R. (1974). The history of weather modification. In W. H. Hess (Ed.), Weather and climate modification (pp. 1–44). New York: Wiley. Carleton, A. M., Travis, D. J., Master, K., & Vezhapparambu, S. (2008). Composite atmospheric environments on jet contrail outbreaks for the United States. Journal of Applied Meteorology and Climatology, 47(2), 641–667. Cerveny, R., & Holle, R. (2008). Irving P. Krick: Weather fraud or weather genius? Weatherwise, 61(4), 21–26. Changnon, S. A., Jr. (1973). Weather modification in 1972: Up or down? Bulletin American Meteorological Society, 54(7), 642–646. Changnon, S. A., Jr. (1980a). Weather modification: winners and losers. Water Spectrum, 12(2), 29–39. Changnon, S. A., Jr. (1980b). The rational for future weather modification research. Bulletin of the American Meteorological Society, 61(6), 546–551. Changnon S. A., Jr. (1981). Midwestern cloud, sunshine and temperature trends since 1901: Possible evidence of jet contrail effects. Journal of Applied Meteorology, 20(5), 496–508. Changnon, S. A., Jr., & Lambright, W. H. (1987). The rise and fall of federal weather modification policy. Journal of Weather Modification, 19(1), 1–12. Changnon, S. A., Jr., Semonin, R. G., Auer, A. H., Braham, R. R., Jr., & Hales, J. M. (1981). METROMEX: A Review and Summary. Meteorological Monograph, 18(40), Boston: American Meteorological Society. Cotton, W. R., & Pielke, R. A., Sr. (2007). Human impacts on weather and climate. New York: Cambridge University Press. Department of Environment and Conservation (NSW) and Sydney Catchment Authority. (2007). Workshop on Cloud Seeding: Final Draft Report, p. 5. Elliot, R. D. (1974). Experience of the private sector. In W. H. Hess (Ed.), Weather and climate modification (pp. 45–90). New York: Wiley. Farhar, B. (1974). The impact of the Rapid City flood on public opinion about weather modification. Bulletin of the American Meteorological Society, 55(7), 759–764. Fletcher, N. H. (2002). Advice on the impact of pollution on rainfall and the potential benefits of cloud seeding. Report to the Secretary of the Australian Government Department of the Environment and Heritage, p. 31. Retrieved from http://www.environment.gov.au/ water/publications/pubs/cloud-seeding.pdf. Gentry, R. C. (1974). Hurricane modification, Chapter 14. In W. N. Hess (Ed.), Weather and climate modification (pp. 479–521). New York: Wiley. Hallet, J., & Moosop, S. C. (1974). Production of secondary ice particles during the riming process. Nature, 249, 26–28. Hildebrand, P. H., Towery, N. G., & Snell, M. R. (1979). Measurement of convective mean rainfall over small areas using high-density raingages and radar. Journal of Applied Meteorology, 18(10), 1316–1326. Hollinger, S. E. & Changnon, S. A., Jr., (1993). Response of corn and soybean yields to precipitation augmentation, and implications for weather modification in Illinois. Champaign, IL: Illinois State Water Survey Bulletin 73. Huff, F. A., & Shipp, W. L. (1969). Spatial correlations of storm, monthly and seasonal precipitation. Journal of Applied Meteorology, 8(4), 542–550. Huff, F. A. (1970). Sampling errors in measurement of mean precipitation. Journal of Applied Meteorology, 9(1), 35–44.

2184

N. Westcott

Huff, F. A. (1971). Evaluation of precipitation records in weather modification experiments. In H. Landsberg & J. Van Mieghem (Eds.), Advances in geophysics (Vol. 15, pp. 60–135). New York: Academic. Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change. (2001). Summary for policymakers: A report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change. Retrieved from www.ipcc.ch/ Johnson, D. B. (1982). The role of giant and ultragiant aerosol particles in warm rain initiation. Journal of Atmospheric Science, 39(2), 448–460. Kahan, A. M., Rottner, D., Sena, R., & Keyes, C. G., Jr. (Eds.). (1995). Guidelines for clouod seeding to augment precipitation. New York: American Society for Civil Engineers, ASCE Manuals and Reports on Engineering Practice No. 81. Kemp, D. D. (2004). Exploring environmental issues: An integrated approach. London: Routledge. Landsberg, H. E. (1981). The urban climate. International Geophysics Series, 28. New York: Academic. Marquart, S., Ponater, M., Mager, F., & Sausen, R. (2003). Future development of contrail cover, optical depth, and radiative forcing: Impacts of increasing air traffic and climate change. Journal of Climate, 16(17), 2890–2904. National Research Council. (2003). Critical issues in weather modification research. NRC Committee on the status and future directions in U.S. weather modification research and operations. Washington, DC: National Academies Press. Retrieved from http://www.nap.edu/ catalog/10829.htm. National Research Council. (2005). Radiative forcing of climate change: Expanding the concept and addressing uncertainties. Committee on Radiative Forcing Effects on Climate. Climate Research Committee, Board on Atmospheric Sciences and Climate (BASC). Washington, DC: National Academy Press. Retrieved from http://www.nap.edu/catalog/11175.html. National Weather Modification Advisory Board (NWMAB). (1978). The management of weather resources (Vol. 1). Washington, DC: U.S. Department of Commerce. Rango A. L., & Hobbs, P. V. (1993). Further analysis of the climax cloud seeding experiment. Journal of Applied Meteorology, 32(12), 1837–1847. Sparks, J., Changnon, D., & Starke, J. (2002). Changes in the frequency of extreme warmseason surface dewpoints in Northeastern Illinois: implications for cooling-system design and operation. Journal of Applied Meteorology, 41(8), 890–898. Super, A. B. (1986). Further exploratory analysis of the Bridger range winter cloud seeding experiment. Journal of Applied Meteorology, 25(12), 1926–1982. Super, A. B., & Boe, B. A. (1988). Microphysical effects of wintertime cloud seeding with silver iodide over the Rocky Mountains. Part III. Observations over the Grand Mesa, Colorado. Journal of Applied Meteorology, 27(10), 1166–1182. Westcott, N. E. (2009). Differences in multi-sensor and raingage precipitation amounts. Proceedings of the Institution of Civil Engineers, Water Management, 162(MW2), 73–81. Westcott, N. E., Knapp, H. V., & Hilberg, S. D. (2008). Comparison of gage and multi-sensor precipitation estimates over a range of spatial and temporal scales. Journal of Hydrology, 351(1–2), 1–12. Young, C. B., & Brunsell, N. A. (2008). Evaluating NEXRAD estimates for the Missouri river basin: Analysis using daily raingage data. Journal of Hydrological Engineering, 13(7), 549–553.

Chapter 121

Climate Change, Climate Models and Geoengineering the Earth Jay S. Hobgood

121.1 Introduction The Earth’s climate has always been in flux. For most of the history of the planet natural phenomena determined the climate. Changes in the orbit of the Earth, volcanic eruptions and variations in the output of the Sun played significant roles in determining the climates of the past. Since their appearance on the surface of the Earth, human beings have emerged as new factors in environmental change. People have always reshaped their environment either on purpose or inadvertently. Gathering wood for fires, clearing land for agriculture, building systems to transport water for human consumption and irrigation are all examples of people reshaping local environments. As humans became more populous, cities grew and local energy consumption increased. These events produced changes to the landscape and created urban heat islands where the temperatures were warmer than surrounding rural areas. Some meteorologists hypothesized that the urban heat islands may have affected the development of clouds and precipitation in the vicinity of cities. For example, Braham (1974) discussed the findings of the Metropolitan Meteorological Experiment (METROMEX) which was a field study that examined the effects of the greater St. Louis urban area on convective storms. The results of METROMEX seemed to indicate that the urban heat island had some effect on precipitation patterns downwind of the St. Louis, but it was difficult to separate the anthropogenic effects from the role that might have been played by topographic and other natural factors. People have only been numerous enough and have possessed sufficient technological knowledge to affect the climate of the entire planet for the past 100–150 years. The consumption of large quantities of fossil fuels and the subsequent increases in concentrations of certain greenhouse gases, such as carbon dioxide, are altering energy flows to space and are warming the Earth’s climate. Climate models provide a means for exploring the effects of the increased concentrations of

J.S. Hobgood (B) Department of Geography, Ohio State University, Columbus, OH 43210, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_121,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2185

2186

J.S. Hobgood

greenhouse gases under different possible scenarios for the future. The results from models’ simulations of possible future warming of the climate of the Earth and concerns that efforts to mitigate the production of greenhouse gases will be ineffective have produced proposals to geoengineer the Earth. Mitigation normally refers to efforts to limit the emission of greenhouse gases to the atmosphere in discussions of anthropogenic climate change, while geoengineering is the term used to categorize proposals to counteract the increase in greenhouse gases. Geoengineering proposals attempt to counteract the effects of increased concentrations of greenhouse gases by either decreasing the amount of energy from the sun that is absorbed or increasing the amount of energy the Earth loses to space. Climate models provide a way to test the effectiveness of geoengineering proposals and to examine their effects on the climate of the Earth.

121.2 Climate Change Geologic evidence suggests that the climate of the Earth has changed significantly on long time scales. Evidence exists for multiple ice ages as well as intervening warmer periods. There are no direct measurements to confirm the type of climates that existed in the distant past. Thermometers have been used to measure temperatures in some locations for approximately 250 years, but there have only been a sufficient number of observing sites to estimate the average temperature of the Northern hemisphere or of the Earth since the middle of the 19th century (NRC, 2006). Estimates of earlier temperatures are based on proxy evidence from the analysis of tree rings, ice cores, marine and lake sediments and other sources. Data from instrumental records and proxy evidence are combined to produce graphs of past temperatures like those found in Fig. 121.1 taken from a report produced by the National Research Council (NRC, 2006). The same report from the NRC concluded

Fig. 121.1 Global temperature anomalies based on four multiproxy and tree ring reconstructions for the period A.D. 900–2005. (Reprinted with permission from the National Academies Press, Copyright 2006, National Academy of Sciences)

121

Climate Change, Climate Models and Geoengineering the Earth

2187

Fig. 121.2 Concentrations of carbon dioxide, methane and nitrous oxide for the past 10,000 years. (Source: IPCC, 2007 AR4 WG 1 Fig. SPM1)

that the main natural processes which influenced the climate of the Earth over the past 2000 years were volcanic activity and changes in solar radiation reaching the Earth. Over the last century and a half the growing number of people and their consumption of energy have increased the concentrations of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere. Figure 121.2 which was taken from Fourth Assessment Report (AR4) of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC, 2007) shows the increasing concentrations of the most important greenhouse gases. The NRC report and

2188

J.S. Hobgood

the IPCC AR4 both note that during the past 150 years the increase in greenhouse gases, carbon dioxide, methane and nitrous oxide, are likely the result of consumption of fossil fuels. The IPCC AR4 (2007: 10) also states that “Most of the observed increase in global average temperature since the mid 20th century is very likely due to the observed increase in anthropogenic greenhouse gas concentrations.”

121.3 Climate Models As was noted in METROMEX, it can be difficult to separate the natural factors from the anthropogenic effects. The weather and climate we observe is the result of the interaction of all processes and it is impossible to create a physical laboratory to replicate all aspects of the Earth’s atmosphere in order to examine one process at a time. Numerical models of the atmosphere provide us with virtual laboratories where we can examine the influence that humans are having on the Earth’s climate. For example, we can look at the climate that might have resulted if human activity had not increased the concentration of greenhouse gases or we could investigate what changes might occur if a rainforest is removed. Climate models also provide us with a way to project what the future climate of the Earth might be under different scenarios. Although computer models of the Earth’s atmosphere have existed since the 1940s, the early versions of modern global climate models started appearing in the 1960s (e.g. Smagorinsky, Manabe, & Holloway, 1965). Climate models tend to come in one of two forms. Simpler models, sometimes called one-dimensional models, attempt to solve an energy budget equation for a single level at the surface or in the atmosphere. These models express every term in the energy budget in terms of the temperature at that level, and then they iteratively solve the budget until they find the temperature that satisfies it. Budyko (1969) and Sellers (1969) are two classic examples of the use of energy budget models to investigate climate change. Budyko used an energy budget model to investigate how variations in the energy from the sun would affect the temperature of the Earth, and Sellers used a slightly different budget model to examine the latitudinal variation of surface temperature. The main advantage of energy budget models is that they require very modest computational resources. The primary disadvantage is that they provide only limited information about temperatures at a single level. General circulation models (GCMs) are three dimensional models that attempt to solve equations based the laws of physics for many locations on the Earth’s surface and in the atmosphere. The GCMs used for climate research are similar to the numerical models used to provide guidance for weather forecasters. The same laws of physics that determine tomorrow’s temperature will also determine the temperature a century from now. However, since it takes much more computer time to simulate a century than a day, the GCMs used for climate research often have lower spatial resolution than the models used by weather forecasters. A short term weather forecasting model might have a spatial resolution of 10–12 km (6.2–7.4 mi), while a global climate model might have a resolution of over 100 km (62.2 mi). This order of

121

Climate Change, Climate Models and Geoengineering the Earth

2189

magnitude difference means that climate models provide more useful information about larger scale patterns and that they are less likely to provide accurate depictions of regional and local variations. Washington and Parkinson (2005) provide a thorough discussion of the different types and components of GCMs. Essentially, GCMs employ the laws of motion and thermodynamics to predict the winds and temperature. They employ a continuity equation to track the flow of mass and a separate equation to keep track of the various phases of water in the atmosphere. They use the laws of physics to compute the radiative flows of energy. Since they have lower spatial resolution, GCMs are unable to simulate explicitly the effects of smaller scale features, such as individual clouds. However, clouds are an integral part of our climate and GCMs must include their effects in order to represent climate realistically. So, GCMs employ parameterizations that compute the likely effects of clouds based on the larger scale variables that the models can simulate. The use of parameterizations for clouds and other smaller scale features introduces more uncertainty into the simulations, but they are necessary in order to produce a realistic replication of the Earth’s climate. GCMs have been around as long as energy budget models. For example, Manabe, Smagorinsky and Strickler (1965) used a GCM to investigate the hydrologic cycle of the Earth. Many simulations with early GCMs specified the conditions at the Earth’s surface as a constant or as a function representing a seasonal variation. This approach represents the interactions between the atmosphere and the surface as being one-way (that is, the surface can affect the atmosphere, but the atmosphere cannot change the magnitudes of the surface variables). GCMs using this approach are sometimes called Atmospheric GCMs (AGCMs). The use of different spatial resolutions, parameterizations and methods to solve the equations in ACGMs developed by organizations around the world complicates efforts to determine which model provides the most accurate representation of the climate. The Atmospheric Model Intercomparison Project (AMIP) (Gates et al., 1999: 29) compared ACGMs from 31 modeling groups. AMIP concluded that “the average large-scale seasonal distributions of pressure, temperature and circulation are reasonably close to what are believed to be the best observational estimates available.” However, the total cloudiness was poorly simulated with the worst results occurring in the Southern Hemisphere. As useful as they are, ACGMs are limited by the one way interaction between the atmosphere and the surface. The same fluxes of energy and water vapor between the surface and the atmosphere that are included in the one way interactions in ACGMs also affect conditions at the surface. This is especially true over the oceans where the winds and energy transfers can affect the currents and temperatures. Short term and seasonal examples of these effects include cooler water mixed to the surface by tropical cyclones or the development of El Niño patterns in the Sea Surface Temperatures of the equatorial Pacific Ocean. It is now recognized that accurate simulations of future climate scenarios require a more sophisticated coupling of the atmosphere and the oceans. Fully coupled models allow for two way interactions between the atmosphere and the surface and mimic the real environment more closely. A disadvantage of coupled models is their greater computational requirements, which makes them

2190

J.S. Hobgood

costlier to use. The use of different techniques to couple models also introduces another source of uncertainty into the evaluation of the results from those models. The Coupled Model Intercomparison Project (CMIP) (Meehl, Boer, Covey, Latif, & Stouffer, 2000) provides a framework for the reduction of that uncertainty. CMIP determined that many observed components of climate variability are simulated in coupled models. The IPCC (2007: 591) AR4 evaluated 23 coupled models used in determined that the models are able to simulate aspects of the current climate and “provide credible estimates of future climate change, particularly at continental and larger scales.” The IPCC AR4 used coupled and other types of models to evaluate climate forcings and future climate scenarios. Figure 121.3, which is taken from the IPCC AR4, shows a comparison of model simulations with and without the anthropogenic increase in greenhouse gases. The lower graph (b) shows the simulations without the anthropogenic increase and the models predict a lower temperature than has

Fig. 121.3 Climate model simulations of global temperature anomalies with (a) and without (b) anthropogenic increases in greenhouse gases. (Source: IPCC 2007 AR4 WG 1 Fig. 9.5)

121

Climate Change, Climate Models and Geoengineering the Earth

2191

Fig. 121.4 Temperature increases associated with three IPCC 2007 AR4 scenarios. (Source: IPCC 2007 AR4 WG 1 Fig. 10.8)

been observed. The upper graph (a) shows that the results of simulations with the inclusion of the anthropogenic increase of greenhouse gases mirrors the observed increase in temperature. These two sets of simulations are used as part of the evidence for the likelihood that human activity is very likely the cause of the observed temperature increases. The IPCC AR4 also includes scenarios for future climate change based on the results of model simulations. Figure 121.4, taken from IPCC AR4, shows the patterns of temperature increase under three of the scenarios. Figure 121.5, also taken from the IPCC AR4, shows the possible changes to components of the hydrologic cycle. In spite of improvements in computational power and the efforts of model designers, climate models still have insufficient spatial resolution to be able to simulate changes that might occur at regional and local scales. Doherty et al. (2009: 500) summarize some of the lessons learned from the IPCC AR4 including the need for “an increased focus on regional-scale climate information.” Researchers are attempting to develop techniques to relate the output of the global models to changes that might occur on finer scales in an effort to provide useful information to policy makers and other users. This procedure is sometimes called downscaling and two methods are used most frequently. The first method develops statistical relationships between the output of the model and historical data in a manner similar to the development of Model Output Statistics (MOS) in weather forecasting. Then output from climate model simulations of future scenarios is used with the statistical relationships to generate predictions at regional and local scales. The second method nests a higher resolution regional model within a global climate model and uses the predictions from the global model to drive the regional model. One example of

2192

J.S. Hobgood

Fig. 121.5 Projected changes to major components of the hydrologic cycle associated with anthropogenic climate change. (Source: IPCC 2007 AR4 WG 1 Fig. 10.12)

this type of approach is the North American Regional Climate Change Assessment Program (NARCCAP) (http://www.narccap.ucar.edu) which is developing high resolution simulations over North America. NARCCAP intends to nest six different regional climate models inside four different coupled models in order to investigate climate change at a spatial resolution of 50 km (31 mi).

121.4 Geoengineering the Earth As Fig. 121.2 showed, the concentrations of greenhouses gases are continuing to increase and humans seem to lack the will or ability to significantly alter the trajectory of that increase. Solar radiation is the primary input of energy at the top of the atmosphere, while emission of terrestrial radiation, scattering and reflection of solar radiation are the primary losses of energy to space. The IPCC AR4 estimates that the total anthropogenic radiative forcing is 1.6 W m-2 . Therefore, in order to counteract existing anthropogenic effects some combination of actions that produce an equivalent amount of energy either not entering the top of the atmosphere or being lost back to space would be required. If the concentrations of greenhouse gases continue to increase, then the anthropogenic radiative forcing will increase by a corresponding amount and any countermeasures will need to increase as well.

121

Climate Change, Climate Models and Geoengineering the Earth

2193

In response to the continued failure to mitigate the anthropogenic effects by reducing the emission of greenhouse gases, some people have suggested technological projects to counteract the anthropogenic effects. A National Academy of Sciences report (NAS, 1992: 433) defined geoengineering as “large-scale engineering of our environment in order to combat or counteract the effects of changes in atmospheric chemistry.” In a very real sense, that definition represents intentional geoengineering of the Earth, because as it turns out, we have been engaged in unintentional geoengineering since the Industrial Revolution. Some geoengineering proposals are space-based, some proposals would affect changes in the atmosphere, and others would alter the characteristics of parts of the Earth’s surface. The NAS report posed three questions that provide a framework for the evaluation of geoengineering proposals (p. 434): 1. Does it appear feasible that engineered systems could actually mitigate the effects of greenhouse gases? 2. Does is appear that the proposed systems might be carried out by feasible technical means at reasonable costs? 3. Do the proposed systems have effects, besides the sought-after effects, that might be adverse, and can these be accepted or dealt with? Simply put, these questions ask: “Will it work?” “Can we do it?” and “Does it create an even bigger problem?” It seems only prudent that geoengineering proposals be required to answer these questions. One group of geoengineering proposals would place objects (mirrors, film, dust, etc.) in space between the Sun and the Earth to reflect solar radiation. For example, Angel (2006) proposed to launch “many small autonomous spacecraft” to the inner Lagrange point (L1) in order to create a sunshade that would reduce the amount of solar radiation entering the Earth’s atmosphere by 1.8%. Angel’s proposal involves the launch of many small lightweight spacecraft to avoid the technological requirements associated with the assembly of larger structures in space. Lenton and Vaughan (2009) evaluated the radiative forcing potential of a number of geoengineering proposals. Their analysis addressed primarily the first question posed in the NAS report and only tangentially dwelt with the other two questions. Lenton and Vaughan determined that a reflector in space could theoretically deflect enough energy to counteract the anthropongenic radiative forcing. Unfortunately, Angel’s proposal presents significant technological challenges. Lenton and Vaughan estimate that the proposal would require approximately 135,000 launches per year and Angel notes that it would require mass production on an unprecedented scale. So, the proposal appears to falter on the question of cost and feasibility. To be fair, Angel recognized the magnitude of the cost and indicated that the proposal should be considered for an instance of dangerous abrupt climate change, and that the expenditures would be better invested in research in alternative energy sources. Other researchers have proposed to increase the reflection of solar radiation to space by injecting aerosols into the stratosphere. Wigley (2006) proposed the injection of the precursors to sulfate aerosols or the actual aerosols into the stratosphere.

2194

J.S. Hobgood

The idea is to mimic the effect of large explosive volcanic eruptions that inject aerosols into the stratosphere and have been linked to reductions in the Earth’s temperature. The aerosols reflect the solar radiation back to space while it is still high in the stratosphere and reduce the amount of energy reaching the Earth’s surface. Lenton and Vaughan’s analysis indicates that if enough aerosols can be injected into the stratosphere that it may be possible to reflect enough solar radiation back to space to counteract the increase in greenhouse gases. The amount of aerosols that would need to be transported to the stratosphere is dependent on the size of the particles used. Smaller particles would actually be more efficient because they would reflect the solar radiation while allowing more of the terrestrial radiation emitted by the Earth to pass out to space. Larger particles would be less efficient. They would also reflect the solar radiation, but they would absorb more of the terrestrial radiation which would have otherwise escaped to space. Wigley estimated that it would be necessary to inject five Terragrams (5.5 trillion tons) of sulphur into the stratosphere each year. Transportation of the sulfur could be accomplished through some combination of balloons, rockets and aircraft. Manufacture and transportation of this much sulfur to the stratosphere pose significant technological challenges and the cost of such an effort would be considerable. Lenton and Vaughan feel that this geoengineering proposal is promising in spite of the technological and financial challenges. Other researchers have proposed methods to increase the reflectivity of clouds. These proposals typically include ways to increase the number of small droplets in clouds with the goal of increasing the amount of solar radiation that is reflected back to space. Many of the proposals suggest that an increase in the number of cloud condensation nuclei (CCN) would lead to the formation of more small droplets of water and fewer large drops. The higher concentration of smaller droplets in the cloud would reflect more solar radiation back to space. Latham (2002) proposed injection of CCNs through the process of atomization of sea water. This could possibly be accomplished by forcing a combination of sea water and air through a pipe at high speed on ships deployed over the oceans. Research on cloud processes suggests that this geoengineering approach might be most effective over the parts of the oceans where marine stratiform clouds already exist in abundance. If the technique requires the presence of marine stratiform clouds, then it limits the area where it can be applied and reduces its potential effectiveness. While an increase in the concentration of small droplets might increase the amount of solar radiation to space, Lenton and Vaughan’s analysis indicates that the amount would be insufficient to alter significantly the radiation budget of the Earth. This proposal also would need to surmount the technological and financial hurdles involved in the manufacture, deployment and maintenance of the delivery system in an oceanic environment. Still other geoengineering ideas propose to increase the albedo or portions of the Earth’s surface in order to make it reflect more solar radiation to space. Some of the locations under consideration include deserts, grasslands, agricultural regions and urban areas. Gaskill (2004) discussed a number of these options and concluded that the deserts of the world provided the best opportunity to increase the albedo

121

Climate Change, Climate Models and Geoengineering the Earth

2195

of the surface. Gaskill proposed covering 4 million mi2 (10.4 million km2 ) of the Earth’s deserts with a composite film that would increase the percentage of reflected solar radiation to 80–90%. Gaskill identified the characteristics of an ideal material as: (1) inexpensive to manufacture; (2) puncture and tear resistant; (3) able to endure years of exposure to the elements; (4) recyclable; and (5) available today or within five years. A white polyethylene composite film containing titanium dioxide with aluminized plastic on the bottom was identified as the material that would reflect large amounts of solar radiation and effectively emit terrestrial radiation at the same time. This would result in the greatest change to the energy balance of the surface. Gaskill suggested that the film would need to be replaced every three years and would require intermediate cleanings in order to prevent dust and other material from reducing its effectiveness. Lenton and Vaughan’s analysis of the energy reduction at the surface suggests that the proposal could theoretically counteract about half of the effects of the increase in greenhouse gases. Coupled with other geoengineering ideas, increasing the albedo of the Earth’s might be a part of the effort to counteract anthropogenic climate change. However, Gaskill’s own analysis concluded that the cost of the project would be 75 trillion dollars over 150 years or 500 billion dollars per year and that 80% of the cost would be incurred in the manufacturing of the film. There are also geopolitical and environmental considerations, since many of the deserts most suited to this geoengineering approach are located in places where governments and people may not appreciate the transformation of large sections of their countries in this manner. So, the feasibility and cost of this approach are highly questionable. Increasing the albedos of grasslands, agricultural areas and urban areas may be cheaper and less disruptive, but would also do less to counteract the effects of increased emissions of greenhouse gases. The previous geoengineering proposals all involved ways to reduce the amount of solar radiation that is absorbed at the Earth’s surface. Other proposals are designed to increase the amount of terrestrial radiation emitted by the Earth to space. Most of these ideas are based on the removal of some greenhouse gases, usually carbon dioxide, from the atmosphere in order to decrease their concentrations. These proposals are considered as separate from the suggestion of ways to mitigate the release of greenhouse gases into the atmosphere. The ideas proposed include planting new forests and reforesting areas where existing forests were removed for wood and development. The additional trees would remove carbon dioxide from the atmosphere during photosynthesis and theoretically fix it in place as long as the trees were alive. Estimates of the mass of carbon that trees could remove from the atmosphere vary widely, but Lenton and Vaughan (2009) estimate it could counteract approximately a third of the effects of the current increase of greenhouse gases by 2050. However, if trees are cut and used for firewood, then the reduction of carbon dioxide decreases proportionally. Planting trees is technologically feasible, cost effective and unlikely to produce undesirable environmental effects. In fact, more trees could reduce soil erosion in some regions, increase the albedo and, perhaps, enhance the hydrologic cycle. The drawbacks to reliance on this approach involve the same economic, social and political issues that have stymied efforts to mitigate the emission of greenhouse gases.

2196

J.S. Hobgood

Ideas have been proposed to use technology to remove carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. The proposals generally involve the passage of air over a material that selectively absorbs the carbon dioxide. The systems could be passive, where the wind blows the air over the material or they could be active where fans direct air over the absorbent surface. Keith, Ha-Doung, and Stolaroff (2006) discuss the economics of two possible approaches. They determined that a system using biomass to generate energy to drive the active system and remove carbon dioxide from the air would be the less expensive option. This approach benefits from the mitigation effects of using biomass for fuel and the potential for capture and sequestration of carbon after combustion in addition to removal of carbon dioxide already in the air. Such an approach is still costly and technological issues would need to be overcome before it is practical for widespread deployment. The second approach they examined involved the direct capture of carbon dioxide by aqueous sodium hydroxide. This latter approach is more expensive and less effective, although the use of a different substance might increase its efficiency. Lenton and Vaughan estimate that the first approach might increase the emission of terrestrial radiation to space by slightly more than reforestation by 2050. Siting of facilities to remove carbon dioxide may face the same resistance and constraints imposed on existing electric generation and chemical installations. Lehmann, Gaunt, and Rondon (2006) examine the potential geoengineering effects of adding charcoal, or what they refer to as bio-char, to the soil as a means to reduce the amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. The creation of biochar produces a more concentrated form of carbon that returns to the atmosphere more slowly than does the carbon in raw vegetative matter, when both are applied to soil. Some bio-char is available as waste from existing charcoal production, but in quantities too small to be significant for these purposes. Wood residue and certain agricultural wastes might provide additional sources. Combination of bio-char production with biofuel production seems to provide the most efficient strategy. Lenton and Vaughan estimate that bio-char application of the proposal could counteract less than 10% of the increase in greenhouse gases, which makes it potentially much less effective than reforestation or the technological removal of carbon dioxide. The addition of bio-char to certain soils might make them more productive, but there are concerns that there might be an upper limit to that effect. This proposal faces the same questions about cost and feasibility that were noted for the previous ones. The addition of nutrients to the ocean in order to increase the biological uptake of carbon from the air has also been proposed. Various individuals and groups have suggested that adding iron, phosphorus and nitrogen to the upper ocean would increase its productivity. These ideas are all based on the assumption that a lack of one or more these nutrients is inhibiting photosynthesis in the upper layer of the oceans. Theoretically, if phytoplankton had more nutrients, they would multiply prodigiously and remove much more carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. The carbon would be stored in the organisms and some of it would sink to the bottom with their remains after they died. Boyd et al. (2004) discussed the Subarctic Ecosystem Response to Iron Enrichment Study (SERIES). Iron was artificially added to a section of the Gulf of Alaska during SERIES. Although the added iron produced a

121

Climate Change, Climate Models and Geoengineering the Earth

2197

phytoplankton bloom, it was relatively short-lived and resulted in less removal of carbon than was anticipated. Pollard et al. (2009) reported the results of a more recent field experiment near the Crozet Islands and Plateau in the Southern Ocean. The concentration of iron in this region is naturally enhanced by runoff and mixing associated with the islands and plateau. They found that phytoplankton blooms enhanced removal of carbon dioxide from the atmosphere and sequestration of carbon by two to three times. However, they also found that this result was 15–50 times less than is predicted for some geoengineering schemes. Lenton and Vaughan’s analysis indicates that addition of nutrients to the oceans would be insufficient to counteract the increase in greenhouse gases, although it could be part of a solution that employed multiple geoengineering ideas. Still other geoengineering proposals involve artificially increasing the vertical mixing in the ocean. These ideas involve both increasing the upwelling (e.g. Lovelock & Rapley, 2007) and downwelling (e.g. Zhou & Flynn, 2005). Enhanced upwelling would bring cooler water to the surface of the ocean and might also transport more nutrients to the upper layers. The cooler water would temporarily offset some of the anthropogenic warming. Enhancements of nutrients might result in increased photosynthesis and remove more carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. Downwelling would mix warmer water from the surface of the ocean with cooler water found at greater depths. It might also transport some carbon to the deeper parts of the ocean. Lenton and Vaughan’s analysis indicates that geoengineering schemes reliant on upwelling and downwelling are unlikely to significantly alter the global energy budget. Geoengineering proposals involving upwelling and downwelling have also been put forth to cool portions of tropical oceans in order to reduce the intensity of tropical cyclones. Use of those ideas for weather modification faces significant technological, financial and legal issues. The Royal Society (2009) published a report written by a committee chaired by John Shepherd that discussed the issues raised by proposals to Geoengineer the Earth in order to counteract the effects of anthropogenic releases of greenhouse gases. The report examined many of the geoengineering proposals discussed in this section and it relied heavily on Lenton and Vaughan’s analysis of the effectiveness of the geoengineering schemes. The report suggested that proposals to remove carbon dioxide would be preferable, because they attempt to deal with the source of global warming. However, the report also noted that proposed schemes to remove carbon dioxide from the atmosphere would take a longer time to have an effect and none of them have been demonstrated to be effective, affordable and safe. Proposals to reduce the amount of solar radiation could work more quickly, but they would have to be maintained for an indefinite period of time. If one of those schemes stopped functioning effectively, global warming could resume within a short period of time and at a rapid rate. The report referred to this possibility as the “termination problem” (p. 34). The report stated that the addition of aerosols to the stratosphere appeared to be the most promising of the schemes to reduce the amount of solar radiation reaching the earth’s surface. The report indicated that future deployment of any of the geoengineering schemes is likely to be influenced as much by societal, legal and political factors as by technological and economic ones. It recommended

2198

J.S. Hobgood

the creation of formal organizations to establish protocols to govern the testing, assessment and potential deployment of geoengineering projects.

121.5 Summary Although natural processes have and will continue to affect the Earth’s climate, anthropogenic increases of greenhouse gases are producing significant warming. Much of the current debate centers on the mitigation of the anthropogenic effects through the reduction of those emissions. Since concentrations of greenhouse gases still increasing, one would have to say that those mitigation efforts have been a failure so far. If those efforts remain ineffectual, then geoengineering the Earth in order to counteract the effects of anthropogenic climate change may become necessary. Many of the current geongineering proposals face serious technological and financial barriers. Others seem to have overestimated their ability to counteract the anthropogenic effects. Climate models provide a way to test proposed geoengineering schemes to see if they are effective and to determine if they are likely to produce any undesirable side effects. A simple test is to incorporate the hypothesized effect of the scheme into a model and observe the evolution of the simulated climate. A more robust test requires a two way interaction between the geoengineering process and the climate model in order to see how changes in the simulated climate may alter the effectiveness of the geoengineering scheme. The current situation is analogous to certain health problems that are the result of unhealthy lifestyle choices. The emission of greenhouse gases is the unhealthy activity, while the observed increase of the Earth’s temperature is the symptom of an approaching problem. The call for mitigation to reduce the emission of greenhouse gases is similar to a physician’s suggestion to change one’s lifestyle in order to forestall the development of a more serious health problem. So far the collective actions of the leaders and people of this planet have been much a like a person who refuses to change their way of living despite the advice of their doctor. Many of the geoengineering proposals are similar to expensive, technologically demanding and sometimes experimental methods used after serious health problems occur. Those methods do not seem as expensive or unnecessary, when one needs them. Similarly geoengineering the Earth may not seem as expensive or unfeasible, if abrupt climate change appears close at hand.

References Angel, R. (2006). Feasibility of cooling the Earth with a cloud of small spacecraft near the inner Lagrange point (L1). Proceedings of the National Academy of Science, 103, 17184–17189. Boyd, P. W., Law, C. S., Wong. C. S., Nojiri, Y., Tsuda, A., Levasseur, M., et al. (2004). The decline and fate of an iron-induced subarctic phytoplankton bloom, Nature, 428, 449–453. Braham, R. R., Jr. (1974). Cloud physics of urban weather modification – a preliminary report. Bulletin of the American Meteorological Society, 55, 100–106.

121

Climate Change, Climate Models and Geoengineering the Earth

2199

Budyko, M. (1969). The effect of solar radiation variations on the climate of the Earth. Tellus, 221, 611–619. Doherty, S. J. Bojinski, S., Henderson-Sellers, A., Noone, K., Goodrich, D., Bindoff, N. L., et al. (2009). Lessons Learned from IPCC AR4: Scientific developments needed to understand, predict and respond to climate change. Bulletin of the American Meteorological Society, 90, 497–513. Gaskill, A. (2004). Summary of meeting with the U.S. DOE to discuss Geoengineering options to prevent abrupt and long-term climate change. Retrieved July 13, 2009, from http://www.global-warming-geo-engineering.org/DOE-Meeting/ DOE-GeoengineeringClimate-Change-Meeting/ag1.html Gates, W. L., Boyle, J. S., Covy, C., Dease, C. G., Doutriaux, C. M., Drach, R. S., et al. (1999). An overview of the results of the Atmospheric Model Intercomparison Project (AMIP I). Bulletin of the American Meteorological Society, 80, 29–55. IPCC. (2007). Climate change 2007: The physical science basis. In S. Solomon, D. Qin, M. Manning, Z. Chen, M. Marquis, K. B. Averyt, M. Tigno, & H. L. Miller (Eds.), Contribution of Working group 1 to the fourth assessment report of the intergovernmental panel on climate change. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Keith, D. W., Ha-Doung, M., & Stolaroff, J. K. (2006). Climate strategy with CO2 capture from the air. Climatic Change, 74, 17–45. Latham, J. (2002): Amelioration of global warming by controlled enhancement of the albedo and longevity of low-level maritime clouds. Atmospheric Science Letters, 3, 52–58. Lehmann, J., Gaunt, J., & Rondon, M. (2006). Bio-char sequestration in terrestrial ecosystems – a review. Mitigation and Adaptive Strategies for Global Change, 11, 403–427. Lenton, T. M., & Vaughan, N. E. (2009). The radiative forcing potential of different climate geoengineering options. Atmospheric Chemistry and Physics Discussions, 9, 2559–2608. Lovelock, J. E., & Rapley, C. G. (2007). Ocean pipes could help the Earth to cure itself. Nature, 449, 403. Manabe, S., Smagorinsky, J., & Strickler, R. F. (1965). Simulated climatology of a general circulation model with a hydrologic cycle. Monthly Weather Review, 93, 769–798. Meehl, G. A., Boer, G. J., Covey, C., Latif, M., & Stouffer, R. J. (2000). The coupled model intercomparison project (CMIP). Bulletin of the American Meteorological Society, 81, 313–318. NAS. (1992). Policy implications of greenhouse warming: Mitigation, adaption and the science base. Washington: National Academies Press. NRC. (2006). Surface temperature reconstructions for the last 2000 years. Washington: National Academies Press. Pollard, R. T., Salter, R. J., Sanders, M. I., Lucas, C. M., Lucas, M. I., Moore, C. M., et al. (2009). Southern Ocean deep carbon export enhanced by natural iron fertilization. Nature, 457, 577–580. Royal Society. (2009). Geoengineering the climate: Science, governance and uncertainty. London. Retrieved September 9, 2009, from http://royalsociety.org/document.asp?tip=0&id=8729 Sellers, W. D. (1969). A global climate model based on the energy balance of the Earth-atmosphere system, Journal of Applied Meteorology, 8, 392–400. Smagorinsky, J., Manabe, S., & Holloway, J. L. (1965). Numerical results from a nine-level general circulation model of the atmosphere, Monthly Weather Review, 93, 727–768. Washington, W. M., & Parkinson, C. L. (2005). An introduction to three-dimensional climate modeling. Sausalito, CA: University Science Books. Wigley, T. M. L. (2006). A combined mitigation/geoengineering approach to climate stabilization. Science, 314, 452–454. Zhou, S., & Flynn, P. C. (2005). Geoengineering downwelling ocean currents: A cost assessment. Climatic Change, 71, 203–220.

Chapter 122

Olivine Hills: Mineral Water Against Climate Change Roelof D. Schuiling and Elke Praagman

122.1 Introduction A famous European mineral water is Loutraki, from a spring near Corinth, Greece. This is a magnesium-bicarbonate water in an olivine rich rock type. The events leading to the formation of such waters are as follows. After falling on the ground, rainwater passes through the soil. CO2 concentrations in soil atmospheres are easily 100-fold greater than in air, because animals living in the soil breathe, and plant litter decays (Schachtschabel, Blume, Hartge, & Schwertmann, 1982; Sumner, 2000). Both contribute CO2 to the soil atmosphere. Waters in equilibrium with the soil atmosphere are enriched in CO2 , thus become acidic and aggressive. They react with the underlying olivine-bearing rocks. By their interaction with these rocks, they change into Mg-bicarbonate waters. The weathering reaction is as follows: o Mg2 SiO4 + 4 CO2 + 4 H2 O → 2 Mg2+ + 4 HCO− 3 + H4 SiO4

One can calculate that 140 g of olivine will sequester 176 g of CO2 . We have experimentally imitated this process by shaking a bottle of Spa table water with 10 gram of olivine powder for one month. The Spa water is a low-mineralized sparkling water with a pH of 3.9. By the reaction with olivine the pH rose to 8.36 and its composition has become very similar to the Loutraki water, or other magnesium-bicarbonate waters of similar origin (Table 122.1). We have also collected samples from springs in olivine-rich rocks in Turkey. From the graph (Fig. 122.1) it is evident that there is a very close correlation between the sum of Mg and Ca (in milli-equivalents) released from the rock and the amount of CO2 fixed as bicarbonate in the water. The pH of these samples ranged from 7.6 to 8.8.

R.D. Schuiling (B) Institute of Geosciences, University of Utrecht, Utrecht, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_122,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2201

2202

R.D. Schuiling and E. Praagman

Table 122.1 Composition (mg/l) of Loutraki mineral water, experimental water made by reacting a sparkling table water with olivine powder, and average magnesium bicarbonate waters Sample

pH

Mg2 +

Ca2 +

HCO3 −

SiO2

Loutraki Exp. water Mg-HCO3

8.1 8.36 8.2

80.3 91.5 70

4.8 6.0 5.4

454 440 330

17 40 41

Spring waters from olivine-rich rock, Turkey 2007 14,00

12,00

meq (Ca+Mg)

10,00

8,00

6,00

4,00

2,00

0,00 0

100

200

300 Total carbonate

400

500

600

Fig. 122.1 Concentration in meq [Ca2+ + Mg2+ ] in spring waters. Total carbon as mg CO2

122.2 Lessons Learned It is evident that the process of weathering produces mineral waters, in which the greenhouse gas CO2 is rendered harmless in the form of the bicarbonate ion. This is by far the major natural sink of CO2. Sequestration of CO2 as organic carbon, like in oil, natural gas or coal, is a distant second. By way of ground water and rivers, these waters will finally reach the oceans where they will counteract the ongoing acidification caused by rising CO2 levels in the atmosphere (in chemical terms, we are adding alkalinity to the ocean waters). The ultimate fate of these bicarbonate waters is that they will form carbonate sediments (coral reefs, limestones, dolomites). This guarantees a sequestration of CO2 for geological times. It is evident that the process cannot cope with the enormous additional amounts of CO2 that are emitted by the combustion of fossil fuels. Humankind burns the

122

Olivine Hills: Mineral Water Against Climate Change

2203

reserves of fossil fuels in a few hundred years, while it took hundred millions of years to form them.

122.3 Can We Benefit from Weathering? If we could increase the rate of weathering, we might benefit from the same natural process that has kept the CO2 concentrations in the atmosphere within reasonable bounds during the earth’s history. We think that it is possible to avert a runaway climate change, although it will require a truly mega-engineering type world-wide effort (Schuiling & Krijgsman, 2006). Weathering takes place at the outer contact of minerals and rocks with the (soil-) atmosphere. To enhance weathering we need to increase the available contact area. This can be done by crushing reactive rocks, and spreading the mineral powder over land or in shallow seas and coastal zones. This is an example of geochemical engineering, which seeks to use geochemical processes and natural materials to solve environmental problems (Schuiling, 1998). Olivine is the most abundant reactive mineral. We should open a number of large new open pit olivine mines, preferably in tropical countries. This effort has the following advantages: • Weathering is fastest in hot humid climates, • Wages in most tropical countries are low, making mining cheap, • Transport costs can be reduced by spreading the olivine powder in the (wider) surroundings of the mines, • Large mines profit from the economy of scale. and • Employment in developing countries increases, boosting their economies. At present, olivine is being mined at a rate of 10–20 million tons a year. It is used mainly as an additive to steel slags, making them less viscous. A shipment of crushed olivine in bulk, produced in a distant, small olivine mine in a high wage country costs around 23 Euro per ton in the port of Rotterdam. If olivine is going to be produced in large open pit mines in low wage tropical countries, and transport is limited, the combination of these advantages will lead to a price of olivine between 10 and 15 Euro per ton. In turn this mining results in a price around 10 Euro per ton of captured CO2 , far less than the 60–100 Euro for the option to capture, purify and store underground the CO2 emitted by coal-fired power plants, oil refineries or cement factories. This so-called CCS (Carbon Capture and Storage) unfortunately seems to be the only option that is considered at present. If enhanced weathering is adopted instead, tropical countries will probably be the place where the bulk of CO2 -sequestration will take place. The major culprits, however, are the industrialized countries, with China and India catching up fast. Next we will examine in what ways the olivine option can be applied in these countries as well.

2204

R.D. Schuiling and E. Praagman

122.4 Enhanced Weathering in Temperate Climates One can think (and some of these projects have started already in the Netherlands) to replace quartz sand by olivine, which has a comparable hardness. This replacement holds for sandblasting, for olivine sand in the top layer of major roads, for incorporation in concrete, for the top layer in pavement or making footpaths in parks with olivine, for the use of olivine in the soils of roof gardens or for spreading olivine powder in lawns and gardens. Olivine buffers acid soils, so it can take the place of liming. Olivine does more than just absorb CO2 , because it also acts as a slow-release magnesium fertilizer. The major objective of this paper, however, is to highlight one particular future application, the olivine hills.

122.5 The Olivine Hills Based on our experience with the natural weathering of olivine rocks, and our experimental production of magnesium bicarbonate water from the reaction of low mineralized sparkling water with olivine powder, we propose the following. Towns, which produce directly or indirectly vast amounts of CO2 , can construct hills of olivine powder in a highly visible section of the town. An order of magnitude for such hills could be a height of 10–20 m, covering a surface area of 400–1.000 m2 , or even larger if conditions permit. This effort is equivalent to between 10,000 and 50,000 tons of olivine powder. The olivine powder should be deposited over an impermeable bottom layer consisting of 2 planes making an angle of 170◦ (a side slope of 5◦ each), forming a kind of very broad and shallow gutter (Fig. 122.2). The

Fig. 122.2 Artist’s impression of an olivine hill at the campus grounds of the Utrecht University

122

Olivine Hills: Mineral Water Against Climate Change

2205

gutter itself should have a forward slope of 5◦ as well. The olivine must nicely cover this construction, which thus remains invisible from the outside. The more or less horizontal top of the hill, except for some minor landscaping, must be covered with a layer of soil, rich in humus (remember that soil atmospheres can be more than 100 times richer in CO2 than air). In wet climates it will not be necessary to have special provisions for watering the hill, but in drier climates it may be advisable to have a fountain on top. Flowers, shrubs and even small trees can be planted on top of the hill and on its sides as well. Water will infiltrate from the top and pass through the olivine powder, which will act as a slow trickling filter. The grain size of the olivine should be chosen in such a way that it will take a drop of water several weeks before it reaches the impermeable barrier at the bottom in order to provide a sufficient residence time. This is necessary, because the olivine-water reaction is slow. Once the drop reaches the bottom, it will move sideways to the lowest point (the end of the “gutter”) where it will leave the pile. Here a tap can be constructed, permitting people to drink their own home town mineral water, after it has been analyzed and declared safe for drinking. Each olivine hill is only a small part of the huge megaengineering scheme to combat climate change by enhanced weathering. Even if a large number of cities take up the challenge as proposed here, it will only have a relatively minor effect on the CO2 balance of our planet, much less than the spreading of olivine powder over vast areas in tropical countries. Even so it will help to draw the attention of the public to the global problem of climate change and show that everybody in his/her own small way can help to fight it. It is certainly helpful to remind people that magnesium bicarbonate waters are healthy, and are acknowledged to be effective against among cardiovascular diseases and diabetes (FAO, 2002), whereas a lack of magnesium promotes premature aging. This is apparently realized by the population living near massifs of olivine-rich rocks. When we collected samples of these spring waters in Turkey, which are represented on Fig. 122.1, we often had to stand in line, because many people were filling their bottles and canisters with such magnesium bicarbonate spring waters.

122.6 Adaptation and Mitigation Olivine hills, apart from serving to capture CO2 and providing healthy mineral waters, could also be used as a refuge in areas prone to flooding. Consider Bangladesh for example. Large tracts of the densely populated country are low lying, and threatened by devastating floods caused by hurricanes or by rivers of the Ganges system bursting their banks. It can be expected that such calamities will happen more often as a consequence of sea level rise caused by climate change. Moreover, a well-meant but ill-advised program to replace surface water for human use in Bangladesh by ground water from dug wells has turned into a disaster, as many of these ground waters turned out to contain high levels of arsenic, causing illness and death to hundreds of thousands of residents.

2206

R.D. Schuiling and E. Praagman

If one were to construct olivine hills in villages threatened by flooding on the one hand, and drinking water with high arsenic levels, olivine hills should be constructed in a central location of the village. It will be necessary to bring in the crushed olivine from abroad. There are no olivine mines in Bangladesh, nor in the neighboring countries, but there are vast reserves of olivine-rich rocks. Myanmar has some peridot mining (the gemstone quality of olivine) in the Mogok District, northeast of Mandalay. Nagaland is said to have substantial reserves of olivine-rich rocks. The best bet, however, are the chromite mines in Orissa State, northeast India. Chromite occurs here in dunites/peridotites, and the mine dumps must hold huge volumes of crushed olivine rocks (Satapathy & Gaswani, 2006) From the chromite mines this material should be transported to a sea port on the Indian coast and from there transported to the point of use in Bangladesh. Once the olivine hill is constructed, cattle should not be allowed to graze on the hill, nor should any permanent housing be built on it. In normal times the hill will serve to produce clean and healthy drinking water, from the rainwater that filters through the olivine. As described above, this water will exit the hill at the lowest point of the impermeable layers on which the hill is constructed. It is estimated that for a village of 400 people, a hill of 20 by 30 m with a height of 10 m could provide 4 l a day of clean and healthy water per person. The water should be restricted for drinking purposes. It is up to the villagers to set up a system in which every inhabitant gets his fair share of clean water. In times of flooding, the whole population can seek refuge on the hilltop.

References FAO Document Repository. (2002). Human vitamin and mineral requirements. Chapter 14, Magnesium. Satapathy, R. K., & Gaswani, S. (2006). Mineral potential of Orissa State: A kaleidoscopic review. Orissa Review, May, 1–14. Schachtschabel, P., Blume, H.-P., Hartge, K.-H., & Schwertmann, U. (1982). Lehrbuch der Bodenkunde. Ferdinand Enke Verlag Stuttgart. Schuiling, R. D. (1998). Geochemical engineering: Taking stock. Journal of Geochemical Exploration, 62, 1–28. Schuiling, R. D., & Krijgsman, P. (2006). Enhanced weathering; An effective and cheap tool to sequester CO2 . Climatic Change, 74(1–3), 349–354. Sumner, M. E. (2000). Handbook of soil science. London: CRC Press: 2148 pp.

Chapter 123

Demise of the Geomagnetic Field: An Opportunity for Mega-Engineers to Save Humanity J. Marvin Herndon

123.1 Introduction Humanity came into being bathed in the gentle light and warmth of the sun. But, out of sight and beyond reach, the seemingly benign sun assaults the earth with more than just the light and warmth that humans need for survival. Earth is constantly bombarded by the solar wind, a fully ionized and electrically conducting plasma, heated to about 1,000,000◦ C. Fortunately, earth’s self-generated magnetic field deflects the brunt of the solar wind safely around and past our planet, protecting humanity from the sun’s relentless onslaught. But all good things come to an end and so it shall be with the geomagnetic field. Until recently, the demise of the geomagnetic field was thought to be far in the future, an event as distant in the future as the earth’s origin was in the past. Now, though, recent developments indicate that we may be approaching the end of the geomagnetic field’s lifetime, although the time frame is uncertain. The demise of the geomagnetic field raises the prospect for humanity of global catastrophic peril in large part as a consequence of the 21st century globalization of our civilization, especially the widespread networking of infrastructures, such as power grids, steel pipelines, and global satellite communications. As geomagnetic-demise approaches, megaengineering solutions may offer the best hope for humanity’s survival. Because of the recentness, fundamental uniqueness, and importance, the underlying science is presented as a logical progression of our understanding. More than a thousand years ago, the Chinese set afloat in bowls of water tiny slivers of loadstone (magnetite, which may have been struck by lightning) and noted that the slivers assumed a constant direction even as the bowl was rotated. This observation led to the development of the magnetic compass, which revolutionized navigation and ushered in centuries of wonderment about the origin and nature of earth’s magnetic field. Gilbert (1600) published the first extensive accumulation of magnetic observations made around the globe which indicated that the

J.M. Herndon (B) Transdyne Corporation, San Diego, CA 92131, USA e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_123,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2207

2208

J.M. Herndon

earth itself acts like a magnet, rather than the geomagnetic field arising from some extra-terrestrial origin as supposed by some. Gauss (1838) showed that the geomagnetic field is principally a dipole, centered at or near the center of earth, whose intensity varies inversely as the cube of radius. The earth acts like a giant magnet with a magnetic field extending into interplanetary space, but it is not a permanent magnet. The interaction of the geomagnetic field with matter, whether with a compass needle, the minerals of the earth, or with charged particles from space, draws energy which must be continuously replaced. Elsasser (1939) first proposed that the geomagnetic field arises from a selfexciting dynamo mechanism, a magnetic amplifier, in the earth’s fluid iron-alloy core, driven by convection of the electrically-conducting fluid interacting with Coriolis forces produced by planetary rotation. For more than half a century, Elsasser’s idea of the geomagnetic field being produced by dynamo action in the earth’s fluid core has been generally accepted without question by geophysicists, some of whom have built careers upon the related complex dynamo mathematical equations. The problem is, as demonstrated recently by the author, if the earth’s magnetic field is produced by a self-exciting dynamo mechanism, then it cannot be within the earth’s fluid core (Herndon, 2007, 2009). When a rock on earth’s surface cools through the Curie point(s) of its magnetic mineral(s), the rock retains a remanent magnetization which permits reconstructing the direction, and, to a less precise degree, the intensity of the prevailing magnetic field at the time of cooling. Extensive paleomagnetic investigations have shown that the geomagnetic field has been in existence for at least 3.5 billion years; older rocks sufficiently unaltered for making paleomagnetic measurements have not been found. Except for brief reversals of direction, which occur irregularly with an average time between reversals of about 200,000 years, the geomagnetic field has been remarkably stable. In fact, there have been periods for some 40 or more million years with no reversals at all (Juarez, Tauxe, Gee, & Pick, 1998). The long term stability of the geomagnetic field, as shown by Herndon (2007, 2009), is inconsistent with Elsasser’s idea of the field being produced by a self-excited dynamo mechanism within the earth’s fluid core, which depends critically on the existence of long term stable convection. Chandrasekhar (1957: 323) defined convection in the following way: The simplest example of thermally induced convection arises when a horizontal layer of fluid is heated from below and an adverse temperature gradient is maintained. The adjective ‘adverse’ is used to qualify the prevailing temperature gradient, since, on account of thermal expansion, the fluid at the bottom becomes lighter than the fluid at the top; and this is a topheavy arrangement which is potentially unstable. Under these circumstances the fluid will try to redistribute itself to redress this weakness in its arrangement. This is how thermal convection originates: It represents the efforts of the fluid to restore to itself some degree of stability.

For stable convection to exist for extended periods of time in the earth’s fluid core, it is necessary that an adverse temperature gradient be maintained for extended periods of time so that heat produced beneath the fluid core will cause the fluid at the bottom of the core to be lighter, more buoyant, making it rise to the top of the

123

Demise of the Geomagnetic Field

2209

core, bringing the heat with it. To maintain that “adverse temperature gradient” for extended periods of time requires the temperature at the top of the fluid core to be maintained at a lower temperature than at the bottom of the fluid core. The top of the fluid core can only remain cooler than the bottom of the core if the heat brought to top by convection and by thermal conduction can be efficiently removed. And, therein lays the problem. The earth’s fluid core is wrapped in an insulating blanket, a rock shell, the mantle, that is more than 2,100 mi (3,400 km) thick, and which has a considerably lower heat capacity and lower thermal conductivity than the fluid core. Thus heat brought to the top of the core cannot be efficiently removed by thermal conduction. The solid rock shell also has a considerably higher viscosity than the fluid core which means that heat brought to the top of the fluid core cannot be efficiently removed by convection in the rock shell. In other words, in the fluid core, an adverse temperature gradient cannot be maintained for extended periods of time, and thus convection cannot be sustained for extended periods of time. The implication is quite clear: Either the geomagnetic field is generated by a process other than the dynamo-mechanism, or there exists another fluid region within the deep-interior of earth which can sustain convection for extended periods of time. The latter appears to be the case. When Elsasser (1939) envisioned convection-driven, dynamo action in the earth’s fluid core as the mechanism for generating the geomagnetic field, there was only one known or suspected fluid reservoir in our planet’s deep interior. More than half a century elapsed before the requisite discoveries were made which opened the possibility of another. Oldham (1906) discovered the earth’s core. Three decades later, Lehmann (1936) discovered the much-smaller, solid inner core within the fluid core. About the time of Elsasser’s (1939) geo-dynamo concept, Birch (1940) and others, believing the Earth to have the composition of an ordinary chondrite meteorite, erroneously deduced the composition of the inner core to be iron metal in the process of freezing from the fluid core. In the late 1970s, Herndon realized that discoveries made in the 1960s admitted a different possibility, viz., that the inner core consists of fully crystallized nickel silicide and that Earth, in the main, is like an enstatite chondrite meteorite, not an ordinary chondrite (Herndon 1979, 1980, 2005a). Because earth, like certain enstatite chondrites, formed under conditions which severely limited available oxygen, the implications are profound, leading to a fundamentally different understanding of the deep-interior of Earth, including uranium existing in the core, and of global geophysical processes (Herndon, 2005b, 2006a, 2006b, 2007, 2009). Before the late 1960s scientists thought that planets do not produce energy, except for tiny amounts from the decay of a few radioactive elements; planets just absorb and re-radiate energy from the sun. Then, in the late 1960s, astronomers discovered that Jupiter radiates about twice as much energy as it receives from the sun. The same is true for Saturn and Neptune (Aumann, Gillespie, & Low, 1969). For two decades, the internally-generated energy radiated from the giant gaseous planets could not be explained in a logical and causally related way. For example, the idea that Jupiter’s internally-generated energy might be a relic left over from planetary

2210

J.M. Herndon

formation some 4.6 billion years ago did not make sense because Jupiter is 98% a mixture of hydrogen and helium, both of which transfer heat quite efficiently. While contemplating the internal energy production observed from Jupiter, Saturn, and Neptune, Herndon realized that the giant planets have all the ingredients for planetary-scale nuclear fission reactors at their centers. Applying Fermi’s nuclear reactor theory for the giant-planet reactors, Herndon (1992) demonstrated the feasibility of planetocentric nuclear fission reactors as energy sources for the giant outer planets. Herndon’s next step was to realize that without hydrogen a planetocentric nuclear reactor could function as a fast neutron breeder reactor. That bit of insight opened the possibility for central nuclear fission reactors in the non-hydrogenous planets, like earth. Herndon (1993) published the concept and supporting calculations in an article entitled “Feasibility of a nuclear fission reactor at the center of Earth as the energy source for the geomagnetic field” in the Journal of Geomagnetism and Geoelectricity. He followed and extended the concept year later, in an article in the Proceedings of the Royal Society of London (Herndon, 1994). The georeactor, as it is now called, is comparably simple in structure, as shown schematically in Fig. 123.1. Thought to reside within the inner core at the center of the earth, the georeactor sub-core consists of the actinide fuel, uranium and the heaver fissionable elements, such as plutonium, formed by the breeding process.

Fig. 123.1 The mean radius of earth is about 3,960 mi (6,373 km). By contrast the radius of the georeactor is only about 6 mi (10 km), although there is much uncertainty in that estimate. The georeactor, thought to reside within the inner core at the center of earth, is comparably simple in structure. The georeactor sub-core consists of the actinide fuel, the uranium and heaver fissionable elements, such as plutonium, formed by the fission process. The surrounding sub-shell, which is thought to be liquid or a slurry, consists of radioactive decay products and fission products. Heat produced by nuclear fission in the sub-core, causes convection in the sub-shell which will interact with the Coriolis forces produced by planetary rotation and act like a dynamo, a magnetic amplifier, generating the geomagnetic field (Herndon, 2007, 2009). (Source: Maverick’s Earth and Universe, Herndon 2008, with permission)

123

Demise of the Geomagnetic Field

2211

The surrounding sub-shell, which he first mentioned as possibly being liquid or a slurry (Herndon, 1996), consists of the less-dense radioactive decay products and fission products. At the time, Herndon considered the georeactor as just being the energy source for powering the mechanism responsible for generating the geomagnetic field. One decade later, he recognized the impossibility of long term stable convection in the earth’s fluid core and realized that impediments to earth-core convection would be obviated for sustained convection in the georeactor sub-shell (Herndon, 2007, 2009). Herndon has suggested that the geomagnetic field originates as consequence of a self-exciting dynamo-like action, not in the earth’s fluid core, but in the georeactor sub-shell (Herndon, 2007, 2009). He has pointed out that impediments to earth-core convection, that is, the impossibility of maintaining an adverse temperature gradient for extended periods of time, would not apply within the georeactor sub-shell, which surrounds the actinide, heat producing sub-core, and which itself is surrounded by the inner core, acting as a heat sink, surrounded by another heat sink, the core, both of which are reasonably good conductors of heat. Moreover, radioactive decay of the neutron-rich fission products in the georeactor sub-shell assures a continuous supply of charged particles for establishing a seed-field for dynamo initiation. The georeactor is both the energy source and generating mechanism for Earth’s magnetic field. Currently active internally generated magnetic fields have been detected in six planets (Mercury, Earth, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune) and in one satellite (Jupiter’s moon Ganymede). Magnetized surface areas of Mars and the Moon indicate the former existence of internally generated magnetic fields in those bodies. Herndon (2008) has suggested that the mechanisms for generating planetary and satellite magnetic fields and for providing their requisite energy arise from the same georeactor-type mechanism which he suggested generates and powers the earth’s magnetic field. His generalization is based upon fundamental considerations which demonstrate the commonality of highly reduced, deep-earth type matter, particularly within massive-cored planets of our Solar System (Herndon, 2006b, 2007, 2009) and the commonality of georeactor-type operating environments, such as micro-gravity and surrounding heat sinks. Herndon’s initial articles on planetary nuclear fission reactors were derived from calculations made applying Fermi’s nuclear reactor theory (Fermi, 1947). Although powerful, that technique has limitations, especially as relates to fuel breeding reactions and fission product compositions. Because of the importance of nuclear fission in military, national defense, and commercial activities, for more than three decades the U.S. Government has supported at Oak Ridge National Laboratory the development of computer programs to numerically simulate the operation of different types of reactors. The software has been validated from actual nuclear reactor operating data combined with analyses of spent fuel rods. With minor modifications to the software to allow geological operation times and to permit removal of fission products, the Oak Ridge software became applicable for georeactor calculations. The Oak Ridge georeactor numerical simulations showed that the georeactor could operate as a fast neutron breeder reactor over the lifetime of the earth and

2212

J.M. Herndon

would produce energy at a level estimated to be appropriate to power the geomagnetic field (Hollenbach & Herndon, 2001). Moreover, the fission products provided strong evidence for the existence of the georeactor and the first indication of impending georeactor demise (Herndon, 2003). When an actinide nucleus (such as 235 U) fissions, it typically splits into two more-or-less equally massive pieces. But once in every 10,000 fission events, the nucleus splits into three pieces, two massive pieces and a very light one. Tritium, 3 H, is one prominent ternary fission product which beta decays, with a half-life of 12.3 years, into 3 He. In the late 1960s, helium, a mixture of 3 He and 4 He, was observed venting from within the Earth. The relative amount of 3 He measured in oceanic basalt was greater than the 3 He proportion of atmospheric helium and thus could not be atmospheric contamination. At the time there was no known deep-Earth process for producing the amounts of 3 He observed. As a consequence, for decades, the ad hoc explanation proffered was that the 3 He was a primordial component, trapped at the time of Earth’s origin, which was mixed with nine times the amount of 4 He from radioactive decay. Figure 123.2 from (Herndon, 2008) shows two georeactor numerical simulation results, calculated at power levels of 3 and 5 terawatts, for the helium ternary fission products expressed as the ratio of 3 He to 4 He, normalized to the same ratio in air. For comparison, ranges of values are shown for helium ratios measured in samples from

Fig. 123.2 Oak Ridge National Laboratory georeactor numerical simulation calculated 3 He/4 He ratios, normalized to the same ratio in air, as a function of time. For comparison, ranges of values are shown for helium ratios measured in samples from mid-oceanic ridges. Note the ascent of georeactor helium ratios approaching the present age of earth, indicated by the arrow. Georeactor helium ratios increase as the uranium fuel becomes depleted. Comparably high values are observed in certain deep-source lavas, such as those from Hawaii and Iceland, are evidence that the end of the georeactor’s life is approaching, although the time-scale is not precisely known. (Source: Maverick’s Earth and Universe, Herndon, 2008, with permission)

123

Demise of the Geomagnetic Field

2213

mid-oceanic ridges, where the shaded bands represent the 95% (2σ ) confidence ranges of the measured data. That the measured values shown fall within the range of calculated ternary fission product ratios, without any effort having been made to “tweak” the calculations, stands as strong evidence that the deep-earth helium is of nuclear georeactor origin. Also, note in Fig. 123.2 the general ascent of georeactor helium ratios over time, becoming quite pronounced near the current age of earth, which is indicated by the arrow. This is the reason: the georeactor numerical simulations were made at constant power levels, so over time the rates of production of fission products, including 3 He, are more-or-less constant. 4 He, on the other hand, is produced, not only by nuclear fission, but also by the natural radioactive decay of actinides and their daughters. So as the uranium fuel becomes depleted, the 4 He diminishes causing the 3 He to 4 He ratio to increase. The measured helium ratios shown in Fig. 123.2 from mid-oceanic ridges fall into rather narrow ranges of values, consistent in the main with georeactor values calculated over the life of the earth, except of the high values associated with georeactor-demise. In addition to basalt being brought to the surface at mid-oceanic ridges, basalt is extruded as well from “hot spots,” which, for example, are responsible for forming the Hawaiian Islands and Iceland. Helium measured in Hawaiian and Icelandic samples show 3 He to 4 He ratios, relative to air, having values as high as 37 RA (Hilton, Grönvold, Macpherson, & Castillo, 1999), values characteristic of the end of the georeactor’s life as its supply of uranium is nearing depletion. This is the evidence that the georeactor nears the end of its life. The time-frame for georeactor demise is yet unknown, principally because at present there is no known way to date the time of formation of the helium. In addition, measurement of just a few mineral grains separated from samples taken from large volcanic structures statistically limits inferences. The Hawaiian Islands and the associated Emperor Seamounts were formed in sequence through time as oceanic crust passed over a persistent hot spot. 3 He to 4 He ratios of samples from the Detroit Seamount, which formed 76 million years ago, are higher than from mid-oceanic ridges, which is some indication of the time frame of elevated helium ratios, at least when they were transported to the surface (Keller, Graham, Farley, Duncan, & Lupton, 2004). Although the data are too limited to draw firm conclusions, the highest ratios observed seem to be progressively higher as seamount formation age becomes more recent. Because of the striking correspondence between calculated georeactor helium ratios and corresponding measured oceanic basalt values is such strong evidence for the existence of the georeactor, the pronounced ascent of the 3 He to 4 He ratios, as a consequence of uranium depletion, with the observed high helium ratios is evidence that the end of the georeactor’s life is approaching, although the time scale is not precisely known (Herndon, 2003). As both the energy source and the operant mechanism for generating the geomagnetic field, georeactor demise will bring about geomagnetic field demise. It is, therefore, not too soon to consider the consequences of the collapse of the earth’s magnetic field and to begin to explore megaengineering approaches to limit its adverse consequences on humanity.

2214

J.M. Herndon

The earth’s magnetic field deflects the onslaught of the solar wind, but not always. Occasionally, storms on the sun cause outbursts of solar wind of such intensity as to effectively overwhelm the geomagnetic shield; the effects of that plasma bombardment prefigure what might happen when the geomagnetic field collapses. Greater than usual solar wind flux and plasma storms can: (1) induce electrical currents in the upper atmosphere and in ground-based electrical power grids, damaging equipment and causing power outages; (2) disrupt satellite and land-based communications; (3) short-circuit satellite electronics, (4) induce currents that corrode metal pipelines, and, (5) interfere with navigational systems on ships and aircraft. These effects are observed. It is not difficult to envision the obvious consequences of unshielded, direct solar wind bombardment. One can imagine that vast segments of the population will be without electricity. Electrical power grids, once used solely to convey and distribute electricity to cities and neighborhoods, will act like uncontrolled generators as the charged flux of the rampaging solar wind sweeps past, inducing into their lines suicidal bursts of electrical current that short-circuit and destroy essential elements of the power grid. Powerful, equipment-wrecking electrical currents will likewise be induced in gas and oil pipelines causing explosions and fires. Electrical charges will build up on surfaces everywhere and reach staggeringly high potentials at edges and sharp points, posing risks of electrocution and igniting fires. Satellites will no longer function, their electronics fried by the plasma onslaught; there will be widespread failure of both communication and navigation systems. And, even more seriously, the long term unknown, but certainly adverse, impact on health will be severe. Not surprisingly, without remediation, civilization’s infrastructure may rapidly disintegrate. When the georeactor’s uranium fuel tank is empty, there will be no way to refill it. Geophysicists have estimated the power requirements for the geodynamo as being on the order of 4 terawatts (4 million megawatts), which is only about 80 times the electrical power requirement of an industrial city the size of Tokyo. This modest power requirement admits the possibility that, with planning and resources, megaengineers might devise means to emulate the geomagnetic shield, either from points on the earth’s surface or from space. From a pragmatic standpoint, the first step perhaps would be to devise magnetically shielded regions around population centers. The principal design challenges would be to minimize the solar wind charged particle flux within the habitable zone so as to diminish health risks and to devise means for funneling the solar wind charged particles across a network of conductors to generate electrical current to power the deflector-magnets. A far more ambitious and technologically more extreme solution would be to build in space a solar-wind powered magnetic shield for planet earth. Presently, there is no way to know precisely when the geomagnetic field will fail. But when it does, and it will, life and activities on earth will forever change. Megaengineering approaches, such as sketched here, offer the best hope for humanity’s well-being and, perhaps, for its very survival.

123

Demise of the Geomagnetic Field

2215

References Aumann, H. H., Gillespie, C. M. J., & Low, F. J. (1969). The internal powers and effective temperatures of Jupiter and Saturn. Astrophysical Journal, 157, L69. Birch, F. (1940). The transformation of iron at high pressures, and the problem of the earth’s magnetism. American Journal of Science, 238, 192–211. Chandrasekhar, S. (1957). Thermal convection. Proceedings, American Academy of Arts and Sciences, 86(4), 323–339. Elsasser, W. M. (1939). On the origin of the earth’s magnetic field. Physics Review, 55, 489–498. Fermi, E. (1947). Elementary theory of the chain-reacting pile. Science, 105, 27–32. Gauss, J. C. F. (1838). Allgemeine Theorie des Erdmagnetismus: Resultate aus den Beobachtungen des magnetischen Vereins in Jahre 1838. Wilhelm Weber, Leipzig. Gilbert, W. (1600). De Magnete. London: Peter Short. Herndon, J. M. (1979). The nickel silicide inner core of the earth. Proceedings, Royal Society of London, A368, 495–500. Herndon, J. M. (1980). The chemical composition of the interior shells of the earth. Proceedings, Royal Society of London, A372, 149–154. Herndon, J. M. (1992). Nuclear fission reactors as energy sources for the giant outer planets. Naturwissenschaften, 79, 7–14. Herndon, J. M. (1993). Feasibility of a nuclear fission reactor at the center of the Earth as the energy source for the geomagnetic field. Journal of Geomagnetism and Geoelectricity, 45, 423–437. Herndon, J. M. (1994). Planetary and protostellar nuclear fission: Implications for planetary change, stellar ignition and dark matter. Proceedings, Royal Society of London, A455, 453–461. Herndon, J. M. (1996). Sub-structure of the inner core of the Earth. Proceedings, National Academy of Science, USA, 93, 646–648. Herndon, J. M. (2003). Nuclear georeactor origin of oceanic basalt 3 He/4 He, evidence, and implications. Proceedings, National Academy of Science, USA, 100(6), 3047–3050. Herndon, J. M. (2005a). Scientific basis of knowledge on earth’s composition. Current Science, 88(7), 1034–1037. Herndon, J. M. (2005b). Whole-Earth decompression dynamics. Current Science, 89(10), 1937– 1941. Herndon, J. M. (2006a). Energy for geodynamics: Mantle decompression thermal tsunami. Current Science, 90, 1605–1606. Herndon, J. M. (2006b). Solar system processes underlying planetary formation, geodynamics, and the georeactor. Earth, Moon, and Planets, 99(1), 53–99. Herndon, J. M. (2007). Nuclear georeactor generation of the earth’s geomagnetic field. Current Science, 93(11), 1485–1487. Herndon, J. M. (2008). Maverick’s Earth and Universe. Vancouver: Trafford Publishing. Herndon, J. M. (2009). Nature of planetary matter and magnetic field generation in the solar system. Current Science, 96(8), 1033–1039. Hilton, D. R., Grönvold, K., Macpherson, C. G., & Castillo, P. R. (1999). Extreme 3 He/4 He ratios in northwest Iceland: constraining the common component in mantle plumes. Earth and Planetary Science Letters, 173(1–2), 53–60. Hollenbach, D. F., & Herndon J. M. (2001). Deep-earth reactor: nuclear fission, helium, and the geomagnetic field. Proceedings, National Academy of Science USA, 98(20), 11085–11090. Juarez, M. T., Tauxe, L., Gee, J., & Pick, T. (1998). The intensity of the Earth’s magnetic field over the past 160 million years. Nature, 394, 879–881. Keller, R. A., Graham, D. W., Farley, K. A., Duncan, R. A., & Lupton, J. E. (2004). Cretaceous-torecent record of elevated 3 He/4 He along the Hawaiian-Emperor volcanic chain. Geochemistry, Geophysics, Geosystems, 5(12), 1–10. Lehmann, I. (1936). P’. Publications du Bureau Central Séismologique International, A14, 87–115. Oldham, R. D. (1906). The constitution of the interior of the earth as revealed by earthquakes. Quarterly Journal of the Geological Society of London, 62, 456–476.

Chapter 124

Terraforming Mars: A Review of Concepts Martyn J. Fogg

124.1 Introduction If space exploration can be said to have a purpose beyond that of exploration and understanding of the universe, it is expressed by many involved in space advocacy as space settlement: the founding of new branches of civilization remote from the Earth (e.g. National Commission on Space, 1986). However, the technical issues involved in a permanent stay remote from our comfortable home-world are far from trivial. Initial missions such as visits to other planets, followed by outposts and pioneering settlements, are all likely to have their life-support subsidized in the form of machinery and consumables supplied from Earth (Eckart, 1996). This strategy will not be sustainable for long. To achieve growth and permanency, space-based civilizations must harness local resources in autonomous and stable bioregenerative life-support systems, energized by the sun. Contemplation of this problem has been divided between the study of the settlement of planetary surfaces and interplanetary space. The latter involves the fabrication of large orbiting habitats with landscaped interiors (Johnson & Holbrow, 1977; O Neill, 1977) which must import, contain and recycle all their bio-consumables. Any contained and miniaturized biosphere such as this must inevitably submit to some mechanical involvement in life support, in addition to keeping at bay the lethal vacuum outside. Colonizing a planetary surface, especially one such as Mars where all the chemical requirements of life are to be found, has the advantage of local resources. However, enclosed colonies on planetary surfaces are, in essence, little different from grounded spacecraft in that they must still resist, rather than incorporate, the surrounding environment. This strategy discounts the habitable potential of a planet such as Mars which, due to its gravity well, is inherently capable of hosting a global, uncontained, biosphere similar to that of the Earth (Fogg, 1993a, 1995a; Graham, 2004; McKay & Marinova, 2001). Since the biosphere of the Earth is the one known life-support system capable of self-maintenance over the indefinite time

M.J. Fogg (B) Probability Research Group, London, UK, SE19 1UY e-mail: [email protected]

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_124,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2217

2218

M.J. Fogg

at issue, it follows that the ultimate strategy involved in space settlement will be to create counterpart Earths elsewhere, by engineering sterile planets to life. This hypothetical process is known as terraforming: a word originally coined in science fiction (Williamson, 1942), now adopted by science and officially admitted into the English language (Brown, 1993). It can be defined as (Fogg, 1995a: 9) ...a process of planetary engineering, specifically directed at enhancing the capacity of an extraterrestrial planetary environment to support life. The ultimate in terraforming would be to create an uncontained planetary biosphere emulating all the functions of the biosphere of the Earth—one that would be fully habitable for human beings.

124.2 Ecopoiesis Assuming Mars is indeed a barren planet, then any terraforming process is likely to take Mars on a path from sterility through a continuum of improving habitable states. "Full" terraforming though (the creation of an aerobic biosphere suitable for humans and other animals) is likely to remain a distant, although not impossible, goal. Fortunately however, significant advantages for human habitation will accrue well before full habitability is attained. A denser atmosphere will provide better shielding from cosmic rays, facilitate aerobraking and flight, and would permit the construction of ambient pressure habitats and the replacement of pressure suits with simple breathing gear. Exterior atmospheric, hydrological and biogeochemical cycles could be exploited as sources of power and food. The first biological step in a terraforming process is known as ecopoiesis, a term invented by Haynes (1990) from the Greek roots oικoς, an abode, house or dwelling place, and πoι σις, a fabrication or production. It has been defined as (Fogg, 1995a: 93) ...the fabrication of an uncontained, anaerobic, biosphere on the surface of a sterile planet. As such, it can represent an end in itself or be the initial stage in a more lengthy process of terraforming.

Unfortunately, ecopoiesis cannot be accomplished right away and without preparation, as no known biota can just be scattered on the Martian surface and expected to thrive (for example, Schuerger & Nicholson, 2006). A degree of environmental modification will be required to create the conditions needed for even the hardiest of extremophiles (such as Antarctic cyanobacteria and lichens) to take on Mars as their new home. This initial planetary engineering, leading to ecopoiesis, has been the focus of most terraforming-related research. In order for ecopoiesis to be possible, four principal modifications must be applied to the Martian environment: (1) mean global surface temperature must be increased by ~60 K; (2) the mass of the atmosphere must be increased; (3) liquid water must be made available; and (4) the surface UV and cosmic ray flux must be substantially reduced. These environmental changes would be sufficient to render Mars habitable for certain anaerobic ecosystems, but not, as is often stated, for plant life. An additional

124

Terraforming Mars: A Review of Concepts

2219

requirement for plants is the presence of sufficient atmospheric oxygen to allow for root respiration (Fogg, 1995c), and although this would be much less than that needed for animals to breathe (perhaps as low as pO2 ≈ 20 millibars), such a quantity of oxygen is not expected to be released during initial planetary engineering. Thus, a fifth environmental modification will be needed for further terraforming: (5) atmospheric composition must be altered to increase its oxygen and nitrogen fractions. It is simple to list such requirements, but less easy to imagine engineering them on a planetary scale. However there are two mitigating features of the problem. The first is that all these modifications are related so that effecting one causes the others to move in the desired direction also. For instance, an increase in the mass of the atmosphere improves its capability as a meteor and radiation shield, enhances the greenhouse effect (thus increasing surface temperature), and widens the stability field of liquid water. The second mitigating feature is the possibility of exploiting positive feedback processes intrinsic to the Martian climate system which will serve to amplify any engineered climatic forcing. This would mean that not every additional kilogram of atmosphere, or every degree of temperature rise, would have to be directly "manufactured" by planetary engineers. Instead, a comparatively small forcing could push Mars over an environmental cusp catastrophe whereupon its climate is spontaneously drawn towards a quasi-stable high temperature regime.

124.3 The Runaway CO2 Greenhouse The oldest surfaces of Mars are often noted to be marked by numerous rivercut features, suggesting that the planet was once warmer, possessing a much denser atmosphere predominantly composed of carbon dioxide (Pollack, Kasting, Richardson, & Poliakoff, 1991). Episodes of outburst flooding later on in Martian history may have been sufficient to flood the northern plains of the planet creating short lived oceans (Baker et al., 1991; Clifford & Parker, 2001; Parker, 2008; Perron, Mitrovica, Manga, Matsuyama, & Richards, 2007). Ecopoiesis models of the climatic-feedback-type are inspired by the notion of recreating this archaic “warm and wet” Mars. The principal assumptions of these models are that much of this CO2 is still present on Mars and that it is present in a labile form accessible to planetary engineers. It is proposed that an initial engineered warming of Mars (which need not be very great) will cause some CO2 to enter the atmosphere from surface reservoirs. This change will augment the atmospheric greenhouse effect and increase advective heat transfer to the poles. A further surface warming results which in turn causes more release of CO2 , augmenting the process further (Fig. 124.1). Eventually, it is hoped that atmospheric growth will become self-driving, the original engineered warming having been the trigger for a climatic runaway that terminates in a new high pressure, high temperature regime. This development is what these models have in common. Where they differ is in their assumptions as to the nature of the CO2 reservoir and the engineering method chosen to destabilize it.

2220

M.J. Fogg

Fig. 124.1 Schematic of the runaway greenhouse scenario. (1) Various planetary engineering techniques are used to warm volatile-rich regions on Mars; (2) carbon dioxide in the polar caps and the regolith starts to vaporize; (3) the thicker atmosphere warms the surface and hence causes a further release of gases. If positive feedback is strong enough, self-sustaining outgassing may occur as a result of a comparatively trivial forcing

The first Martian terraforming models to be published in the technical literature were by Burns and Harwit (1973) and Sagan (1973). They were based on the now obsolete "Long Winter Model" of the Martian climate (Sagan, Toon, & Gierasch, 1973) which postulated that up to 1 bar-equivalent of CO2 ice was stored in the polar caps, the episodic release of which was driven by the insolation changes brought about by the 50,000 year precession cycle of the planet s equinoxes. Sagan (1973) speculated that the caps might be evaporated in just ~100 years by artificially reducing their albedo, causing them to absorb more sunlight. A subsequent NASA study (Averner & MacElroy, 1976) suggested this darkening might only have to be quite subtle to trigger runaway conditions, a reduction in polar cap albedo by just a few

124

Terraforming Mars: A Review of Concepts

2221

percent, from 0.77 to 0.73. Blanketing the polar ices with layers of dust, or by the growth of cold-adapted plants were variously suggested as ways of effecting this darkening (Sagan, 1973). However, although the mass of dust indicated by Sagan s calculations did not appear prohibitive, the stability of any thin dust layer when subjected to attrition by the Martian winds is doubtful. As for the plants: none are known that are capable of survival and growth anywhere on the planet’s surface. Today it seems that the residual Martian polar caps are composed principally of water ice (for example, Titus, Kieffer, & Christensen, 2003) with perhaps just a frosting of CO2 or a mix in the form of CO2 hydrate. There are doubts therefore that the caps have a rich enough store of CO2 to satisfy the requirements of the model. However, it is possible that a far greater amount of CO2 might lie adsorbed on mineral grains in the upper layers of the Martian regolith. McKay (1982) suggested that a modest heating of this source might serve to trigger a runaway release of CO2 in an analogous manner to Sagan’s model. This early speculation has been explored further by computer modeling (McKay, Toon, & Kasting, 1991; Zubrin & McKay, 1997). It was shown that if the regolith carbon dioxide is distributed evenly over Mars, then the gas must be very loosely bound for any runaway to occur. For a polar regolith containing an equivalent of 1 bar CO2 the effect works better: an initial warming of the Martian surface by 5–20 K (depending on model parameters) increases the atmospheric pressure to a few tens of millibars at which point a runaway becomes established resulting in a stable end state of ~800 mbar and ~250 K. A 2 bar reservoir would runaway to give a mean surface temperature of ~273 K and a 3 bar reservoir, >280 K. Lovelock and Allaby (1984) suggested that regolith degassing could be triggered by releasing CFC gases into the Martian atmosphere to create an artificial greenhouse effect. Since these chemicals have, molecule for molecule, a greenhouse effect > 10,000 times that of CO2 , residence times of decades to centuries, and are non-toxic, the idea at first sight looked promising. McKay et al. (1991) looked at this question in more detail, modeling a cocktail of CFC gases active in the infrared window region between 8 and 12 μm where CO2 and water vapor have little absorption. They found that a concentration of ~10 ppm of such an absorber would be capable of warming Mars by about +30 K, but that any temperature excursion in excess of this would be prevented by the increasing loss of heat from other spectral regions. However, they also noted that CFCs on Mars are far less stable and long lived than on the Earth since UV radiation between 200 and 300 nm, which breaks the C-Cl bond, is not shielded from the surface by an ozone layer. Residence times for typical CFC molecules are reduced from many years to just hours. Thus, a CFC greenhouse on Mars might work (manufacturing the absolute quantity of trace gases appears feasible), if only for the fact that these gases would require replenishment at an absurd rate. A solution to this problem might be to use perfluoro compounds instead as the C-F bond is much more robust. Perfluorocarbons are so inert that they can survive conditions on Mars and there is considerable scope for designing a wide range of novel gases that might fit the bill (Gerstell, Francisco, Yung, Boxe, & Aaltonee, 2001). Detailed modeling by Marinova, McKay, and Hashimoto (2005) suggests that as little as ~2 ppm of a mixture of C3 F8 , SF6 , C2 F6 and CF4 could

2222

M.J. Fogg

warm Mars by ~20 K which would perhaps be sufficient to degas the polar regolith and trigger a runaway greenhouse effect. Another way to warm Mars would be to increase its input of solar energy by reflecting light that passes the planet down to its surface. The use of orbiting mirrors to do this is a frequent suggestion in terraforming-related discussions (e.g. Oberg, 1981) and some outline designs have been published (Birch, 1992; Fogg, 1995a; McInnes, 2002; Zubrin & McKay 1997). Whilst all are necessarily large in size, they are feasible in principle with masses that are surprisingly modest. A mirror system specifically designed as part of a runaway greenhouse scenario was presented by Zubrin and McKay (1997). By balancing gravitational and light pressure forces, they determined that a 125 km (77.6 mi)-diameter solar sail-mirror could be stationed 214,000 km (148,800 mi) behind Mars where it could illuminate the South Pole with an additional ~27 TW. This mirror should be sufficient to raise the polar temperature by ~5 K which, according to some models, should be sufficient for cap evaporation. At first glance, the size of such a mirror and its mass (200,000 tons of aluminum) may appear too grandiose a concept to take seriously. However, such a mass is equivalent to just five days worth of the Earth s production of aluminum, and while this would be impractical to ship from the Earth, there seems no reason why it might not be obtained by mining and manufacturing in space. The first space mirror has already been tested in Earth orbit (the Russian 20 m Znamia project) and vastly larger variants are possible about Mars. If sufficient CO2 is produced by their heating of the planet s poles, then this might act as the trigger for a much more extensive regolith degassing.

124.4 Problems and Alternatives Runaway greenhouse scenarios of terraforming promise much: that through comparatively modest engineering (at a level far less than the integrated activity of humanity on the Earth) Mars can be transformed into a planet habitable for anaerobic life in roughly a century. Conditions would still be hostile, akin to an arid and chilly Precambrian, but far less so than those on the present Mars. Further terraforming might follow ecopoiesis by, for example, arranging for photosynthesis to oxygenate the atmosphere. Long timescales of > 100,000 years have been cited for this step (Averner & MacElroy, 1976; McKay & Marinova, 2001; McKay et al., 1991) although it appears reasonable that this might be reduced by at least a factor of ten if the biosphere is actively managed to optimize net oxygen production (Fogg, 1993a, 1995a). Although the runaway greenhouse is considered the pre-eminent model, it has been subject to useful criticism and suggestions of engineering alternatives. It seems quite possible (perhaps likely) that if Mars s original inventory of CO2 remains on the planet, then it will have ended up for the most part chemically bound in carbonate minerals, rather than physically bound as the more labile CO2 ice or regolith adsorbate. If this is the case, then re-release of this paleoatmosphere will require extremely energetic processes such as devolatilization of carbonate strata

124

Terraforming Mars: A Review of Concepts

2223

by buried nuclear explosives (Fogg, 1989, 1992), heat beams (Birch, 1992), or asteroid impacts (Zubrin & McKay, 1997). Such activities planet-wide would be highly destructive and are difficult to countenance. Another problem has to do with water: the surface of Mars must be moist to be habitable. Although Mars has visible reserves of water in the polar caps and may have an abundance in the shallow subsurface north and south of 30◦ latitude, it is difficult to make this available to any biosphere. The slow pace of heat conduction through regolith would greatly delay the melting of permafrost and it could be millennia before an appreciable quantity of water has pooled at low elevations (Fogg, 1992, 1995a). There are potential ways around this problem given that flash floods have occurred naturally on Mars, perhaps great enough to have rapidly flooded the northern plains (Baker et al., 1991; Clifford & Parker, 2001; Parker, 2008; Perron et al., 2007). Should source aquifers still exist then it may be possible to destabilize them and duplicate this outburst flooding, but again the engineering required might be violent and unacceptable to many (Fogg, 1992, 1995a). However, detailed models of the Martian hydrological cycle (for example, Clifford, 1993) suggest that the lowest regions on Mars might be underlain by aquifers under artesian pressure. If this situation is the case, then there is hope for the rapid creation of lowland lakes with little more hardware than pumps and drilling rigs (Fogg, 1999).

124.5 Conclusions At the present time, all research into planetary engineering, whether applied to Mars or anywhere else, is concerned entirely with defining the boundaries of the possible, rather than in charting some definite route into the future. The concept can no longer be described as fantasy, although confirmation of its practicality awaits a detailed exploration of Mars, an inventory of its resources, a better understanding of the phenomenon of planetary habitability, and a future where the solar system is opened to technological civilization as a new and expanding frontier. Apart from its possible role as a long range goal for space exploration, today, such work is valuable as a stimulating, interdisciplinary, thought experiment with uses in education, terrestrial planetology, and the entertainment media (Fogg, 1993b, 1995a). The range of subjects potentially within its remit is large. Interest has been shown in identifying species of cold and desiccation-resistant micro-organisms that might be assembled into the first ecosystems to pioneer the Red Planet (Friedmann, Hua, & Ocampo-Friedmann, 1993). The potential of genetically engineering even hardier "marsbugs" has been discussed (Averner & MacElroy, 1976; Hiscox & Thomas, 1995). If terraforming is possible, then ought it to be permitted? Can changing the face of a planet represent a moral act? What if extant life is found within still warm, deep-seated, Martian aquifers? The extension of earth-bound environmental ethics into a cosmic setting opens up whole new areas of philosophical and cultural debate (Fogg, 1993c; Haynes, 1990; Haynes & McKay, 1992; McKay, 1990; MacNiven, 1995; Turner, 1990, 1996).

2224

M.J. Fogg

Currently though we cannot say whether life can really take hold on the Red Planet. We know too little about Mars, and not enough about the Earth and its habitability. To find out for certain we will probably have to send humans to Mars to explore the planet as part of living there (Fogg, 1995b; Zubrin, 1995).

References Averner, M. M., & MacElroy, R. D. (1976). On the habitability of Mars: An approach to planetary ecosynthesis. Washington, DC: NASA SP-414. Baker, V. R., Strom, R. G., Gulick, V. C., Kargel, J. S., Komatsu, G., & Kale, V. S. (1991). Ancient oceans, ice sheets and the hydrological cycle on Mars. Nature, 352, 589. Birch, P. (1992). Terraforming Mars quickly, Journal of the British Interplanetary Society, 45, 331. Brown, L. (1993). The new shorter Oxford English Dictionary (Vol. 2 (N-Z)). Oxford: Clarendon Press. Burns, J. A., & Harwit, M. (1973). Towards a more habitable Mars -or-the coming Martian spring. Icarus, 19, 126. Clifford, S. M. (1993). A model for the hydrological and climatic behavior of water on Mars. Journal of Geophysical Research, 98, 10973. Clifford, S. M., & Parker, T. J. (2001). The evolution of the Martian hydrosphere: Implications of the fate of a primordial ocean and the current state of the Northern Plains. Icarus, 154, 40. Eckart, P. (1996). Spaceflight life support and biospherics. Dordrecht: Kluwer. Fogg, M. J. (1989). The creation of an artificial dense Martian atmosphere: A major obstacle to the terraforming of Mars. Journal of the British Interplanetary Society, 42, 577. Fogg, M. J. (1992). A synergic approach to terraforming Mars. Journal of the British Interplanetary Society, 45, 315. Fogg, M. J. (1993a). Dynamics of a terraformed Martian biosphere. Journal of the British Interplanetary Society, 46, 293. Fogg, M. J. (1993b). Terraforming: A review for environmentalists. The Environmentalist, 13, 7. Fogg, M. J. (1993c). The ethical dimensions of space settlement. Space Policy, 16, 205. Fogg, M. J. (1995a). Terraforming: Engineering planetary environments. Warrendale, PA: SAE International. Fogg, M. J. (1995b). Exploration of the future habitability of Mars. Journal of the British Interplanetary Society, 48, 301. Fogg, M. J. (1995c). Terraforming Mars: Conceptual solutions to the problem of plant growth in low concentrations of oxygen. Journal of the British Interplanetary Society, 48, 427. Fogg, M. J. (1999). Artesian basins on Mars: Implications for life-search, settlement and terraforming. In J. A. Hiscox (Ed.), The search for life on Mars (pp. 66–72). London: British Interplanetary Society. Friedmann, E. I., Hua, M., & Ocampo-Friedmann, R. (1993). Terraforming Mars: Dissolution of carbonate rocks by cyanobacteria. Journal of the British Interplanetary Society, 46, 291. Gerstell, M. F., Francisco, J. F., Yung, Y. L., Boxe, C., & Aaltonee, E. T. (2001). Keeping Mars warm with new super-greenhouse gases. Proceedings, National Academy of Science, 98, 2154. Graham, J. M. (2004). The biological terraforming of Mars: Planetary ecosynthesis as ecological succession on a global scale. Astrobiology, 4, 168. Haynes, R. H. (1990). Ecce ecopoiesis: Playing God on Mars. In D. MacNiven (Ed.), Moral expertise (pp. 161–183). London and New York: Routledge. Haynes, R. H., & McKay, C. P. (1992). The implantation of life on Mars: Feasibility and motivation, Advances in Space Research, 12(4), 133. Hiscox, J. A., & Thomas, D. J. (1995). Genetic modification and selection of micro-organisms for growth on Mars. Journal of the British Interplanetary Society, 48, 419.

124

Terraforming Mars: A Review of Concepts

2225

Johnson, R. D., & Holbrow, C. (1977). Space settlements: A design study. Washington, DC: NASA SP-413. Lovelock, J. E., & Allaby, M. (1984). The greening of Mars. New York: Warner Brothers. MacNiven, D. (1995). Environmental ethics and planetary engineering. Journal of the British Interplanetary Society, 48, 441. Marinova, M. M., McKay, C. P., & Hashimoto, H. (2005). Radiative-convective model of warming Mars with artificial greenhouse gases. Journal of Geophysical Research, 110, E03002. doi:10.1029/2004JE002306. McInnes, C. R. (2002). Non-Keplerian orbits for Mars solar reflectors. Journal of the British Interplanetary Society, 55, 78. McKay, C. P. (1982). Terraforming Mars. Journal of the British Interplanetary Society, 35, 427. McKay, C. P. (1990). Does Mars have rights? An approach to the environmental ethics of planetary engineering, In D. MacNiven (Ed.), Moral expertise (pp. 184–197). London and New York: Routledge. McKay, C. P., & Marinova, M. M. (2001). The physics, biology, and environmental ethics of making Mars habitable. Astrobiology, 1, 89. McKay, C. P., Toon, O. B., & Kasting, J. F. (1991). Making Mars habitable. Nature, 352, 489. National Commission on Space. (1986). Pioneering the space frontier. New York: Bantam Books. Oberg, J. E. (1981). New earths. New York: New American Library. O Neill, G. K. (1977). The high frontier. London: Jonathan Cape Ltd. Parker, T. J. (2008). Martian outflow channels and ocean hypothesis, LPI, 39.2496P (2008). Perron, J. T., Mitrovica, J. X., Manga, M., Matsuyama, I., & Richards, M. A. (2007). Evidence for an ancient Martian ocean in the topography of deformed shorelines, Nature, 447, 840. Pollack, J. B., Kasting, J. F., Richardson, S. M., & Poliakoff, K. (1991). The case for a wet, warm climate on early Mars. Icarus, 94, 1. Sagan, C. (1973). Planetary engineering on Mars. Icarus, 20, 513. Sagan, C., Toon, O. B., & Gierasch, P. J. (1973). Climatic change on Mars. Science, 181, 1045. Schuerger, A. C., & Nicholson, W. L. (2006). Interactive effects of hypobaria, low temperature, and CO2 atmospheres inhibit the growth of mesophilic Bacillus spp. under simulated Martian conditions, Icarus, 185, 143. Titus, T. N., Kieffer, H. H., & Christensen, P. R. (2003). Exposed water ice discovered near the South Pole of Mars. Science, 299, 1048. Turner, F. (1990). Life on Mars, Cultivating a planet–and ourselves, Harper s Magazine, 279(1671), 33. Turner, F. (1996). Worlds without ends. Reason, 28(2), 36. Williamson, J., writing as Stewart, W. (1942). Collision orbit. Astounding Science Fiction, 39 (5), 80. Zubrin, R., & McKay, C. P. (1997). Technological requirements for terraforming Mars. Journal of the British Interplanetary Society, 50, 83. Zubrin, R. (1995). The economic viability of Mars colonization. Journal of the British Interplanetary Society, 48, 407.

Chapter 125

Planetary Ecosynthesis on Mars and Geo-Engineering on Earth: Can We? Should We? Will We? Christopher P. McKay

Some men see things as they are and say ‘why?’ I dream things that never were and say ‘Why not?’ –George Bernard Shaw

125.1 Introduction Humans have demonstrated that they are capable of altering environments on planetary scales. We have inadvertently changed the climate of the Earth by enhancing the greenhouse effect. The full effects of this change will be realized in the next few decades. Humans have endured global climate change many times in the past; the end of the last ice ages, the desertification of the Sahara, the medieval warm period, the little ice age, the great dust bowl events, etc. However in the past human civilization had little understanding of the changes about them and no option for intervening in that change. No more. Now our understanding of the Earth systems allows us to precisely determine the global state and contemplate impending change and lay out options for altering it. The debate is difficult and the case for purposeful intervention is hard to make. Paradoxically, most of us are more willing to accept inadvertent climate change than purposeful geo-engineering. It seems we more willing to destroy than to repair as long as intentionality is absent. In an interesting way, studies of planetary ecosynthesis on Mars mirror studies of climate change and geo-engineering on Earth. The fundamental step in making Mars habitable is to warm the planet – exactly what we are doing on Earth. Serious studies of climate modification on Mars, preceded geo-engineering studies on Earth and in a way motivated them. The thought of making Mars habitable by purposeful action opened up the path to thinking about keeping Earth habitable by purposeful action.

C.P. McKay (B) Space Science Division, NASA Ames Research Center, Moffett Field, CA 94035, USA e-mail: [email protected] S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_125,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2227

2228

C.P. McKay

It is clear that geo-engineering will be needed on Earth. The debate needs to start with can we, but must move beyond to should we and will we. Thinking about planetary ecosynthesis on Mars may continue to guide us in our thinking about maintaining the Earth.

125.2 Earth First We naïvely perceive nature as constant and conclude that without human influence it would form an unchanging setting that always has and always will support the same complex and diverse biosphere we see today. This deeply engrained impression is an illusion that results from the fact that the timescale of human perception and even human history is tiny compared to the age of the Earth and to the rate that the Earth system changes. Over geological history, the environment of the Earth has changed over a range that is much larger than the survivability of humans as a biological species. The Precambrian was the longest geological epoch, encompassing ~85% of Earth’s history; it lasted until to 0.6 billion years ago. During the Precambrian the levels of oxygen in the atmosphere would be well below the breathing limit of most animals including humans. Even within the geological period of time, the Phanerozoic, during with oxygen levels were breathable by humans, there have been profound environmental changes wrought by sea level changes and continental motion. There have been periods when the Earth was encased in ice – the Snowball Earth. In contrast, a mere 35 million years ago, the Earth was so warm that there were palm trees in the polar regions and permanent ice was nowhere to be found. On even shorter scales, human civilization arose in an interglacial period within an extensive period of glacial conditions. Chicago was under 1 km of ice as recently as 18,000 years ago. The medieval warming period and the little ice age that followed had important effects on recent history. Imposed on these natural changes in the Earth system is the effect of human activity, particularly in terms of increasing greenhouse gas and carbon dioxide concentrations and aerosol loading in the atmosphere. Global warming due to the increased greenhouse effect of carbon dioxide and a concomitant reduction in day to night contrast due to aerosols is now well documented. More uncertain is how this global warming will play out in terms of weather changes and sea level rises. Sea level rises in particular will pose significant challenges to human cities, many of which are along the coast. There have been suggestions that humans take an active role to counter the unintended consequences of anthropogenic emissions. Among the many and diverse suggestions two are worth citing; the original suggestion of John Martin (e.g. Martin, 1990) that iron fertilization of the southern ocean would sequester carbon dioxide in significant amounts and the recent suggest by Paul Crutzen (2006) that aerosol injection into the high stratosphere be seriously studied. The iron fertilization idea is important because of its relative practicality and simplicity. It has

125

Planetary Ecosynthesis on Mars and Geo-Engineering on Earth

2229

received considerable attention and even sea trials with varying results. The paper of Crutzen (2006) is important because of his stature in the atmospheric science community. The reasonable counter to these ideas of geo-engineering projects to offset global warming is that they merely treat the symptom and leave the underlying problem, viz., anthropogenic emissions, unaltered. There is certainly common sense to the argument that before we invest heavily in uncertain technological solutions we should at least try to reduce our emissions. The hope would be that such a reduction would eliminate the problem. A focus on conservation and sustainability may remove the need for geoengineering in the short term, but eventually we will be faced with natural changes in the Earth system that will pose even greater threats to human infrastructure and even may even threaten the habitability of large fractions of the Earth’s surface. Ironically, the most likely next-such challenge will be an impending ice age. Geo-engineering may then need to focus on promoting global warming rather than ameliorating it. But the timescales are different, anthropogenic genetic global warming is a problem for the next several decades while natural global cooling may be a problem that only starts in the next few millennium. The lesson is clear. Human civilization has survived for 5 millennia. If it is to persist for timescales that are orders of magnitude longer than this then we will be faced with anthropogenic and natural environmental changes that will require active geo-engineering to reverse. It is not a question of if, just of when and how. It is incorrect to think that the Earth is a perfectly regulated system that is aligned with the interests of human civilization. It is equally incorrect to assume that the best alternative in the face of change is for human civilization to passively adapt. While it may be possible in principle to move huge population centers from the coast as sea level rises, one look at the history of the Netherlands shows that this is not our way. We will take up geo-engineering.

125.3 On Mars Studies of Mars by spacecraft have indicated that it was once a wetter, more habitable world than the cold desert planet of today. Dried stream beds and river channels attest to liquid water flow on the surface. There is even evidence that the northern lowlands may have held an ocean. The geological data indicate that the main epoch of liquid water activity was very early in Mars’ history, although some limited level of liquid water activity may have continued even to the present time. It is not clear how or when Mars lost its thicker atmosphere and as a result lost its habitable environment. There are three main hypotheses. One suggestion is that the primarily carbon dioxide atmosphere was lost to mineralization, forming carbonate, a process known to have occurred on Earth. However without plate tectonics to recycle the carbonates, the atmosphere of Mars, in contrast to the Earth, would have become steadily thinner. An alternative suggestion is that Mars lost its atmosphere simply due to the fact that it gravity is 0.38 times that that of the Earth. Finally, it

2230

C.P. McKay

Fig. 125.1 Habitable compositions for plants and for humans. Bar shows the minimum or maximum allowed for each gas as indicated by arrows. Envelope show total pressure required. (Based on data from McKay et al., 1991)

has been suggested that the lack of a magnetic field on Mars resulted in the direct impingement of the solar wind on the Martian atmosphere resulting in stripping of mass. In all three hypotheses the fundamental reason Mars loses its atmosphere while the Earth does not, is that the mass of Mars is about one-tenth of the mass of the Earth. The evidence that Mars was habitable in the past is important in two ways to the question of planetary ecosynthesis. First, it provides a proof in principle that Mars can support a habitable state on timescales that, while short over the age of the solar system, are long in human terms. Second, past habitability suggests that the compounds necessary to build a biosphere, water, carbon dioxide, and nitrogen, may still be present on Mars is quantities adequate to restore habitability. This latter point is key. If Mars does not have sufficient inventory of these necessary compounds, then planetary ecosynthesis is beyond foreseeable technologies. The minimal amount of material required to make Mars habitable is shown in Fig. 125.1 for low oxygen (plants) and high oxygen (humans) cases (McKay, Toon, & Kasting, 1991). If the basic building blocks of a biosphere are present on Mars, then the important first step in restoring that planet to habitability is warming it. The only practical approach to warming Mars available at the present is similar to the method we are employing to warm the Earth, that is, the release of greenhouse gases into the atmosphere. This was first suggested for Mars by Lovelock and Allaby (1984) with gases carried from Earth. McKay et al. (1991) considered the idea quantitatively and suggested that the gases would have to be produced on Mars. Marinova, McKay, and Hashimoto (2005) showed that long-lived gases composed of fluorine compounds (C3 F8 , C2 F6 , SF6 , CF4 ) would give move warming per unit mass and minimize detrimental side effects on the ozone photochemistry. The amount of warming resulting from these gases is shown in Fig. 125.2. Warming Mars using fluorine-based greenhouse gases is certainly possible. The timescale to warm Mars can be estimated from the energy required. The only practical energy source is the sunlight incident on the Martian surface. McKay et al. (1991) computed that it would take about 10 years of sunlight to warm the surface of Mars to an average temperature of +15ºC, the average temperature of the Earth’s

125

Planetary Ecosynthesis on Mars and Geo-Engineering on Earth

2231

Fig. 125.2 Greenhouse warming as an amount of greenhouse gases added to present Martian atmosphere for fluorine gases as labeled. Dotted line is for an optimal combination of the four gases. (Adapted from Marinova et al., 2005)

surface. Calculations also show that it would take 17 years of Martian sunlight to produce enough oxygen to support human breathing. These timescales seem short, but they assume 100% efficiency. Thus, the question of the timescale to warm Mars and create a breathable oxygen-rich atmosphere is not one of energy availability, but one of energy efficiency. The plausible efficiency of a greenhouse in warming Mars might be as high at 10%. This would imply a warming timescale of 100 years. The plausible efficiency for producing oxygen from atmospheric carbon dioxide is 0.01%, the average efficiency for the biosphere on Earth (McKay et al., 1991). With this low efficiency the timescale for oxygen production is over 100,000 years, far beyond the human timescale. From this energy and efficiency calculation it is clear that warming Mars and restoring a thick carbon dioxide atmosphere on that planet may be possible in human timescales. However, creating breathable atmosphere concentrations is well beyond human timescales or beyond present technology.

125.4 Discussion Given that it is clear that we can begin geo-engineering on Earth and could also begin planetary ecosynthesis on Mars, it is important to consider the environmental ethics of these activities (cf. McKay, 1990, 2009). Geo-engineering on Earth is human self-preservation pure and simple. It is hard to argue that anything we do in the realm of geo-engineering represents an improvement in the ecology of the Earth. In the near term it is at best, a mitigation of our human impact. In the longer

2232

C.P. McKay

term, it is a desire to maintain a environmental status quo to which we humans have adapted and are heavily invested. It is a strictly utilitarian exercise defined in the human reference frame. On Mars the ethical background of planetary ecosynthesis is quite different than geo-engineering on Earth. Mars clearly lacks a flourishing biosphere – it may have lost one years ago. Any attempt to re-create a biosphere on Mars can only improve the situation there. An exciting possibility is that Mars has an indigenous life form, viz., a true second genesis of life distinct from Earth life – that can be restored as the biological basis of a restored biosphere. We then create a second biosphere with a second type of life. The worse that can happen is that the attempt fails and Mars once again lapses into the lifeless cold. While on Earth our technology is bent – appropriately and necessarily, on self preservation, On Mars is can be directed to creation, restoration, and enrichment. It may well be the first positive ecological action of the human species. To directly answer the questions I posed in the title. Geo-engineering on Earth is clearly something we can do; we have demonstrated it already by inadvertent global warming. It is something we should do with careful planning and will do when faced with natural climate cycles that threaten to disrupt human infrastructure. On Mars, it also appears that we are capable of planetary ecosynthesis. The arguments for doing this on Mars are less immediate than geo-engineering on Earth, but I think they are compelling. So I would also answer yes to planetary ecosynthesis on Mars; If we can, then we should, and we will. The scientific return will be worth the investment.

References Crutzen, P. J. (2006). Albedo enhancement by stratospheric sulfur injections: A contribution to resolve a policy dilemma? Climatic Change, 77, 211–219. Lovelock, J. E., & Allaby, M. (1984). The greening of Mars. New York: St. Martin’s. Marinova, M. M., Mckay, C. P., & Hashimoto, H. (2005). Radiative-convective model of warming Mars with artificial greenhouse gases. Journal of Geophysical Research, 110, E03002, doi:10.1029/2004JE002306. Martin, J. H. (1990). Glacial-interglacial CO2 change: The iron hypothesis. Paleoceanography, 5(1), 1–13. McKay, C. P. (1990). Does Mars have rights? An approach to the environmental ethics of planetary engineering. In D. MacNiven (Ed.), Moral expertise (pp. 184–197). New York: Routledge. McKay, C. P. (2009). Planetary ecosynthesis on Mars: Restoration ecology and environmental ethics. In C. Bertka (Ed.), Exploring the origin, extent, and future of life: Philosophical, ethical, and theological perspectives (pp. 245–260). New York: Cambridge Press. McKay, C. P., Toon, O. B., & Kasting, J. F. (1991). Making Mars habitable. Nature, 352, 489–496.

Chapter 126

Global Warming and the Specter of Geoengineering: Ecological Apocalypse, Modernist Hubris, and Scientific-Technological Salvation in Kim Stanley Robinson’s Global Warming Trilogy Ernest J. Yanarella and Christopher Rice

126.1 Introduction Mounting evidence of the rise of global warming and growing anxiety over possible societal ramifications from incipient climate change over the past two decades has triggered a number of responses within popular culture. Writer-director Roland Emmerich released the eco-apocalyptic film, “The Day After Tomorrow,” in 2004, capitalizing upon diffuse public worries over this uncertain phenomenon and heightening scientific studies supporting alarming trends in average world temperatures and climate conditions (wind, fire, floods, etc.) in certain parts of the globe. The following year, writer and TV producer Michael Crichton’s novel, State of Fear, sought to allay popular apprehensions by mixing alleged fact and veiled fiction to indict the strategies and manipulations of craven, elitist scientists and radical environmentalists for fabricating a global warming scare to advance their political power and policy influence at the expense of the nation’s, and the world’s, welfare and best interests. Then, beginning that same year, science fiction writer Kim Stanley Robinson’s Forty Signs of Rain launched his “Science in the Capital” trilogy dedicated to examining a near-term future affected by abrupt climate change triggered by the shutdown of the thermohaline circulation, which has historically warmed parts of Europe above average temperatures its latitude would otherwise merit. In late 2005 and then 2007, the second and third books, Fifty Degrees Below and Sixty Days and Counting, were published, describing for readers how a series of scientifically plausible ecological calamities attributable to rising carbon dioxide levels in the atmosphere might occur and galvanize the American, and indeed world, scientific community to respond with scientific and technological weapons to reverse severe climate change and mitigate its worst societal and environmental repercussions. Although the first two cultural renderings of the problem of climate change were generally panned for their sensationalism and implausibility, Robinson’s “Science E.J. Yanarella (B) Department of Political Science, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, USA e-mail: [email protected] S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4_126,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2233

2234

E.J. Yanarella and C. Rice

in the Capital” series was widely applauded for its scientific accuracy and praised for its higher artistic standards relative to Emmerich’s soapy script and special effects gimmickry and Crichton’s conspiracy spinning and stereotyping generating campaign to close off public debate and political action. Small wonder, given that Kim Stanley Robinson has emerged from obscurity to international acclaim within the science fiction community with stories and then novels marked by technical ingenuity, social and political significance, and philosophical depth. A former student of critical Marxist literary theorist Frederic Jameson, Robinson has been among the few contemporary SF writers to use this fictional genre to introduce and develop knotty philosophical issues from critical theory, existential phenomenology, poststructuralism, and Western Marxism. Like Brian Aldiss, Ursula LeGuin, and Samuel Delany, he has combined SF writing of the highest quality with studied self-reflection about science fiction as literary craft and medium of cultural politics operating within the context of the crisis of late modernity and its Enlightenment faith. This essay seeks to spotlight the good, the bad, and the ugly in Robinson’s trilogy by exposing his deep-seated Enlightenment assumptions about modern science and the scientific community, his fascination with fast-time scenarios, his license to Science and scientists to utilize industrial-strength geoengineering techniques to refashion or repair Earth’s ecosystem, and perhaps his political liberalism. In the process, it contrasts trends in the techno-corporate world affirming precisely the Big Science solutions advanced by Robinson in his trilogy with more difficult, but more promising alternatives emerging from post-Enlightenment responses to global warming as a cultural and political economic crisis emanating both from voices of grassroots organizations and postmodern ecological thinkers. The paper’s critique also juxtaposes Robinson’s more technocratically-oriented geoengineering approach to responding to abrupt climate change against his more politically sensitive reading of the global warming problem—one that recommends both more technologically restrained and culturally grounded options for confronting global warming and the possibilities of rapid climate change. In the process we raise the issue of why Robinson the science fiction writer contradicts Robinson, public citizen and political actor, and what the implications of that schizophrenia might be for addressing the mounting ecological hazards of greenhouse gas emissions through the medium of historicity and collective political action.

126.2 Origins of Robinson’s Modernist Hubris and Fascination with Terra-/Terror Forming It is more than a little surprising that Kim Stanley Robinson should be accused of suffering from modernist temptations and Enlightenment hubris. After all, Frederic Jameson’s critical theoretical tutelage of Robinson when he was his doctoral student at the University of California, San Diego no doubt schooled him in the subtleties of the Frankfurt School critique of the dialectic of enlightenment and domination. There, he learned of how deeply interwoven Enlightenment aspirations for the

126

Global Warming and the Specter of Geoengineering

2235

liberating potential of scientific knowledge were with the impulses to dominate that expressed themselves in projects involving both the domination of some human beings by other humans and the domination of nature by humans. In addition, his spate of novels, among them, Pacific Edge, Antarctica, and the Mars trilogy, has been keynoted by a deep love of nature and ecological diversity, a profound commitment to democratic governance, the richness of a plurality of voices, an abiding respect for difference and embrace of Otherness, and a quest for political hope and utopian possibilities. The Mars trilogy, Red Mars (1993), Green Mars (1994), and Blue Mars (1997), was justly regarded by many literary critics as one of the best and most finely etched works of contemporary science fiction, which managed to subtly incorporate themes and markers from previous Mars books by Edgar Rice Burroughs, H.G. Wells, Ray Bradbury, Arthur Clarke, and Ben Bova, among others. For those in the ecological community, Robinson’s Mars writings buoyed hope for a future where a transformed planet shrouded in ancient myth and an Earth ravaged by transnational corporate hegemony, regional power struggles, and ecological devastation might yet redeem the apocalyptic hopes, pastoral promise, and urban possibilities sedimented into American literary and political culture through the cauldron of political difference, factional conflict, and multiple subject positions characterizing ecological politics today. With its valorization of difference and excess, its suspicion of centralized power and totalistic ideologies, its critique of binary thinking and its search for truth and value on the margins, postmodernism seemed to have found an apparent champion of some of its key themes in the realm of science fiction. Robinson’s earlier Martian novella, short story, and trilogy have already been subjected to critical analysis and detailed deconstruction (Yanarella 2001, 2003). There, it was argued that this rich, complex, and contradictory body of fictional work’s post-modern guises and gestures were ultimately overwhelmed and smothered by deeper post-modern impulses and objectives, leading Robinson to embrace a form of modernistic excess expressed in his fealty toward planetary engineering or terraforming of Mars that amounted to terror-forming. If the formal and accepted definition of terraforming is the “making geophysical changes to a planet to render it more Earth-like and habitable” (Cascio, 2005a, 2005b, 2005c, 2005d, 2006), then we would like to suggest that geoengineering, defined as “intentional, large-scale manipulation of the environment by humans to bring about environmental change, particularly to counteract the undesired sides effect of other human activities” (EtcGroup, 2007), is its earthly kin. It is at least an open question whether geoengineering techniques as terra-forming of the Earth amounts to a form of crude, cumbersome, and potentially destructive analogue to terra-forming as terror-forming of other planets. Kim Stanley Robinson’s interest in these questions grew out of his courtship by or love affair with the noted institutions of Big Science, NASA, NSF, and his leadership in the Planetary Society. In the early 1990s, he applied for participation in the National Science Foundation’s Antarctic Artists and Writers’ program; after being chosen, he spent several months in 1995 shadowing Antarctic research teams doing fieldwork there. This “stunning experience in planetary consciousness”

2236

E.J. Yanarella and C. Rice

prompted him to reflect upon the tenuous stability of the West Antarctic Ice Sheet (WAIS) and later to use that material in both his SF book on Antarctica and in later volumes of the Mars trilogy. In Green Mars, Robinson used the slipping off of the WAIS from its underwater landmass into the ocean and the rise of sea levels along coastal regions by 5–7 km (3.1–4.3 mi) as the plot device for spawning a climate-change catastrophe which diverts Earth’s political authorities from quashing a Martian revolution that establishes it as an independent or semi-autonomous new world (Robinson, 2005a: 4, 2007a, 2007b, 2007c). His role on the advisory board of the Planetary Society, the leading space-interest group dedicated to mobilizing public interest and support for space exploration and forging scientific and political coalitions to advance space policy, has placed him in close contact with space scientists and exploration advocates such as Christopher McKay, Richard Berendzen, and Louis Friedman (Planetary Society webpage). Both the NSF and NASA have frequently invited him to internal symposia and colloquia and he was been a guest to a number of launches and landings of space craft on Mars. His infatuation with terraforming Mars and geoengineering Antarctica has been leavened by his positive attitudes toward science as an institution and to community and modern science and technology as tools for human betterment.

126.3 The “Science in the Capital” Series: Between Fact and Fiction The “Science in the Capital” trilogy follows closely the spirit and substance of the Mars trilogy. Set in the proximate future (actually more-or-less now), much of its action takes place in Washington, D.C., in or around the National Science Foundation and the campus of the University of California, San Diego and several institutes. When Forty Signs of Rain opens, the author seeks to establish the global warming context by introducing the executive administrators and directors of NSF divisions to a group of representatives of an island nation called Khembalung, which is being threatened the inundation by the rising Indian Ocean caused by global warming. At the same time, a reform liberal Senator is striving to muster sufficient votes to gain passage of an omnibus energy bill. Meanwhile, Torrey Pines Generique, a California bio-tech startup company, is seeking funding and laboratory advances that will later have implications for climate change mitigation. These three developments are tied together by a small set of relationships among a dozen or so people working for these institutions. In brief, the Khembalung delegation fails in its lobbying efforts to move the Congress to provide relief from being eventually submerged by rising ocean tides. The progressive-minded Senator, Phil Chase, dilutes his energy bill when he is unsuccessful in garnering Senate support for the original, tougher bill. The lead protagonist, NSF science officer Frank Vanderwal, suffers a crisis of scientific faith at a Khembali lecture on the “Purpose of Science from the Buddhist Perspective” and comes to doubt the direction and relevance of NSF as an agency of real policy change. When mundane, quotidian concerns in the work-a-day lives of the major figures in this novel predominate and the import of the forty signs

126

Global Warming and the Specter of Geoengineering

2237

of rain are not fully appreciated, a congeries of weather conditions stemming from rising CO2 levels congeal and a ferocious weather system drops several feet of water onto the D.C. area over several days and sets the stage for personality changes and more vigorous actions by scientists and politicians alike. Fifty Degrees Below offers the second installment of “Science in the Capital.” As the flood gives way to bitter cold, Frank’s personal and professional lives undergo significant changes. He joins the Feral Observation Group and retreats to a tree house in a park inhabited by wild animals that the flood liberated from the Washington, D.C., Zoo, gradually morphs into Primate Man or “Green Man” or “Johnny Appletent” as he is variously called by transients living together as “freegans” who survive through restaurant dumpster diving. With the growing reality of abrupt climate change triggered in part by the stalling of the Gulf Stream, Frank is able to convince Diane Chang, the NSF director, to undertake a series of initiatives that increasingly turns the foundation into a spearhead for coordinating the work of other federal agencies to meet the challenges of worsening climatic conditions through heavy-duty technological means. On the political front, Senator Chase turns his attention to declaring himself a candidate for the presidency to defeat a George W. Bush incumbent who, though he declares “war on nature,” remains clueless on how to confront the radiating implications of increasingly severe climate changes. Scientific discussions increasingly turn to mobilizing a Manhattan or Apollo moon shot type of response to the weather crisis that would convert government scientists into “global biosphere managers” whose task would amount to the terraforming of Earth (p. 90). As night-time temperatures plummet to fifty below zero and the West Antarctic Ice Sheet (WAIS) shows signs of destabilizing, two potential solutions emerge: salting the north Atlantic waters to kick-start the thermohaline circulation and genetically engineering lichen in the Siberian forests as a form of carbon sequestration to remove growing amounts of carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. Meanwhile, the situation on Khembalung deteriorates; a secret black-ops group spawned by homeland security efforts begins to target prominent scientists like Frank Vanderwal; and scientists in the nation’s capital continue to flex their political muscles and achieve unprecedented influence in shaping geoengineering gambits in this crisis environment. As the book closes, despite a clandestine attempt to fix the presidential election, Phil Chase is elected when the fix is exposed and the scientific forces of goodness and the American way “fix the ‘fix’.” In Sixty Days and Counting, the election of Senator Phil Chase to the presidency leads to a two-month FDR-like national mobilization effort to react vigorously to the global threat posed by abrupt climate change. With the WAIS showing signs of slipping off its land perch, scientists redouble their industrial strength climatech efforts guided by the “Frank Principle” (“saving the world so science can proceed”). Fireside chats, “Cut to the Chase” internet blog entries from the new President, and the forging of a new political-scientific-industrial-military complex is woven to concentrate political power, knowledge, capital, and productive potential in the battle to avert eco-apocalypse and the collapse of human civilization. In this crisis situation, the shortness of time breeds the exigencies of speed and high-tech solutions. Big Science as sorcerer is called upon to pull seeming silver

2238

E.J. Yanarella and C. Rice

bullets and magic tricks to restabilize the biosphere and to chart a post-carbon energy regime for America and the world. NSF director Diane Chang is named Chase’s presidential science advisor with czar-like power, while a powerful climate change task force is formed. Meanwhile, the fledgling bio-tech company is reorganized as NSF’s Regional Research Center in Climate and Earth Sciences and makes continuing strides in genetically engineering a carbon absorbing lichen that proves critical to climate stabilization. A wide array of expensive New Deal-type public works projects and energy policy initiatives are explored, including space-based solar options, partial nuclear plant nationalization, and integrated clean coal/carbon sequestration technology, as well as other mega-projects directly responding to possible coastal sea-level rise through relocating excess ocean water into empty basins around the world or pumping the equivalent of water displaced by the break-off of the WAIS back onto the Antarctic plateau. As Frank’s scientific and spiritual odyssey reaches fruition and he finds happiness with a Mystery Woman implicated in subverting the secret black-ops agency, the Chase presidency presses for a diplomatic means to galvanize the world of nations led by the US; an ecological systems crash is averted in China by US assistance to provide China’s energy needs by the American nuclear-powered submarine fleet while China quick replaces its dirty coal-fired plants for a new generation of carbon-free clean coal technology; and the bio-tech lichen dispersal across the Siberian forests and the geoengineered mitigation methods to restabilize the WAIS in combination work; and the book and trilogy close as the world is saved so science can continue.

126.4 When Good “Paleolithic Postmodernists” Go Awry The reception to Robinson’s “Science in the Capital” series has varied from great enthusiasm for its engagement of an unfolding ecological problem of growing but uncertain import to trenchant criticism for its replay of formulaic elements of his earlier science fiction works. No book or literary critic regards it as rich or innovative in its theoretical or ecological tapestry as the Mars trilogy. On the other hand, both trilogies share a number of deficiencies that undercut their manifold and often overlapping strengths. The eco-apocalyptic temptations of both books play a strong part in Robinson’s tendency to emphasize the necessity of rapid response to crisis situations and to compress the time scale of social and ecological changes from centuries and millennia to decades and scant years and even months. For a SF writer who has prided himself in treating the future as a possible future that can be traced back to the present, such temporal dilation is indeed a bit strange. Time compression becomes doubly bizarre for a science fiction craftsperson who has infused his futuristic writings with a seeming commitment to scientific verisimilitude, deploying the latest and strongest scientific knowledge and expertise from diverse sciences and technical fields applicable to his subject matter. In the Mars novels, the author dismisses the best scientific estimates for ecopoeisis (a minimalist form of planetary engineering that establishes evolving microbial ecosystems in an initially barren planetary

126

Global Warming and the Specter of Geoengineering

2239

environment) and terraforming (transforming an alien planet into an aerobic environment where humans can live and work outdoors much like on Earth) that on the basis of existing or foreseeable technology would entail 200 or more years for ecopoeisis and nearly one hundred centuries for full-fledged terraforming (Fogg, 1995: v, 300–325; Yanarella, 2001: 232, 282). Instead, Robinson projects the initial ecopoeitic seeding of Mars by the first wave of planetary migrants from Earth beginning around 2027 and the achievement of complete Martian terraformation within a hundred years later. The relationship between temporal dilation and scientific verisimilitude in the “Science in the Capital” series bears many of the same liabilities of hurriedness and time conflation and some of the ambiguous benefits of scientific accuracy and technical realism. The whole series’ novum (i.e., the new or novel element that exerts a hegemonic role on the plot structure) is the onset of abrupt climate change. Its appearance and persistence shapes the policy making context of both governmental circles and scientific agencies and clamors for response and relief. Robinson grounds its introduction on the historic record uncovered by paleoclimate scientists of the last global experience of rapid and severe climate change known as the Younger Dryas. This speedy recurrence of glacial conditions to the North Hemisphere, some estimates put the reversal of climatic conditions to just three years, occurred sometime between 12,900 and 11,500 BC and was attributed to significant slowdown or cessation of the North Atlantic thermohaline circulation flow as a result of the sudden influx of fresh (Fig. 126.1) water from Lake Agassiz and the melting of the glaciers in North America. Following his apocalyptic instincts,

Fig. 126.1 Thermohaline circulation

2240

E.J. Yanarella and C. Rice

Robinson thus rejected the more widely accepted and older “gradualist” paradigm in favor of the more conjectural and recent “catastrophist” one that foregrounds the possible significance of the Younger Dryas for grappling with and preparing for possible futures where carbon levels exceed 450 parts per million (ppm) and perhaps by 2050 reach 550 or more ppm of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. He also posits in his trilogy the imminent slippage of the West Antarctic Ice Sheet from its underwater land platform on a time scale of “something like six months,” not on a “really fast” schedule by geological time scales of “like five hundred years,” as one climate researcher he queried (Robinson, 2005b: 5). Time compression through catastrophism functions then for Stan Robinson both as a SF literary device to dilate longer term geophysical temporal processes within the individual time scales and licensing Big Science involvement and geoengineering methods through the politics of mass mobilization behind technological fix strategies. Together, the institutions of Big Science and the favored technologies of planetary engineering marginalize less expensive, more modestly scaled and alternative decarbonization solutions, close off more gradually emplaced solar and energy conservation alternatives, and militate against redesigning the built environment. Let us elaborate. The pressures of a crisis environment and the political imperatives of an elite mobilization strategy for deploying political power almost inevitably lead to the suspension of serious consideration of policy alternatives based upon pursuit of a solar-conservation energy strategy, a transportation policy that is less tied to the twentieth century automobility and its accompanying car culture and in general overcomes the dominance of the auto-highway-petroleum-rubber complex, and a built environment that is grounded in the principles of sustainable urban design, mixed-use, inexpensive and rapid public transit, a vibrant, population dense downtown and a culture of sustainability, celebration, diversity, and sociality. Instead of a de-centralized and dispersed solar and conservation energy regime and economy, Robinson’s political leaders can only offer elephantine forms of high technology solar technologies in space (Sixty: 134–135), heavy public investments in a new generation of clean coal technology with integrated point-source carbon sequestration (modeled after the recently scrapped FutureGen demonstration plant), federal funding for “national security nuclear plants” (Sixty: 133) and the possibility of fast breeder reactors, comforting themselves that running the next fleet of private automobiles on ethanol produced from wood chips treated with an engineered enzyme is possible (Sixty: 191). As for the problem of redesigning cities and towns, Robinson’s paradigm of the suburban household family symbolized by the Quiblers, who in the face of the crisis admit “you can’t get a good (carbon footprint) number in a suburban home with a car and all...and if you fly at all” (Sixty: 178), can only turn to photovoltaic panel on their roof to reduce their carbon-burn number while acknowledging that they are bumping up against absolute limits, given the character of the suburban home infrastructure (Sixty: 383–384). Our point is: absent the predominance of the abrupt climate change novum and the political and ecological pressures to embrace geoengineering nostrums in a crisis-filled, highly mobilized political climate, the best and most immediate option

126

Global Warming and the Specter of Geoengineering

2241

for controlling climate changes today, as climate scientists like Ken Caldeira, David Keith, and Alan Robock argue, is not geoengineering, but a risk-averse strategy...to reduce [carbon] emissions (Caldeira, quoted in Swaminathan, 2007; see Keith, 2008; Robock, 2008a, 2008b). Increasingly, “boutique” climate change firms seek to engage in precisely the type of geoengineering projects speculated upon by Robinson. For example, the Planktos firm announced in 2006 plans to seed the oceans with iron nanoparticles in an effort to induce large scale phyto-plankton blooms for the purposes of carbon sequestration (Laumer, 2006). The US government formally advocated for sunlight interference projects in its response to a 2007 IPCC report (Adam, 2007). While the controversy generated by the Planktos project during the October 2007 Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute conference eventually led to such a backlash against the company that it was forced to suspend operations (Reddy, 2008; Thompson, 2008), other geoengineering project proposals, typically academic-corporate partnerships, continue at an ever-increasing rate. Recently, Global Resource Technologies announced plans to develop, in conjunction with Columbia University professor Wallace Broecker, large scale devices which would scrub CO2 from the atmosphere (independent of the source of emission) and sequester it underground (Pescovitz, 2008). It would seem that real world events are beginning to keep pace with the speculative geoengineering elements of Robinson’s trilogy. The growing fascination with geoengineering techniques for alleviating the risks of climate change from global warming, though in part fueled in the scientific community by carbon levels in the atmosphere and ocean and the melting of the Arctic and Greenland glaciers at a rate and level much higher than even best climate models and worst-case scenarios reported by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), has undoubtedly gained impetus due to mounting pessimism that a political solution centered on an array of tactics and strategies dedicated to decarbonization of the sky and seas is possible. The Bush administration’s war on science and its six-year ostrich-like position on the threat of rising greenhouse gases, coupled with the growing interest by free market ideologues and institutes of oil and other megacorporations to position techno-corporate companies and firms for entrance into a new and developing biotech and geoengineering industrial sector with high growth and profit-making potential, have also dashed hopes and confidence in the capacity of polity, economy, and culture to find the resources, shape the policies, and implement the programs to remake cities into sustainable city-regions, reinvent transportation policy and innovate private transit, challenge the grip of corporate power and income maldistribution upon economic policy and political governance, and redirect our culture of thoughtless consumption towards the things that count rather than the things that are merely countable. But if we ask how much Kim Stanley Robinson’s “Science in the Capital” trilogy helps to advance those pressing societal priorities grounded in a multi-pronged policy of de-carbonization, the answer seems to be very little. Indeed, one of the key insights his main protagonist Frank Vanderwal offers early in the second book is this:

2242

E.J. Yanarella and C. Rice Table 126.1 Geoengineering? Engineering earth, seas, and sky

• Altering ocean CO2 uptake (adding iron) • Pumping deep ocean water up • GE bacterial land-based carbon uptake • Adding sulfur to the high atmosphere • Adding particulates to the low atmosphere • Space-based lower reflectors Source: Robinson (2007b)

I mean even the Gulf Stream is only a proximate cause. The ultimate causes have to do with the whole situation. Carbon, consumption, population, technology, all that. We’ll have to take all that on if we’re going to actually do something. (Fifty: 19–20)

As it turns out, almost none of these things are directly tackled. And the novum of abrupt climate change and contextual imperatives of geoengineering have much to do with why the whole situation is conflated and attacked by instruments of planetary engineering (Table 126.1). Let us acknowledge that Robinson’s sociobiologically influenced valorization of Frank’s embrace of the Buddhist-inspired wisdom that “an excess of reason is madness” (Forty: 244) triggering his identity crisis and its resolution through his conversion into the Green Man or paleolithic postmodern is meant to highlight those anthropologically-grounded and evolutionary human needs wired into our psyche from our primate origins on the African savannah that stand in contrast with our hyper-consumerist lifestyle, possessive and. competitive individualism, and frivolous spending habits. As a critique, it is thorough-going and trenchant. But Frank’s metamorphosis into postmodern Primate Man does little to carry that individual conversion over into a critique of corporate capitalism and, more to our point, the embeddness of Big Science in the political economy of techno-corporate and global capitalism in the age of globalization. Nor does the spiritual insight derived from Buddhism transfer into a fundamental critique of the sway of instrumental rationality in Western philosophy and modern science such as uncovered in the work of Frankfurt theorists Horkheimer and Adorno. Let us also offer another explanation for Robinson’s seeming sympathetic turn towards Big Science solutions to global warming such as geoengineering. In Forty Signs of Rain, Robinson depicts the dramatic changes that Frank Vanderwal begins to undergo following a Kembahli lecture on what drives Buddhist science. To some extent, Frank’s arc throughout the trilogy may be viewed as Robinson’s attempt at rethinking science as action or experiential experimentation. To put it another way, Robinson’s understanding of Buddhist science is as an applied interventionist science. Drepung translated, “This brings up the concept of Buddha nature, rather than nature in itself. What is that difference? Budda nature is the appropriate. . . response to nature. The reply of the observing mind. [. . .] But when we come to what we should do, it returns to the simplest of words. Compassion. Right action. Helping others. It always stays that

126

Global Warming and the Specter of Geoengineering

2243

simple. Reduce suffering. [. . .] Greatest complexity of what is, greatest simplicity in what we should do. Much preferable to the reverse situation.” (Robinson, 2004: 265)

Thus, Robinson seeks to provide a moral and ethical framework for the geoengineering megaprojects to come later in the trilogy. However, while we applaud Robinson’s attempts to interrogate the cultural underpinnings of Western Science and his efforts to find alternative ways of knowing and acting in the world, the net effect of this employment of Buddhist science serves mainly to reinforce and legitimize an interventionist praxis which, rather than serving as a philosophical and moral counterbalance to Western Science and its instrumentalist techno-corporate impulses, strengthens and legitimates the shadow side of Enlightenment thought. Paleolithic human’s criticism of American hyperconsumerism and competitive individualism or, alternatively, the Buddhist scientist’s calling toward compassionate activist science in the thought of Frank Vanderwal (Robinson’s fictional alter ego) instead shores up and legitimates an elevated political role for scientists and a deep reverence for Science. As erstwhile social theorist and SF writer Robinson well knows, from writer Francis Bacon’s influential utopia of scientists and sociologist Auguste Comte’s positive science of society to nuclear physicist Alvin Weinberg’s engineering approach to societal problems, a deeply rooted tradition at the intersection of science and society has grown that champions scientists as a secular priesthood with Solomonic powers that justify the application of technological means to overcome social problems without altering the basic social structure or political economy. More will be said about Robinson’s genuine fealty to democratic institutions later. For now, we wish to highlight the degree to which his near future scenario bordering on eco-catastrophe fosters an imagined political setting where, in Frank’s words, “science is the only way out of this mess!” (Forty: 294) Not only in his novels, but in his interviews and nonfiction writings as well, Kim Stanley Robinson has shown an abiding admiration, even reverence, for scientists, communities of scientific researchers, and their working norms and governing practices. His interactions with scientists in Antarctica, his frequent visits to the National Science Foundation, regular reading of scientific journals, and perhaps his marital relationship with his spouse, who is an environmental chemist, have no doubt proved powerful influences upon his scientific outlook. Robinson portrays Big Science as a community of researchers disinterested in material wealth, public adulation, and secular power and animated by the pursuit of truth, the elegance of empirically-grounded theory, and the respect of colleagues. His picture of science administrators like NSF director Diane Chang qualifies, in some respects, this scientific self-identity by the need to negotiate the federal bureaucracy and to wheedle funding from and through the Congress. More recent historical analyses of the origins of modern science draw a different portrait of the intertwining of knowledge and power growing out of the political captivity of secular knowledge in its institutionalized context since Newton and Galileo (Haberer, 1969; Ravetz, 1971). Retracing the genesis of the weak institutional ethics of the scientific community and the modern instrumental application of scientific knowledge for state purposes,

2244

E.J. Yanarella and C. Rice

Joseph Haberer demonstrates how the two models of science constructed at its beginning, Baconian and Cartesian, were carefully designed and practiced according to a policy of “prudential acquiescence,” i.e., were guided by the expedient tactic of retreat or accommodation to state and other forms of amassed power when their conduct was endangered. Ravetz’s contribution to the historical evolution of modern science into Big Science and segments of Big Science into dirty science involves a careful examination of the institutionalization of Big Science, its materialization into a “social activity, interlocking with social and political interests” (1971: 27–28, 57) that sees the world of Big Science as deeply penetrated by political and economic interests influencing the agenda and direction of scientific research and loosely steered by a tense alliance between state bureaucracies staffed by shortsighted, often venal, administrators and elite members of the scientific community itself. For Ravetz, this more dismaying portray of the “real world” of Big Science is qualified only by examples of the integrity of individual scientists and deference to the rules, methods, and norms of scientists’ professional sub-communities. (For additional treatment, see Yanarella, 2001: 44–54). Seen in this light, Robinson’s characterization of scientists in the capital as public-minded technocrats seemingly separable from techno-corporate influences emanating from the political economy of late corporate capitalism and his image of Big Science as a democratic institution imbued with an animating utopian project, appears a bit naïve and idealistic. In the end, the apocalyptic timetable that drives the plot structure of the “Science in the Capital” trilogy promotes the geoengineering fixes of massive salting of the North Atlantic, relocation of displaced ocean salt water into dry basins around the globe, the dispersal of genetically engineered lichen across the Siberian forest wilderness. All high technological policy solutions of Big Science, university and private research institutes, and corporate capitalist firms growing out of the historical formation processes entwining knowledge, power, and capital. These intertwined formative influences, however, are in a fundamental sense the very shaping forces that created the social, cultural, and ecological conditions that triggered the ecological crisis. In sum, for Robinson, eco-apocalypse triggers modern scientific hubris and produces techno-scientific salvation!

126.5 Citizen Robinson Confronts SF Writer Robinson on Global Warming and the Geoengineering Pathway Robinson’s abrupt climate change novels are not the last word on this eminent science fiction writer’s thoughts on the global warming and possible means of thwarting or abating its worst-case risks and possibilities. Speaking before an audience of Google employees as invited lecturer in its TechTalks series, Kim Stanley Robinson reflected on the challenge of climate change in the prevailing national and international political environment and the role that Google as information management system could play in addressing this policy conundrum (Robinson, 2007).

126

Global Warming and the Specter of Geoengineering

2245

The presentation brought to the forefront a new persona, that of Citizen Robinson, and a more risk averse strategy, that of finding multiple methods of reducing carbon levels in the atmosphere, that abjured the high tech temptations of Big Science’s modernist hubris and thus kept at arm’s length the relevance of geoengineering approaches to the ecological problem at hand. That problem was couched in terms of where carbon concentrations stand at present (around 380 ppm) and the best consensus of where those levels can go (somewhere between 450 and 560) by 2050 before a possible tipping point might be reached. As an engaged thinker and a committed environmentalist, Citizen Robinson struggles to resolve the ideological contradictions of his SF writer and citizen personae. Charting out a “mission architecture” for collective political action that has a meaningful chance of being politically acceptable and scientifically effective, Robinson turns to two policy proposals by scientists who have striven to align science and politics: Wally Broecker’s “carbon pie” approach (Broecker, 2007; Broecker & Kunzig, 2008) and Stephen Pacala and Robert Socolow’s “stabilization wedge” policy route (Pacala & Socolow, 2004). The former posits a carbon pie chart comprising the maximum amount of additional carbon that could be absorbed into the atmosphere before the carbon content of 560 ppm were reached and then divides that amount (720 gigatons) among nations proportional in size to their population. Thus, the industrialized nations would be allocated 20% of the pie (approximately 144 gigatons) while the industrializing countries of the world would get the rest. Over thirty years, the world of nations would be charged (evidently by the force of an international treaty regime) with reducing carbon emissions to zero. Since it is politically unlikely or technically infeasible for the industrial world to achieve this goal, some kind of carbon trading scheme or carbon capture mechanisms (or both) will have to be introduced to supplement the pie distribution program (Fig. 126.2). The Pacala and Socolow model has a goal of utilizing “stabilization wedges” to solve the climate change problem over the next fifty years using currently available technologies. That is, working from a goal of limiting carbon concentrations in the atmosphere to 500 + or – 50 parts per million, these researchers draw a stabilization triangle using a flat or straight-line trajectory of 7 gigatons of carbon per year (GtC/yr), (Fig. 126.3) the present level of carbon emissions held constant for the next fifty years, and the business-as-usual (BAU) trajectory if no mitigation methods are initiated. They then outline 14 off-the-shelf technologies (efficiency and

Industrialized World Developing Nations

Fig. 126.2 Broecker’s carbon pie chart

2246

E.J. Yanarella and C. Rice

Fig. 126.3 Pacala and Socolow’s (2004) stabilization wedges

Table 126.2 Stabilization wedges—Pick 7 • Option #1: Improved fuel economy • Option #2: Reduced reliance on cars • Option #3: More efficient buildings • Option #4: Improved power plant efficiency • Option #5: Substituting natural gas for coal • Option #6: Storage of carbon captured in power plants • Option #7: Storage of carbon captured in hydrogen plants • Option #8: Storage of carbon captured in synfuels plants • Option #9: Nuclear fission • Option #10: Wind electricity • Option #11: Photovoltaic electricity • Option #12: Renewable hydrogen • Option #13: Biofuels • Option #14: Forest management Source: Pacala and Socolow (2004)

conservation, reduced reliance on cars, more efficient building, point-source carbon sequestration, increased nuclear power plants, and nine others) that hold reasonable potential of being scaled up to provide one of seven wedges necessary to fill the carbon space between the BAU and flat trajectories (Table 126.2). It is easy to discern that the extravagant demands and great uncertainties and likely unintended consequences (Broecker calls them “unpleasant surprises in the greenhouse”) of Robinson’s abrupt climate change/geoengineering scenario sketched out in his “Science in the Capital” series have given way to a fossil fuel

126

Global Warming and the Specter of Geoengineering

2247

decarbonization program that, while still ambitious and subject to diplomatic resistance, is much more politically tractable, less economically burdensome, and far more technologically feasible and less hazardous. Citizen Robinson goes even further in this talk, contradicting SF writer Robinson’s embrace of geoengineering almost point-by-point. There, he says: “Should we get into geoengineering?” “The unintended consequences of the biological methods are pretty scary—particularly messing with the ocean. . .We don’t know what would happen. But on land it would be equally problematic.” Then, he argues, alluding perhaps to the North Atlantic salting idea and the displaced sea water/dry basin scheme: “The physical methods, I think, are safer. . .but are outrageously expensive.” Citizen Robinson returns more explicitly to the issue of cultural and lifestyle change by rejecting a consumer economy founded upon unlimited growth in a finite earthly system and once again highlighting the advantages flowing from living the values and fulfilling the needs of our Paleolithic inheritance. As he argues, this is “not a matter of lowering your standard of living. The hyperconsumption lifestyle has not made us happier, healthier. [it has] just made us more frantic. The more you do it the less enjoyable it is.” He recommends instead that we turn to the commonplace enjoyments of the Paleolithic life and actualize ourselves as primates that we are (Table 126.3). Table 126.3 Pleasures of paleolithic life • Spending the day outdoors • Walking and running • Looking for things • Making things • Throwing rocks • Cooking and eating • Talking and listening • Singing and music • Dancing and sex

• Finding a mate • Raising kids • Looking at fire • Seeing by moonlight • Killing animals and being killed by animals • Making beds at night • Exploring new land • Feeling emotions, including terror, religion, right and wrong, etc.

Source: Robinson (2007b)

This startling auto-critique begs the question: What is the purpose of the nearterm scenario laid out in his three global warming novels? And how, if at all, can the reader reconcile the contradictory prescriptions and gross discrepancies in these two policy alternatives? In his Google presentation, Robinson hints at a possible resolution. There, he avers: “Let’s not do the terraforming. Maybe that could be an emergency measure. . .. Maybe in the 2060s when things are desperate. It’s not time to think about geo-engineering. . .. All it does is to leach energy away from the decarbonization project. . ..” “We need to worry about the carbon burn. And so I don’t think it is time to think about geo-engineering.”

One way of reading these remarks vis-à-vis his “Science in the Capital” trilogy is to see those works as a warning to the present of what is in store for us if we do not

2248

E.J. Yanarella and C. Rice

find the economic wherewithal, political will, cultural resources, and technological means today, tomorrow, and the next few decades to confront a possible future where our technological and policy options will be reduced to high-risk geoengineering methods with a host of uncertain consequences for the biosphere. In this sense, it is a warning from the imagined future that reads back the political problems, socioeconomic conundrums, and ecological cataclysms from the mid-term future (40–50 years from now) into the proximate present. The possibility of abrupt climate change remains the “joker in the deck” and no reasonable policy analyst or serious climate scientist would rule it out (see Robinson, 2005b). If the above conjecture is sensible or compelling, Robinson still is vulnerable on two counts. First, given his largely elitist perspective on political change at the top, we find in his novels a singular absence of more promising and democraticallygrounded alternatives, viz., post-Enlightenment foundations of a recognition of global warming as a twin crisis, cultural and political economic one, whose political advance can only come from a conjoining of top-down policy movement by educated politicians and policy makers and civic-minded natural and social scientists linked to political pressures and political actions from bottom-up contributions by grassroots organizations and postmodern ecological movements (Yanarella, 1993; Zimmerman, 1994). Second, his quest for the foundations for hope in dark and seemingly desperate political times might better have been fulfilled had he concluded, as did Philip Wylie in his politically somber work, The End of the Dream (1972), where humankind’s redemption from ecological calamity is not achieved by the strenuous efforts of scientists becoming planetary engineers and restoring the American dream (as analyzed in Yanarella (2001: 47–48)). While perhaps treated as a form of negative dialectics, the deployment of irony in this instance would have driven home the point that neither the Solomons of Big Science nor the wonders of geoengineering should be depended upon to undertake the tough political spadework and the less glamorous, more critical, and still formidable tasks of lowering carbon dioxide levels constituting a decarbonizing strategy limned above.

126.6 Conclusion As an exercise in critical political theory and postmodern deconstruction, this essay has not been content to rest upon the negative pole of critique. At the end of this lengthy deconstruction of Robinson fascination with global warming and the specter of geoengineering, we would like to explore some of the constituents of a near-term, multiplex strategy for addressing climate change attributable to rising concentrations of carbon dioxide in our air and waters. Borne of hope in the possibilities of political praxis in the Now, we wish to interrogate these elements before the window of opportunity is closed to collective action and reduced to the more draconian methods speculated upon by Robinson in his “Science in the Capital” trilogy and being prepared by more politically cynical and technocratically oriented scientific researchers and engineers.

126

Global Warming and the Specter of Geoengineering

2249

That political pathway, we argue, would include at least the following: Moving beyond mainstream environmentalism to a new peace between ecological concern and sustainable development. Recently, Nordhaus and Shellenberger (2007) shook the American environmental movement that called for the death of environmentalism as it is presently institutionalized. In their view, the latest wave of environmental practice must give way to a thoroughly renovated and reconstituted movement that synthesizes the old wisdom regarding Nature and its needs with a reconciled focus on human needs driven by the promotion of economic and quality of life concerns that converge with a sustainable society. In his own manner, Kim Stanley Robinson has given expression to this reconciliation of Nature and humankind through his poetic and lyrical, albeit individualistic, portrait of Primate Man or the paleolithic postmodern. This component implies that the legitimate aspirations for peoples of the less developed world must be acknowledged and factored into any greenhouse gases mitigation strategy. Adopting a multiplex strategy based largely on off-the-shelf technologies to address the decarbonization of urban-rural habitat, transportation, energy, and commercial and residential construction and heating and cooling. Clearly, Pacala and Socolow’s “stabilization wedges” approach strikes us as the place to start and the foundation on which to build a viable, feasible, but still demanding, strategy for bringing down or at least moving to stabilize atmospheric (and ultimately oceanic) carbon dioxide concentrations. Its palpable advantages have already by enumerated. We would only add that we would be inclined to take the nuclear fission option off the table for consideration because of its zero-infinity risk character and because the back-end problems (particularly, the issue of permanent and safe storage of radioactive waste) have remained unsolved. Infusing heavy public investment by the federal government in a carbonneutral/post-fossil fuel economic, cultural, societal, and foreign policy future. Again, Nordhaus and Shellenberger (2007) emphasize that no post-environmentalist era reconciling sustainable development with environmental quality is possible without greatly stepped up levels of federal investment in energy, infrastructure, the built environment, and transportation. Obviously, such dramatically increased infusions in public funding will need to be targeted toward addressing global warming mitigation and will rest upon a new social contract with the American people which will include the rebuilding of American industry through the creation of “green jobs” as part of a broader climate change/green energy Apollo Project as well as a reinstituted progressive tax code. Approaching planning and priorities for climate change abatement through a “no regrets” policy. Even as climate scientists and other researchers have grown more precise in their calculations about the risks and ravages of increasing global warming, many uncertainties remain regarding causes, impacts, and “risks of large-scale singularities” (IPCC’s equivalent of Broecker’s unpleasant greenhouse surprises). A no regrets policy is premised on the idea that whatever the range of confidence in the data and estimates regarding global warming and its consequences, policy actions in any of an array of policy arenas should be implemented if their direct consequences are beneficial to the quality of human life and ecological

2250

E.J. Yanarella and C. Rice

well being even if the worst risks or expected dangers turn out to be less severe than calculated. Reestablishing the Office of Technology Assessment or its equivalent at the federal level. The Republican assault on science did not originate with the George W. Bush White House. That process began in the early seventies with the Nixon administration’s demotion of the office of Presidential Science Advisor followed by the dismantlement in the nineties of the Congressional Office of Technology Assessment (Mooney, 2006). The depoliticization of scientific advice and the improvement of more dispassionate and less ideological evaluation of scientific evidence and technological potential will be abetted by rehabilitating the Office of Technology Assessment or some similar federal office or agency and its proliferation at the state level. While a certain politics of the scientific community is inevitable, OTA’s restoration will assure that both the Congress and the Executive Branch will have an evaluative instrument to take up controversial issues like global warming, acid rain deposition, and genetic engineering that is not bound to an overt political agenda. Forging a coherent national energy policy and advancing innovative local community energy solutions. While it is true that the US has long had a national energy policy, i.e., one that has been largely fashioned by the major decision making authorities of the loosely coordinated constellation of power led by the major oil companies and other supportive components of highway construction, automobile and truck manufacture, and coal extraction and carried out willing public officials in the Congress and executive bureaucracy, American oil dependency on foreign oil often in politically unstable regions of the world, especially the Middle East, has caused mounting costs and hardships for many Americans in ways that have continued to hold hostage urban, agricultural, and transportation policies to militaristic foreign policies toward those sensitive areas. Arguably, a national and coherent energy policy based upon sustainability principles and soft energy paths complemented by local and regional energy policies would do much to pacify our foreign and international policies, help to better address the threat posed by rising greenhouse gases, and build in resilience and innovativeness in meeting energy needs and promoting energy efficiency at the scale of communities and regions. Modest, but continuing investment in geoengineering strategies as insurance against policy failure or “unpleasant surprises in the greenhouse.” Mark Twain is reported to have coined the aphorism, “history does not repeat itself, but it sometimes rhymes.” So it can be argued from the principle of prudence that some investment in geoengineering technologies is warranted as insurance against the risks of abrupt climate change of the kind imagined by Kim Stanley Robinson and discerned by paleoclimate scientists in the geological record. Worst plausible cases, after all, sometimes do occur. There may even be virtue in having such heavy-duty instruments in the policy repertoire to, in David Keith’s words, to “shave the curve” in the event that a congeries of more modest policies require such an injection to curb CO2 drawdowns that do not quite meet the targeted maximum safe loads for averting potentially serious consequences (Fig. 126.4). To close, this critique and deconstruction of SF writer Robinson’s semifictional exploration have been a provocation to investigate a global threat and its

126

Global Warming and the Specter of Geoengineering

2251

Fig. 126.4 Geoengineering as substitute and as supplement. (Source: Keith, 2010)

continuing unfolding whose failure to be squarely addressed and overcome by the US and rest of the world will likely have severe ramifications for tens and even hundreds of millions of people. That Robinson’s craft has compelled us to engage this portentous issue is a testament to his ecological imagination, fealty to the utopian promise of science, and paleolithic postmodern personal-political commitments. His “Science in the Capital” series reminds us how far the medium of science fiction can go in clarifying our contemporary public choices and how much further it must go to shake itself loose from the shortcomings of the apocalyptic timetable and the modernistic hubris still infusing much of Western science and instrumental reasoning.

References Adam, D. (2007). US answer to global warming: Smoke and giant space mirrors. The Guardian. Retrieved January 27, 2007, from http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/ 2007/jan/27/usnews. frontpagenews Broecker, W. S. (2007). Climate change: CO2 arithmetic. Science, 315(March 9), 1371. Broecker, W. S., & Kunzig, R. (2008). Fixing climate: What past climate changes reveal about the current threat – and how to counter it. New York: Hill & Wang. Cascio, J. (2005a). Terraforming earth. WorldChanging. July 14. Retrieved November 2, 2010, from http://www.worldchanging.com/archives/003121.html. Cascio, J. (2005b). “Terraforming earth, Part II.” WorldChanging. July 24. Retrieved November 2, 2010, from http://www.openthefuture.com/wcarchive/2005/07/terraforming_earth_part_ii.html. Cascio, J. (2005c). Terraforming earth, Part III: Geoethical Principles. July 26. Retrieved November 2, 2010, from http://www.openthefuture.com/wcarchive/2005/07/terraforming_ earth_part_iii_ge.html. Cascio, J. (2005d). The abrupt Kim Stanley Robinson. WorldChanging. September 16. Retrieved November 2, 2010, from http://www.worldchanging.com/archives/003493.html. Cascio, J. (2006). On the Horizon. Worldchanging. February10. Retrieved from http://www. worldchanging.com/archives/004097.html. Etcgroup. (2007). “Gambling with Gaia: AReport #93.” January. Retrieved January 15, 2008, from http://www.wired.com/science/planetearth/multimedia/2007/12/YE_10_geoengineering. Fogg, M. (1995). Terraforming: engineering planetary environments. Warrendale, PA: Society of Automotive Engineers, Inc.

2252

E.J. Yanarella and C. Rice

Haberer, J. (1969). Politics and the community of science. New York: VanNostrand Reinhold Company. Keith, D. W. (2010). Engineering the planet. In S. Schneider & M. Mastrandrea (Eds.), Climate change science and policy (p. 498). Seattle, Washington, DC: Island Press. http:// www.ucalgary.ca/~keith/papers/89.Keith.EngineeringTheplanet.e.pdf Laumer, J. (2006). “Planktos, inc.: seeds of iron” to mitigate climate change. Treehugger. February 21, 2006. Retrieved March 15, 2006, from http://www.treehugger.com/files/2006/ 02/planktos.php. Mooney, C. (2006). The Republican war on science. New York: Basic Books. Nordhaus, T., & Shellenberger, M. (2007). Breakthrough: From the death of environmentalism to the politics of possibility. New York: Houghton Mifflin. Pacala, S., & Socolow, R. (2004) Stabilization Wedges: Solving the Climate Problem for the Next 50 Years with Current Technologies. Science, 305(August 13): 968–972. Retrieved September 27, 2010, from http://www.princeton.edu/~cmi/resources/CMI_Resources_new_ files/Wedges%20ppr%20in%20Science.pdf. Pescovitz, D. (2008). Scrubbing the atmosphere of CO2. BoingBoing. Retrieved September 27, 2010, from http://www.boingboing.net/2008/06/23/scrubbing-the-atmosp.html Planetary Society. (N.d.) Retrieved September 27, 2010, from Webpage. http://www.planetary. org/home/. Ravetz, J. (1971). Scientific knowledge and its problems. New York: Oxford University Press. Reddy, C. (2008). Ecoengineering is Premature. The Providence Journal. Retrieved June 5, 2008, from http://www.projo.com/opinion/contributors/content/CT_reddy24_02-2408_9093633_v7.39b86d0.html Robinson, K. S. (2004). Forty signs of rain. New York: Bantam Books. Robinson, K. S. (2005a). Fifty degrees below zero. New York: Bantam Books. Robinson, K. S. (2005b). Imagining abrupt climate change: Terraforming Earth. Amazon.com Shorts Robinson, K. S. (2007a). Sixty days and counting. New York: Bantam Books. Robinson, K. S. (2007b). On google and climate change. GoogleTechTalk. December. Retrieved September 27, 2010, from http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-jz86gMiHw. Robinson, K. S. (2007c). Comparative planetology: An Interview with Kim Stanley Robinson. Retrieved September 27, 2010, from http://bldgblog.blogspot.com/2007/12/comparativeplanetology-interview-with.html. Robock, A. (2008a). 20 Reasons why geoengineering may be a bad idea. Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, 64(May/June), 14–18, 59. Robock, A. (2008b). Whither geoengineering? Science, 320(May 30), 1166–1167. Swaminathan, N. (2007). If cutting carbon isn’t enough, can climate intervention turn down the heat? Scientific American, June 5. Retrieved September 27, 2010, from http://www.sciam. com/article.cfm?id=geoengineering-to-combat-climate-change&ref=rss. Thompson, K. (2008). Carbon discredit. Popsci. Retrieved July 1, 2008, from http://www.popsci. com/environment/article/2008-07/carbon-discredit Yanarella, E. J. (1993). Whither hegemony? Between Gramsci and Derrida. In J. Paul Jones III, W. Natter, & T. R. Schatzki (Eds.) Postmodern Contentions: Epochs, politics, space (pp. 65–98). New York: Guilford Press. Yanarella, E. J. (2001). The cross, the plow and the skyline: contemporary science fiction and ecological imagination. Parkland, FL: Brown Walker Press. Yanarella, E. J. (2003). Terra/Terror-forming and death deinail in Kim Stanley Robinson’s Martian stories and Mars trilogy. Foundation, 89(Autumn), 13–26. Wylie, P. (1972). The end of the dream. New York: DAW Books, Inc. Zimmerman, M. E. (1994). Contesting earth’s future: Radical ecology and postmodernity. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

Index

A Abu Dhabi, 533, 822, 835–836, 868, 876, 957, 959, 1069, 1410, 1412, 1414, 1416, 1419 Abuja, 8, 1025, 1038 Aceh, 1731 Adelaide, 881, 1563 Afghanistan, 103–113, 162, 239, 242, 636, 1023, 1528, 1693, 1725, 1727, 1730–1733, 1737, 2031–2032, 2034, 2036–2040, 2042, 2047, 2163 Africa, 9, 76, 90, 124–126, 128, 219, 227, 258, 261, 269, 271, 330, 369, 372, 380, 489, 501, 617–624, 652, 671, 683–694, 816, 870, 875, 885, 993, 1187, 1196, 1208, 1210, 1214–1216, 1218, 1223, 1225–1226, 1228–1230, 1232–1234, 1236–1237, 1243, 1256–1259, 1261, 1329, 1346, 1353–1354, 1357–1358, 1360–1361, 1415, 1443, 1619–1621, 1627, 1651–1676, 1686, 1727, 1938–1944, 1947, 1949–1954, 2036, 2139, 2145–2149, 2155, 2173, 2176 African American, 652, 907, 912, 919, 1077, 1081, 1842, 1877, 1881, 1908–1910, 1912–1914 African savanna, 1203–1220, 1666, 2242 Ajman, 823, 826–827 Akron, 1856, 1858 Alaska, 8–9, 121, 555, 630, 643–645, 651, 655–658, 752, 786, 799, 920, 1578, 1683, 1691–1692, 1696, 1699, 1957, 1967, 2196 Albania, 448, 2028, 2075, 2078, 2080 Alberta, 391, 462–463, 465–470, 479–480, 646, 752–753, 1991 AlCan Highway, 628, 653–659 Alcatraz, 1739–1740, 1749–1761 Aleutians, 644–645 Algeria, 450, 457, 485, 620–621, 624, 1658, 1668, 2164 Al Madina Azarqa, 825

Al Maktoum, 867, 875, 877, 959, 961, 1331 Almaty, 1003–1007, 1015–1016, 1029, 1808 Alps, 313–314, 316, 319–320, 322, 325, 448, 458, 737, 752–753, 2084 Amazônia, 569–577, 579, 581–588, 590–595, 628 Amazon River, 575 Amsterdam, 691, 868, 877–878, 891, 993, 1350, 1477, 1483–1484, 1486, 1489, 1491, 2074 Amu and Syr, 1517, 1521 Andhra Pradesh, 225, 231, 1083 Angara River, 1516 Angola, 367–381, 1357, 1658, 1668, 1670, 1672–1674 Ankara, 1004, 1010, 1025, 1034, 1038, 1040–1041 Antarctic Ocean, 973–974 Antwerp, 854–856, 861, 865, 1474–1476, 1494, 1496 Appalachia, 9, 338, 461, 1300, 1750, 1753, 1917–1932 Aquatic Park, 1147–1157 Arab Gulf States, 533, 535, 545, 1411 Arabian Peninsula, 867, 1346, 1410 Aralkum Desert, 1542–1545 Aral Sea, 1516–1519, 1525–1528, 1541–1546 Arctic Ocean, 967, 974–976, 1517, 1528, 1543, 1958, 2154 Argentina, 9, 90, 94, 218–219, 493, 510, 1085, 1347, 1604, 1612, 1615, 1991, 2154 Arizona, 131, 361, 463, 477, 560, 890, 1283, 1686, 1704–1705, 1708–1709, 1711–1714, 1716, 1832, 1991 Arkansas, 1446, 1451, 1455, 1459–1461, 1688, 1705 Arkansas City, 1459–1460 Arkansas River, 1446, 1455, 1460 Arlington, VA, 1399

S.D. Brunn (ed.), Engineering Earth, DOI 10.1007/978-90-481-9920-4,  C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

2253

2254 Armenia, 26, 455, 2007, 2013–2016, 2018–2029 Asian Highway Network, 635–636 Astana, 251–252, 1001–1018, 1029, 1811 Aswan, 7, 1619, 1656, 1660–1663, 1667 Atchafalaya River, 1455 Athabasca, 463, 465, 467–468 Athens, 792, 797, 870, 1051–1054 Atlanta, 7, 121–122, 792, 868, 871, 905, 908, 910–911, 913, 915, 920, 1047–1048, 1052–1054, 1073, 1075–1077, 1085, 1306 Atlantic City, 9, 29 Atyrau, 1015 Austin, 484, 489, 890, 901, 908, 1031, 1403 Australia, 3, 7–9, 90, 121, 330, 332, 337, 343, 389–390, 491, 507, 794, 881–882, 905, 961, 1047, 1050, 1083, 1323–1337, 1353, 1366, 1425–1437, 1549–1564, 1571, 1643–1644, 1647, 1723–1746, 2148–2149, 2154, 2164, 2173 Austria, 312–313, 317, 322, 448–449, 452–453, 455, 457, 1069, 1398, 1400, 1786, 2075, 2077, 2082–2085 Azerbaijan, 451, 455, 494, 636, 963, 2013, 2015–2016, 2018, 2023–2024, 2026–2027 B Babylon, 18–19, 25–26, 1193–1194, 1197 Baghdad, 620, 2034 Bahrain, 8, 536, 545, 786–787, 820, 822, 830, 835–837, 1411 Baikonur, 1541 Baku, 9, 451–452, 483, 2026 Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan Pipeline, 451–452, 483 Balearic Islands, 1269 Balkans, 448, 2034, 2080 Baltic Pearl, 943, 948–949 Baltic Sea, 453, 739–740, 742–744, 1024, 1517 Bangalore, 609–611, 870 Bangalore Mysore Infrastructure Corridor, 609–612 Bangkok, 868, 871, 1017, 1024, 1037, 1636, 1646, 2150 Bangladesh, 491, 493, 501, 636, 827, 1531–1538, 1737, 2205–2206 Bantustans, 1942–1943 Basel, 322, 938 Baton Rouge, 237, 1452, 1455, 1459–1460 Beacon Hill, 1823 Bechtel, 451, 537, 783–799

Index Beijing, 38, 124, 508–509, 563, 759, 806, 813, 842, 868, 872–873, 877, 885, 946, 950, 1047, 1050–1054, 1082, 1084, 1450, 1502–1510, 1533, 1573, 1575 Belarus, 247, 452, 493, 504, 1786, 2077, 2079 Belém, 573–574, 576–577, 587, 591 Belém-Brasilia Highway, 574, 576, 587 Belgium, 20, 90, 339, 449, 1257, 1474, 1478, 1654, 1785, 2068, 2075, 2077, 2138, 2155 Bellingham, Washington, 2135 Benham, KY, 1919–1920, 1922, 1932–1933 Bering Sea/Strait, 1515, 1957–1959, 1967, 1970–1971 Berlin, 620, 877–879, 885, 1654, 1886, 2034, 2146, 2155 Big Dig, 697–712, 783, 786, 789, 798 Big Diomede Island, 1963 Bingham Canyon, 353–364 Birmingham, AL, 560–563, 786 Biscayne Bay, 1441 Black Jack, MO, 2060 Black Sea, 253, 452, 454, 716–718, 1541, 1543–1544 Blue City, 825–826 Bluegrass, 1297–1320, 1327, 1331 Bogor, 1731 Bolivia, 335, 340, 788, 1347 Border Patrol, 1236, 1702, 1705–1709, 1712, 1716, 1720, 1745 Borneo, 1355, 2141, 2145 Bosnia Herzegovenia, 448, 455, 459, 1693, 2078, 2080 Bosphorus, 715–732 Boston, 30, 117, 697–712, 783, 789, 1075, 1147, 1151, 1153, 1284, 1395, 1653, 1823, 1856, 1859–1860 Botswana, 1223, 1349, 1658, 1668, 1670 Boulder, CO, 2135 Brasilia, 8, 24, 572, 574, 576–577, 587, 985, 1004, 1010, 1029, 1032, 1034, 1038 Brazil, 3, 8–9, 20, 89, 218–219, 329, 469, 501, 506–507, 510, 569–572, 574, 576–577, 581, 591, 792, 797, 830, 905, 1004, 1029, 1085, 1164, 1201, 1268, 1354, 1599, 1602–1608, 1611–1614, 1644, 1666, 2075, 2159 Brazilian Amazon, 334, 592, 594, 1370 Brazzaville, 1652, 1672 Brisbane, 881, 1047, 1052–1053, 1333 British Isles, 505, 1162–1164, 1166, 1178, 1982 Brownsville, 1708–1709 Brussels, 458

Index Budapest, 455, 1049 Buffalo, 179, 189, 194, 196, 198–201, 203–206, 209, 211, 1299, 1655, 1858, 1861–1862, 1873 Bulgaria, 448–449, 452–455, 493–494, 2078, 2080 Burj Dubai, 9, 67, 833, 955–965, 1411 Burma, see Myanmar Burundi, 1658, 1668, 1725, 2144 Busan, 636, 854, 995, 997 C Cahora Bassa, 1223, 1235, 1240, 1659, 1661, 1663 Cairo, 7, 620, 1097, 1284, 1455, 1459 Cairo, IL, 1284, 1455, 1459 Calgary, 391, 468, 1046–1047, 1051, 1053 California, 9, 40, 44, 117, 121, 156, 165, 258–259, 262–263, 266, 472, 475, 478, 481, 500–501, 559, 619, 784–785, 787, 790–791, 793, 795, 890, 905, 908, 1173, 1203, 1374, 1402, 1686, 1688, 1690, 1696, 1704–1705, 1708–1709, 1711–1712, 1714–1716, 1756, 1832, 1933, 1981–1982, 1989, 1991, 2119–2120, 2174, 2234, 2236 Calonda, 375, 380 Cambodia, 636, 1243–1263, 1633, 1635–1638, 1641–1645 Cameron Cove, 1842 Camp Roberts, 105–107 Canberra, 8, 24, 881, 1004, 1014, 1034, 1736, 1740 Cancún, 10, 1268–1270, 1274 Cap Cana, 1267–1280 Cape Town, 7, 691, 693, 1047, 1947–1948 Cape Wind, 472 Caprivi Strip, 2148 Caracas, 792, 797 Caribbean, 124, 879, 1170, 1268–1270, 1273–1277, 1279, 1673, 1821, 1837, 1851, 2036, 2118, 2145, 2173 Caspian Sea, 451, 456–457, 1518, 1526, 1541, 1543–1545, 1562 Caucasus, 253, 451–452, 455, 2013–2015, 2017, 2019–2020, 2023, 2028 CCC, 1092–1094, 1096–1099, 1103–1104, 1277, 1370, 1374–1377, 1380, 1714 Central African Republic, 1658, 1667–1668 Central Asia, 238–239, 252, 254, 446, 455, 458, 620, 635, 875, 1002–1003, 1005, 1017, 1516–1524, 1526–1529, 1541–1542, 1544–1545, 1730 Central Eastern Europe, 2067–2086

2255 Central Park, 710, 1203 Century Village, 1823–1830, 1832–1837, 1841–1842, 1845–1852 Ceuta, 2075 Chad, 621, 1617–1618, 1658, 1667–1668, 1725 Changi Airport, 875, 884, 1120 Channel Islands, 1285–1289 Channel Tunnel, 737, 769, 795 Charlotte, NC, 481, 1078–1082, 1911 Chek Lap Kok airport, 769 Chengdu, 759–760 Chennai, 289, 298, 303, 608 Cherbourg, 1766, 1772, 1775, 1783 Chernobyl, 1777–1778, 1780–1782, 1786, 1801 Cheyenne Mt, 117, 1041–1042 Chicago, 117, 121, 465, 501, 861, 868, 872, 890, 892, 900, 908, 1048, 1075, 1399–1400, 1405, 1839, 1845, 1920, 1933, 2161, 2179, 2228 Chile, 9, 90, 353, 361, 501, 830, 993, 1347, 1578, 2142, 2154 China, 3, 7–9, 20, 25, 31, 52, 58, 60, 62, 67, 89, 121, 124, 131, 136, 157, 168, 217, 219, 242, 262, 330, 353, 459, 491–492, 498, 500–501, 506–511, 539, 563–564, 629, 636–637, 655, 736, 747, 750–752, 760, 793, 803, 805–808, 810–814, 819, 827, 829, 831, 851, 853, 855, 862, 869–873, 876–877, 885, 948, 950–951, 956, 965, 1003, 1005, 1008, 1017, 1029, 1050, 1084–1085, 1147–1148, 1157, 1159, 1164–1165, 1170, 1185, 1192–1193, 1237, 1243–1263, 1283, 1312, 1346, 1354, 1499–1512, 1516, 1531–1538, 1569–1576, 1579, 1583–1585, 1599, 1633, 1635, 1638, 1642–1644, 1648, 1652, 1663, 1730, 1790–1791, 1798, 1812, 1993, 2115, 2147, 2159, 2174, 2203, 2238 Chongqing, 509, 759, 806, 1575–1576, 1583–1584, 1586–1591, 1595–1596 Christmas Island, 1724, 1727, 1730, 1733–1734, 1736, 1738–1743, 1745 Chukchi Peninsula, 1958, 1961–1964 Chukotka, 1957–1971 Cincinnati, 1299, 1302, 1858, 1880 Ciudad Guyana, 9 Clarion-Chipperton Fracture Zone (CCFZ), 275–278, 289 Cleveland, 1077, 1306, 1840, 1856–1861, 1865, 1868–1869, 1871–1872, 1876, 1879–1880, 1933, 2055

2256 Cochabamba, Bolivia, 788 Cocos Islands, 1736 Colorado, 22–23, 462, 464–465, 468–470, 555, 785, 1042–1443, 1446, 1685, 1687–1688, 1691, 1697–1699, 1704–1705, 1709, 1712, 1981, 2130, 2135 Colorado River, 22, 465, 469, 1674 Columbia, 8, 22, 486–487, 493, 646, 890, 1010, 1907, 2241 Congo, Kinshasa, 1261, 1652, 1672 Congo Republic, 1658, 1672 Congo River, 1208, 1651–1676 Connecticut, 1759, 1827, 1830, 1917, 1933, 2124 Coolangatta, 881 Cooper Creek, 1562 Copenhagen, 735, 740, 742–743, 2072 Copperbelt, 1665–1666 Corinth, Greece, 22, 2201 Croatia, 359, 448, 452, 455, 457, 459, 2072, 2078, 2081–2084 Cross Israel Highway, 663 Crozet Islands, 2197 Crystal City, 1074 Cuba, 1273–1274, 1727, 2036, 2047 Cu Chi, 1041–1042 Cyprus, 449, 457, 2072, 2078, 2089, 2108 Czech Republic, 413, 449, 452, 501, 2082 D Dakar, 621 Dallas, 797, 868, 870–871, 876, 908, 913, 915, 1073, 1075, 1403 Dallas-Ft. Worth, 870–871 Danjiangkou Dam, 1504–1506, 1509 Dar es Salaam, 1025 Darkhan, 631 Darwin, 881 Deep South, 278, 502, 1907, 1932, 2130 Delta Project, 1471, 1476, 1478, 1481, 1489–1491, 1493, 1496 Democratic Republic of the Congo, 1668 Denmark, 89–90, 449, 453, 493, 735–737, 739–740, 744, 862, 1888 Denver, 62, 469, 868, 870–871, 874–875, 878–880, 908, 1073 Deseret, 362, 1975–1993 Detroit, 18, 868, 1397, 1856, 1858–1862, 1864–1866, 1868–1872, 1875–1876, 1878–1880, 2058, 2134–2135, 2213 Dhaka, 1082 Disneyland Park, 1134, 1137 District of Columbia, 1010

Index Dnieper/Dnepr, 1957 Dodoma, 1025 Doha, 820, 822–823, 869, 874, 876 Dominican Republic, 885, 1267–1280 Dongtan, 1069 Dork Ngiew Kham, 1249, 1261 Driftless Area, 1387–1390 Dubai, 9, 16, 29, 31, 67, 533–536, 541–547, 819–820, 823–826, 828, 831–837, 854, 867–869, 871, 875–877, 885, 951, 955–965, 970, 1097, 1157, 1185, 1304, 1323, 1339, 1346, 1410–1413, 1419, 1446 Dubai Palm Island, 962–963, 970, 1097, 1416 Durban, 693, 1947 Dushanbe, 1543 Dust Bowl, 247, 1377, 2227 E East Africa, 227, 1196, 1208, 1210, 1215–1216, 1218–1219, 1256, 1261, 1652, 1654–1655, 1657, 2146, 2148 East Caprivi, 174–180 Eastern Europe, 9, 242, 493, 510, 830, 944, 1187, 2067–2086 Eastern U.S., 1386 East Timor, 1730, 1733, 2035 Edmonton, 465 Egypt, 7–8, 90, 192, 493, 624, 728, 830, 837, 1192–1193, 1198, 1401, 1619, 1644, 1658, 1660, 1662, 1667–1669, 1932, 2072 Eiffel Tower, 1045, 1638, 1997 El Paso, 1707–1709, 1712 England, 9, 147, 239, 241, 262, 337, 389, 505–506, 510, 903, 908, 958, 1077, 1160, 1164, 1302, 1327, 1332, 1371, 1404, 1426, 1428–1429, 1432, 1434, 1655, 1665, 1765–1766, 1887, 1917, 1991, 2003, 2124, 2140, 2143 English Channel, 795, 1765 Erdenet, 631 Ethiopia, 501, 1620, 1658, 1668 EU, 10, 134, 140, 448–449, 451–452, 455, 458–459, 501, 737, 883, 993, 1051, 1054, 1669–1670, 2043, 2068–2071, 2075–2078, 2080–2081, 2083, 2085, 2097, 2102–2103, 2105–2108, 2153 Euphrates, 1192–1193 Eurasia, 730, 748, 937, 943, 1007, 1017, 1543, 1793, 1811, 1957 Europe, 9, 27, 76, 81, 124, 140, 225, 242, 258, 261–262, 264, 271, 303, 309, 311, 316, 321–322, 330, 338, 443, 447–459, 461, 472, 483, 489, 493–494, 498–499, 501,

Index 510, 536, 539, 541, 544, 546, 620, 623, 636, 715–716, 719, 724, 737–744, 830, 854–855, 870, 875, 878–879, 882–883, 936, 938, 942, 944, 950, 955, 958–959, 1017, 1054, 1069, 1074, 1082, 1128, 1132, 1135–1136, 1138–1139, 1143, 1166, 1175, 1187, 1192, 1195–1199, 1270, 1293, 1313, 1323, 1375, 1383, 1385, 1387, 1397, 1400–1402, 1428, 1443, 1466, 1472, 1501, 1528, 1561, 1601–1602, 1610, 1628, 1652, 1654–1655, 1657, 1668–1670, 1686, 1691, 1704, 1885–1886, 1890, 1933, 1944, 1982, 1991, 2017, 2043, 2067–2086, 2089, 2097, 2116, 2125, 2139–2142, 2144, 2147, 2154, 2159, 2233 F Fairbanks, 646–647, 653, 752, 758, 1578 Femern Belt Link, 737, 743–744 Fenghuoshan tunnel, 758 Fiji, 121, 285, 1733, 1743 Finland, 9, 134, 137–141, 173–186, 449, 452–453, 494, 514–515, 517–523, 942, 944, 951, 1839, 1841, 1890 Finnish Lapland, 180–185 Flint, 1856, 1858, 1879 Florida, 9, 30, 556, 560, 564, 890, 908, 913, 1075, 1135, 1168–1170, 1172, 1272, 1298, 1441, 1821–1853, 2003, 2133, 2135 Fontana Dam, 1914 Former Soviet Union, 241, 244, 252, 489, 491–494, 672–673, 1014, 1500, 1856, 2079 France, 9, 90, 120–121, 160, 165, 241, 269, 313, 318, 447, 449, 452, 502, 504–507, 510, 617–621, 623–624, 737, 876, 961, 994, 1129–1136, 1141–1143, 1195–1196, 1198, 1245, 1269, 1641, 1654, 1667–1668, 1765, 1768, 1771–1774, 1784–1786, 1790–1791, 1812, 1917, 2068, 2075, 2129, 2140, 2143, 2153–2154, 2162 Frankfurt, 7, 868, 878, 1932, 2054, 2234, 2242 Frederick, MD, 7974 French Indochina, 1640 Fresno, 1402 Ft. Lauderdale, 1835, 1843 Ft. McMurray, 466–468, 470–471 Ft. Myers, 1845 G Ganges, 9, 1535, 2205 Gary, IN, 1921 GCC (Gulf Coordinating Council), 819–820, 822–824, 826–828, 830–831, 833–836

2257 Geneva, 116, 322, 1728 Georgetown, KY, 500–501, 1932–1933 Georgia, 451–452, 454–455, 483, 908, 920, 1390–1391, 1687, 1696, 1805, 1907, 1933, 2018, 2028, 2125, 2131–2132, 2174 Georgia-Russian Conflict, 452 Germany, 7, 9, 90, 121, 158–159, 182, 269, 312, 322, 325, 432, 449–450, 452–453, 455, 494, 500, 504, 506–508, 510, 623, 724, 735, 737, 743–744, 871, 878, 994, 1047, 1194, 1198–1199, 1254, 1400, 1470, 1512, 1654, 1668, 1691, 1696, 1725, 1785–1786, 1859, 1878–1879, 2033, 2054, 2068, 2075, 2082, 2140, 2153 Ghana, 1353–1366, 1619, 1657–1658, 1660–1663, 1668 Gibraltar Strait, 1443–1444, 1446 Goa, 279 Golden Boten, 1250–1256, 1261 Gonarezhou National Park, 1225, 1228, 1234 Gorilla Rainforest, 1203, 1205–1214, 1216–1218, 1220 Gostishchevskoye, 414–415 Gotthard, 9, 311–322, 324–325 Goyder channel, 1550–1552 Grand Inga, 1651–1676 Great Banks, 257 Great Belt Link, 737–740 Great Britain, 239, 504, 506, 646, 737, 1786, 2105, 2140, 2148, 2153 Greater Sun City, 1823, 1825, 1829–1830 Great Lakes, 1208, 2130, 2136 Great Limpopo, 1224–1225, 1239 Great Plains, 9, 1684, 2132–2134 Greece, 90, 155, 359, 448–450, 452, 454, 457, 493, 501, 792, 797, 1051, 1192, 2068, 2078, 2201 Green River Formation, 468–469 Greensboro, 1842 Ground Zero, 24, 905, 1795, 1802–1804 Guangzhou, 759, 854, 871 Guantanamo, 1256, 1726–1727, 1737 Guatemala, 383–406, 501, 1991 Guateng, 1950 Gulf countries, 533, 545–546, 819–837 Gulf of Mannar, 298, 301–302, 304–305 Gulf States, 533, 535–536, 541, 545, 547, 870, 884, 1411 Gulf Stream, 1528, 2237, 2242 Gulf of Thailand, 264

2258 H Hachula Swamps, 663, 665 Haiti, 1693, 1727, 2034 Hamburg, 735, 743, 854, 1199, 1313–1316 Harlan Co, KY, 1918, 1920, 1931–1932 Hawaii, 121, 555, 839, 1149, 1640, 1691–1692, 1696, 1698–1699, 1759, 1985, 1991, 2212 Heathrow, 7, 868, 871–873, 883, 885 Hellenistic society, 19 Helsinki, 137–139, 944 Himalayas, 1507, 1532–1534, 1537 Hobart, 881 Hoboken, 1878 Houston, 28, 95, 789, 794, 868, 876, 905–906, 908, 915, 1073–1074, 1403–1404, 1903, 1910, 1913 Hubei, 1504–1505, 1509, 1571, 1576, 1583–1584, 1586–1591, 1594 Hungary, 249, 312–313, 317, 448–449, 452–455, 2073, 2077–2078, 2080–2085 Hyderabad, 870 I Iceland, 491, 494, 2075, 2212–2213 Idaho, 1705, 1711, 1981–1982, 1985, 1990 Ifugao, 1442 Illinois, 787, 890, 900, 912, 1284–1286, 1293, 1401, 1455, 1459, 1690, 1697, 1705, 1751, 1844, 1975, 1977–1979, 1986, 2054, 2124–2125, 2175, 2179 India, 7–9, 20, 23, 26, 89–90, 111, 157, 189–213, 217–232, 239, 259, 265–266, 276, 279, 289, 297–298, 301–303, 305–309, 330, 335, 340–341, 501, 506, 510, 541, 563–564, 601–614, 635–636, 819, 827, 829–831, 870, 963, 1083, 1085, 1112, 1161, 1164, 1192, 1237, 1333, 1346, 1361, 1516, 1531–1538, 1640, 1644, 1647, 1725, 1939–1940, 1950, 2000, 2004, 2147, 2150–2152, 2164, 2203, 2206 Indiana, 926, 1372, 1378–1379, 1921, 2124 Indian Ocean, 31, 276, 279, 298, 967, 1531, 1534–1535, 1538, 1549, 1553, 1562, 1564, 1666, 1730, 1734, 1738–1739, 2164, 2236 Indonesia, 89–90, 124, 264, 338, 341, 457, 485, 493, 507, 830, 1085, 1164, 1353–1366, 1693, 1730–1734, 2145 Inga, 7, 1223, 1651–1676 Inga Falls, 1651, 1653–1654, 1656–1657, 1666–1667, 1671, 1674 Iowa, 237–254, 1285–1286, 1307, 1391, 1705, 1758, 2123 Iran, 9, 94, 136, 453, 483, 485, 489, 493, 536, 636, 877, 960, 1693, 1725, 1730–1731

Index Iraq, 161, 483, 536, 783, 786, 788–789, 960, 1023, 1668, 1691, 1693, 1725, 1727, 1730–1731, 1737, 2031–2032, 2034, 2036–2037, 2047, 2075 Ireland, 9, 121, 429–445, 449, 505–506, 1162, 1173, 1175, 1323, 1333, 1336, 1338, 1765, 1885–1899, 2075, 2080, 2089–2108 Irtysh River, 1520–1521, 1527–1528, 1542–1543, 1791, 1793, 1807 Ishim River, 1008 Islamabad, 8, 24, 1029, 1040–1041 Isle of Lewis, 472–474, 477 ISPs (Internet Service Provider), 133, 137–138, 142 Israel, 9, 71, 663–679, 993, 1668, 1839, 1855, 1976, 2089, 2173 Israel-Palestine, 2089 Isthmus of Tehuantepec, 474–475 Itaipú, 1599–1615, 1666 Italy, 20, 90, 121, 262, 312–314, 322, 359, 403, 413, 448–450, 452, 454–455, 457, 493, 498, 504–506, 510, 623, 737–738, 972, 1443, 1669, 1691, 1696, 1725, 1843, 2068, 2081–2085, 2142 J Jacksonville, 1825, 1844 Jakarta, 1017, 1037, 1731 Jalalabad, 103–105, 107–108, 110 Japan, 7, 9, 71, 120–121, 124, 147, 165, 265, 269, 278, 285, 289, 291, 340, 359, 383, 491–492, 494, 499, 501–502, 504, 506–507, 509–510, 635, 645, 691, 724, 726–727, 736, 862, 869, 871, 876–877, 982, 994, 1030, 1047, 1053, 1074–1075, 1134, 1185, 1187, 1245–1248, 1323, 1329, 1336, 1641, 1785, 1804, 1856, 2009, 2033 Java, 62, 1730, 1738 Jebel Ali, 533, 536, 541–544, 958–959, 1413 Jeddah, 537, 542, 769, 871, 1411 Johannesburg, 9, 686, 691–693, 885, 1229, 1656, 1939, 1947, 1950 Johnstown, PA, 1396 Jubail, 533, 536–541, 1560 Jwaneng, 1223 K Kabul, 108, 2039–2042 Kaesong, 993 Kalahari, 2148 Kalimantan, 1354–1357, 1365, 2145 Kaliningrad, 2077 Kamchay, 1244–1250, 1255–1258 Kano, 1622, 1624–1626

Index Kansai, 869, 871, 874, 880, 970 Kanyakumari, 303, 604 Karabakh, 2013–2028 Kara-Bogaz Gol, 1541, 1562 Karelia, 514, 516–517, 519–522, 524–530, 2089, 2108 Kariba, 1223, 1235, 1240, 1660–1666, 1674 Karnataka, 609–611 Katanga, 1656, 1667 Kazakhstan, 3, 9, 237–239, 244, 247, 251, 452, 637, 1001–1018, 1029, 1516–1518, 1521, 1523, 1526, 1529, 1541–1542, 1789, 1791–1793, 1798, 1800, 1802–1803, 1805, 1808, 1811–1813, 1815, 2018 Kazakh Steppe, 239, 254, 1007, 1803 Kentucky, 917, 1090–1091, 1098, 1103, 1297–1320, 1327–1331, 1333, 1459, 1618, 1687, 1696, 1917–1920, 1922–1923, 1932–1933, 2126 Kentucky Bluegrass, 1327 Kenya, 62, 111, 501, 1203, 1215–1216, 1346, 1620, 1655, 1658–1660, 1668, 2144 Khalifa City, 835 Khartoum, 870 King Abdullah Economic City, 540–541, 769, 963 Kinshasa, 1261, 1652, 1672 Kissimmee River, 30 Kitwe, 1665 KMA region, 413–415, 417 Knoxville, TN, 1903, 1909, 1914 Kobe, 871, 877, 970 Koko Nor, 750–751 Kolkata, 303, 608, 1030, 1082 Kosovo, 1693, 2078 Krasnoyarsk, 636 Kremlin, 251, 933, 935 Kruger National Park, 1225, 1228, 1230, 1232–1234, 1239 Kuala Lumpur, 871, 876–877, 955, 2004 Kuene River, 2148 Kurchatov, 1792–1793, 1795, 1798, 1800, 1803, 1810, 1812–1813, 1815 Kursk Magnetic Anomaly, 413–425 Kuwait, 162, 483, 485, 489, 546, 635, 786, 820, 822–823, 868, 959–960, 963, 1249, 1257, 1411, 1642, 1691, 1693 KwaZulu-Natal, 219 Kyrgyzstan, 244, 636, 1014, 1542 L Lacanese, 162 Lagos, 1025, 1619

2259 La Hague, 1765–1786 Lake Chad, 621, 1617 Lake Eyre, 1549–1564 Lake Malawi, 1208 Lake Sarez, 1543 Lake Worth, 1825, 1839–1841, 1843 Lanchang, 1643 Langley, 1074 Lantana, 1825, 1839–1841 Lanzhou, 748, 751, 1499 Laos, 636, 1243–1263, 1354, 1633, 1635–1638, 1641–1645 Las Vegas, 9, 21–22, 29, 62, 480, 560, 787, 868, 1074–1075, 1085, 1117, 1157, 1982 Las Vegas Strip, 1074 La Venta, 472, 474–477 Lebedinskoye, 414–415 Leipzig, 1199, 1859, 1877, 1879 Leningrad, 941, 947, 1518 Lexington, KY, 1069, 1090–1091, 1300, 1302–1303, 1313–1314, 1317 Lhasa, 747–748, 750–751, 759–760, 1532 Liberia, 862, 1658, 1668, 2034–2035 Libya, 125, 457, 485, 787, 871, 1658, 1668, 2072 Limerick, 1890, 1893 Limpopo National Park, 1225, 1228, 1230, 1232–1236, 1239 Lisbon, 1047, 1051–1054, 2144 Lithuania, 449, 2073, 2077 Livingstone Falls, 1653–1654 Lombok, 1731–1732 London, 7, 9–10, 21, 42, 73, 116, 122, 124, 127, 345–346, 505, 619, 691, 789, 794–797, 835, 868, 871–876, 883, 885, 933, 972, 1046, 1048–1050, 1052, 1135, 1196–1198, 1399–1400, 1665, 1671, 1766, 1886, 1991, 2105–2106, 2144–2145, 2152, 2210 Louisiana, 245, 1451–1452, 1455, 1460–1461, 1685–1687, 1705, 2047, 2057, 2133 Louisville, 912, 915–917, 1302–1303 Lowell, MA, 1917 Lund, 289, 740, 1387–1389 Lunda, 367–373, 375–376, 379–380 Luxembourg, 449, 2068, 2075, 2081 Luzon, 385, 389, 400, 405, 1442 Lynch, KY, 1919–1920, 1923, 1932–1933 M Maasbommel, 2117–2119 Macedonia, 448, 1346, 2072, 2078, 2080 Magnitogorsk, 1957

2260 Maine, 1371, 1391, 2161 Malay, 1112, 1114, 1355, 1738, 1939, 1998–2008, 2010, 2145 Malaysia, 94, 264, 500–501, 506–507, 510, 636, 825, 871, 876, 955, 993, 1085, 1109, 1164, 1186, 1201, 1245, 1260, 2001, 2141, 2145 Malmö, 735, 740, 743 Mammoth Cave National Park, 1090, 1093, 1098–1099 Manaus, 570, 576, 582 Manchester, NH, 1917 Mandalay, 1021, 1024, 1026, 1028–1029, 1032–1033, 1037–1038, 1040, 2007, 2206 Manhattan, 27, 503, 787, 890, 962, 982, 1187, 1272, 1275, 1279, 1790, 1802, 1827, 1878, 2237 Manus Islands, 1733–1734, 1736–1737, 1744–1745 Markermeer, 1479 Marne-La-Valle, 1127–1128, 1130, 1132, 1135, 1143 Mars/Martian, 1045, 2211, 2217–2224, 2227–2232, 2235–2236, 2238–2239 Maryland, 794, 1075, 1300, 1302, 1751, 1756, 1830, 1842 Marysville, OH, 500–501 Masdar City, 1069, 1419 Massachusetts, 697–698, 703–705, 708, 710, 712, 789, 1396, 1844, 1917, 2124 Mato Grosso, 576, 585, 587 Mauritius, 303, 1268 McMahon Line, 2147 Medellin, 392–393 Mediterranean, 9, 18–19, 21, 124, 448, 451, 456–458, 618, 623–624, 663, 716, 879, 1441–1446, 1652, 1693 Mediterranean Sea Basin, 1442–1443, 1446 Mediterranean Sea Terrace Project, 1441–1446 Mekong River, 1512, 1534, 1633–1637, 1639–1643, 1646, 1648 Melbourne, 881, 1333, 1425–1438, 1732, 1736 Melilla, 2075 Memphis, 562, 913, 915, 919, 1401, 1452, 1456, 1459–1460, 1921 Mesopotamia, 1192–1194, 1197 Mexican-U.S. border, 1704–1707 Mexico, 8–9, 20, 90, 472–478, 489, 491, 493–494, 500–501, 506, 510, 554, 556, 564, 628, 786, 884, 1047, 1083–1085, 1148, 1268, 1270, 1272, 1294, 1391, 1403, 1455, 1561, 1684, 1701–1720, 1759, 1790, 1981–1982, 2045, 2074, 2176

Index Miami, 10, 62, 127, 559, 868, 1833–1836, 1839, 1845, 1852, 1907, 1911, 2125 Miami Beach, 10, 1833, 1835–1836 Michigan, 117, 502, 890, 1166, 1175–1178, 1284, 1758, 1840, 1842, 1879–1880, 2124, 2131, 2134–2135 Midwest/Middle West, 501–502, 556–557, 784, 900, 913, 1075, 1286, 1288–1289, 1369–1381, 1684, 1821, 1823, 1833, 1844–1845, 1851–1852, 1976, 2123, 2134 Millennium Highway, 628, 631–636 Mindanao, 386, 389–390, 396, 400, 402 Minneapolis, 868, 890–891, 893, 895–898, 908, 915, 1283–1285, 1290–1294 Minnesota, 890–894, 896–897, 900–901, 1201, 1224, 1283–1284, 1289–1290, 1292–1293, 2124 Mission Bay, 793, 1147–1157 Mississippi River, 890, 893–895, 1283–1295, 1387, 1396, 1401, 1451–1462, 1684, 2115 Mississippi Valley, 1404, 1453 Missouri, 9, 1283, 1403, 1705, 1975, 1977–1978, 2060, 2115, 2180 Mojave Desert, 9, 479, 1686–1687, 1692 Moldavian, 2080 Mongolia, 627–638, 1008, 1507, 1798 Montana, 337, 394, 646, 1287, 2130 Montenegro, 448, 2078, 2080 Mormon landscape, 1975–1993 Mormons, 1973–1991 Morocco, 9, 624, 963, 1443, 1658, 1660, 1665, 1668–1669, 1674, 2072, 2075 Moscow, 9, 242, 249, 253, 452, 503, 933–951, 1002, 1024, 1053, 1082, 1085, 1517–1518, 1524, 1526–1529, 1793, 1797–1798, 1800, 1804–1805, 2015, 2019, 2023 Moskva Siti, 934–941, 945 Mozambique, 1225, 1228–1229, 1233–1237, 1239, 1354, 1357, 1526, 1658, 1659–1662, 1666, 1668 Mumbai, 194, 608, 1082 Munich, 868, 870–871, 878 Muscle Shoals, AL, 1906 Myanmar, 28, 636, 1001, 1021–1043, 1249, 1531, 2003, 2206 N Naberezhnye Chelny, Tatarstan, 500 Nabucco, 453–455, 458 Nagano, 1047, 1053 Nagorno Karabakh, 2013–2028 Nagoya, 507, 869, 871, 877 Nairobi, 1620, 2043

Index Namibia, 173–186, 380, 1261, 1349, 1357, 1658, 1668, 1670, 1950, 2146, 2148 Namtha Grand Hotel, 1254 Nanjing, 506, 1574 Naples, 51, 1837–1838, 1845 Naukan, 1963–1964, 1967 Nauru, 1724, 1733–1737, 1743–1744 Nauvoo, 1975, 1977–1979, 1986 Naypyidaw, 28, 1001, 1021–1043 Nepal, 636, 827, 830, 1531, 1647 Netherlands, 42, 94, 121, 196, 449, 525, 877, 970, 993, 1239, 1465–1468, 1470–1475, 1478–1479, 1481–1484, 1489, 1542, 1785, 2068, 2075, 2077, 2082, 2117, 2140, 2153, 2204, 2229 Nevada, 3, 22, 24, 131, 477, 480, 784, 787, 1075, 1283, 1686, 1689, 1704–1705, 1709, 1712, 1790, 1800, 1809, 1815, 1981–1982 Nevada Test Site, 22, 24, 787, 1790 New Delhi, 24, 306–307, 794 New Hampshire, 657, 1690, 1917 New Jersey, 117, 852, 854, 856, 1073, 1187, 1827, 1830, 1844, 1917, 2060 New Orleans, 28, 564, 972, 1051, 1286, 1302, 1570, 1905, 2115 Newport News Naval Yard, 24 New York, 22, 27–28, 30–31, 62, 121–122, 124, 127, 158, 707, 710, 723, 770, 788, 794, 835, 852, 854, 856, 867–868, 875, 885, 890, 892, 934, 959, 982, 1074, 1098, 1147, 1151, 1269, 1304, 1333, 1371, 1374, 1395–1398, 1404, 1609, 1654, 1684–1685, 1696, 1822, 1827, 1829–1830, 1834–1836, 1838, 1844–1845, 1850, 1852, 1856, 1859, 1907, 2054–2055, 2060, 2063, 2124, 2135 New Zealand, 9, 121, 491, 883, 885, 1327–1328, 1333, 1336, 1723, 1733, 2150, 2154 Niagara Falls, 1203, 1654–1655 Nigeria, 3, 8, 485, 489, 905, 1025, 1617–1629, 1658, 1660, 1662, 1665, 1668, 2159, 2164, 2166 Nogales, 1708–1709 NORAD, 117, 1041–1043 Norris, TN, 1903, 1906, 1909–1910 North Africa, 9, 617–618, 623–624, 875, 1346, 1443, 1655, 1658, 1669, 1686 North Carolina, 558, 901, 1074, 1078–1082, 1203, 1300, 1687, 1842, 1849, 1911, 1914, 2125 North Dakota, 245, 1793, 2130 Northeast Asia, 629, 633, 636–637, 876, 884, 991

2261 Northern Ireland, 505–506, 1888, 2089–2109 North Korea, 1256 North Sea, 450, 864, 970, 1175, 1466–1467, 1469, 1471, 1474, 1482, 1485–1486, 1489, 1491, 1496 North Stream, 452–453, 1041 Northwest Staging Route, 646–647, 658 Northwest territory/territories, 2124–2125, 2129–2130 Norway, 89–90, 147, 489, 491, 493, 871, 1245, 1725, 2075, 2154 Novgorod, 500, 503, 933 Novosibirsk, 636, 1523, 1792, 1796, 1798, 1814 NRLA (New Rail Link through the Alps), 322 Nunavut, 1212, 1214 O Oaxaca, 472–477 Ob River, 1518–1519, 1542–1543 Ohio, 361, 500, 1077, 1372, 1844, 1863, 1907, 1933, 1975, 1977–1978, 1986, 2055, 2115, 2124, 2126, 2133–2135 Ohio River, 9, 926, 1284, 2124, 2126 Okavango River, 2148 Oklahoma, 501, 560, 925–927, 1705, 1709, 1712 Oman, 820–823, 825, 830–832, 834–836 Omsk, 636 Ontario, 1197, 1212–1213, 1655, 1888 Orange River, 2148 Oraniemi, 182–184 Oresund Link, 737, 740, 745 Orlando, 868, 913, 1272, 1821 Osaka, 869, 871, 874, 877–878, 880–881 Oskemen, 1792 Oslo, 870–871 Ota, 905 Ottawa, 658, 985, 1654 Oulu, 137–139 P Pakistan, 3, 7–8, 26, 541, 636, 827, 1029, 1041, 1532, 1725, 1737, 2164 Palestine, 9, 663, 1192, 1668, 2089 Palk Strait, 297–298, 300–302 Palm Beach, 1824–1828, 1833–1836, 1838–1839, 1842–1848, 1850–1851 Palm Island, 962–963, 970, 1097, 1416 Palm Jebel Ali, 1413 Palm Springs, 22, 472 Panama, 3, 8, 619, 863, 1693, 1905

2262 Panama Canal, 22, 25, 67, 537, 790, 863, 866, 1097, 1149, 1404, 1904 Papua New Guinea, 285, 335, 342, 1724, 1733–1734, 1743 Paraguay, 1599, 1602–1604, 1606–1615, 1666 Paraná River, 1599, 1602–1603, 1611–1612, 1614 Paris, 7, 24, 510, 619–620, 705, 795, 874–875, 878, 972, 994, 1045–1046, 1049, 1127, 1129–1130, 1132, 1134, 1136, 1138, 1197–1198, 1269, 1298, 1311–1312, 1320, 1668, 1766, 1783, 1997, 2161 Paris Basin, 1130, 1132, 1134, 1143 Paris region, 1130 Paterson, NJ, 1878, 1917 Pavlodar, 1792, 1814 Pearl River Delta, 869–870, 876 Pennsylvania, 478, 553–554, 557, 890, 900, 1300, 1371, 1396, 1844, 1876, 1880, 1917–1918, 2062, 2124, 2126 Pentagon, 24, 1074, 1727 Persian Gulf, 31, 458, 487, 542, 546, 787, 821, 869, 958, 1410, 1417, 1560 Perth, 881, 1738, 1740 Peru, 16, 20, 393, 493, 2164 Philadelphia, 790, 900, 1198, 1858–1860, 1874, 1880, 1913 Philippines, 121, 124, 242, 264, 335, 383–406, 491, 493–494, 827, 831, 958, 1049, 1085, 1149, 1257, 1442 Phnom Penh, 1247, 1261, 1263, 1636 Piedmont, 313, 317–318, 1300, 1384–1385, 1387, 1390–1391, 1907 Pittsburgh, 1654, 1856, 1858, 1933 Poland, 269, 413, 449, 452–453, 510, 830, 2073, 2077, 2079–2080 Porbandar, 608 Port Elizabeth, 1944–1946, 1951–1952 Portland, 797–798, 1077, 1856 Portugal, 8, 121, 262, 269, 322, 449, 494, 510, 1048, 1185, 1654, 2068, 2077, 2140, 2142–2143 Pretoria, 686–687, 689, 694, 1666, 1943, 1951 Provo, 1980, 1982, 1984, 1987 Puerto Rico, 555, 1276, 1692 Punjab, 225, 228 Punta Cana-Bavaro, 1270, 1272 Punta Cana Hotel, 1279 Putrajaya, 1034 Pyinmana, 1021–1022, 1024, 1027–1036, 1038–1039, 1041–1042 Pyongyang, 636, 961, 993–994

Index Q Qatar, 457, 485, 491, 494, 536, 820, 822–824, 830–831, 836, 868, 874, 1257 Qinghai–Tibetan Railway, 762 R Rameswaram Island, 309 Ram Sethu, 297–298, 304–305, 307–309 Rangoon, see Yangon Ras al Khaimah, 1412, 1420 Red Onion State Prison, 1749–1750, 1752–1754, 1759 Red Sea, 289, 542, 963, 1491, 1544, 1673 Republic of Ireland, see Ireland Republic of Korea, see South Korea Richmond, 1751, 1756, 1874 Ring Road, 674, 943, 945, 948, 1509 Rio de Janeiro, 20, 569, 572, 604, 1029, 1069, 1162 Rio Tinto, 10, 361, 364, 389, 1257 Riverdale zoo, 1197–1201, 1204 River Rouge, 501–502 Rocky Mountains, 469, 647, 1684 Romania, 413, 448–449, 452, 454–455, 493–494, 510, 2075, 2077–2078, 2080 Rome, 20–21, 26, 454, 618, 915, 1193, 1865, 1878, 2142, 2153 Rotterdam, 854, 861, 864–865, 1474–1476, 1491, 1494, 2203 Rwanda-Burundi, 1668 Russia, 7, 9, 31, 104, 237–240, 242–243, 245–246, 248–249, 253, 278, 413–414, 416–421, 447, 450–456, 458, 483, 489, 493, 500–501, 503–504, 506–508, 510, 515, 620, 628–629, 636, 643–644, 647, 933–951, 1003, 1006, 1008, 1082, 1085, 1157, 1247, 1398, 1516, 1523, 1527–1529, 1576, 1786, 1791, 1794, 1798, 1802, 1812, 1814, 1879, 1957–1971, 2017–2018, 2023, 2077, 2079, 2154 Russian Far East, 1959, 1962 Russian North, 1005, 1957–1958, 1970 Rwanda, 62, 1658, 1668, 1693, 2148 S Sabah, 2145 Sahara, 617–618, 620–621, 623–624, 1415, 1668, 1785, 2227 Sahara Desert, 617, 1785 Saint Barbara, 319, 322–323 St. Louis, 1283–1286, 1289–1290, 1292–1294, 1858, 1879, 2060, 2180, 2185

Index St. Petersburg, Florida, 239, 448, 453, 620, 655, 933–951, 1024, 1398, 1529, 1833, 1843, 1845 St. Petersburg, Russia, 1398 Sakhalin, 636, 1961 Salt Lake City, 353–354, 361, 1047, 1053, 1976–1986, 1990 San Diego, 797, 1147–1157, 1707–1709, 1712, 1714, 1981, 2234, 2236 San Francisco, 62, 88, 500, 559, 785–795, 798, 868, 1076, 1147, 1149, 1151, 1153, 1276, 1400–1401, 2054 Santa Fe, 95, 1083 Santo Domingo, 1269, 1274 Saö Paulo, 127, 569, 572, 687, 792, 797, 905, 1609, 1611–1612 Sarasota, 1843, 1845 Sarawak, 2145 Saudi Arabia, 8, 463, 483, 485–486, 489, 491, 493, 533–534, 536–542, 545, 769, 786, 789, 820, 822, 830–831, 836, 871, 957, 963, 1411, 1560, 1693 Schengen agreement, 2068–2072, 2075, 2081 Scone, Australia, 1323–1324, 1333–1334 Scotland, 472, 505, 795, 831, 1159–1162, 1164, 1175, 1665, 2004 Sea of Marmara, 716–718, 731 Seattle, 121, 711, 885, 890, 908, 1045, 1147, 1180 Sejong, 986, 989–990, 993 Senegal, 1658, 1668, 2072, 2075 Sentosa, 1118, 1120 Seoul, 636, 795, 869, 871, 905, 985–986, 989, 991–995, 1017, 1047, 1053, 1057 Serbia, 448, 452–454, 457, 459, 2078, 2080 Sethusamudram ship canal, 297–309 Shannon, 124, 488–491, 1886 Shenzhen, 813, 853–854, 1185 Siberia/Siberian, 7–8, 50, 237, 239, 452–453, 457–458, 620, 628, 635–636, 645–646, 651–652, 655, 757, 1008, 1515–1529, 1542–1543, 1569, 1958–1960, 1963, 1965, 1967, 2237–2238, 2244 Sihanoukville, 1255 Silicon Valley, 58, 790 Singapore, 7, 9, 264, 491, 493, 687, 835, 854, 865, 868, 872, 875, 884, 905, 1017, 1083, 1109–1123, 1997–2010, 2145 Sirkeci, 726–729 Skagway, 648 Slovakia, 413, 449, 452, 2073, 2075, 2077, 2082

2263 Slovenia, 448–449, 452, 454–455, 457, 459, 2073, 2078, 2081–2085 Smuggler’s Gulch, CA, 1714–1716 Smyrna, TN, 500–502 SNTS (Semipalatinsk Nuclear Testing Site), 1789, 1796, 1798, 1803 SNWT (South-North Water Transfer), 1500–1512 Sochi, 1047 Somalia, 1658, 1668, 1693, 2034 Sophiatown, 1947–1949 South Africa, 9, 90, 219, 380, 501, 683–686, 689–694, 993, 1225, 1228–1230, 1233–1234, 1236–1239, 1304, 1329, 1655–1656, 1658, 1660, 1666–1671, 1727, 1937–1944, 1946–1947, 1949–1953, 2146, 2173, 2176 South America, 492–493, 510, 541, 584, 1187, 1214, 1353–1354, 1599, 1614, 1702, 1710, 2143 South Asian, 546, 964–965, 2148 South Carolina, 1185, 1390, 2125, 2132, 2174 South Dakota, 1705, 2130 Southeast Asia, 124, 258, 260, 263–266, 269, 346, 385, 541, 627, 875, 884, 1037, 1214, 1243, 1247, 1258, 1642, 1730, 1745, 2141, 2145, 2150 Southern Piedmont, 1384–1385, 1387, 1390 South Korea, 9, 87, 124, 491, 493–494, 500, 502, 506–510, 635–636, 728, 862, 871, 876, 963, 985, 1057–1058, 1185 South Ossetia, 451–452 South Stream, 448, 453–455, 1041 Southwest Africa, 2146, 2148 Soviet Union, 237–254, 269, 432, 489, 491–494, 629, 646, 672–673, 950, 961, 1001–1002, 1005–1006, 1008, 1014, 1024, 1400, 1500, 1515, 1524, 1527, 1656, 1789, 1790, 1798, 1800, 1803, 1812, 1856, 1957–1958, 1960, 1962, 1967–1968, 1971, 2013, 2015–2019, 2024, 2027, 2079, 2153–2154 Soweto, 685 Spain, 9, 90, 121, 269, 394, 449, 500, 506–507, 510, 623, 795, 961, 989, 1135, 1185, 1196, 1269, 1443, 1654, 1668, 1670, 2003, 2068, 2075, 2140, 2142–2143, 2146 Spokane, 1980 Springfield, MA, 1878 Spring Hill, TN, 500–503 Sri Lanka, 297–298, 301, 303, 305, 993, 1531–1532, 1534, 1537, 1737 Srinagar, 608

2264 Starooskol’skiy, 414, 417, 422–423 Stonehenge, 29 Straits of Hormuz, 487, 542 Stroymontazh, 936 Sub Saharan Africa, 1223, 1225–1226, 1228–1229, 1237 Sudan, 1658, 1662, 1667–1668, 1725 Suez Canal, 3, 619, 866 Sunbelt, 787, 908–909, 1075, 1085, 1866 Suriname, 335, 573 Switzerland, 7, 9, 90, 311, 313, 320–322, 324, 454, 494, 993–994, 1002, 1046, 1533, 1785–1786, 1991, 2075, 2082 Sydney, 878, 881–882, 905, 961, 1050, 1052–1053, 1323–1324, 1328, 1333, 1738, 2175 Sydney harbor tunnel, 769 Syr Darya, 1542, 1545 Syria, 666, 670, 963, 1192, 1725 T Tabriz, 2013–2014, 2020 Taiwan, 121, 124, 265, 269, 390, 469, 493, 807, 1260, 1579, 1727, 2149, 2159 Taj, 3, 20–22, 104–105 Tajikistan, 7, 636, 1516, 1542–1543, 2018 Tallahassee, 2135 Tamil Nadu, 299–300, 303–304, 306–308, 611, 1534 Tampa, 556, 908, 1733–1734, 1825, 1829, 1845 Tanzania, 1025, 1237, 1357, 1658, 1668, 1725, 2144, 2148 Tashkent, 1005 Tehran, 877 Tel Aviv, 669, 674, 970 Tel Gezer, 1855 Tennessee, 503, 787, 1300, 1452, 1456, 1800, 1812, 1901, 1903, 1906, 1909, 1918, 1921 Tennessee Valley, 787, 1635, 1644, 1901, 1906, 1909–1910, 1914 Texas, 250, 461, 484, 489, 557, 729, 890, 894, 901, 905, 908, 915, 1073, 1085, 1391, 1400–1404, 1406, 1687, 1691, 1694, 1701, 1704–1705, 1708–1709, 1712–1715, 1717, 1803 Thailand, 8, 20, 124, 264, 271, 493, 636, 871, 1021, 1245, 1250–1251, 1263, 1531, 1633, 1635, 1637, 1640–1642, 1644–1647, 1725, 2150, 2174, 2176 Three Gorges Dam, 3, 32, 69, 461, 769, 815, 1185, 1223, 1283, 1500, 1505, 1569–1580, 1583–1596, 1599, 1663

Index Tianjin, 854, 1503–1505, 1507–1509, 1575 Tibet, 747–749, 751, 757, 760–762, 815, 1500, 1532–1537, 1570, 1572, 1635, 2147 Tiga Dam, 1622, 1624–1625 Tigris, 1192–1193 Tobago, 1441 Tomsk, 636, 945 Toronto, 52, 389, 871, 1029, 1047, 1049, 1191–1220 Toronto zoo, 1192, 1199–1220 Transamazon Highway, 3, 569–595 Trans-Atlantic, 121, 124 Transfrontier Park, 1224–1225, 1227–1228, 1233, 1240 Trans-Pacific, 121, 124 Trans-Saharan Railway, 617–625 Tundra Trek, 1203–1214, 1216–1217, 1219–1220 Turgay Gate, 1517–1518 Turkey, 7, 26, 90, 451–455, 493–494, 500, 636, 715–716, 718–720, 724, 726–728, 830, 1025, 1040, 1392, 1668, 2159, 2164, 2201–2202, 2205 Turkmenistan, 493, 636, 1002, 1516, 1542 Turku, 137–139 Tuticorin, 298, 300, 303 TVA, 22, 901, 1376, 1615, 1901–1914 U UAE, 10, 489, 494, 534, 536, 541–544, 547, 819–820, 823–824, 828, 830–831, 836, 957, 1409–1421 Ukraine, 243, 245–246, 248–249, 253, 269, 450–451, 454, 493, 504, 1247, 1786, 1793, 2072, 2075, 2077, 2079–2080 Ulaan Baatar, 629–631, 633, 635 United Kingdom, 9, 52, 89–90, 391, 449, 454, 493, 510, 734, 784, 839, 872–873, 1536, 1725, 1790, 1812, 1886, 2075, 2089, 2097, 2154 United Nations, 104, 195, 242, 373, 403, 454, 970, 1112, 1257, 1263, 1345, 1348, 1635, 1640–1642, 1658, 1724, 1726, 1729, 1744, 1746, 2031, 2035, 2044, 2154, 2161–2165 University of Minnesota, 890–896, 900–901, 1224 Upper Hunter Valley, 1338 Upper Mississippi River, 1283–1295, 1387 Ural Mts, 239, 244, 2142 Ural River, 1283–1288, 1541, 1618 U.S., 3, 7–9, 21–23, 25–28, 30–31, 44, 56, 62, 90–91, 104, 116, 121, 131, 134, 156, 159, 162–165, 192, 196, 217,

Index 226–227, 237, 252, 254, 259–260, 263, 277, 448–449, 451, 464–466, 469, 474, 476–477, 479, 488, 499–506, 508–511, 545–546, 553–564, 571, 587, 593–594, 624, 635, 643–648, 652, 655, 657–659, 724, 726–727, 778, 783–787, 790–792, 794–795, 797–799, 872, 879, 882–884, 889, 891–892, 901, 905–907, 924, 926, 963–964, 971, 1004, 1010, 1023, 1072–1075, 1078–1079, 1082, 1085, 1090, 1095, 1097–1098, 1103, 1147–1149, 1164–1166, 1169, 1180, 1185–1187, 1189, 1206, 1220, 1270, 1273, 1283, 1292–1293, 1303, 1308, 1310, 1323, 1332, 1348–1349, 1372–1375, 1378–1379, 1386, 1403, 1405, 1451–1462, 1500, 1520, 1602, 1610, 1635, 1640, 1644, 1647, 1655, 1683–1699, 1701–1720, 1725–1726, 1759, 1789–1791, 1800, 1802, 1805, 1812, 1815, 1822, 1832, 1837, 1844, 1846, 1852, 1861–1862, 1874, 1885, 1895, 1904, 1918–1919, 1921, 1931, 1975–1993, 2014, 2031–2034, 2036–2037, 2047, 2053–2055, 2057–2061, 2105, 2119–2120, 2123–2137, 2154, 2159–2160, 2162, 2164–2165, 2168, 2173–2174, 2176, 2211 U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, 1169, 1283, 1293, 1403, 1405, 1451–1464, 1635, 1697 Üsküdar, 715, 726, 728–729, 731 U.S. Rectangular Land Survey, 2123–2137 U.S.S.R., 503 Utah, 134, 356–357, 359–360, 362, 465–466, 468–469, 619, 903, 1053, 1346, 1689, 1704–1705, 1709, 1712, 1975–1976, 1979–1984, 1987–1989, 1992 Uzbekistan, 493, 636, 1005, 1015, 1516, 1542 V Val d’Europe, 1127–1143 Valdez, 648 Vancouver, 466, 1047–1048, 1053 Venezuela, 9, 90, 485, 489, 493, 573, 786, 792, 797, 1725 Venice, 456, 1443, 2115, 2117 Vicksburg, 1453–1454, 1456–1457, 1459–1460 Vienna, 454, 1049, 1069, 1198, 1399, 1405, 1746, 2017, 2164 Vietnam, 23, 124, 636, 830, 1042, 1164, 1245–1246, 1354, 1633, 1635, 1638, 1641–1646, 1689, 2033 The Villages, 1823, 1825, 1830–1831, 1833

2265 Virginia, 461, 560, 1074–1075, 1285–1286, 1300, 1302, 1390, 1399, 1749–1761, 1830, 1874, 1917, 1921, 2123–2124, 2129, 2145 Virgin Islands, Br, 939 Virgin Lands Program, 237–254, 1516 Vladivostok, 620, 636 Volga River, 9, 1516 Volta Pipeline, 452 Volta River, 1657, 1661–1664 W Wallens Ridge State Prison, 1749–1752, 1758–1759 Walt Disney Company, 1127–1143 Walvis Bay, 2148 Washington, DC, 15, 22, 24, 105, 121, 364, 792, 797, 839, 877, 1004, 1010–1011, 1014, 1072, 1720, 1758, 1859, 1906, 1908, 1991, 2129, 2236–2237 West Africa, 618–619, 621, 623, 1208, 1349, 1361, 1617, 1654–1655, 1657–1658, 2146, 2148 West Antarctic Ice Sheet (WAIS), 2236–2237, 2240 West Papua, 1731, 1743 West Siberian Plain, 1518 West Virginia, 461, 1751–1752, 1758, 1760, 1917, 1921 Whitehorse, 646–648, 653 White Sea Canal, 1957 Windhoek, 1953 Winter Park, 1825, 1843 Wisconsin, 632, 635, 637–638, 650, 901, 1284, 1290, 1387–1388, 1705, 1840, 1919, 1921, 2038, 2124 The World, 56, 120, 158–159, 196, 959, 970, 1246, 1647, 1671, 2118–2119 World Bank, 10, 195–196, 198, 257, 259–260, 270, 283, 330, 404–405, 490, 534, 536, 546, 602, 633, 788, 810, 1101, 1233, 1237, 1246, 1260, 1354, 1529, 1572, 1601, 1603, 1610, 1619, 1621, 1637, 1643–1644, 1646–1648, 1669, 1671 World Meteorological Organization, 2160 WPA, 1092–1093, 1096–1097, 1102, 1105, 1165 Wuhan, 1499–1500, 1571 Wyoming, 461, 465, 469, 1684, 1704–1705, 1759, 1981–1982, 2130, 2135, 2179 X Xiaowan, 1512, 1638 Xi’ning, 751, 759

2266 Xining-Golmud Railway, 747 Xinjiang Uygur Autonomous Region, 760 Y Yamal–Europe Pipeline, 452 Yanbu, Saudi Arabia, 533, 536–541 Yangon, 1001, 1021, 1023–1026, 1030, 1032, 1034, 1036, 1038, 1040 Yangtze River, 806, 1569–1580, 1583–1584 Yarlung Zangpo, 1532–1534 Yarra Bend, 1425–1437 Yekaterinburg, 2018 Yellow River, 806, 1499–1507, 1510–1512, 1533 Yenisey River, 1516, 1518, 1520 Youngstown, 1856, 1858–1860, 1863–1864, 1874, 1876–1877, 1880–1881 Yucatan, 1270, 1453–1454, 1457, 1459, 1462 Yucatan Peninsula, 1270

Index Yucca Mt., 787 Yugoslavia, 2081, 2084, 2089, 2108 Yukon Territory, 643, 646, 648, 651 Yunnan, 1029, 1246–1247, 1258, 1512, 1635 Z Zaire, 1656–1657, 1666, 1669 Zambezi River, 174, 1660, 1662, 1666, 2148 Zambia, 178, 361, 1256, 1357, 1644, 1656, 1658, 1661, 1665, 1668 Zanzibar, 2148 Zaragoza, 474, 1052–1053 Zhengzhou, 1499 Zigui, 1588–1589 Zimbabwe, 1225, 1228, 1234, 1353–1366, 1657–1658, 1661, 1665, 1668, 1950 Zuiderzee, 1465, 1468–1473, 1479, 1481–1482, 1485–1489 Zurich, 322, 324–325, 871