Impacts of Mega Engineering

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

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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 megaengi-
neering 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 tech-
nological hazards at local and international scales. He was also keenly interested
in disseminating research findings to those in the classroom and a wider pub-
lic. 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 humani-
tarian, 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 communica-
tion 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, eco-
nomics, engineering, public health, education, social theory, and the Appalachian
Center.
Living in Kentucky since 1980 and teaching undergraduate classes and semi-
nars on various topics have kept me sensitive to engineering earth questions in my
backyard. There are a number of megaprojects that Kentuckians can easily iden-
tify. 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 engi-
neering 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 construc-
tion 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 dynamit-
ing. 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, entertain-
ment 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 expe-
riences. 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 impor-
tant roles they have played both with the conference and this publication. First is
my colleague, Andy Wood, who prepared proposals for funding, identifying con-
ference 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 confer-
ence team. Third, I want to acknowledge the financial support provided by various
University of Kentucky offices and departments; these include very generous con-
tributions 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 con-
tacts 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 compe-
tent, trusted, and reliable professional who enjoys the many major and minor tasks
that go with preparing book length manuscripts for a publisher; these include for-
matting 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 con-
flicts. 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 vol-
ume; 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 inter-
national 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 oth-
ers 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, reforesta-
tion, 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 through-
out 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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Stanley D. Brunn and Andrew Wood
2 Building the Next Seven Wonders: The Landscape
Rhetoric of Large Engineering Projects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Ben Marsh and Janet Jones
Part II GIS, ICTs and K-Economies

3 Information Technology as Megaengineering:
The Impact of GIS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
Michael F. Goodchild
4 Google and the Internet: A Mega-Project Nesting Within
Another Mega-Project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
Maria Paradiso
5 Cloud Collaboration: Peer-Production
and the Engineering of the internet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
Mark Graham
6 Engineering Community and Place: Facebook
as Megaengineering . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85
Michael Longan and Darren Purcell
7 Real-Time National Stability Engineering: Mapping
the 2009 Afghan Election . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
Tom Buckley, Sean Gorman, Laurie Schintler,
and Rajendra Kulkarni
8 Engineering Time and Space with the Global Fiber
Optics Industry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115
Barney Warf
xiii
xiv Contents
9 The Internet in Three Finnish Cities: Accessing

Global Networks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
Tommi Inkinen
10 ICTs and Activities on the Move? People’s Use of Time
While Traveling by Public Transportation . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145
Bertil Vilhelmson, Eva Thulin, and Daniel Fahlén
11 Assembling Video Game Worlds . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155
Ian Graham Ronald Shaw
12 GPS Collars in Studies of Cattle Movement: Cases
of Northeast Namibia and North Finland . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173
Katja Polojärvi, Alfred Colpaert, Kenneth Matengu,
and Jouko Kumpula
13 Engineering Cattle for Dairy Development in Rural India . . . . 189
Pratyusha Basu
14 Social Responses to Crop Biotechnology: Bt Cotton
Cultivation in Gujarat, India . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217
Esha Shah
Part III Agriculture, Fishing and Mining Projects

15 Turning the Soviet Union into Iowa: The Virgin Lands
Program in the Soviet Union . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237
William C. Rowe
16 The Megaengineering of Ocean Fisheries: A Century
of Expansion and Rapidly Closing Frontiers . . . . . . . . . . . 257
Maarten Bavinck
17 Impacts of Up-Coming Deep-Sea Mining . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275
Tetsuo Yamazaki
18 When Megaengineering Disturbs Ram:
The Sethusamudram Ship Canal Project . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297
Michiel van Dijk and Virginie Mamadouh
19 Deep Drilling: Tunnel Spaces as Gender Spaces . . . . . . . . . . 311
Elisabeth Joris
20 The Megaproject of Mining: A Feminist Critique . . . . . . . . . 329
Kuntala Lahiri-Dutt
21 The Richest Hole on Earth? Nature, Labor
and the Politics of Metabolism at the Bingham Canyon
Copper Mine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 353
Jody Emel and Matthew T. Huber
Contents xv
22 When Boom Goes Bust: Ruins, Crisis and Security

in Megaengineering Diamond Mining in Angola . . . . . . . . . 367
Filipe Calvão
23 Ecclesial Opposition to Nonferrous Metals Mining
in Guatemala and the Philippines: Neoliberalism
Encounters the Church of the Poor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 383
William N. Holden and R. Daniel Jacobson
24 Character and Scale of Environmental Disturbances
Resulting from Mining in the Kursk Magnetic Anomaly . . . . . 413
Alina Nekrich
Part IV Energy and Industrial Projects

25 Engineering and Re-engineering Earth: Industrialized
Harvesting of Ireland’s Peatlands and its Aftermath . . . . . . . 429
Proinnsias Breathnach
26 Energy-Hungry Europe: Development Projects
in South-Central Europe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 447
Anton Gosar
27 The Next Generation of Energy Landscapes . . . . . . . . . . . . 461
Martin J. Pasqualetti
28 The Repercussions of Being Addicted to Oil: Geospatial
Modeling of Supply Shocks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 483
Laurie Schintler, Rajendra Kulkarni, Tom Buckley,
Emily Sciarillo, and Sean Gorman
29 Global Motor Vehicle Assembly: Nationalism,
Economics, and Rationale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 497
Craig S. Campbell
30 Potentials and Employment Impacts of Advanced
Energy Production from Forest Residues in Sparsely
Populated Areas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 513
Olli Lehtonen and Markku Tykkyläinen
31 Megaproject: A 4-Decade Perspective of the Gulf
Development Model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 533
Michael C. Ewers and Edward J. Malecki
Part V Transportation Projects

32 “America’s New Design for Living:” The Interstate
Highway System and the Spatial Transformation
of the U.S. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 553
Joe Weber
xvi Contents
33 The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future . . . . . . . . 569

Robert Walker, Stephen Perz, Eugenio Arima,
and Cynthia Simmons
34 Megaprojects in India: Environmental and Land
Acquisition Issues in the Road Sector . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 601
G. Raghuram, Samantha Bastian, and Satyam Shivam Sundaram
35 Shifting Sands: The Trans-Saharan Railway . . . . . . . . . . . 617
Mike Heffernan
36 Will New Mobilities Beget New (Im)Mobilities?
Prospects for Change Resulting from Mongolia’s
Trans-State Highway . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 627
Alexander C. Diener
37 “America’s Glory Road” . . . On Ice: Permafrost
and the Development of the Alcan Highway, 1942–1943 . . . . . 643
Frederick E. Nelson
38 “We Shall Dress You in a Robe of Cement and Concrete:”
How Discourse Concerning Megaengineering Projects
Has Been Changing in Israel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 663
Izhak Schnell and Anda Rosenberg
39 Built in a Field of Dreams? Spatial Engineering
and Political Symbolism of South Africa’s Rapid Rail
Link Development, Gautrain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 683
Ronnie Donaldson and Janis van der Westhuizen
40 Manufacturing Consent for Engineering Earth: Social
Dynamics in Boston’s Big Dig . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 697
James P. McCarthy and Kate Driscoll Derickson
41 Impacts of The “Marmaray” Project (Bosphorus Tube
Crossing, Tunnels and Stations) on Transportation
and Urban Environment in Istanbul . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 715
Recep Efe and Isa Cürebal
42 Scandinavian Links: Mega Bridges Linking
the Scandinavian Peninsula to the European Continent . . . . . 735
Christian Wichmann Matthiessen and Richard D. Knowles
43 The Qinghai–Tibetan Railroad: Innovative
Construction on Warm Permafrost in a Low-Latitude,
High-Elevation Region . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 747
Stuart A. Harris
Contents xvii
Volume 2
Part VI Construction Companies and Corporation Strategies
44 A Network Perspective on Mega-Engineering Projects . . . . . . 769
Ajay Mehra, Daniel J. Brass, Stephen P. Borgatti,
and Giuseppe (Joe) Labianca
45 Bechtel: The Global Corporation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 783
Jason Henderson
46 Chinese Construction Industry: Governance,
Procurement and Culture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 803
Jian Zuo, George Zillante, and Zhen-Yu Zhao
47 An Overview of the Gulf Countries’ Construction Industry . . . 819
Alpana Sivam, Sadasivam Karuppannan, and Kamalesh Singh
48 Exploring the Role of Governance in Sustainable
Franchised Distribution Channels . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 839
Robert Dahlstrom, Arne Nygaard, and Emily Plant
Part VII Megafacilities, Designs and Architecture

49 Intermodal Terminals, Mega Ports and Mega Logistics . . . . . 851
Jean-Paul Rodrigue
50 Mega-Airports: The Political, Economic,
and Environmental Implications of the World’s
Expanding Air Transportation Gateways . . . . . . . . . . . . . 867
John T. Bowen and Julie L. Cidell
51 University as Megaengineering Project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 889
Judith A. Martin
52 Creating a New Heaven and a New Earth: Megachurches
and the Reengineering of America’s Spiritual Soil . . . . . . . . 903
Scott Thumma and Elizabeth J. Leppman
53 Mega-Engineering Projects in Russia: Examples
from Moscow and St. Petersburg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 933
Mikhail S. Blinnikov and Megan L. Dixon
54 Engineering New Geographies with the Burj Dubai . . . . . . . 955
Benjamin Smith
55 Floating Cities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 967
Alexander A. Bolonkin
56 Planning and Implementing Capital Cities – Lessons
from the Past and Prospects for Intelligent Development
in the Future: The Case of Korea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 985
Kenneth E. Corey
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 Dams
90 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,
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,
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
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
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
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

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,
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,
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
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
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
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,
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,
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

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,
Ajay Mehra LINKS, International Center for Research on Social Networks in
Business, Gatton College of Business and Economics, University of Kentucky,
Zina R. Merkin Department of Landscape Architecture, University of Kentucky,
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,
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,
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,
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
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
Christopher Rice Department of Political Science, University of Kentucky,
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,
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
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
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,
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
Selima Sultana Department of Geography, University of North Carolina,
Greensboro, NC 27402, USA, [email protected]
Satyam Shivam Sundaram Public Systems Group, Indian Institute of
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,
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,
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
xxxvi Contributors
Robert Walker Department of Geography, Michigan State University, East

Barney Warf Department of Geography, University of Kansas, Lawrence, KS
Joe Weber Department of Geography, University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa, AL
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
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,
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 Mapping the impacts of megaengineering projects . . . . . . . . 5

1.2 Chapters discussing the impacts of megaengineering
projects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
2.1 Traditional 20th century popular presentation of the sole
surviving Wonder, The Pyramid of Khufu at Giza, from a
vintage postcard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
2.3 The Los Angeles Freeway Interchange, symbol of efficient
modern travel – and also of sprawl and profligate energy
consumption . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
5.1 My/our/your time person of the year award . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
5.2 Time and space convergence in various types of large
engineering projects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
5.3 Avatars in second life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
5.4 The multiple representations of trafalgar square in google maps . 74
5.5 A singular representation of trafalgar square in wikipedia . . . . . 74
5.6 Uncle GNU . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
6.1 Change in Internet Development Index (IDI), a measure
of the relative infrastructure quality, 2002–2007 . . . . . . . . . . 86
xxxvii
xxxviii List of Figures
6.2 Percentage of the Population in Selected Countries

that Use Facebook . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91
6.3 Map of the Facebook profile page . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91
6.4 Map of the Facebook home page where the news feed
is located . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92
7.1 Camp Roberts architecture diagram . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
7.2 Afghan elections architecture diagram . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
7.3 Afghanistan attacks by district, September 2–8, 2009 . . . . . . . 109
7.4 Change in violence by district, August 11–September 9,
2009 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
7.5 Total fraud complaints by province for the 2009
Afghanistan presidential election . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110
7.6 Citizen reported election day incidents . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
7.7 Benford fraud analysis of Afghanistan election results . . . . . . 112
8.1 Qwest national fiber network . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
8.2 The World’s major fiber optic cables . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123
8.3 The FLAG network . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
8.4 The Africa ONE fiber system . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126
8.5 Declining prices of fiber optics services, 2002–2006 . . . . . . . 127
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152
11.1 Map of countries participating in the World Cyber Games 2009 . 159
12.1 Location of study area, cattle enclosures and tracking data . . . . 175
12.2 Typical livestock enclosure, often called a “kraal.” . . . . . . . . 175
12.3 Cattle grazing on the Zambezi/Chobe floodplain . . . . . . . . . 176
12.4 Bull fitted with GPS collar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177
12.5 Tracking data from collar no. 9 during July–November
2006 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179
12.6 During 2002–2005 altogether 40 female reindeer were
tracked by GPS collars in the Oraniemi reindeer herding
district, Middle-Lapland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182
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 . . . . . 183
12.8 Ten months GPS-track of a reindeer in the Ivalo district . . . . . 185
13.1 Schematic representation of the Anand model of dairy
development . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195
List of Figures xxxix
13.2 Total milk production in India, 1950–2010 (in million

tons). (∗ Figures for 2009–2010 are estimated) . . . . . . . . . . . 197
13.3 Comparison of numbers of cattle and buffaloes, 1982–2003 . . . . 199
13.4 Total milk production from cattle and buffaloes,
2003–2004 (in thousand tons) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200
13.5 Proportion of total milk production from crossbred cows,
2003–2004 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201
13.6 Crossbred cow in village in Gujarat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 202
13.7 Poster promoting Jersey and Holstein-Friesian crossbred
cows as “true friends of farmers” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203
13.8 Portion of poster promoting artificial insemination of cattle . . . . 204
13.9 Artificial insemination station in village in Madhya Pradesh . . . 205
13.10 Milking crossbred cow in village in Gujarat . . . . . . . . . . . . 208
15.1 Khrushchev visiting the farm of Iowa farmers Roswell
and Elizabeth Garst, September 1959 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 238
15.2 Central Asian agricultural land use map illustrating
the major area of the Virgin Lands Project . . . . . . . . . . . . . 245
15.3 Volunteers in the virgin lands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247
15.4 Constructing outdoor stoves in the virgin lands . . . . . . . . . . 248
15.5 The first furrows in the virgin lands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 248
15.6 Plowing in the virgin lands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249
15.7 Wheat fields in the virgin lands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 250
15.8 Dust storm in Astana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 252
16.1 World production capture fisheries 1950–2008. (FAO,
2009) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259
16.2 Trends in U.S. real price indexes for fish and seafood
products 1947–2006. (World Bank, 2008) . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260
16.3 State of world marine fishery resources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261
16.4 Exclusive economic zones of the world . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 262
16.5 Small-scale fishermen in South India . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 265
16.6 Fleets of small industrialized vessels in South India . . . . . . . . 266
16.7 The Atlantic Dawn – the world’s largest factory ship . . . . . . . 269
17.1 Issued mining claims for manganese nodules from ISA in CCFZ . 276
17.2 Schematic image of manganese nodule mining system
and the environmental impact sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 277
17.3 Schematic arrangement of JET . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 280
17.4 Disturber track . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 281
17.5 Outline of scraper tow (left) and the unit configuration
(right) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 282
17.6 Observed image of scraper tow tracks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 283
17.7 Population change of meiobenthos before and after
experiment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 284
17.8 Distribution of known active SMS sites in the western
Pacific . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 286
xl List of Figures
17.9 Structural outline of sulfur oxidizing in bacterial mat field

(left) and bivalve field (right) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 287
17.10 Comparison of food web structures around hydrothermal
vent (left) and in normal benthos (right) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 287
18.1 Project location . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 299
18.2 Map of sea routes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 300
19.1 Houses of the tunnel workers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 314
19.2 Miners and engineers and woman tavern keeper . . . . . . . . . 317
19.3 Allegorical figure of a woman across a map of Europe . . . . . . 321
19.4 Mariga Perlongo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323
21.1 Bingham Canyon Mine – “The richest hole on earth.” . . . . . . . 354
21.2 Tailings piles – burying the landscape . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 359
22.1 Location map of Angola with map of major cities
and mining centers in northeastern Lunda region . . . . . . . . . 371
22.2 Alluvial mining pit in a deviated river course . . . . . . . . . . . 374
22.3 Maludi’s diamond “comptoir,” established during
the 1950s diamond rush . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 374
22.4 Calonda Diamang’s model of colonial architecture,
common in the region’s urban centers for the purpose
of housing mining personnel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 375
23.1 Map of Guatemala, showing the location of Marlin Mine
(gold and sliver) and Fenix project (nickel and cobalt) . . . . . . 384
23.2 Map showing the location of major mines
in the Philippines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 388
23.3 Extreme poverty in Guatemala . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 396
23.4 Poverty in the Philippines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 397
23.5 Vulnerability of the Philippines to El Nino Induced
Drought . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 398
24.1 The Lebedinskoye iron ore deposit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 415
24.2 The algorithm used to assess the complex geoecological
assessment of areas at the level of administrative units . . . . . . 417
24.3 The ecological situation in the Starooskol’skiy
and Gubkinskiy rayons (districts) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 422
25.1 Peatland regions and Bord na Móna bog works . . . . . . . . . . 431
25.2 Activities associated with the development of Bord na
Móna peatlands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 433
25.3 1940s hostel for temporary bog workers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 434
25.4 Peat milling machine. Spiked drums strip 1.5 cm
(0.6 inches) of peat from bog surface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 436
25.5 Peat harvesting. Milled peat is collected in progressively
larger piles prior to loading onto trains . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 436
25.6 Peat train. Peat trains, running on temporary
tracks, transport peat from bogs to power stations
or briquette factories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 437
List of Figures xli
25.7 Bord na Móna housing development under construction,

early 1950s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 438
25.8 Rhode peat-fired power station c.1960 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 439
25.9 Derrinlough peat briquette factor c.1960 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 441
26.1 Major recipients of Russian gas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 450
26.2 Supply of energy resources from Russia and the Caspian
Sea area . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 456
26.3 EU Slovenia’s pipelines – existing and proposed . . . . . . . . . 458
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 463
27.2 Colorado oil shale prospective area bureau of land
management areas of critical environmental concern . . . . . . . 464
27.3 Syncrude upgrader operations north of Fort McMurray, Alberta . 467
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 467
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 470
27.6 Forest clearing and residential developments are part
of the housing boom at Fort McMurray, Alberta . . . . . . . . . . 470
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 . . . . . . 471
27.8 The Callanish standing stones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 473
27.9 A protest poster declaring “If we plant these today, what
will we plan tomorrow?” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 474
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 478
28.1 Major oil pipelines and terrorist attacks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 487
28.2 Oil import vulnerability . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 492
28.3 Percent reduction in import diversity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 492
28.4 Dependency on oil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 493
xlii List of Figures
29.1 GM’s answer to the Japanese – GoogleEarth image

of the Spring Hill, Tennessee Saturn plant . . . . . . . . . . . . . 503
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 504
29.3 GoogleEarth image of the Hiroshima Ujina complex
(Mazda Manufacturing, 2009) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 507
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 . . . 509
30.1 North Karelia and its forest sector. The postcode areas are
classified according to their socio-economic properties . . . . . . 520
32.1 The interstate highway system in 1947 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 555
32.2 The interstate highway system in 2008. Metropolitan
areas are shaded . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 556
32.3 Traffic levels on the interstate highway system, 2006 . . . . . . . 557
32.4 The interstate highway system in Birmingham, Alabama . . . . . 561
33.1 The extent of BR-230 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 570
33.2 Transamazon highway road sign . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 573
33.3 The federal highway network in Amazonas . . . . . . . . . . . . 574
33.4 Port of Altamira on Xingu river . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 575
33.5 Travessão or settlement road . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 578
33.6 The cadastral geometry of Transamazonia colonization . . . . . . 579
33.7 Town of Uruara . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 580
33.8 Phase of construction for the Transamazonia highway
(top) 1975, (middle) 1981, (bottom) 1999 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 583
33.9 Logging truck on unpaved Transamazonia highway . . . . . . . 584
33.10 Counties crossed by BR-230 in Pará and Amazonas . . . . . . . 586
33.11 Transamazonia colonist family . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 586
33.12 Pastures where forests once stood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 588
33.13 Cadastral geometry and fishbone settlement . . . . . . . . . . . . 590
33.14 Protected areas in the Brazilian Amazonas . . . . . . . . . . . . 592
34.1 Proportion of projects on schedule (of total projects) . . . . . . . 602
34.2 Percentage of cost overrun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 602
34.3 Environmental approval process . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 605
34.4 Land acquisition process under the land acquisition act of 1894 . 607
34.5 Golden Quadrilateral . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 610
36.1 Population distribution in Mongolia 2000 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 630
List of Figures xliii
36.2 Transportation infrastructure of Mongolia . . . . . . . . . . . . . 632

36.3 Projected population redistribution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 635
36.4 Existing trade corridors of Northeast Asia (2001) . . . . . . . . . 637
36.5 Oil in and around Mongolia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 638
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 646
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) . . . . 647
37.3 Map of Alcan Highway route in 1942, showing
approximate locations of regimental sectors. Base map
from Richardson (1942a: 82) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 649
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 Wisconsin-Milwaukee.
Warner was an employee of a private contractor
retained by PRA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 650
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 651
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
xliv 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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 652
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) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 654
37.8 (Top) “wrong” and (bottom) “right” methods for
constructing roads in permafrost terrain (Muller 2008: 119) . . . 656
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 two-wheel-drive staff car shown
passing the checkpoint . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 658
38.1 A map of the Hachula valley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 667
38.2 The KKL plan for draining the Hachula swamp . . . . . . . . . . 669
38.3 Route of the cross Israel road . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 675
39.1 Gautrain route . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 687
39.2 Sign depicting Gautrain construction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 688
39.3 Gautrain construction at Tambo international airport . . . . . . . 688
39.4 Logo promoting Gautrain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 691
40.1 The central artery/tunnel project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 698
40.2 The elevated central artery, 2001 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 699
40.3 The same area after project completion, 2008 . . . . . . . . . . . 700
40.4 Boston harbor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 702
40.5 Site of future pier and marina on Spectacle Island . . . . . . . . . 703
40.6 Erosion control walls on Spectacle Island made with
sections of central artery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 704
List of Figures xlv
40.7 Portion of the Rose F. Kennedy Greenway through

downtown Boston . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 710
41.1 The Bosphorus and immersed tunnel alignment (Belkaya,
Ozmen, & Karamut, 2008) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 716
41.2 Location of the study area . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 717
41.3 Population change in Istanbul, 1927–2010. (TUIK,
Turkish Statistical Institute) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 718
41.4 Population change in Asian and European sides of
Istanbul: 1935–2010. (TUIK, Turkish Statistical Institute) . . . . 719
41.5 Traffic congestion in Istanbul is getting worse with
increasing car ownership and lack of efficient public
transportation network (Ministry of Transportation) . . . . . . . 720
41.6 The plans of Bosphorus tunnel planned during the reign
of Sultan Abdülmecid in 1860 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 721
41.7 Alignment of the Marmaray project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 722
41.8 The Bored tunnel under construction in Marmaray project . . . . 723
41.9 Cross-section of the tunnels and stations between Yedikule
and Söğütlüçeşme (Kadıköy) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 725
41.10 One of the ships that were excavated in Yenikapı . . . . . . . . . 729
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.) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 736
42.2 The Great Belt East Bridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 738
42.3 The Great Belt’s East Bridge under construction . . . . . . . . . . 739
42.4 The Great Belt’s East Bridge under construction . . . . . . . . . . 740
42.5 The Oresund Bridge, which opened for traffic in 2000 . . . . . . 741
42.6 The giant crane, Svanen (the Swan) is placing a bridge
girder at the Oresund Bridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 742
42.7 Construction of caissons for the Oresund Bridge at Malmo
North Harbor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 743
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 . . . . . . . 744
42.9 Diagram showing the traffic measured by vehicles per
year 1990–2008 crossing the straits around the Danish
island of Zealand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 745
43.1 Location of the Qinghai–Tibet railroad . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 748
43.2 Permafrost distribution and mean annual ground
temperatures along the higher parts of the Qinghai–Tibet
Engineering Corridor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 749
xlvi List of Figures
43.3 The four main embankment configurations of blocks used

for cooling the rail-bed over permafrost on the Plateau . . . . . . 754
43.4 Crushed rock revetments in various configurations
showing experimentation with different sizes of blocks . . . . . . 754
43.5 Protective toe berms with thermosiphons stabilizing the
slopes of the embankment in areas subject to flooding . . . . . . . 755
43.6 Transverse ventilation ducts with automatic shutters (at
right) placed halfway up the side of the embankment . . . . . . . 756
43.7 A section of railroad constructed on top of a
permafrost (dry) bridge. The bridge shields the ground
from direct insolation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 756
43.8 A passenger train traveling along the Qinghai–Tibet railroad . . . 757
43.9 Northern entrance to the Feghoushan tunnel at 4,906 m
(16,092 ft) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 758
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) . . . . . . 770
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) . . 771
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) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 772
44.4 Two representations of the “kite” network . . . . . . . . . . . . . 773
44.5 Three commonly used indexes of whole network structure . . . . 775
44.6 A whole network (left) and two ego networks (top
and bottom right) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 776
45.1 Map of significant Bechtel projects in 2008 . . . . . . . . . . . . 784
45.2 Parody of Bechtel and BART on the cover of the San
Francisco Bay Guardian in 1972 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 792
45.3 BART extension to Dublin-Pleasanton in San Francisco’s
East Bay suburbs, 2003 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 795
45.4 Bechtel rail projects in the US . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 796
45.5 St Pancreas Station, London – Barlow Shed . . . . . . . . . . . . 796
45.6 Portland MAX light rail extension to airport, 2008 . . . . . . . . 797
46.1 Floor space of building construction 2000–2005 . . . . . . . . . . 804
46.2 The sectors of the Chinese construction industry . . . . . . . . . 804
46.3 The legal framework of the Chinese construction industry . . . . 809
46.4 The process of DaiJianZhi projects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 811
46.5 Organization chart illustrating the use of the PMC/GCZCB
approach in China . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 811
46.6 Construction sectors promoted for foreign investment . . . . . . 814
47.1 Gulf corporation council countries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 821
List of Figures xlvii
47.2 Expatriate workforce population as a percentage of total

workforce 2006 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 821
47.3 Construction site Oman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 822
47.4 Construction site in Oman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 823
47.5 Ajman international airport (left); and Dubai metro (right) . . . . 823
47.6 The Pearl Qatar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 824
47.7 The dynamic tower Dubai . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 825
47.8 Al Madina Azarqa (blue city) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 825
47.9 Ajman international airport . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 826
47.10 Labor camp at Muscat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 827
47.11 Labor accommodations and Dubai migrant workers in a room . . 828
47.12 Khalifa city, Abu Dhabi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 835
49.1 World container traffic and throughput, 1980–2008 . . . . . . . . 853
49.2 Traffic handled by the world’s 20 largest container ports, 2007 . . 854
49.3 Europa container terminal, port of Antwerp . . . . . . . . . . . . 856
49.4 Port container terminal facility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 857
49.5 Panamax containership, port of Le Havre . . . . . . . . . . . . . 858
49.6 Depth and surface distribution of a sample of container
port terminals (N = 296) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 859
49.7 Intermodal rail facility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 860
49.8 Economies and diseconomies of scale in container shipping . . . 862
49.9 The largest available containership, 1970–2008 (in TEUs) . . . . 863
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . 869
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 870
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 872
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 . . . . . . . . . 874
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
xlviii 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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 880
51.1 Minneapolis campus growth from 1911 (left) to 1996 (right) . . . 893
51.2 University of Minnesota twin cities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 893
51.3 St. Paul campus growth from 1923 (left) to 1996 (right) . . . . . . 894
51.4 UMORE image from Sasaki plan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 899
52.1 Worship service at Lakewood Church, Houston, TX . . . . . . . . 906
52.2 Megachurch locations within the United States . . . . . . . . . . 909
52.3 The shifting location of Megachurches . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 909
52.4 Metropolitan Atlanta megachurches . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 910
52.5 Attender concentration in one Atlanta megachurch . . . . . . . . 910
52.6 Interior design of Southeast Christian Church, Louisville, KY . . 912
52.7 James River Assembly, Springfield, MO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 914
52.8 The crystal Cathedral, Garden Grove, CA . . . . . . . . . . . . . 914
52.9 The full sanctuary of Southeast Christian Church,
Louisville, KY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 916
52.10 An aerial view of Southeast Christian Church, Louisville, KY . . 917
52.11 The literal and figurative churchscape of Southeast
Christian Church, Louisville, KY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 917
52.12 Re-creation of a small town setting in Liberty Church,
Worcester, MA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 919
52.13 Youth and educational wing mural at Faith Church,
New Milford, CT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 922
52.14 Expressive and media-driven worship at Ray of
Hope Christian Church, Decatur, GA and Saddleback
Community Church, Lake Forest, CA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 925
52.15 One church in 13 locations – the expansive campus of
LifeChurch, Oklahoma City, OK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 927
52.16 The internet campus of LifeChurch, Oklahoma City, OK . . . . . 927
53.1 Plan of Moskva Siti lots . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 935
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 . . . . . . . . 940
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 . 943
53.4 The major projects planned for the central city area
in St. Petersburg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 944
53.5 The winning design for the Gazprom tower from RMJM
as displayed publicly in November 2006 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 946
53.6 The Baltic Pearl business center with a residential
complex going up in the background . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 949
List of Figures xlix
54.1 Burj Dubai dwarfing surrounding buildings, May 2007 . . . . . . 956

54.2 The Dubai world trade centre, Dubai’s first skyscraper . . . . . . 958
54.3 Burj Al Arab photographed from Wild Wadi Water Park . . . . . 960
54.4 Billboard advertising Downtown Dubai, featuring young
Europeans and East Asians . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 964
55.1 One of floating city project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 968
55.2 Project having an underwater part . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 969
55.3 Mobile floating city . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 970
55.4 Stationary position of floating city . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 971
55.5 Freedom ship (different views) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 973
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 975
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 . . . . 975
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 977
57.1 Kazakhstan: Centered in Astana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1006
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). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1007
57.3 High-level schematic of agents and inputs to the Astana
project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1009
57.4 The Pyramid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1011
57.5 Baiterek, the symbol of Astana. In the background
is the Akorda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1012
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 . . . . . 1012
57.7 Modern sculpture denoting Kazakh art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1013
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 . . . . . . . . . . . 1013
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
l List of Figures
outdoor messages. In the lower right is the commonly

used advertizing symbol celebrating the tenth anniversary
of Astana’s existence as the Capital: Baiterek . . . . . . . . . . . 1014
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1015
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1016
57.12 In old Astana, a number of residential buildings have not
changed since independence. The inside quality of the
buildings remain in disrepair . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1016
58.1 Location of the new capital, Pyinmana (Naypyidaw) . . . . . . . 1022
58.2 Jungles and mountainous terrain of Pyinmana . . . . . . . . . . . 1027
58.3 Constructing civilian apartments in Naypyidaw . . . . . . . . . . 1030
58.4 Myowma market in Naypyidaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1031
58.5 Myowma market in Naypyidaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1031
58.6 Residential blocks in Naypyidaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1032
58.7 Future Naypyidaw bus station complexes . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1033
58.8 City hall in Naypyidaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1033
58.9 Urban communities and transport networks around
the new capital . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1035
58.10 Urban landscape of central Pyinmana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1035
58.11 Urban landscape of Naypyidaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1036
58.12 Plan for fountain construction in Naypyidaw . . . . . . . . . . . 1036
58.13 Military parade ground in Naypyidaw command center . . . . . . 1037
58.14 Yezin dam and agricultural areas in Northeastern Pyinmana . . . 1039
58.15 Senior general Than Shwe and three monarchical
monuments: Anawratha (left), Bayinnaung (middle),
and Alaungpaya (right) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1039
58.16 One of secret tunnels in Myanmar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1042
60.1 An aerial view of the sustainable public administration
town-as-a-hill (S-PATH) for South Korea . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1058
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) . . . . 1062
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1063
61.1 Location of selected edge cities in North East US . . . . . . . . . 1076
61.2 Edge cities with median household income in Charlotte
MSA, North Carolina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1079
61.3 Southpark, Charlotte, North Carolina area looking to west . . . . 1080
List of Figures li
61.4 Eastern section of college place, Charlotte, North Carolina . . . . 1081

61.5 Typical building in Ballantyne village office park
in Charlotte, North Carolina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1082
61.6 Street view of Santa Fe, Mexico . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1083
62.1 Mammoth Cave National Park, Kentucky. “Enrollees
brushing and rolling top surface of road leading
to residence and utility areas, April 11, 1938.” . . . . . . . . . . . 1090
62.2 The American recovery and reinvestment act in Lexington,
Kentucky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1091
62.3 “Enrollees prepare to transplant shrubs and sod,
March 1, 1937.” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1099
62.4 Actual and predicted unemployment rates under ARRA.
After Romer and Bernstein (2009) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1104
63.1 Housing Development Board estates . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1111
63.2 City skyline . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1111
63.3 Chinatown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1113
63.4 Kampong Glam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1114
63.5 Esplanade-Theatres on the Bay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1116
63.6 Marina Bay Sands: Back view . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1117
63.7 Marina Bay Sands: View from bay Aerial . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1118
63.8 Orchard Road . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1119
64.1 The location of the new town of Marne-La-Vallée
and of Val d’Europe (sector IV) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1128
64.2 The extent of Val d’Europe and the area
developed by the Walt Disney Company
(as Eurodisney SCA) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1129
64.3 Modernist architecture of public buildings, Serris town hall . . . 1133
64.4 Hiding the back stage of Disney’s theme parks . . . . . . . . . . 1137
64.5 An old village street and its traditional architecture . . . . . . . . 1140
64.6 The “valley shopping centre” (selling luxury goods at
“factory outlet” prices), copying “traditional” French
village architecture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1140
65.1 Mission Bay aerial photo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1152
65.2 Kayaking at the park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1153
65.3 Sail Bay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1154
65.4 Map of Mission Bay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1156
66.1 The royal and ancient club house, St. Andrews, Scotland . . . . . 1161
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1162
66.3 Old Tom Morris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1163
66.4 Building a golf course by hand in the “Golden Age.” . . . . . . . 1163
66.5 The “Double-Loaded” fairway . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1167
66.6 Plan view of core development . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1168
66.7 The integrated golf course, South Florida . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1170
lii List of Figures
66.8 Tools of the modern course builder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1171

66.9 A Florida fairway . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1172
66.10 Sand hills, Western Nebraska: A contemporary example
of a “natural site.” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1173
66.11 A rendered master plan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1174
66.12 Whistling straits—Hole #7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1175
66.13 Whistling straits—after and before. Creativity
and megaengineering applied to a stark canvas. . . . . . . . . . . 1176
66.14 Bay Harbor, Michigan: Golf and Marina: A created golf
course . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1177
66.15 Grading a mountainside . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1179
66.16 Mass grading plan for a par 5 golf hole. Typically
provided in 100 scale. Centerline indicated by SW/NE line . . . . 1180
66.17 30-scale detail green drawing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1181
66.18 Illustrative cut and fill map . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1183
66.19 Subsurface modeling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1183
66.20 The impacts of severe weather. Storm damage to a newly
turfed golf hole . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1184
66.21 Dubai sports city . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1185
66.22 Large contemporary construction site during megaengineering . . 1188
66.23 The results . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1188
67.1 Riverdale zoo monkey cages, 25 September 1913 . . . . . . . . . 1200
67.2 Metropolitan zoo map, 1992, showing three project locations . . . 1206
67.3 Gorilla rainforest very early concept plan . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1207
67.4 African Savanna very early illustrative concept 1987 . . . . . . . 1209
67.5 African Savanna project, baobob tree . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1211
67.6 Consultation about Tundra Trek project with Inuit elders
at Baker Lake in Nunavut, Canada . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1212
67.7 Hudson bay coast entrance, bowhead whale skeleton
entrance, Tundra Trek design . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1213
67.8 Hudson bay coast Tundra Trek project (a) Freighter Canoe
for field research; (b) Field sketch of the region . . . . . . . . . . 1214
67.9 African Savanna field trip by Toronto zoo staff . . . . . . . . . . 1215
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1217
68.1 The Great Limpopo Transfrontier Park, part of the larger
Great Limpopo Transfrontier Conservation Area . . . . . . . . . 1224
68.2 Southern entrance gate to Mozambique’s Limpopo
National Park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1225
68.3 Transfrontier parks (TFPs) and transfrontier conservation
areas (TFCAs) in the Southern African Development
Community (SADC) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1227
List of Figures liii
68.4 “Wilderness” image for tourist consumption in South

Africa’s Kruger National Park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1233
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1234
68.6 Preparing release of the rhinoceros in Mozambique a few
kilometers beyond the border fence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1235
68.7 Released rhinoceros in Mozambique . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1236
69.1 The Mekong region with Chinese development projects
discussed in the chapter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1244
69.2 Map of dams built with the involvement of Chinese
companies and banks, 2008 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1245
69.3 A page from Golden Boten City’s brochure for investors . . . . . 1251
69.4 Shops at Golden Boten City . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1252
69.5 Namtha Grand Hotel, Luang Namtha, under construction,
in 2009 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1254
70.1 Location map of Cap Cana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1272
70.2 Portion of Trump-Cap Cana billboard located along road
that climbs up to resort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1276
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 . . . . . . 1278
70.4 Marketing mix of Cap Cana, Punta Cana Hotel & Resorts,
and all-inclusive resorts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1279
70.5 Welcome center atop Trump Farallón, with view of Cap
Cana and ocean . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1280
72.1 Streets with equine themed names . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1298
72.2 Ecological regions of Kentucky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1299
72.3 Regions defined by various organizations . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1301
72.4 Bird’s eye view of the principal breeding farms
of the bluegrass region of Kentucky, 1900 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1304
liv List of Figures
72.5 Manchester farm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1306

72.6 Stone fence along Pisgah Pike, Woodford County . . . . . . . . . 1306
72.7 Plank fencing on Rice Road, Fayette County . . . . . . . . . . . 1307
72.8 Effect of urban service boundary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1309
72.9 Bluegrass country driving tour map clipping and LCVB
web page header . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1315
72.10 Festival market building, downtown Lexington . . . . . . . . . . 1316
72.11 Architectural details at Hamburg Pavilion . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1317
72.12 Thoroughbred park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1318
72.13 Bluegrass airport . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1319
72.14 Lexington-Fayette county detention center . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1320
73.1 Location of horsefarms in Upper Hunter region . . . . . . . . . . 1324
73.2 Thoroughbreds in a paddock of irrigated, green grass
in summer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1329
73.3 Ornate main entrance to Patinack farm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1330
73.4 Bunting in the center of Scone promoting the town
as the horse capital of Australia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1334
73.5 Male and female toilets near the tourist information center
in Scone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1334
73.6 Billboard linking horse riding and water quality issues
in the Upper Hunter region . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1335
73.7 Billboard showing coal mining to be a dusty activity
that destroys vegetation and the rural landscape . . . . . . . . . . 1335
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1355
75.2 The Indonesian case study area is located in the Sanggau
and Sintang districts, West Kalimantan, Indonesia . . . . . . . . 1356
75.3 Zimbabwe. Small-scale eucalyptus woodlots owned by the
local farmers are common in Southern Africa . . . . . . . . . . . 1358
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 . . . . . . . . 1360
75.5 Local communities’ perceptions of tree plantation project
benefits in Ghana (modified from Blay et al., 2007) . . . . . . . . 1362
75.6 Degraded forests (left) have smaller amount of trees and
tree species than forest gardens (right) which include
some planted trees . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1363
76.1 Percent forest-cover loss in the Eastern United States,
pre-1800s to 1909 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1373
76.2 Cumulative enrollment in the conservation reserve
program in Indiana, 1986–2007 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1379
List of Figures lv
76.3 Enrollment in the conservation reserve program in 1997

and net change in enrollment over the next decade . . . . . . . . 1379
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1384
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1384
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 . . . . . . . . . 1385
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1386
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1388
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 . . . 1390
77.7 Productivity and efficiency of agricultural land use,
1947–1994. Note that land area declined about 10% but
productivity increased almost 150% . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1391
79.1 Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan (1918–2004) was the
leading figure in the greening ambitions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1414
79.2 The covers of two environmental magazines demonstrate
the Emirati flag as a central feature in the greening efforts . . . . 1415
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 . . . . . . 1418
80.1 Yarra Bend Asylum from Studley Park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1425
80.2 Yarra Bend and Kew Asylums (right), 1900–1910 . . . . . . . . . 1428
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) . . . . 1429
80.4 Map of Yarra Bend Asylum, 1855 showing the location
of original buildings in relation to river and public roads . . . . . 1430
80.5 Yarra Bend Lunatic Asylum, 1864 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1433
80.6 Metropolitan hospital for the Insane, 1869 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1433
lvi List of Figures
80.7 Kew Asylum, 1889 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1434

80.8 Yarra Bend cottages, 1861 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1435
80.9 Track to Asylum, Kew, 1920 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1436
80.10 Looking toward Zig Zag Bridge and Kew Asylum
from site of stables, 1927 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1436
80.11 Collingwood from the town hall tower . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1437
81.1 Scheme of the textile barrage (side view) . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1444
82.1 The Williams channel rectification plan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1455
82.2 Sketch of the Leland Neck cutoff . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1458
82.3 Cutoff Locations from Arkansas to Louisiana . . . . . . . . . . . 1461
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) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1466
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 . . . . . . . . . . . 1468
83.3 General map of the Netherlands and locations of
mega-scale engineering works . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1468
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) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1471
83.5 The final stage of completing the Closure Dike
(Afsluitdijk) in 1932 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1472
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 . . . . . 1473
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) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1474
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . 1475
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 . . . 1477
84.1 The Netherlands coast – 800 A.D. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1482
84.2 The Netherlands coast – 1250 A.D. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1483
84.3 The Netherlands coast – 1600 A.D. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1483
84.4 The Netherlands coast – Present . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1484
84.5 Map of the Zuiderzee reclamation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1487
List of Figures lvii
84.6 Map of the Delta project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1490

84.7 Haringvliet sluice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1492
84.8 Oosterschelde barrier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1494
84.9 Maeslant barrier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1495
85.1 Schematic of SNWT routes (west, central, east).
DJK=Danjiangkou, site of intake for central route . . . . . . . . 1501
85.2 Elevation profile of Eastern route . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1502
85.3 Artist’s rendering of parallel tunnels crossing underneath
the Yellow river. Similar tunnels will also be part of the
central route . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1503
85.4 Workers constructing part of the tunnel to cross under the
Yellow river . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1504
85.5 Workers increasing the height of the Danjiangkou Dam
in 2008 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1505
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 . . . . . . . . . 1517
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 ) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1519
88.1 Routes for the pipelines connecting Caspian Sea to Aral
Sea, with altimetry shown (m) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1544
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 . . . . . . . . . . 1550
89.2 Volume/elevation curve of the Lake Eyre . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1552
89.3 Tube-wall thickness via wall safety tensile stress
for different tube diameters and water pressures . . . . . . . . . 1553
89.4 Specific pumping power dependence on water speed
and pipe diameter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1555
89.5 Eyre North and South monthly evaporation rates . . . . . . . . . 1558
90.1 Circular map with China highlighted . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1570
90.2 Oblique map of the Yangtze River . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1572
90.3 Satellite photos of the Yangtze River dam site: (a) 1987,
(b) 2006 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1573
90.4 Map of Three Gorges Dam site features . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1579
lviii List of Figures
91.1 The Three Gorges reservoir area. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1584

91.2 Counties of the 11 provinces where TGP migrants
were resettled in 2000–2004 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1589
91.3 Annual number of migrants displaced to 11 provinces
(2000–2004). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1591
92.1 Location of Itaipú dam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1600
92.2 Aerial view of the spillway and the powerhouse. . . . . . . . . . 1600
92.3 View of the Penstocks. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1604
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. . . . . . . . . 1611
93.1 Eleven river basins in Nigeria. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1618
93.2 The Tiga dam – Nigeria’s largest dam for irrigation . . . . . . . . 1622
94.1 Course of the Mekong river . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1634
94.2 The Mekong cascade 1987. The main difference from the
1970 plan was the reduced height of the giant Pa Mong Dam. . . . 1636
94.3 Dams on the Mekong River and its tributaries,
as of July 2008 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1639
94.4 National Geographic’s December 1968 cover story, “River
of Terror and Hope” (left), graphic representations of the
terror and hope. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1640
94.5 Dam protest in Bangkok . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1646
95.1 How big is Africa. (Trustees of Boston University, n.d.
and The White Horse Press, Isle of Harris, 2006) . . . . . . . . . 1653
95.2 1890s map of Livingstone falls showing Inga falls curve. . . . . . 1654
95.3 Inga I and II Dams in Nkokolo valley. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1667
95.4 Proposed Pan-African electricity grid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1668
95.5 Proposed Grand Inga electricity corridors (“highways”). . . . . . 1670
96.1 U.S. military academy, West Point, New York. . . . . . . . . . . 1685
96.2 Army troop deployments in the U.S., 1860 . . . . . . . . . . . . 1685
96.3 Army troop deployments in the U.S., 1867 . . . . . . . . . . . . 1686
96.4 Current photograph of the remnants of Fort Union, NM,
an historic western Army fort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1686
96.5 Current photography of the remnants of Fort Laramie,
WY, an historic western Army fort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1687
96.6 Map of the Armor Warfare Center Maneuvers in the USA,
1940s (Bischoff, 2008) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1688
96.7 Geographical distribution of major military lands
in the U.S., 2009 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1690
96.8 Ecoregional distribution of Army lands in the U.S. . . . . . . . . 1693
96.9 Cantonment and training areas on Fort Bliss (left) and Fort
Hood (right), Texas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1694
96.10 Fort Lewis cantonment area . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1695
List of Figures lix
97.1 Phases of U.S. acquisition of Mexican land. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1705

97.2 Existing and proposed fencing projects along
the Mexico-U.S. border. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1709
97.3 Border Fence, Lighting, and Patrol Roads. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1710
97.4 Border areas affected by REAL ID act waivers. . . . . . . . . . . 1712
97.5 Example of pedestrian fencing, Arizona. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1713
97.6 Border wall construction along levees in Rio Grande River
Valley, Texas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1713
97.7 Construction filling in Smugglers’ Gulch, California. . . . . . . . 1715
97.8 Mesh fencing with Debris-Filled Grates, Hidalgo County,
Texas. The high water mark reached seven feet. . . . . . . . . . . 1715
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1716
98.1 Island locations for Australia Asylum seeker detention. . . . . . . 1732
98.2 ÜNHCR map of “Australia’s Excision Zone” . . . . . . . . . . . 1735
98.3 Location of detention centers in Australia and offshore Islands. . . 1738
98.4 Alcatraz down under: Christmas island detention center. . . . . . 1739
98.5 The Babies Compound: Details of Child Care, Education Units . . 1741
98.6 Caged area for “detainee relaxation” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1741
98.7 Caged lights . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1742
98.8 Entrance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1742
98.9 Christmas Island CCTV security room . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1743
99.1 View from a scenic overlook in Wise County. Wallens
Ridge stands at the center . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1750
99.2 Map of the Wallens Ridge state prison study area . . . . . . . . . 1751
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1753
99.4 High-pressure sodium lamps that light Wallens Ridge
are visible for miles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1757
99.5 Boundary of the Red Onion State prison property. . . . . . . . . . 1759
100.1 Location of Le Havre nuclear reprocessing plant. . . . . . . . . . 1766
100.2 Coastline of La Cotentin Peninsula . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1766
100.3 Satellite image of the Le Havre plant. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1767
100.4 The Le Havre reprocessing plant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1770
100.5 Rural landscape surrounding Le Hague plant . . . . . . . . . . . 1771
100.6 Dairy farming on La Cotentin Peninsula . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1773
100.7 Rugged and bleak coastal landscape near the reprocessing
plant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1776
101.1 Location of Semipalatinsk, Kazakhstan, the nuclear test
site, detonation sites, and communities adjacent. . . . . . . . . . 1791
101.2 Physical landscape adjacent to and in the Polygon . . . . . . . . 1792
101.3 Magnitude of blasts and directions of radioactive clouds blasts. . . 1794
lx List of Figures
101.4 Diorama of the testing area, 29 August 1949 in the Science

Museum, Kurchatov . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1795
101.5 Levels of radiation of sites adjacent to and downwind
from the SNTS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1796
101.6 Medical college in Semipalatinsk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1797
101.7 Book cover E. L. Yakubovskya et al. Semipalatinsk Test
Polygon (2003) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1799
101.8 Drawing of one child from Semipalatinsk “How I see my
city” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1808
101.9 Monument to victims of nuclear testing, Semipalatinsk . . . . . . 1808
101.10 Display in the Ethnographic Museum, Semipalatinsk . . . . . . . 1809
101.11 Semey Artist: Alexander Shevchenko and one depiction
of the Polygon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1811
101.12 Abandoned buildings in Kurchatov . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1813
101.13 Open border crossing to the Polygon (formerly restricted
entry) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1814
102.1 Location of retirement communities in Florida and South
Florida . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1824
102.2 Aerial photo of Century Village, Pembroke Pines . . . . . . . . . 1826
102.3 Main entrance to Century Village, Pembroke Pines . . . . . . . . 1826
102.4 Housing in Century Village, Pembroke Pines . . . . . . . . . . . 1827
102.5 Century Village, West Palm Beach. Note contrast in
housing and landscaping with Century Village, Pembroke
Pines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1828
102.6 Century Village, Pembroke Pines, Shuffleboard Court . . . . . . 1828
102.7 Century Village, Pembroke Pines, Clubhouse . . . . . . . . . . . 1829
102.8 Century Village, Trolley Transportation Service Provided . . . . 1829
102.9 Sun City Center development plan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1830
102.10 Sun City Center, single family dwelling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1831
102.11 Sun City Center, lawn bowling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1831
102.12 Gated entrance to Jewish retirement community in Delray
Beach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1834
102.13 Jewish community, Kiryas Joel, of Satmar Chasidic Sect . . . . . 1839
102.14 Finnish Lutheran Church in Lantana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1840
102.15 Finnish community center in Lake Worth . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1841
102.16 The Palms of Mankota is a Gay-Oriented Retirement
Community . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1843
102.17 Emergency medical services are a common site
in retirement communities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1846
102.18 Century Village, Pembroke Pines, apartments with
elevators that replaced outside staircases . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1848
102.19 Offices of medical specialists are seldom far from
retirement communities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1850
103.1 Abandoned house in Detroit, haphazardly
and inadequately secured . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1859
List of Figures lxi
103.2 Detroit population density by census tract, 1950. . . . . . . . . . 1861

103.3 Detroit population density by census tract, 2000. . . . . . . . . . 1862
103.4 Abandoned, fire-damaged house in Detroit . . . . . . . . . . . . 1862
103.5 Non-market and weak-market areas in Youngstown, Ohio. . . . . 1863
103.6 Abandoned factory building in Detroit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1864
103.7 Abandoned storefronts in Cleveland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1865
103.8 Vacant Packard Motor Car Company plant in Detroit. . . . . . . . 1866
103.9 Street scene on Cleveland’s East Side. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1869
103.10 Abandoned church in Detroit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1870
103.11 Old Cleveland Board of Education building, now largely
overgrown by vegetation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1871
103.12 The DeQuindre Cut in Detroit: a rail line turned into an
inner-city walking and bicycling path. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1872
103.13 Map of culverted streams and watersheds in Cleveland. . . . . . . 1872
104.1 Local schoolchildren watch as a rural house is connected. . . . . . 1888
104.2 Advertisement seeking peat for a peat-fired generating
station (Kerryman, March 23, 1957) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1889
104.3 Linesmen and cable drum. Most of the work of the rural
electrification program in the late 1940s used locally
recruited manual labor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1891
104.4 Construction crew. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1891
104.5 Crew erecting pole (horse in background). . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1892
104.6 Stringing the new wires. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1892
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1893
104.8 ESB map showing areas completed by 1952. . . . . . . . . . . . 1894
104.9 An REO wall map showing the early geographical
progress of electrification in 1948. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1896
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1897
104.11 Exhibition of appliances for farm use. There is particular
emphasis on “cheap” electricity. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1898
105.1 Map of Tennessee Valley Region and TVA dams. . . . . . . . . . 1901
105.2 Norris Dam, Tennessee Valley, 2008. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1910
105.3 A sea of white faces in this photograph of workers
at Norris Dam, 1933. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1911
105.4 Layout of Norris planned community. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1912
106.1 Early coal mining areas of Harlan County. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1918
106.2 Harlan County with communities of Benham and Lynch. . . . . . 1920
106.3 Benham, Kentucky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1922
106.4 Lynch, Kentucky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1923
lxii List of Figures
106.5 Lynch amusement building . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1924

106.6 Benham YMCA and hotel (background left) . . . . . . . . . . . 1924
106.7 International Harvester company police in Benham . . . . . . . . 1925
106.8 Lynch homes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1927
106.9 Benham homes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1927
106.10 Lynch Superintendent’s home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1928
106.11 Original Benham store replaced in 1920 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1929
106.12 First united mine workers union meeting in Lynch . . . . . . . . 1931
107.1 South African provinces and capitals in relationship
to former Bantustans. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1943
107.2 Port Elizabeth legacy residential areas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1945
107.3 South end in its heyday. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1946
107.4 South end: a heterophobic townscape . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1947
107.5 District Six, Cape Town in 2009. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1948
108.1 Locations of select historic settlements on the Chukchi
Peninsula, 1900–1970 (villages mentioned in the text
are labeled) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1961
108.2 Location of contemporary settlements on the Chukchi
Peninsula, 2008 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1962
108.3 Soviet-style houses in Lorino. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1965
108.4 Remains of the relocated village (1977) of Nuniamo in 2008. . . . 1966
108.5 Contemporary hunting camp next to the abandoned village
of Nuniamo. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1969
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1981
109.2 Mormon settlements and stakes in 1869. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1983
109.3 Former Zions co-operative mercantile institution (ZCMI)
in Franklin, Idaho . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1985
109.4 Manti temple in Manti, Utah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1987
109.5 Logan Utah Tabernacle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1988
109.6 LDS Chapel in Mink Creek, Idaho erected in 1928
(“Colonel’s twins” design) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1990
109.7 Church headquarters in downtown Salt Lake City,
with Temple Square in the middle block. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1992
110.1 The sign at the entrance to Raffles Girls’ Primary School . . . . . 1999
110.2 Street sign marking Raffles Girls’ Primary School . . . . . . . . 2000
111.1 Reference map. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2014
111.2 Road sign . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2016
111.3 Population trends in Nagorno Karabakh. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2021
111.4 Number of toponyms by linguistic association. . . . . . . . . . . 2024
111.5 Spatial distribution of toponyms by linguistic association. . . . . 2026
111.6 Stepanakert in its many forms. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2027
112.1 U.S. military assists displaced persons in the wake
of a Central American natural disaster. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2033
List of Figures lxiii
112.2 Afghan villagers view satellite image. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2039

112.3 Satellite image of Kabul District 7. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2040
112.4 Old cadastre map of Kabul. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2041
112.5 Complexities and conflicts resulting from different types
of tenure. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2044
112.6 Hand drawn parcels sketch in San Luis Potosi, Mexico. . . . . . . 2045
115.1 The Irish border region . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2092
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2092
115.3 Symbols of a political-religious divide include
commemorating fallen comrades . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2093
115.4 Religious affiliation along the Irish border. (a) Percent
Protestant; (b) Percent Catholic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2094
115.5 The old customs hut on the Pettigo-Tullyhummon
(Donegal/Fermanagh) border . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2096
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2096
115.7 The dearth of rail crossings in the Irish border region . . . . . . . 2098
115.8 The military check-point beside the GAA pitch
in Crossmaglen, Co. Armagh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2099
115.9 Postal service delivery challenges . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2100
115.10 Service delivery challenges: Currency exchange . . . . . . . . . 2100
115.11 The role of art in peace. The Lough McNean sculpture trail . . . 2104
115.12 Cross-border collaboration through partnership . . . . . . . . . . 2104
115.13 Importance of various funding streams to local
regeneration in the Irish border region . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2107
117.1 Baselines and Meridians for U.S. rectangular public land
survey system . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2127
117.2 Township and range in the RPLSS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2127
117.3 Sections and fractional sections in the RPLSS . . . . . . . . . . 2128
117.4 New states proposed by Thomas Jefferson in the Northwest
territory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2130
117.5 U.S. state and county boundaries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2131
117.6 Center Pivot irrigation and the RPLSS in Kansas. . . . . . . . . . 2132
117.7 Huron County, Michigan Road Network . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2134
118.1 European influence in the world. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2140
118.2 Cartoon of Cecil Rhodes spanning Africa. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2147
118.3 Time sequence map of Colonial Australia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2149
lxiv List of Figures
118.4 Aboriginal claimant applications as of 2009 in Australia,

with rectilinear pattern of the Torrens system evident. . . . . . . . 2150
118.5 Triangulation lines in India and arcs of Great Trigon,
Survey of India. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2151
121.1 Global temperature anomalies based on four multiproxy
and tree ring reconstructions for the period A.D. 900–2005. . . . 2186
121.2 Concentrations of carbon dioxide, methane and nitrous
oxide for the past 10,000 years. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2187
121.3 Climate model simulations of global temperature
anomalies with (a) and without (b) anthropogenic
increases in greenhouse gases. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2190
121.4 Temperature increases associated with three IPCC 2007
AR4 scenarios. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2191
121.5 Projected changes to major components of the hydrologic
cycle associated with anthropogenic climate change. . . . . . . . 2192
122.1 Concentration in meq [Ca2+ + Mg2+ ] in spring waters.
Total carbon as mg CO2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2202
122.2 Artist’s impression of an olivine hill at the campus
grounds of the Utrecht University . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2204
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). . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2210
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,
List of Figures lxv
are evidence that the end of the georeactor’s life is

approaching, although the time-scale is not precisely known. . . . 2212
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2220
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) . . . . . . . . 2230
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2231
126.1 Thermohaline circulation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2239
126.2 Broecker’s carbon pie chart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2245
126.3 Pacala and Socolow’s (2004) stabilization wedges . . . . . . . . 2246
126.4 Geoengineering as substitute and as supplement. . . . . . . . . . 2251
List of Tables
2.1 The Seven Wonders of the ancient world . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

2.2 “The New Seven Wonders,” a 2007 list derived from
worldwide popular vote. (New7Wonders Foundation,
2007) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
2.3 Examples of modern “wonders” in the U.S. organized
by themes derived from the ancient Wonders . . . . . . . . . . . 22
4.1 The internet as a mega-project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
4.2 Mega-project Google: Portrait . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
4.3 Nesting model for google as a mega-project . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
5.1 Examples of projects that make use of cloud collaboration . . . . 71
5.2 Ownership of selected cloud-collaboration projects . . . . . . . . 79
6.1 Facebook’s 25 largest user countries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
6.2 User feedback to facebook . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
8.1 Key terms related to fiber optics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
8.2 Major trans-Atlantic and trans-Pacific fiber optics cables . . . . . 121
9.1 A summary of urban WLAN provision in three Finnish
cities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
10.1 Activities while traveling measured in terms frequency
and time intensity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
11.1 Video game assemblages . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165
12.1 Number of successfully obtained fixes, fix rates (%)
and operation periods of the GPS collars . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178
13.1 Change in rural-urban distribution of cattle and buffaloes,
1992–2003 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199
13.2 Proportion of total milk produced (in million tons)
by cattle and buffaloes, 1995–2004. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200
15.1 Grain production in the Soviet Union – 1922–1926
(in millions of pounds) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 240
15.2 Gross state investment in agriculture 1953–1963
(in millions of rubles) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 246
17.1 Conditions and results of earlier economic feasibility
studies of manganese nodule mining . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 290
17.2 World metal production and abundance in earth’s crust . . . . . . 291
lxvii
lxviii List of Tables
23.1 Mine location information for the Philippines . . . . . . . . . . . 385

23.2 Ecclesial actions against mining in the Philippines . . . . . . . . 389
24.1 Criteria and parameters used in the complex assessment of
human-caused impacts on the areas of iron ore extraction . . . . 418
24.2 Assessment of the ecological situation in the areas of iron
ore mining . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 424
26.1 Oil and gas consumption of EU members . . . . . . . . . . . . . 449
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 475
28.1 Energy security outliers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 494
29.1 Manufacturing plants >700 acres (283 ha). Plants are
automobile production unless noted otherwise. Like
numbers are in order of size . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 500
29.2 Selected countries and total land in vehicle fabrication
specifically comparing to Great Britain (excluding
Northern Ireland) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 506
30.1 Forest residues by cutting alternatives in North Karelia . . . . . . 517
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 520
30.3 Annual energy potential of forest residues and their
refined products under two harvesting plans . . . . . . . . . . . . 524
30.4 Potential effects on employment in forestry and
transportation of exploiting forest residues in North
Karelia, in person-years . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 526
30.5 Estimated potential employment effects of sample plants
in North Karelia with a composite residue log supply chain . . . 528
31.1 The Saudi economic cities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 540
31.2 Key special economic zones in operation or under
construction in Dubai . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 543
33.1 Build-up of the official highway system in Amazonia . . . . . . . 572
33.2 Cattle herd and population in the Transamazon Corridor,
2007 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 585
33.3 Unofficial road construction. Transamazon highway . . . . . . . 589
34.1 Investment indicators in India . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 602
37.1 Specifications for Alcan highway . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 653
37.2 Rates of Alcan highway construction during 1942 (after
Sturdevant 1943: 180) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 653
42.1 The world’s biggest bridges as measured by free span . . . . . . 736
44.1 Centrality scores for nodes in the Kite network (generated
by the network program UCINET [Borgatti, Everett, &
Freeman, 2002]) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 781
46.1 Examples of mega infrastructure projects in China . . . . . . . . 806
List of Tables lxix
47.1 GCC member countries and their capital, population

and area . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 822
47.2 Major projects by various property developers in GCC
countries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 833
49.1 Technical changes in container port terminals . . . . . . . . . . . 864
50.1 World’s leading passenger airports, 2007 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 868
50.2 The world’s most expensive airports . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 871
50.3 The world’s most expensive airport expansion projects,
2000–2010 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 871
50.4 A comparison of the new airport terminals in Beijing
and London . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 873
50.5 Scheduled airline capacity by region, 1998–2008 . . . . . . . . . 875
51.1 Largest 15 public university campuses as of fall 2008 . . . . . . 890
53.1 Data on Moskva Siti objects. (Compiled from various
sources by authors) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 937
54.1 Tallest completed skyscrapers (October 2008) . . . . . . . . . . 956
55.1 Estimation of different variants of floating platforms . . . . . . . 979
59.1 Land use legacies of Olympic and world’s fair sites . . . . . . . . 1053
61.1 Selected megadevelopers by region in US . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1075
62.1 Allocation of federal recovery funds by sector in Kentucky . . . . 1091
62.2 WPA expenditures for projects completed
to December 31, 1936 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1093
70.1 Investment types and spatial impact of Cap Cana . . . . . . . . . 1274
72.1 Growth rates of bluegrass counties . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1309
72.2 Gross domestic product by metropolitan area, 2005
and 2006 (millions of current dollars) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1310
72.3 Selected equine related businesses in the Bluegrass . . . . . . . . 1311
75.1 Benefits of Eucalyptus camaldulensis woodlots
under different ownership categories in Mukarakate,
North-Eastern Zimbabwe (Tyynelä, 2001a) . . . . . . . . . . . . 1359
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 . . . . . . . . . 1363
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1365
82.1 Mississippi river cutoffs in 1946 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1462
83.1 Areal and temporal dimensions of dikes and polders
of the Zuiderzee works . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1471
86.1 Selected economic and environmental characteristics
of the first stage Siberian water diversion project . . . . . . . . . 1521
89.1 Parameters for Port Augusta to Lake Eyre Pipeline . . . . . . . . 1555
lxx List of Tables
89.2 Monthly mean of daily global solar irradiation

[KWh/(m–2 day–1 )] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1556
89.3 Cost estimations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1560
91.1 Numbers of people actually displaced in the TGP
by the end of 2005 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1585
91.2 Distribution of migrants displaced via GODR schemes
(2000–2006) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1590
91.3 Numbers of migrants displaced to 11 provinces via GODR
(2000–2004) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1591
91.4 Per capita farmland and area of newly built housing of
migrants resettled in 11 provinces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1594
92.1 Credit Secured by Itaipú Binacional (EOY, 1983) . . . . . . . . . 1605
92.2 Debt of Itaipú Binacional (EOY, 1983) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1605
92.3 Debt of Itaipú Binacional (EOY 2006) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1606
92.4 Price of electric power . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1607
92.5 Gross Income from Itaipú: 1985–2005 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1607
93.1 Dams and dam operations in Nigeria . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1621
93.2 Features of selected mega dams in Nigeria . . . . . . . . . . . . 1623
95.1 Chronology of hydroelectric dams with hydroelectric
generation capacity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1658
95.2 ICOLD Classification by dam wall height . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1659
95.3 African large hydroelectric dams ≥ 100 m in height . . . . . . . 1660
95.4 Chronology of African mega hydroelectric dam reservoir
capacity (85 dams) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1661
95.5 Dam classification by reservoir surface area . . . . . . . . . . . . 1662
95.6 Chronology of African large and major dams by surface area . . . 1662
95.7 Summary: Number of African mega dams by classification
system . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1663
95.8 Chronology of African dams’ installed capacity before
1960 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1665
96.1 Analogs of Army installations and world-wide operational
areas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1693
97.1 Costs of border fence from 1997–2008 in millions
of dollars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1709
97.2 Regulations and laws waived by homeland security
secretary Chertoff 2006–2008 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1711
97.3 Reported number and causes of death along Mexico-US
Border, FY 1998–2005 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1717
98.1 Number of unauthorized boat arrivals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1725
98.2 Refugee humanitarian program, visas by category
1993/1994 to 2007/2008 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1730
98.3 Expenditure on offshore asylum seeker management on
Nauru and Manus Island to end May 2002 . . . . . . . . . . . . 1736
98.4 Estimated expenditure for offshore asylum seeker
management 2001/2002 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1736
List of Tables lxxi
98.5 Detainees on Nauru and Manus island 2001–2007 . . . . . . . . 1737

98.6 Outcome of processing of offshore entry persons
16 September 2002 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1737
102.1 Florida retirement communities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1825
103.1 Population of principal United States shrinking cities
1950–2007 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1858
107.1 1960 Port Elizabeth residential areas; populations forced
to move . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1945
107.2 Selected South African place name changes . . . . . . . . . . . . 1950
108.1 Selection of relocation events on the Chukchi Peninsula . . . . . 1964
110.1 Distribution of building names: raw figures . . . . . . . . . . . . 2005
110.2 Distribution of building names: Percentages . . . . . . . . . . . 2006
114.1 Breakdown of 2004–2006 Schengen facility funding
(in million C) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2073
114.2 Slovenia: structure of border crossings per sectors,
1992–2002 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2082
114.3 Selected characteristics of borders of the Republic
of Slovenia, 2002 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2083
115.1 Locations at which citizens currently access services . . . . . . . 2101
115.2 Location of the closest service by distance (irrespective
of border) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2101
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2202
126.1 Geoengineering? Engineering earth, seas, and sky . . . . . . . . 2242
126.2 Stabilization wedges—Pick 7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2246
126.3 Pleasures of paleolithic life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 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 megaengi-
neering 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 histor-
ical, 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, 3

C Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011
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 eth-
nic 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 publi-
cations 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-the-
art 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 interdisci-
plinary 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 5
Economic energy Environmental

farming
fishing
ICTs mining river diversion
tourism and recreation
corporations & networks zoos and parks coastal reclamation
financial institutions transportation projects
airports and ports mining reclamation
work forces bridges and tunnels reforestation
k-economics irrigation and dams
bioengineering weather modification
new towns
green projects
edge cities terracing
GIS and GPS
construction shelter belts
reconstructing nature
pioneering projects
landscape modification
alternative energy projects
WWW
conservation
the internet eco footprints
Facebook sustainability
environmental risk
virtual communities climate modeling
amenity landscapes
wired cities research and development
military ecology
gated communities post-conflict reconstruction
security landscapes
company towns nuclear testing event planning
designing cities
planetary engineering
new capital cities
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 gam-
bling, and information/technology products (Wikipedia, Google Earth, GIS and
GPS) in this domain, as they are definitely megaengineering projects. The environ-
mental sphere includes a host of projects that transform the physical earth. These
include river diversion, coastal reclamation, terracing schemes, reforestation, sur-
face 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
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 commu-
nities 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, sustain-
ability, 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 stud-
ied 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 megapro-
jects 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 megaengi-
neering 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 K-
economies. The next set examines specific agriculture, fishing and mining projects;
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 var-
ious national, international, and transnational transportation projects (railroads and
highways). Five chapters on the construction industry, corporate structures, and net-
works 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 restor-
ing 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 set-
tlement 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, Baikal-
Amur Line (Russia), proposed: Silk Road, Cairo-Cape Town
(4) Airports: de Gaulle (Paris), Heathrow (London), Frankfurt (Germany),
Hartsfield (Atlanta), Hong Kong (China), Singapore
Economic Environmental
3, 4, 8, 9, 29, 16, 17, 24, 27, 30, 21, 55, 77, 81, 82,
31, 36, 42, 44, 37, 43, 64, 65, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87,
45, 46, 48, 49, 74, 76 88, 120, 121, 122,
50 123, 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
(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); Trans-
Alaska (oil); Gasoducto del Sur (proposed gas: Venezuela to Argentina);
Desertec: (proposed solar: North Africa to Europe)
(13) Mining: Mirny, Russia (diamonds), Johannesburg, South Africa (dia-
monds), 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
(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 con-
tracts), 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 will-
ing 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 state-
hood. Discussions might include the sites selected for projects, the financial
support, concessions to corporations and landowners, the resettlement of disen-
franchised 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 megaengi-
neering 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 support-
ing liberation theologies, and other NGOs (environmental, gender, indigenous).
The research could be studied with respect to property rights, zoning, empow-
erment, and manipulation of rights (populations at risk, school assignments for
children and political gerrymandering.
(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 engineer-
ing 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, recy-
cle, reuse, and re-educate. While most of these projects will not receive the
financial support and visibility of megaprojects, we need to weigh their effec-
tiveness, 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 cul-
ture 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, secu-
rity, 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 rea-
son 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 scien-
tists who seek ways to mitigate adverse climate changes. What will be required
for engineering earth to become a legitimate field of interdisciplinary and transdis-
ciplinary 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.
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 sym-
bolic 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

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 intel-
lectual 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 instru-
mental 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 compre-
hending the cultural role of large-scale constructions. The communicative goal of
any project derives from human participation, but the “mega” aspect of these engi-
neering 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 ele-
ments 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 sta-
tus, 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 cultur-
ally 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 finan-

cial 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 insti-
tutions. 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 them-
selves 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 adop-
tion 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 sus-
tained 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 writ-
ten 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 exam-
ining the economics of the projects. Many megaengineering projects require an
investment that far exceeds the economic utility of the projects. Any analysis of
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 perfor-
mance 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 cul-
tural 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 mean-
ing 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 con-
trolled 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 min-
ing, 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 industri-
ous economic activity often seem strictly utilitarian – the steel mill, the strip mine.
Utilitarianism bears a message, too. Even tools are symbolic; they bear the “mean-
ing” of the other tools in the technology that fits against them. A claw hammer says
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 land-
scapes 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 mes-
sages 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 coopera-
tion, 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 com-
parative political landscape symbols. They compose a catalog of ancient state-
supported 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 character-
istics (Romer & Romer, 2001). They were thematically linked through references
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; Sanctity, memorial, abundance

resurrection symbol
Hanging Gardens of Babylon Rich urban garden in a desert Abundance, control of nature
Statue of Zeus at Olympia Large sacred monument Sanctity
Temple of Artemis at Ephesus Large sacred building Sanctity
Tomb of Maussollos at Large, ornate funeral Sanctity, memorial
Halicarnassus monument for Persian satrap
Colossus of Rhodes Heroic statue of a Greek god in Exchange, military success
a commercial port
Lighthouse of Alexandria Lighthouse in a Hellenistic city 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
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 pro-
jecting 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 represen-
tations 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.
• 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 preserva-
tion 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 numerolog-
ically 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, cam-
paigned 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 prop-
erties 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 Wonder Location
from worldwide popular vote.
Christ the Redeemer Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
(New7Wonders Foundation,
Colosseum Rome, Italy
2007)
Taj Mahal Agra, India
Great Wall China
Petra Jordan’s
Machu Picchu Peru
Chichén Itzá Mexico
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 archae-
ological 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 wonders-
of-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 “incorporat-
ing 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 irri-
gation 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
Table 2.3 Examples of modern “wonders” in the U.S. organized by themes derived from the
ancient Wonders
Familiar and Possible Hellenistic Seven Additional Modern “second

traditional representative Wonders ancient thoughts” about
landscape tropes U.S. “wonders” comparison comparanda the trope
Abundance, Lower Colorado Hanging garden Granaries, Ecological

control of water system, irrigation complexity;
nature TVA, NASA works obliviousness
space to natural
programs limits,
unintended
consequences
Memorial of Washington DC, Mausoleum, Column of Cult of
rulers; National Mall Temple of Trajan, personality,
celebration of complex, Zeus, Temple Acropolis incipient
the state; Arlington of Artemis authoritarian-
secular ism
sanctity
Military Security Norfolk, Nevada Ishtar Gate Hadrian’s Wall, Ruinous expense,
Test Site, Fort Great Wall, imperial
Hood city walls over-reach
Transport, Interstate Lighthouse at Roman roads, Resources and
commerce highways, Alexandra Phoenician energy
Panama Canal, fleet, Corinth consumption,
JFK airport canal sprawl,
Civic New York Colossus Aqueducts, Vulnerability to
identification, skyline, theaters, attack, and to
Civic pride Brooklyn temples shifting
Bridge, fortunes
Golden Gate
bridge
Societal Lower Pyramid of Sacrifice sites: Vulnerability; the
protection Mississippi Khurfu Parthenon, technological
flood control, Teotihuacan fix
Clean water
act
Conspicuous Palm Springs, Hanging Garden Colosseum, Taj Excess, inequity,
consumption, Las Vegas, Mahal, panem resource
whimsy Disneyworld, et circenses consumption;
mega-cruise new economic
ships limits
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
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 gov-
ernments 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 year-
to-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 politi-
cal 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 com-
mon 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 oblivious-
ness 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 commem-
orated 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 sol-
diers. 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 pop-
ular in authoritarian states: giant bronze Lenins, Maos, and Saddams. In awareness
of this modern re-reading, many recent memorials have been intentionally human-
sized, 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 human-
scaled feel, especially when compared to the retro formalism and self-conscious
neo-neoclassicism of the newer WWII monument.
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 dimin-
ished 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 reli-
gious 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 com-
memorator; 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 personal-
ity, 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 usu-
ally emphatic design statements, using extravagant architecture and formalized and
geometric landscapes. Cosgrove (1989) demonstrates the layers of verbal, geomet-
ric, 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 con-
cern, 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
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 ele-
ment, 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 struc-
ture 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 pro-
tect 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 soci-
ety’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 antiq-
uity 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
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 rea-
son; 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
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 han-
dles 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 cre-
ated 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
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 com-
plexes 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 land-
scape 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 continu-
ance, 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 vul-
nerability 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 credibil-
ity 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 by-
product 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 cap-
ital 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.”
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 fantas-
tic architecture of gambling venues in Atlantic City and Las Vegas are examples.
Commercial spaces also engineer human behavior toward more willing expendi-
tures. 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 commer-
cial 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 extrav-
agant 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, includ-
ing Stonehenge, was followed by a period of much humbler landscape constructions,
Thomas suggests “It follows that the monuments of the Neolithic are something spe-
cific, 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 abun-
dance 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 equiva-
lent 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 wet-
lands 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 trav-
eler. 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 under-
standings 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
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 megaengi-
neering 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 resi-
dential 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 osten-
tatious 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 sym-
bols. Expanding public concern about poverty, environmental impact and human
rights issues can force reinterpretation of the messages. The heterogeneity of global
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 them-
selves 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 over-
sized. 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 prod-
uct 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 con-
flict, 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 transfor-
mation is an explicit representation of economic, military, ecological, and social
power, and power is always used to justify more power.
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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 miniaturiza-
tion, 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 com-
pelling 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

38 M.F. Goodchild
and managed by the US Department of Defense that provides the essential mea-
surements of current vehicle position. The equally and arguably more important
database representing the locations of streets and contained in the system is invisi-
ble 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 domi-
nates 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 com-
plex constructed for the 2008 Beijing games was an almost featureless cube with
no obviously visible function. It housed the very elaborate and extensive com-
puters, 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 infor-
mation 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 infor-
mation 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 technol-
ogy, 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 net-
works, 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 devel-
opments 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 dig-
ital 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 much-
cited 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, instru-
ments, 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 out-
weighing 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 sug-
gest 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 lat-
itude 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 technol-
ogy 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 tech-
nologies 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 accura-
cies. 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 reg-
ular 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 fine-
resolution 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 dif-
ferent 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 fed-
eral 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 var-
ious forms of land use. But it was not long before other applications developed,
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 crimi-
nology. 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 rout-
ing and scheduling of delivery and collection vehicles, for keeping track of the
distributed assets of utilities, for improving agricultural production through preci-
sion 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 geospa-
tial 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 antic-
ipating 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 pub-
lished 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 sys-
tems 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 read-
ers, 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 auto-
matic 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 two-
dimensional 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
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 representa-
tion, 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 des-
tinations 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 user-
generated 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 fine-
resolution 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 phenom-
ena 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 trans-
portation 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 invisi-
bility, 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 con-
sumes 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 vir-
tual 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 sig-
nals from the real geographic environment could be excluded. At the University
of California, Santa Barbara, for example, an immersive environment consist-
ing 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, infor-
mation 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 con-
sist of no more than the screen of a mobile phone. In both cases the role of AR is to
augment what the user can see, touch, hear, feel, and smell, by providing supplemen-
tary 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 visu-
ally 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 interrup-
tions. 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 instabil-
ity, 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 indi-
viduals 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, indi-
viduals, 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 abil-
ity 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 oper-
ate 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.
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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 fol-
lowed by itss essence compared to civil engineering megaprojects. In the third
section I present its evolution and possible implications for human activities, includ-
ing those related to information, communications and cognition. I introduce in the
forth section, the “Google” case, a major Internet rider, as a megaproject, fol-
lowed 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 medi-
ator 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 vir-
tual earth information indexing and mapping tool. All of these initiatives of converge
capacities of a mega information and communication system. Also all have geopo-
litical, 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 sec-
tion highlights the significance of Google’s “invisible” cyberspace organization and
performances, viz., the culture, the logic, strategies of information and communi-
cation 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

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 signifi-
cance 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 individ-
uals, 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 vir-
tual 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 Virtual Physical

Ownership Not-owned entity Owned
Morphology Network Point
Scale Global Regional/National/Intern.
Organization Distributed Centralized
Maintenance Distributed On-site
4 Google and the Internet 51
but also in scale: it consists of a global scale with global coverage ensured by com-
puter 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 compre-
hensive 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 orga-
nization, 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 compo-
nent 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 impor-
tant 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 them-
selves 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 accept-
ing 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 them-
selves 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 prac-
tice 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 influ-
ence 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
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 engi-
neering 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 repre-
sents a merely technological construct: if “code is almost infinitely malleable but
is ultimately structured by the desires and constraints imposed by its program-
mers and managers” (Zook & Graham, 2007: 466) as well by their education and
curricula (see Paradiso, 2006 for a reflexive discussion on a bridge between engi-
neering, 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 techno-
logical 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 commu-
nication 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 informa-
tion 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 corpo-
rations 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 prin-
cipal 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 commu-
nication 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 adop-
tion 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 attenuat-
ing 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 interac-
tions 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, polit-
ical, 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 think-
ing and brilliant technological performances. It is also a “seductive” megaproject
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 off-
line 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 com-
munication, 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 Global world digital information

One-stop search destination 68% of all Web searches in 2008
Money power Enormous profits
Human power Surplus of talent
Web domination Like Microsoft for the PC
Web advertising monopoly? Unsuccessful deal with Yahoo
Global knowledge management Beyond search: services and applications
Global communications Ubiquitous: homes, offices, and mobile
Global information and computing Three trillion URLs
Global leader Over 100 international domains with 35 languages
for results display and >100 languages for
interfaces
“Panopticon” Agreement with principal DNA research
Concerns of privacy and Private co. to access individual DNA data
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 dis-
putable approach indeed) and popular site pages inspection, Google can be defined
in terms of a complex but also pervasive global system for knowledge manage-
ment. 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 sec-
tor 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, news-
group 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 domin-
ion 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 “coopeti-
tion” 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 infor-
mation (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 con-
trolling 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 advertis-
ing 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
Yahoo. It has concentrated in about 50 companies, some of them being global enti-
ties 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 (con-
quering 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 pow-
erful 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 communica-
tions 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 World as an index and Google as its

manager.
Search as a business 2000–2002 Universalism and market conquest
Indispensability and ubiquity 2003–2006 Launches of many services, applications,
projects, R&D centers, acquisitions of
enterprises, partnerships. People’s
everyday life enabler; communication
mediator.
Google as a superpower? 2007–2008 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) build-
ing 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 devel-
oper, it nests also on earth through projects and branches and by becoming a “global
Idol” (Vise & Malseed, 2007) and mediating people’s communication and infor-
mation 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 geo-
graphic “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), over-
coming 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
community (open source strategies, offering computing power for external projects)
an indispensable mediator of communication and recently addressing global con-
cerns 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 poten-
tial 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 man-
ages 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 inter-
faces: languages are a sign of Google universalism and strategic Market Conquest.
Google AdWords later launched a major overhaul for AdWords, including new cost-
per-click pricing. The self-service ad program promised online activation with a
credit card, keyword targeting and performance feedback. They showed an innova-
tive 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 customiza-
tion 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 trans-
parent and self service mechanisms for pricing, advertising, and obtaining feedback
from campaigns. The company seemed to be opening up a more “democratic” mar-
ket 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
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 corpo-
ration 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, merg-
ing different nature and sources information. The company nested also at the user’s
home and people mobility facilitated many routines. Google is now mobile, ubiq-
uitous, 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 media-
tors.” 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 men-
tion 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 phi-
lanthropy. 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 world-
wide. 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, mon-
itors 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 cooper-
ation 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 communica-
tions 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 lay-
ers 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 plat-
form 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
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” megapro-
jects 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 engineer-
ing 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 central-
ized 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 con-
sidering 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: inter-
nal 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 expan-
sive 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 infor-
mation, 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, asymmet-
ric 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 megapro-
jects (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 ini-
tiatives 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 partner-
ships 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.
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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 con-
vergence 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 work-
flow 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

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 maga-
zine’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 mil-
lions 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-to-
peer 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 engineer-
ing projects (Fig. 5.2). Most megaengineering projects that have been constructed
have required laborers to converge in both time and space. The Egyptian pyra-
mids 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 connec-
tion. 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 collab-
oration 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 compari-
son 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 col-
laboration 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
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 Representations of the physical

brought into the same social brought together about specific world in cyberspace using the
spaces. subjects. Earth as an organizing principle.
Project Description Project Description Project Description
Facebook Social Flikr Photo sharing Bing Maps Web mapping

networking
Linkedin Business WikiAnswers Questions and Google Earth Virtual globe
networking answers
Match.com Partner search Wikichains Ethical OpenStreetMap Street map
consumption
Second Virtual Wikipedia Encyclopedia WikiMapia Virtual globe
Life world/social
networking
Warcraft MMORPG YouTube Video sharing Wikipedia Global travel
guide
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 collab-
oration. 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 vir-
tual 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 physi-
cal 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/set-

72157605197609174/)
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 psychol-
ogy (Psychology wiki), the production networks of commodities (WikiChains), and
sensitive documents and leaks (Wikileaks).
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 con-
tent 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 the-
ory 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 exam-
ple 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 nav-
igating 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
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 understand-
ings 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 develop-
ment 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 non-
physical 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 concep-
tions 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 phys-
ical 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 vir-
tual 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 con-
tributors 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 lux-
uries 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 cre-
ated 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
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 imag-
ined. 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 vir-
tual 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 sim-
ply 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 con-
trol 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 struc-
tures 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 high-
lighting 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 ritu-
alised 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 collabo-
ration 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 rev-
enue.” Cloud collaboration is thus simply facilitating the accumulation of profits to
5
Table 5.2 Ownership of selected cloud-collaboration projects
Social spaces Content spaces Cosmographies
Project Owner Project Owner Project Owner
Facebook Private company Flikr Yahoo! Bing Maps Microsoft

Linkedin Private company WikiAnswers Private company (Answers Google Earth Google
Corporation)
Match.com Private company Wikichains Non-profit OpenStreetMap Non-profit
(IAC/InterActiveCorp) (OpenStreetMap
Peer-Production and the Engineering of the internet
Foundation)
Second Life Private company (Linden Wikipedia Non-profit (Wikimedia WikiMapia Private company
Lab) Foundation)
Warcraft Private company YouTube Google Wikipedia Private company
(Activision Blizzard) (Internet Brands)
Source: author
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 simi-
larly 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
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 phys-
ical/virtual spaces to be created that can never eliminate the global economic
inequalities that characterize the physical world. Projects built through cloud col-
laboration 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 demo-
cratic 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 arti-
cles), 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.
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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, deci-
sions 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 char-
acterized 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 soft-
ware platform to share their interests, passions and their consumer tastes. SNSs are
infrastructures that bring people together virtually, just as many of the megaengi-
neering projects chronicled in this volume facilitate flows of goods, resources,
electricity, and people among material places. Engineers build network infrastruc-
ture and write computer code to create virtual spaces that encourage the formation
of communities which generate shared social capital. Moreover these communi-
ties 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

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 gener-
ate 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 megaengi-
neering 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 lim-
ited 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 informa-
tion 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 pack-
aged and sold (Adams, 2005), marketers need ways to gather audiences online.
SNSs perform both of these functions by encouraging consumers to provide per-
sonal 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 spokespeo-
ple 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 infrastruc-
ture, 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 commu-
nities (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
“digiplace” to describe the real-time interaction of physical and virtual spaces pro-
duced 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 abil-
ity 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, exten-
sibility 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 understand-
ing the interconnection of virtual and material communities (Graham & Marvin,
1996). As with research on the Internet in general, writing about virtual com-
munities 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, prede-
cessor 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 place-
based community. The Internet was a catalytic tool that community networking
activists could use to help reconstruct a sense of community and promote civic par-
ticipation 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 infor-
mation 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.
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 mid-
dle 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 pro-
file 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 mil-
lion 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 popu-
lation 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 digi-
tal 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 mate-
rial realm, bulletin boards, postal mail, living rooms, classrooms, and town halls
Table 6.1 Facebook’s 25 largest user countries
Percent of
Number of Population population that Percentage of all
Country facebook users estimate 2009 uses facebook facebook users
United States 62,614,120 307,212,123 20 31.21

United Kingdom 18,148,900 61,113,205 30 9.05
Canada 11,637,740 33,213,000 35 5.80
Turkey 10,767,060 76,805,524 14 5.37
France 9,706,260 64,420,073 15 4.84
Italy 9,301,500 58,126,212 16 4.64
Australia 5,601,260 21,007,000 27 2.79
Spain 5,305,660 40,525,002 13 2.64
Colombia 5,152,600 45,644,023 11 2.57
Chile 4,704,780 16,454,000 29 2.34
Argentina 3,765,940 40,482,000 9 1.88
Indonesia 3,245,640 240,271,522 1 1.62
Venezuela 3,146,260 26,814,843 12 1.57
Mexico 2,330,540 111,211,789 2 1.16
Belgium 2,251,160 10,404,000 22 1.12
Sweden 2,161,820 9,059651 24 1.08
Denmark 2,148,840 5,500,510 39 1.07
Germany 2,083,320 82,329,758 3 1.04
Norway 1,986,740 4,660,539 43 0.99
Hong Kong 1,818,660 7,055,071 26 0.91
India 1,689,740 1,166,079,217 0 0.84
Greece 1,482,200 10,737,428 14 0.74
South Africa 1,471,960 49,052,489 3 0.73
Switzerland 1,429,140 7,604,467 19 0.71
Egypt 1,319,480 83,082,869 2 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 impor-
tant 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
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 interconnec-
tion. 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
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 win-
dows (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 cre-
ates 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
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 exist-
ing place-based social relationships and to coordinate daily activities with friends
who are close by (Stern & Taylor, 2007). Ambient awareness about others’ activi-
ties 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 class-
room 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 effi-
ciently 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 per-
haps 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
and material landscape is difficult. Nevertheless, we suggest some ways that

Facebook may transform the Earth in the realms of the environment and geopol-
itics. 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 esti-
mates vary, one study suggests that data centers may contribute 0.3% of car-
bon dioxide emissions. This figure is half of the carbon dioxide emissions of
the airlines industry. Put another way, data centers generate more carbon diox-
ide 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 geopo-
litical visions and aspirations for sovereignty, which becomes a site of contestation
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 virtu-
ally, 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 “coun-
tries” 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 com-
municated 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 engi-
neers. 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 with-
out warning or input from users. This top-down hierarchical method of engineering
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 hir-
ing 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 shar-
ing 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 feed-
back 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 determin-
ing 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 pro-
vide 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 Anti-Change groups and commentary in
unrelated Facebook Forums
Private Solicited feedback on 2009 Home Page Private discussions among users about
Changes changes
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 “repre-
sentation, 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 des-
ignation. “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 reser-
voir, 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 infor-
mation 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 differenti-
ates 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”
(Zook & Graham, 2007a, 2007b). Diffusion of SNSs will continue to mirror the dif-
fusion 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 inte-
gration 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 net-
working platforms. SNSs will interconnect and one will travel among networks
using the same central profile which they own and control. Many-to-many engi-
neering 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?
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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 gov-
ernments (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 out-
lined 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 ade-
quately 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 capa-
bilities 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

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 inad-
equate 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 infras-
tructure 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 con-
tributed 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 semi-
formalized 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
Fig. 7.1 Camp Roberts architecture diagram
the GeoIQ appliance as well as the Sahana and Development Seed mapping applica-
tions, 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 poten-
tial 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 inter-
ested 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 dig-
itized 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
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 sev-
eral 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 field-
based 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 high-
resolution 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
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 simula-
tions. 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 vir-
tuous 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 vio-
lence 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
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 fac-
tors. 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
to geographically tangential locations. Overall there does not appear to be a sys-

tematic 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 gov-
ernment, 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 elec-
tion 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 out-
side of the government of Afghanistan and United States concerns by “Alive in
Afghanistan”; a group of volunteers working on providing a voice to Afghan citi-
zens. Their volunteers utilized a mobile phone based violence monitoring platform
Fig. 7.5 Total fraud complaints by province for the 2009 Afghanistan presidential election
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 gener-
ated 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 opportuni-
ties 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 previ-
ous 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 sev-
eral, 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,
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 tech-
nique 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.
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 infor-
mation 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 engineer-
ing 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.
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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 contempo-
rary 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

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 telecom-
munications. 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 there-
fore 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 tacti-
cal 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 imme-
diately 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 facili-
tated 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, pro-
duction, 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 elec-
tronic 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 ampli-
fier (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 multiplex-
ing (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 mar-
kets require intense coordination of the activities of vast numbers of employees
working within highly specialized corporate divisions of labor. Information acqui-
sition, 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 sys-
tems 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 inter-
est rate differentials, take advantage of favorable exchange rates, and avoid political
unrest (Langdale, 1989; Warf, 1995). Fiber carriers are heavily favored by large
corporations for data transmissions and by financial institutions for electronic funds
transfer systems, in large part because of the higher degrees of security and redun-
dancy this medium offers. Such networks give banks an ability to move money
around the globe at stupendous rates: subject to the process of digitization, informa-
tion 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 telecom-
munications provider entirely based on fiber optics; others such as Qwest followed
shortly (Fig. 8.1). In the US the 1996 Telecommunications Act further elimi-
nated 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 bro-
ken 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, state-
owned 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 conse-
quences 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 hand-
ful 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 sys-
tem 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 pay-
ments 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 interur-
ban 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
Table 8.2 Major trans-Atlantic and trans-Pacific fiber optics cables
Operational
Name capacity Date Landing station locations
TransAtlantic:
TAT-8 560 mbps 1988 U.S., U.K., France
PTAT-1 1.26 gbps 1989 U.S., U.K., Bermuda, Ireland
PTAT-2 1.26 gbps 1992 U.S., U.K.
TAT-9 1.12 gbps 1992 U.S., U.K., France, Spain, Canada
TAT-10 1.12 gbps 1992 U.S., Germany, Netherlands
TAT-11 1.12 gbps 1993 U.S., U.K., France
TAT-12 5 gbps 1995 U.S., U.K.
TAT-13 5 gbps 1995 U.S., France
Gemini 2.5 gbps 1998 U.S., U.K.
AC-1 2.5 gbps 1999 U.S., U.K., Germany
Columbus 3 2.5 gbps 1999 U.S., Spain, Portugal, Italy
TAT-14 10 gbps 2000 U.S., U.K., France, Netherlands,
Germany
FLAG Atlantic 10 gbps 2001 U.S., U.K., France
Apollo 10 gbps 2002 U.S., U.K., France
TransPacific:
HAW-4/TPC-3 560 mbps 1989 California, Hawaii, Guam, Japan
GPT 280 mbps 1989 Guam, Philippines, Taiwan
H-J-K 280 mbps 1990 Hong Kong, Japan, S. Korea
NPC 1.26 gbps 1990 Oregon, Alaska, Japan
TASMAN-2 1.12 gbps 1991 Australia, New Zealand
TPC-4 1.12 gbps 1992 California, Canada, Japan
HAW-5 1.12 gbps 1993 California, Hawaii
PacRim East 1.12 gbps 1993 Hawaii, New Zealand
PacRim West 1.12 gbps 1994 Australia, Guam
TPC 5/6 5 gbps 1995 California, Oregon, Hawaii, Japan
KJG 1.12 gbps 1995 S. Korea, Japan, Guam
TPC-5 5 gbps 1996 California, Hawaii, Guam, Japan
Southern Cross 2.5 gbps 1999 California, Hawaii, Fiji, Australia
China-US 2.5 gbps 1999 California, Hawaii, Guam, S. Korea,
Japan, China, Taiwan
PC-1 10 gbps 2000 Japan, U.S.
Japan-US 10 gbps 2000 Japan, U.S.
FLAG Pacific 1 10 gbps 2002 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 sig-
nificantly by publicly-installed telecommunications systems (For examples, see
http://cybergeography.planetmirror.com/cables.html). While the largest metropoli-
tan 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 trans-
portation. 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 part-
nerships. 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 sur-
rounding 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 concentra-
tions 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 accel-
erate 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 disen-
franchised 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 mean-

ingless (e.g., Cairncross, 1997), the geography of fiber optic lines reflects the
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 under-
sea 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 con-
figurations. 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 simultane-
ously. 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 pat-
tern 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 vol-
ume 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 sub-
marine 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
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 dis-
tinct, 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 through-
out 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 transmis-
sion prices, in turn, helped to keep down the costs of telephone calls and other
applications of the technology.
Monthly cost of 1.55 mbps connection ($000s)

100
90
80
70
Miami-Sao Paulo
60
Hong Kong-Tokyo
50
Los Angeles-Tokyo
40
London-New York
30
20
10
0
:1
20 2
:3
20 4
20 1
:2
20 3
:4
20 1
:2
20 3
20 4
:1
20 2
:3
:4
:
:
02
02
02
02
03
03
03
03
04
04
04
04
05
05
05
05
20
20
20
20
20
20
20
20
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 dis-
tribution 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 trans-
mission 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 satel-
lite 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 eco-
nomically 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 telecommunica-
tions 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 historically-
specific 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 diffi-
cult 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 competi-
tive 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.
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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 out-
comes 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 contempo-
rary 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 emer-
gence 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

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 com-
mon to physical megaprojects. First, it has impacted economies greatly and provided
new ways of creating massive amounts of wealth. Second, information accessibil-
ity and Internet connection availability can also be considered as a civic right. The
support actions to enhance the electronic inclusions traditionally involve the pro-
vision 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 par-
allels 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, infor-
mational 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 imple-
mentations 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 com-
monly 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 “immate-
rial” (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 wire-
less 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 pro-
vision. 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 devel-

opments 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 provi-
sion solutions. This type of collaborative network access provision is an example of
a triple-helix (for example, Etzkowitz & Leydesdorff, 2001) or B-U-G (business-
university-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 domi-
nant 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 max-
imum 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 broad-
band 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
closed systems. Perhaps the most well known general example is from the oper-
ating 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 tech-
nologies 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 rou-
tine 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 develop-
ment 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 informa-
tion 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 technolog-
ical functions among technology users. Knowledge regarding basic functionalities
of the Internet and computer technologies, including software viruses, data protec-
tion 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 the-
ories 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 sev-
eral examples concerning countries that deliberately want to control Internet
contents among their population such as China and Iran. The openness pro-
motes 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 “informa-
tion 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 informa-
tion 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?
(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 extensive-
ness 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 net-
work, 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 Core center Extended centre

center
Access logic (OA, Private Fully OA Semi (Sparknet) Private
semi, private) (RotuaariWLAN) (Openspark)
Login requirements Payment per use Non Membership in
participating
organization
Provision arrangement Private sector Triple-Helix Triple-Helix
Elements of location No Yes Yes
marketing
Main organization Non (service City of Oulu ICT Turku Ltd (Publicly
providers) owned development
company)
N access points N/A 1065 (2009) 2365 (2009)
(hotspots)
Reliability High due to high Dependent on a Dependent of home
number of location network organization network
independent
providers
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 possi-
bility 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 adminis-
tration (Äikäs, 2000). The WLAN network itself has been realized in collaboration
between the University of Oulu, Oulu polytechnic, and the local telephone com-
pany. 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 net-
work 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 collabora-
tion 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 pro-
vided 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
in cities reflects examples of broad societal ideologies: a market driven compe-

tition 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 organi-
zational 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 par-
ticipate 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 provi-
sion 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 insti-
tutions, 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 organi-
zations that also provide outdoor Internet access to their members. Examples include
universities which are public institutions in Finland which provide their own net-
work 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 vicin-
ity 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 mobil-
ity 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 infor-
mation 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 illus-
trates 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, par-
ticularly 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, copy-
right issues of user provided personal photos and pictures in Facebook illustrate this
trend.
There are several open questions that need be considered in future research deal-
ing 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 loca-
tions. 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 deter-
mine 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 phe-
nomena. 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 regard-
ing the information society development. Thus, the development of measurements
of various scales and the integration of specific content areas of information technol-
ogy 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 devel-
opment. 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 respon-
sible 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 non-
commercial 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 com-
mercial 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.
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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 des-
tinations (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 var-
ious 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

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 some-
thing 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 mod-
ern 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, com-
municate, 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 opportu-
nity 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 through-
out 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 cer-
tainly 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 tran-
sition 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 every-
day context. We initially explore what activities really take place while traveling.
Is travel dominated by work, leisure, relaxation (“time out”), and social interaction,
or perhaps by “anti-activities” such waiting, doing nothing, and sleeping? We fur-

ther 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, respon-
dents 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 typ-
ical 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
and the average journey length was one hour. In total, 402 passengers on 42 depar-
tures (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 atten-
tion 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 sam-
ple 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 pub-
lic 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 com-
mon “anti-activities” performed by around half of all surveyed passengers. Other
common and somewhat more active activities are “using the cell phone,” “think-
ing/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 activi-
ties, it appears that actual travel time use (in regional commuting) conforms to an
Table 10.1 Activities while traveling measured in terms frequency and time intensity
Frequency—percent of Time intensity—minutes

all travelers performing per person engaged in a
Activity a certain activity certain activity
Window gazing/doing nothing 53.5 16

Sleeping/snoozing 46.0 21
SMS/cell phone calls 43.5 9
Thinking/planning personal issues 38.8 14
Listening to music/radio/e-book 31.8 32
Reading for leisure 30.6 24
Talking to other passengers 21.4 40
Studying 21.4 23
Working 16.9 26
Eating, drinking 11.7 9
Other leisure activities 8.0 15
E-mail/chat 6.7 13
Taking care of children 5.0 21
Hobby 3.5 13
Source: Authors’ survey, Gothenburg region, Sweden, 2009
expected stereotype: mobile time as a kind of unproductive waiting-time, a disutil-

ity 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 rank-
ing 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 cog-
nitively 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?
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 worth-
while,” 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 satis-
fied 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 worth-
while (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 peo-
ple. 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 poten-
tially 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 regu-
lar 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,
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 valu-
able 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
of electronic equipment (e.g., laptops, music players, and cell phones) are signifi-
cant 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 impli-
cations for future mobility levels and the modal distribution of travel. Enhanced
possibilities to undertake worthwhile activities while on the move may extend jour-
ney 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 geograph-
ical impacts, for example, fuelling intraregional migration, regional enlargement,
and urban sprawl. By improving the competitiveness of public transportation, bet-
ter 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.
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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 com-
prised of three main continents, with islands spattered across its dangerous seas.
Azeroth’s geography ranges from lush forests with wild fauna, to lonely snow-
capped 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 mul-
tiplayer 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 user-
base 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 attrac-
tion 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 engi-
neering 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

156 I.G.R. Shaw
ever “complete.” Instead, virtual worlds have come to occupy an increasingly com-
plex 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 eco-
nomics 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 com-
pany 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 world-
wide 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 house-
holds 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 them-
selves 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 adver-
tising 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 partici-
pants 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 gen-
erated 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 peo-
ple (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 predomi-
nant 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 connec-
tions. 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 prop-
erty 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 transac-
tions, 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 expan-
sive domains that can bring together players from diverse settings and backgrounds.
Indeed, they often have implicit rules and expectations that require careful coopera-
tion (Smith, 2007). “Clans” are just one example of both formal and informal gath-
erings 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, coor-
dination, 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 communica-
tions 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 dif-
ferent 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 com-
municate 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
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 cul-
tural consequences. This is the unavoidable result of altering the interface between
humans and environments. Video game worlds are no different. As engineered prod-
ucts, 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 subver-
sion 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
of possibilities by the player. From choosing between races (elf or human) to decid-
ing 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 hyper-
real experimentations in postmodern identities; “Indeed, virtual worlds may offer
opportunities to recreate gender identities in ways that we have only begun to imag-
ine” (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 indus-
try 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 success-
ful 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 domi-
nated 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 relation-
ship 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 dif-
ficult 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 geogra-
phies 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 gen-
dered, 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 land-
scape) 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 cross-
pollination 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 devel-
opment of Soldiers in individual and collective training to their deployment in simulated
missions in the War on Terror.
(America’s Army, 2009)
Players can choose their Army role within the game, from an “automatic rifle-
man” 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 contin-
uum 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 sup-
port 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 iden-
tity 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,
Table 11.1 Video game assemblages
Material Representational
Geographies Spatiality: perspective + freedom

Technologies Architecture: ludological + social
Bodies Discourse
Territorializing Deterritorializing
Repetition: old parts Difference: new parts
Software Code
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 tran-
scendental 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 pro-
duction, 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 devel-
oper 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 mate-
rial 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 god-
game 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 imag-
inaries animated in war games. More generally, each video game contains an array
of discourses, symbols, meanings, and ideological narratives that often reflect real-
world 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 discus-
sion 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?
What can the player do and not do within the virtual universe? In contradistinction
to representational assemblages, ludological architectures are what enable activi-
ties 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 com-
munication 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 cul-
tural 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 compo-
nents 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 instabil-
ity? 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 publish-
ers, 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 repe-
tition 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 con-
struction 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 bod-
ies. 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 every-
thing, 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 assem-
blage. 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, Sprinkhuizen-
Kuyper, & 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 non-
player 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 com-
plex 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 frame-
work 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 inter-
acting 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 sprawl-
ing 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 uni-
verses. Without this social interaction subscriber numbers and therefore subscriber
fees would dwindle. In this sense, the player is much more than an end-user or pas-
sive 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 enter-
tainment 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.
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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) soft-
ware 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, con-
servation, 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 stud-
ies 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

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 col-
lars 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 geo-
graphical 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 ani-
mal. 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 inter-
fere 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 breed-
ing 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
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.
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 <altitude< 850 m (2789 ft) or altitude> 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
Table 12.1 Number of successfully obtained fixes, fix rates (%) and operation periods of the GPS
collars
Operation period
Collar Village Fixes Fix rate % Enclosure From To
1 Isuswa 5528 96.8 1A 1.7.2006 20.8.2006

29.11.2006 7.3.2007
1B 7.3.2007 4.6.2007
4 Ioma 2098 96.8 4 2.7.2006 30.9.2006

7 Lyalumba 4868 95.9 7A 4.7.2006 23.8.2006
7B 23.8.2006 1.2.2007
9 Ivilivinzi 7778 97.0 9A 6.7.2006 18.2.2007

9B 18.2.2007 5.6.2007
12 Limai/Mutikitila 7053 90.3 12A 7.1.2007 1.6.2007

12B 7.6.2007 15.8.2007
12C 15.8.2007 4.12.2007
13 Mubbu 3848 86.4 13 5.6.2007 7.12.2007

14 Limai 4344 97.1 14 4.6.2007 7.12.2007
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 cat-
tle travelled on a daily basis. Notwithstanding the fact that the cultural land
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 eco-
nomical. 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 sys-
tems 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, respec-
tively. GPS data, therefore, can be an essential tool for monitoring and mapping the
movement of cattle and areas with frequent animal disease outbreaks.
One of the main benefits of this research is that it provides data that agricul-
tural extension officers and veterinarians can use to provide advice to cattle farmers.
Unlike many other GIS applications which provide information about the geograph-
ical 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 condi-
tions 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.
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 impor-
tant 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 nat-
ural population regulation mechanisms and enabled herders to maintain average
reindeer densities at a level where winter pastures have gradually become over-
grazed 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 supple-
mentary 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 cer-
tain 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 con-
ditions 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?
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)
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 dis-
trict 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 mes-
sages. 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.
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 pas-
ture 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, respec-
tively. 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 win-
ter 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 con-
ditions 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 expendi-
tures 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 pas-
tures may become more difficult for reindeer if global climatic change leads to an
increase in winter precipitation.
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, snowmo-
bile 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 north-
ern 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 reg-
ulated, 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 interac-
tion 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
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.
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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 pro-
duction, 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 prac-
tices 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 shap-
ing 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

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 mean-
ings to cattle. Diverse linkages between science, technology, and society are thus
implicated in dairy development revealing the extent to which meanings of engi-
neering emerge in implementation. By juxtaposing the meanings of crossbred and
indigenous cattle in India, this chapter aims to highlight the complexities of the engi-
neering of rural natures and extend current understandings of megaengineering in
three ways. First, dairy development provides a means to rethink the connection usu-
ally made between the scale of the engineering intervention and its consequences.
Studies of environmental transformations have usually focused on how megaengi-
neering 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 self-
representation 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 rela-
tions and industrial production. This is followed by an examination of policies
related to the adoption of European dairy breeds within national dairy develop-
ment 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 engi-
neering, but also become key to understanding how engineering draws strength
from already existing household level social relations on the one hand, and phys-
ical 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 megaengi-
neering 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 stand-
ing focus on scientific measurements and regional descriptions towards analyses that
situate nature within historical and cultural frames of meaning. Environmental his-
tory has been useful in extending such understandings by relating colonial power
relations and contemporary landscapes through notions of ecological imperial-
ism, 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 inter-
ests (Crosby, 1986; Grove, Damodaran, & Sangwan, 1998). Focusing on more
recent forms of industrialization and commodification of nature, scholars across var-
ious 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 inten-
sive 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 his-
torical 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 cru-
cial aspect of understanding the implications of megaengineering projects. Since
contemporary development in India has proceeded through a firm embrace of mod-
ern 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 manip-
ulations 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 argu-
mentation. 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 seg-
ments 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 exist-
ing 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
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 arti-
ficial 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 susceptibil-
ity 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 mean-
ings. 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 exclu-
sively 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 indus-
trial systems of production, and advanced forms of manipulation of nature that are
promising to become even more prevalent in the future. Alongside, engineering pro-
duces 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 iden-
tities. 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 govern-
ment’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 plan-
ning, 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 sub-
stitution 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 previ-
ously 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 institution-
alization 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
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 con-
necting village-level cooperatives, district-level unions, and state-level federations
(Fig. 13.1). While strongly supported by the state, the NDDB was a parastatal orga-
nization, 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 consump-
tion 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 poten-
tial 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 pro-
duction 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 Bank-
led evaluations of state-level cooperative initiatives, the extent of acceptance of
crossbred cows became a key factor, feeding into a larger emphasis on the commer-
cialization 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 gov-
ernment 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
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 econ-
omy 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 dairy-
ing, 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 liber-
alization and consequent privatization have yet to be experienced by cooperatives,
it is likely that a greater emphasis on productivity and profits as opposed to serv-
ing 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 substan-
tial 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
120
100
Milk Production (million tons)
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 dis-
semination 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 soci-
eties 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 dairy-
ing 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 south-
ern 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 cross-
bred cows in milk production is not very high. Thus, milk production by crossbred
250,000
Cattle Buffalo
200,000
Number of dairy animals
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
Rural Urban Total
1992 Crossbred cows 13,462 1,753 15,215

Non-crossbred cows 182,425 6,944 189,369
Buffaloes 79,915 4,291 84,206
2003 Crossbred cows 21,937 2,750 24,686
Non-crossbred cows 153,714 6,780 160,495
Buffaloes 91,930 5,993 97,922
Change Crossbred cows 62.95% 56.87% 62.25%
(1992–2003) Non-crossbred cows –15.74% −2.36% −15.25%
Buffaloes 15.03% 39.66% 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, northeast-
ern 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 1999–2000 2003–2004
Cattle 30.0 (45.3%)

Crossbred cows 13.6 (17.4%) 15.6 (18.0%)
Non-crossbred cows 19.0 (24.3%) 19.4 (22.4%)
Buffaloes 32.6 (52.0%) 42.3 (54.0%) 48.0 (55.3%)
Total milk production 66.2 (100.0%) 78.3 (100.0%) 86.7 (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 trajec-
tories 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 com-
mercial 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 mov-
ing further towards crossbred cow dairying. The most recent Eleventh Five-Year
Plan, 2007–2012 (Planning Commission, 2009) shows that the emphasis on cross-
bred 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
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 juxtapo-
sition 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, espe-

cially 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 pro-
duction 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 spe-
cialized inputs which increase the costs associated with maintaining them. In terms
of the agriculture-dairying linkage, crossbred cows do not fit into existing agrar-
ian 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 com-
bine 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)

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 trans-
port. 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 farm-
ers 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 trans-
port. 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 cross-
bred 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 tradi-
tions of agriculture, the maintenance of a separation between buffalo-based dairy
economies and cow-based draft economies is a significant aspect of agrarian liveli-
hoods 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 unsuitabil-
ity 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 buy-
ers 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 out-
side 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 con-
text 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)
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 cat-
tle 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 fur-
ther 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 gov-
ernment (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 trans-
ferred 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 cross-
bred 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 commercial-
ization 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
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 cross-
bred 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 per-
formed 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 develop-
ment 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 agricul-
ture. 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 connec-
tions 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 every-
day 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 espe-
cially 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 cat-
tle 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)

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 artifi-
cial 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 buy-
ing 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 econ-
omy; 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 administra-
tion of cooperatives continues to be in the hands of men, with women remaining
absent from decision-making within the cooperative body. More recently, the polit-
ical 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 out-
comes 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, with-
out 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 dairy-
ing tasks, which are already being modified due to the declining efficacy of Green
Revolution technologies and the global competitions being faced by India’s agricul-
tural 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 household-
level 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 phys-
ical 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 suc-
cess 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 infras-
tructural 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 reg-
ular electric supply has enabled milk refrigeration facilities and automated machines
for milk measurement to be installed within villages. Without access to such facili-
ties, 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 espe-
cially true of rail networks which were built within a colonial regime that sought to
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 previ-
ous 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 tech-
nologies. 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 pri-
vate 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 his-
tories of megaengineering within which new dairying technologies need to be
located. In the process, dairy development becomes linked, not only to patriar-
chal 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 engineer-
ing 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 megaengineer-
ing. First, India’s dairy development program provides a means to understand how
megaengineering operates under the cover of policies aimed at promoting the small-
scale 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 com-
pelled 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 imple-
mented 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).
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).
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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, petu-
nia, 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 pro-
duction 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 two-
dimensional, pitching benefits against risks, and proponents against opponents
(Stone 2002). Most arguments for and against transgenics are about their out-
comes 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

218 E. Shah
choice (Scoones, 2003). I first review social response and performance of geneti-
cally 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 genetically-

engineered 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 cog-

nitive 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 agro-
industry (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 sur-
vey 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 small-
holder 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 eas-
ily 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 pur-
chased 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 environ-
mental 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 perform-
ing 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 assess-
ment 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 eventu-
ally 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 technol-
ogy 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 appropri-
ateness 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 con-
sidering 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 sec-
tion, before explaining the methodology and findings of the anthropological study
in Gujarat.
14.4 Engineering the Earth: Explaining Technological Culture

The social, political, environmental, and economic impact of large scale engineer-
ing 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 discus-
sions 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 interpre-
tations 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 vari-
ously 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; under-
standing 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 soci-
etal in both classical and contemporary philosophy and even in science and technol-
ogy 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 meaning-
ful critique of broader directions of technological change (see Keulartz, Schermer,
Korthals, & Swierstra, 2004).
None of the entities referred here – society, culture and technology – is mono-
lithic, and ideally the term technological culture may signify not just one but many
cultures. Thus, the questions is whether different technologies have different cul-
tural 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 momen-
tum, 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 representa-
tion, 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 biotechnol-
ogy 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 per-
ceptions of those who make technological choices. This reworked notion not only
places genetically modified seed technology in the context of global and local polit-
ical 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 employ-
ers 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.
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 activi-
ties. 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 discus-
sion 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 under-
stand 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 January-
February 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 cul-
tivation 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 vil-
lages 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 dis-
cussions 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 meth-
ods, 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 cross-

pollination 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 per-
form 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 non-
textually 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 con-
trolled 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 instruc-
tions” 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 exec-
utive 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 pro-
duced 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 uncer-
tain 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
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 machin-
ery 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 rev-
olution 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 dura-
tion. 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 popu-
lar 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 through-
out 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 max-
imum 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 cor-
roborated 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 con-
sumption 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 colo-
nial 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 cen-
tral Gujarat where cotton is a dominant cash crop is determined through control
over tubewell technology. Hardiman shows how the history of ground water extrac-
tion 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 con-
centrated in southern Gujarat is dependent on ground water (Prakash, 2005). The
British policy on ground water extraction was so designed that only wealthier cul-
tivators 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 pol-
icy 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 sce-
nario 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 cap-
ital 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.
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 tech-
nological 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 prac-
tices 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 com-
pany, 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 cross-
ing 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 com-
mon 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 agro-
ecological 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 diffi-
culty 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 environ-
ment, cotton-growing farmers in Gujarat have achieved through experimentation in
a few seasons. This rapid multiplication and experimentation has largely been pos-
sible 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 set-
tled 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 rela-
tions 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 look-
ing 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
“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 net-
work. 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 mer-
chants 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 communitar-
ianism, 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 per-
ceive 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 com-
monly 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 rotat-
ing 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 suffi-
ciently. 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 acknowl-
edged. 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 dis-
courses 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 democra-
tization 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 technologi-
cal 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 cul-
ture 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 cultiva-
tion 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
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 pos-
sible 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 success-
ful 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 agricul-
tural 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, espe-
cially 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 Monsanto-
patented 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 deter-
minism 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 con-
ception. 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 cultiva-
tors), 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.
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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 southwest-
ern 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 under-
stand 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

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, considera-
tion 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 bor-
ders 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 emanci-
pation 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 sit-
uation, 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 gener-
ations, 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 mili-
tary 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, agri-
cultural 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 hold-
ings. 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 publica-
tions. 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 exter-
nal 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 pri-
vately. 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 con-
fronted 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 – Year Wheat Rye Oats
1922–1926 (in millions of
1922 23,368.8 40,057.6 17,173.8
pounds)
1923 27,072.5 43,607.0 18,408.4
1924 28,814.1 41,512.6 19,620.9
1925 45,811.6 50,154.7 25,397.0
1926 53,880.4 52,160.8 32,716.3
1927 47,509.1 53,285.2 28,902.3
1928 48,435.1 42,548.8 36,331.8
1929 41,622.8 44,885.7 34,700.4
1930 59,347.8 52,028.6 36,640.5
1931 48,479.2 48,479.2 24,162.4
1932 44,643.2 48,545.3 24,779.7
1933 61,133.6 53,329.3 33,972.9
Adapted from Sotsialisticheskoe Stroitel’stvo SSSR (1934)

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 pro-
voked widespread violence and crises (Clark, 1977; Heinzen, 2004; Stalin, 1949).
Not only was this push seen as theoretically important in the creation of a com-
munist 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 oppo-
sition 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 collec-
tively 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, espe-
cially 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 col-
lectivize 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 driv-
ing 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, pre-
collectivization 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
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 rang-
ing 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 agricul-
ture 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 farm-
ing 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 try-
ing 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 pop-
ulation 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 con-
fining 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 agricul-
ture 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
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 precip-
itation 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 encour-
ages 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 agricul-
tural 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 collec-
tive 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 out-
lays 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)
“Productive” “Unproductive”
Year investment investment Total investment
1953 881 104 985

1954 1,536 256 1,792
1955 1,992 273 2,265
1957 2,118 291 2,409
1958 2,343 360 2,703
1959 2,279 404 2,683
1960 2,021 474 2,495
1961 2,471 590 3,061
1962 2,984 743 3,727
1963 3,386 794 4,180
Adapted from Kapital’noe Stroitel’stvo (1961); Narodnoe Khoziaistvo

(1964); Volin (1970)
These numbers, of course, represent only the capital outlay by the Soviet gov-
ernment. 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 overwhelm-
ingly 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 col-
lective 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 actu-
ally 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 W.C. Rowe
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)
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 abun-
dance 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).
15.3 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 varia-
tions 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 empha-
sis 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 agricul-
tural 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 ero-
sion 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 machin-
ery 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 politi-
cal 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 nitro-
gen 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 agricul-
ture 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
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 spa-
tial 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 dra-
matically 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 her-
bicides. 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 imme-
diate 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.
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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 devel-
opment. 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

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 dra-
matic 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 devel-
opment 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, decom-
position 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 technol-
ogy 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 approx-
imately 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
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 fish-
ermen, 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 conti-
nental 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 urban-
ization, 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 dis-
cussion 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 nauti-
cal 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 seafloor-
imaging 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, how-
ever, 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)
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 appli-
cation 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 devel-
opment 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 fish-
eries 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 destruc-
tion 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 dis-
solve 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 con-

temporary 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 eco-
logical 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, trawl-
ing 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.
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 ves-
sels 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 strik-
ingly 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 intro-
duced 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 ves-
sels. 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 sub-
marines, 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.
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 (allow-
ing 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 con-
dition for subsequent innovations. The introduction of transparent monofilament
nylon also reduced the visibility of nets and contributed greatly to catch perfor-
mance. 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 pro-
cess 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 suit-
able 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 rela-
tively 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 exam-
ple, 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 force-
fully (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,
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 by-
catches 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 play-
ers 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 scrap-
ping 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 devel-
oped world and took off in the period before WWII. The second occurred in
developing countries during the second half of the century. Existing fisheries under-
went 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 guid-
ance of FAO, of an international Code of Conduct for Responsible Fishing (1995).
Although implementation is still voluntary, this code is highly influential in direct-
ing 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.
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 dif-
ferent. 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 fisher-
men, 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. Eva-
Maria van Straaten helped to trace relevant material.
Notes
1. Bailey (1985) coined the term “blue revolution” to refer to technological developments in trop-
ical 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.
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Johnson, D. (2006). Category, narrative, and value in the governance of small-scale fisheries.
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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 condi-
tions, 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 technol-
ogy 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 com-
ponents 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

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 man-
ganese 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 min-
ing 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 environmen-
tal 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 pub-
lished. 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. Post-
mining 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 inter-
esting (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 post-
disturbance sampling with CTD, sediment traps, and core samples indicated changes
in the faunal distribution in the area. The impact assessment after 9 months indi-
cated 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 ini-
tiated 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 meioben-
thos abundance and community structure in the re-sedimented area, but alteration in
meiobenthos assemblages within the disturbed zone was observed (Radziejewska,
1997; Radziejewska & Modlitba, 1999). This finding indicates that the intensity of
disturbance and the proximity to the site could have variable effects on the com-
position 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 Deep-
sea 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 macroben-
thos 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, cur-
rent 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 sub-
core 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 experi-
ment 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
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 analyti-
cal 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 resedimen-
tation 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 com-
munity 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 con-
tent 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 summa-
rized 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)
Because the Differential Global Positioning System for the R/V navigation and
the Long Base Line underwater acoustic positioning method deployed with the bot-
tom 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 sed-
iment cover on nodules, respectively. These were measured by applying an image
analysis technique of seafloor photos developed for quantification of resedimenta-
tion (Yamazaki, Kuboki, & Uehara, 2001). The extent was quite smaller than the
one created in JET. The functional differences between the scraper and the dis-
turber, 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
200
Population (inds./10cm2) Seafloor scraping

150
100
50
0
1999 (Before 1999 (After 2000 2001 2002
experiment) experiment) 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 biologi-
cal 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 resedi-
mentation 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
(Trueblood et al., 1997) were introduced into the model and some trial calcula-
tions 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 cop-
per 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, Cal-
yptogena, 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 sulfide-
rich 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 millime-
ters to several meters (Fenchel & Bernard, 1995). Calyptogena spp., which harbors
sulfur oxidizing bacteria in their gills, is thought to be sustained by chemosyn-
thetic energy sources under immobilization. Bathymodiolus, and tubeworms (Riftia
pachyptila), have the same functions like Calyptogena. They are either found adja-
cent 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 chemosyn-
thetic sulfur oxidation is considered in thise figure. The mass balance ecosystem
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 sepa-
rated 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 con-
trol 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 abun-
dance data are necessary for baseline analysis. The data on the chemosynthesis-
affected 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 nec-
essary 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 destruc-
tion 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 con-
tains 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 nor-
mal 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.
17.6 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 man-
ganese 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 eco-
nomic 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 home-
page (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 metallurgi-
cal 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 produc-
tion 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 produc-
tion 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 con-
sidered 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
290
Table 17.1 Conditions and results of earlier economic feasibility studies of manganese nodule mining
Authors Andrews et al. (1983) Hillman and Gosling (1985) Charles et al. (1990) Soreide et al. (2001)
High-temperature and high-

Processing Reduction and hydrochloric acid Cuprion ammoniacal leach Reduction and hydrochloric acid pressure sulfuric acid leach
method leach process process leach process process
Mng. Trans. Process. Mng. Trans. Process. Mng. Trans. Process. Mng. Trans. Process.
(wet) (dry) (dry) (wet) (dry) (dry) (wet) (dry) (dry) (wet) (dry) (dry)
Production (t/y) 2.3 M 1.5 M 1.5 M 4.2 M 3.0 M 3.0 M 2.3 M 1.5 M 1.5 M 1.1 M 0.7 M 0.7 M
Operation days 300 d/y 300 d/y 330 d/y 300d/y 300 d/y 330 d/y 250 d/y
Capital cost 180 M$ 176 M$ 513 M$ 590 M$ 310 M$ 727 M$ 282 M$ 188 M$ 470 M$ 127 M$ 93 M$ 271 M$
Capital cost ratio 21% 20% 59% 36% 19% 45% 30% 20% 50% 26% 19% 55%
Equity/Loan 100:0 100:0 50:50 30:70
Operating cost 45 M$ 25 M$ 165 M$ 77 M$ 37 M$ 111 M$ 48 M$ 36 M$ 156 M$ 21.8 M$ 13.5 M$ 22.9 M$
Loan interest 0% 0% 8%
Survey cost 6 M$ 3 M$ 1.9 M$
Operating cost 19% 11% 70% 34% 16% 50% 20% 15% 65% 38% 23% 39%
ratio
Metal Price Rec. Product Price Rec. Product Price Rec. Product Price Rec. Product
Co $ 5.5/lb 85% 3,375 t/y $ 8.53/lb 65% 5,070t/y $ 6.8/lb 85% 3,525t/y $ 20/lb 83% 2,652 t/y
Ni $ 3.75/lb 95% 18,525 t/y $ 3.62/lb 92% 36,708t/y $ 3.6/lb 95% 19,730t/y $ 3.33/lb 98% 2,548 t/y
Cu $ 1.25/lb 95% 15,675t/y $ 1.17/lb 92% 28,704t/y $ 0.95/lb 95% 17,810t/y $ 1/lb 97% 1,890 t/y
Mn $ 0.4/lb 93% 404,550t/y $ 0.3/lb 93% 382,500t/y
Taxes 46% Total 29% 10%
NPV –81 M
IRR 6.4% 7.4% 12% 9.6%
Mng mining, rec recovery

T. Yamazaki
Table 17.2 World metal production and abundance in earth’s crust
World production in 2006 Abundance in Earth’s crust

Metal or product (metric ton) (ppm in weight)
Platinum 518 0.01

Mercury 1,480 0.08
Gold 2,460 0.004
Silver 20,200 0.07
Cobalt 67,500 25
Molybolenum 185,000 1.5
Tin 366,000 2
Magnesium 584,000 23,300
Nickel 1,580,000 75
Lead 3,470,000 12.5
Zinc 10,000,000 70
Copper 15,100,000 55
Manganese ore 33,400,000 950
Aluminum 33,700,000 82,300
Steel 123,000,000 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 min-
ing 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 quan-
titative 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.
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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 coun-
tries, 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 oppo-
sition 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

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 off-
shore 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 sec-
tion. 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 articu-
late 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
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 with-
out 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
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 fish-
ermen. 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 sig-
nificant omissions and that it does not meet several legal requirements. These
requirements need to be met before the project would receive environmental clear-
ance. 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 oppo-
nent of many government development plans. His views have a significant impact on
the debate about the Sethusamudram Project (Van Dijk, 2008: 60). Swamy’s argu-
ment 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 fea-
tures 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 inter-
national 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 bor-
der 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 environ-
mental, 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, inde-
pendent 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
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 ecosys-
tems 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 out-
side 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 tur-
bidity 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.
18.3.2 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 expen-
diture 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 environmen-
talists 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 with-
out 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
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, separat-
ing 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 evi-
dence 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 break-
ing 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 sci-
entific 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 blas-
phemy. One day later, the government withdrew the statement again (Van Dijk,
2008: 34).
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 terri-
tory 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 impor-
tant. This shift of the focus of the debate has a number of explanations, all which
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 cen-
tral 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 govern-
ments 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 cen-
tral 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 gov-
ernment 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 preva-
lence 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 individ-
ual 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.
18.4.2 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 colo-
nial 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 con-
tributed 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
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 oppo-
sition. 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 dif-
ferent 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 gen-
uine, 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 rela-
tively 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
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 major-
ity 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 cul-
ture. 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 pre-
serving 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.
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 con-
temporary 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.
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indiandefencereview.com/2009/02/the-sethusamudram-ship-canal-project.html
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21, 2993–2997.
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Retrieved June 5, 2009, from http://www.lankanewspapers.com/news/2005/9/3576.html
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Sethusamudram Ship Canal Project. Eugene: Environmental Law Alliance Worldwide.
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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.
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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 chap-
ters 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 con-
nection, 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 tun-
nel 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 surround-
ings 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

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 tun-
nel 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 con-
struction 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 unmar-
ried 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 fol-
lowed 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 engi-
neers 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 dan-
gers 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 per-
spective 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 com-
pared 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 vil-
lage 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 impris-
oned 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 gender-
specific 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 reminis-
cences. 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

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 suc-
ceeded 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 impro-
vised 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 out-
side 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 construc-
tion 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 provi-
sional 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 vil-
lages 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, ful-
filled 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 con-
struction of the tunnel and the railway and the great majority of these marriages
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 out-
breaks 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 news-
paper 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; every-
thing 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 work-
ing 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 phys-
ical 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 construc-
tion, 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.
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 unmis-
takably 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 commem-
oration 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, indepen-
dently 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 approxi-
mately 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, pas-
sively 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 “acci-
dent” 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 preg-
nancy; 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
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 mid-
land 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 sol-
diers 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 accommoda-
tions. 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,
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 pho-
tographed (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 con-
struction 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 con-
sortium, 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 can-
teens 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 sepa-
rated 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 tun-
neling 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 dis-
tance 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 respon-
sibility 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 foun-
dation Pro Helvetia in cooperation with the Interdisciplinary Center for Gender Studies at
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 his-
tory 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 chap-
ter 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).
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. This information was conveyed to me by Barbara Luz’s granddaughter, Lotte Middelmann of
Filderstadt, Germany, who wrote this down for her children.
5. From research by Alexandra Binnenkade, prepared by Eva Schumacher for the “Cantina
Transalpina” exhibitions in Göschenen in 2007. See Binnenkade (1997, 1995).
6. 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.
7. All of this information comes from a family chronicle by Walter Cavaletti, Göschenen, grand-
son of Andrea Cavalet. Eva Schumacher and Susanne Perren prepared the information for use
in the “Cantina Transalpina” exhibitions in Göschenen in 2007.
Transalpina” exhibitions in Göschenen in 2007 and from which the present example was
taken. See Binnenkade (1997, 1995).
Transalpina” exhibitions in Göschenen in 2007 and from which the present example was
taken. See Binnenkade (1997, 1995).
10. 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.
11. 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.
12. Urner Wochenblatt (1880, 13 March).
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Tiefenbohrungen. Frauen und Männer auf den grossen Tunnelbaustellen des Schweiz
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Welt. Zurich: Werd.
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Transformation des «dritten Sektors» (15.–20. Jahrhundert) (pp. 125–142). Zurich: Chronos.
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Ort von Männern, Frauen und Kindern. Ferrum. Nachrichten aus der Eisenbibliothek, 80,
55–64.
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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.
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bahn und schweizerische Eisenbahnpolitik. Gotthardprojekt. Zurich: Verlag Neue Zürcher
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Frauen und Männer auf den grossen Tunnelbaustellen des Schweiz 1870–2005 (pp. 244–255).
Baden: Hier+Jetzt.
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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 “dis-
cursive 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, mak-
ing human civilization possible. Important milestones in human history were all
achieved with minerals providing a major incentive.4 Early miners exploited plac-
ers 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 “renais-
sance 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

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 produc-
ers 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 com-
panies 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 tradi-
tional societies in these countries into dependent, less powerful, actors has given
rise to a complex debate on whether “mining is good for development.” The con-
nections 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 construct-
ing 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 miner-
als by means of panning, sluicing, hydraulicking, open cast, underground/shaft or
deep vein operations. Modern mining engineers take their job literally (“ingen-
ero” − “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 “endow-
ment” 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 min-
ing. 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, eco-
logical (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 feminin-
ity 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 applica-
tion 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 unre-
fined 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 hier-
archy. 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
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, knowl-
edge 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 ori-
gins 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 dis-
ciplinary 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 sci-
entific knowledge is portrayed as universal, value-free and neutral in its relentless
pursuit of truth that is supposedly valuable for all. Four methodological perspec-
tives 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 knowl-
edge 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 con-
ceptualization 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 legisla-
tion 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 Small-
Scale Mining” (ASM) (Hentschel, Hruschka, & Priester, 2002) were noted early
by mining engineers for their significant contribution to the world mineral pro-
duction (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, transporta-
tion and related tasks in the field. This proportion varies from country to country
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 process-
ing. 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 pro-
vided 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 matrilin-
eal 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 pen-
etration 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 estab-
lished, 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 sight-
ings 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,
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 representa-
tion 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 rela-
tionships 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 own-
ership 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 con-
text 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 posi-
tion 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 develop-
ing 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 mas-
culinity 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 con-
temporary period. Early treatise such as Agricola’s De Re Metallica (1556) portray
women breaking and sorting ores, hauling and transporting them, smelting and pro-
cessing, 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
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 signifi-
cant 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 industri-
alization 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 gen-
der 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 cate-
gory 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 civiliza-
tion, “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 technolo-
gies 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 bot-
tom strata of various low level positions, discriminatory wages and poor working
conditions.
In mining there are evidences that technology change, in absolute terms of effi-
ciency 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 con-
struction 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).
20.6 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 observa-
tion 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 agri-
cultural 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 min-
ing 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 (Lahiri-
Dutt & 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 depen-
dency 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 fig-
ure 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 vandal-
ization 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 min-
ing 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.
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 com-
munities. 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 com-
ments 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 cen-
tury, 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 writ-
ings 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 pro-
grams 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 “lit-
tle 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 homogeniza-
tion 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 pri-
marily 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 patri-
archal social systems” (1996: 16). In mining, the dominance shapes a narrative that
overshadows the gender relations and fails to acknowledge that families often sur-
vive 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 dual-
ity 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 pro-
duced 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 orga-
nize 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 rela-
tion 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 cat-
egory, 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 engineer-
ing, I conclude that the masculinity of mining is evident in three different but
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 sys-
tem 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 pro-
duces 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 sta-
tus 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 circum-
stances 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 utili-
tarian 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 threat-
ens. 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 K. Lahiri-Dutt
Exchange. . . Higon is amazed. He can’t see any tin. ‘I imagined that they would show sam-
ples – 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.
7. I borrow heavily from Zwarteveen’s recent (2008) work on men, masculinities and water
powers in irrigation engineering.
8. 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.
9. This is not to say that I stop at revealing women’s roles in mining. This is one of the early fem-
inist 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 reappreci-
ating 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.
10. 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.”
11. 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 squat-
ter 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.”
12. Available from http://www.agitprop.org.au/lefthistory/1989_gardener_tourism_and_
prostitution.php
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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 indepen-
dent 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 mas-
sive (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 con-
sumption. 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 pro-
duces 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 eco-
logical 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

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 min-
ing company, workers, environmentalists and other local residents all struggling
over the meaning of “the hole” itself. Is it a proud emblem of industrial her-
itage (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 pro-
duce 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 fram-
ing themselves as primarily a source of livelihood for thousands of relatively well
paid workers toward positioning the company as environmental stewards promot-
ing 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 cri-
sis 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 socio-
ecological 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 “envi-
ronmental 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 pro-
cess 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, bio-
physical processes and inanimate materials that presuppose any labor process. While
metabolism is itself a dangerous biological metaphor (Swyngedouw, 2006), its con-
ceptual 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 pro-
cess, 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 eco-
logical contradictions (Bridge, 2000); even more-so for the dramatic methods of
“open pit” surface mining examined in this chapter. The labor process, first con-
fronts 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 con-
ditions 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 incred-
ible amount of “waste rock” (that is, rock that must be separated from the desired
mineral) which, although “naturally occurring,” often contains toxic elements that
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 (Fischer-
Kowalski, 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 land-
scapes, 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 pres-
ence 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 cap-
ital’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 liv-
ing 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 belong-
ing 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 com-
pany 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
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, how-
ever, 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 facto-
ries 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) man-
aged 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 under-
wrote 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 cop-
per 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 dis-
covered 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 con-
centrating 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)
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 cop-
per 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, cop-
per 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.
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 strikebreak-
ers 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).
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 deep-
ening 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 labor-
management 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 stag-
nated 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 “pat-
tern 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 per-
spective. Kennecott could rationalize its political contribution to the local region in
terms of providing a relatively well-paid mining “way of life” for expanding num-
bers 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 min-
ing 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
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 com-
pensation 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 vio-
lently 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 tail-
ings 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
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 num-
ber 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 cer-
tified 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 eco-
nomically 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 land-
holding 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 walka-
ble 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 cen-
ter 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
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 esti-
mation, 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 cut-
backs 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 improv-
ing, 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 pro-
cess 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 politi-
cal subject that needs to frame narratives of belonging. We also believe that a
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 down-
sizing 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 geogra-
phy 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 aes-
thetic 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.
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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 con-
ditions 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 sub-
jects, 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 expendi-
ture. 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

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 heuris-
tic 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 sup-
ply of rare gemstone diamonds ventures from its underground deposits. Rivers and
streams, working their powers of erosion, beckon the stones, polish them and per-
fect 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 commod-
ity 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 con-
temporary 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 authori-
ties 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 land-
scapes 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 engi-
neered in mining projects, including the more daring ventures of kimberlite explo-
ration, 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 colonial-
corporate regime, the lawless spaces of fortune seekers, and a quasi-sovereign
state of corporate mining. Though linked to the historical ruptures of colonial-
ism, 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 commod-
ity extraction and circulation inasmuch as it regulates social interactions between
miners and local populations. The role of security writ large is a fundamen-
tal 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 secu-
rity and enclave regimes of extraction substantiate the violent status of resource
extraction in Africa and augur new forms of political organization and social con-
trol (Welker, 2009). In other words, the consolidation of diamond mining along
corporate-concession lines does not seem to assuage the violence that accom-
panied this industry throughout colonial rule. Nor does it mitigate the infamous
diamonds-for-arms exchanges that took place throughout the civil war. Rather, min-
ing 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 unprece-
dented 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 embed-
ding 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 exist-
ing 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 main-
tain 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 mil-
itary 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 corpo-
rations are often held responsible.4 In any case, individuals associated with mines
and mining communities deploy the authorized vocabulary of international finan-
cial 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.
22.3 Ghosts of Mining Towns: A Genealogy of Angolan Diamond

Corporate Extraction
A “diamond mining frontier,” as it has been called (de Boeck, 2000, 2001), accu-
rately 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 pre-
decessor 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 ter-
ritorial 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 neces-
sary 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 inhabit-
ing 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 surveil-
lance and built environment were assembled and deployed in order to preserve com-
modity 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
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 consump-
tion 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 pro-
cess, 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 foun-
dation, 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 demon-
strated 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 endeav-
ors 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 environ-
ment 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 seek-
ers, 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 F. Calvão
Fig. 22.2 Alluvial mining pit in a deviated river course
Fig. 22.3 Maludi’s diamond “comptoir,” established during the 1950s diamond rush
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 liqui-
dation or diamond trading revenue. Calonda was designed as part of a corporate-
colonial 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 alter-
ity, 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 min-
ing 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, con-
struction 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 sus-
tained 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 enor-
mous 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.
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, dia-
monds reveal their cached wealth. In this space of “commodity laundering” the
diamond is transformed from ore to commodity. Simultaneously the site of petty-
theft 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 sought-
out positions at a mine, excepting administrative and managerial positions. Local
residents, those who are literate and have some degree of technical skill, are usu-
ally 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 econ-
omy. 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 pro-
duction 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 lat-
est 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 sym-
bolic 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 rem-
nants 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 rele-
vance 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 ritu-
alized 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 dia-
mond 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 min-
ing 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 dia-
mond 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).
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 “museumi-
fication” 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, includ-
ing 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 understand-
ing 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 rem-
iniscent 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 physi-
cal 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, ques-
tions remain to its analytical, conceptual, or empirical purview. Much like the reality it
380 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, law-
lessness 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.
4. In a tentative interpretation of corporate presence in the region I follow here the vocal oppo-
sition 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.
5. 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 terri-
tory attributed to DIAMANG amounted to 81% of the territory (cf Seleti in Konczacki et al.,
1990: 46).
6. Arquivo Histórico Ultramarino, Lisboa, Gabinete de Negócios Políticos: MU/GM/GNP/
059/PT 10.
7. 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 dia-
mond 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 com-
pounds could “serve the interests of organized African workers.” However, the 1987 western
Transvaal strike, his case at hand, does not support his general argument.
8. 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.
9. 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”).
10. 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.
11. The main colonial outpost in the region, for example, was deliberately placed far from extrac-
tive 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.
12. From northern Canada to the semidesert region of Namaqualand, in South Africa, the possi-
bility of “utopian oasis” has draped its mining residents in some form of “suburban quality”
(Carstens, 2001: 7, 221).
13. 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.
14. 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).
15. 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, rou-
tinely 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.
16. 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
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.
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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 lib-
eralized 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 multina-
tional 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 con-
cludes 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 envi-
ronment, 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

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 Conner Copper-Gold Cordillera Exploration Abra

Project Corp.
2 Copper Tabuk Copper Project Wolfland Resources Kalinga
3 Gold Victoria Gold Project Lepanto Consolidated Benguet
Mining
4 Gold Teresa Gold Project Lepanto Consolidated Benguet
Mining Corp.
5 Gold Gambang Gold Project Oxiana Philippines Benguet
6 Gold Camp 3 Gold Project Northern Luzon Benguet
Mining Corp.
7 Gold Acupan SSM Operations Benguet Corp. Benguet
8 Gold Far South East Gold Lepanto Consolidated Benguet
Project Mining Corp.
9 Copper and Didipio Copper Gold Climax-Arimco Corp. Nueva
Gold Project Viscaya
10 Gold Nuevo Viscaya Gold Orophilippine Ventures Nueva
Project Viscaya
11 Copper Padcal Copper Project Philex Mining Corp. Benguet
12 Gold Itogon-Suyoc Gold Itogon Suyoc Mines Pangasinan
Project
13 Chromite Acoje Chromite – Crau Minerals Zambales
Platinum Platinum Project
14 Nickel Dinapigue Nickel Project Platinum Group Isabela
15 Chromium Masinloc Chromite Benguet Corp. Zambales
Project
16 Gold Bataan Gold Project Balanga Bataan Bataan
Mineral Exploration
Corp.
17 Gold Lobo Gold Project Mindoro Resources Batangas
18 Gold Del Gallego Gold Project Phelps Dodge Camarines
Exploration Corp. Norte
Table 23.1 (continued)
19 Gold Paracale Gold Project Johnson Mining Corp. Camarines

Norte
20 Gold Labo Gold Project Indophil Resources Camarines
Norte
21 Copper, Gold, Hixbar Project Lafayette Mining Albay
Silver Corp.
22 Copper, Gold, Rapu Rapu Polymetallic Lafayette Philippines Albay
Silver, Zinc Project
23 Nickel Mindoro Nickel Project Aglubang Mining Mindoro
Corp. Oriental
24 Gold Masbate Gold Project Filminera Resources Masbate
Corp.
25 Gold Leyte Gold Project PNOC- EDC Leyte
26 Copper Toledo Copper Project Alakdor Corp. Cebu
27 Gold Negros Gold project PNOC- EDC Negros
Oriental
28 Nickel Palawan Nickel Project Rio Tuba Mining Corp. Palawan
29 Nickel HPAL Nickel Processing Coral Bay Nickel Palawan
30 Chromium Homonhon Chromite Heritage Resources Eastern Samar
31 Gold Leyte Gold Project Indophil Resources Leyte
32 Nickel Sigbanog Nickel Project Hinatuan Mining Corp. Surigao Del
Norte
33 Gold Southern Leyte Gold Orophilippine Ventures Southern
Project Leyte
34 Nickel Hinatuan Nickel project Hinatuan Mining Corp. Surigao Del
Norte
35 Nickel Nonoc Iron Fines Project Pacific Nickel Phils. Surigao Del
Norte
36 Chromium Omasdang Chromite CRAU Mineral Surigao Del
Project Resources Corp. Norte
37 Nickel Nonoc Nickel Processing Nonoc Processing Surigao Del
Project Norte
38 Nickel Adlay-Cadianao- Case Mining Corp. Surigao Del
Tandwana (ACT) Norte
Project
39 Copper Boyongan Copper Project Silangan Mindanao Surigao Del
Mining Corp. Norte
40 Copper Gold Surigao Copper Gold Coolabah Mining Surigao Del
Project Corp. Norte
41 Nickel Cagdianao Nickel Project Cagdianao Nickel Surigao Del
Mining Corp. Norte
42 Gold Agatha Gold Project Mindoro Resources Agusan Del
Norte
43 Nickel Taganito Nickel Project Taganito Mining Corp. Surigao Del
Norte
44 Gold Mabuhay Gold Project All-Acacia Resources Agusan Del
Norte
45 Gold Banahaw Gold Project Philsaga Mining Corp. Agusan Del

Sur
46 Copper, Gold King King Copper Gold Benguet Corp. Compostela
Project Valley
47 Gold Diwalwal Direct State Natural Resources Compostela
Development Project Development Corp. Valley
48 Copper Tagpura Copper Project Philco Mining Compostela
Valley
49 Gold Batoto Gold Project Philco Mining Compostela
Valley
50 Gold Manat Gold Project Indophil Resources Compostela
Valley
51 Copper Amacan Copper Project North Davao Mining Compostela
Valley
52 Copper Gold Batong Buhay Copper Natural Resources Compostela
Gold Project Development Corp. Valley
53 Nickel Pujada Nickel Project Asiaticus Mining Davao
Oriental
54 Gold Bayugan Gold Project Zamboanga Minerals Zamboanga
Corp. Del Norte
55 Gold Canatuan Gold Project TVI Pacific Zamboanga
Del Norte
56 Gold Alicia Gold Project PNOC- EDC Zamboanga
Sibugay
57 Copper and Tampakan Project Sagittarius Mines South
Gold Incorporated Cotabato
58 Gold T’boli Gold Project Tribal Mining Corp/ South
Philco Mining Cotabato
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, inter-
view). 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 individ-
uals, 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
1 Major Mine Project Locations
2 - Mine Location
3 1 Mine Reference
5 4 (Information in Table 23.1)
6 9 14
7 8
12 10
11
30
31
13 15 32
34
16 18 19 35 36
20 33
17 37 38 41
40
21 22 39
43
23 42
24
44
45
25
26
27
28
29
55
54
56
100 km
57
58
46
47
48 50
49
Source: Mines and Geosciences Bureau (2004, 2006)
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 offi-
cial 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).
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
May 1997 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
May 1997 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
October 1997 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
June 2002 Bishop Nereo Odchimar, the Bishop of the Diocese of Tandag, issued a
pastoral letter opposing mining in the Diocese of Tandag.3
October 2002 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
March 2004 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
October 2004 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
January 2005 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
February 2005 Bishop Carlito Cenzon, Bishop of the Apostolic Vicariate of Baguio,
called for the repeal of the Mining Act.8
May 2005 Northern Luzon Bishops called on local communities to oppose
government attempts to revitalize large-scale mining.9
January 2006 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
February 2006 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
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
March 2006 The Archdiocese of Zamboanga, on the island of Mindanao, articulated
its objection to a mining firm operated by Filipino and Taiwanese
firms.13
April 2006 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
June 2006 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
August 2006 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
August 2006 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
September 2006 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
October 2006 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
October 2006 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
October 2006 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
October 2006 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
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
May 2007 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
September 2007 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
September 2007 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
January 2008 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
January 2008 Bishop Reynaldo Evangelista, Bishop of the Diocese of Boac, expressed
apprehension over the reported influx of mining companies into the
Philippines.28
January 2008 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
February 2008 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
February 2008 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
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 Commission-
Association 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 con-
crete 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 have-
nots 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 theolo-
gians 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)
met in Medellin, Colombia in August of 1968 and condemned the injustices inher-
ent 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 presenta-
tion 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 inter-
pretation 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 theol-
ogy’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 libera-
tion 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 revolution-
aries 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 com-
mitted 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 missionar-
ies, transformed by their relationships with peasant communities facing poverty on
a daily basis, offered support for cooperative programs organized by Mayan com-
munities 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).
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 “sup-
port 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 theolo-
gians 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 bro-
ken 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,
citizen concerns about cyanide leaks from mining operations led to a citizen ini-
tiative 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; accord-
ing 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 con-
cerns 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 inter-
connected” 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).
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 insep-
arable 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 sup-
ply of the area in the vicinity of the mine (Estabillo, 2006). This is an important
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, how-
ever, 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).
Fig. 23.5 Vulnerability of the Philippines to El Nino Induced Drought

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 dis-
cussion 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 min-
ing 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 cul-
tural 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 pro-
visions 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 peo-
ple 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).
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 agricul-
ture 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 indige-
nous 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 with-
out 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 indige-
nous 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 prob-
lem 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 ethnodiver-
sity. 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 commit-
ment 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 spir-
ituality.” 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
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, orga-
nized 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 popula-
tion 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 pos-
sible 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 intimi-
date local communities into ceasing their opposition to the Marlin Mine (Bermudez,
2007, interview; Lopez, 2007, interview). In the view of Bishop Penate, “the secu-
rity 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 min-
ing 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 vicin-
ity of the project in advance of its development and, in the words of Major Onting
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 mili-
tarization 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 insti-
tutions, 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 document-
ing 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 fam-
ily 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 operat-
ing 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
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 prop-
erty 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 advo-
cates, 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 min-
ing 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.
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 work-
ers 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 employ-
ment 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 employ-
ees 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 achiev-
ing development such as: ecotourism, reforming property rights, helping the poor
in rural areas, improving tax collection, and establishing a long-term rural develop-
ment plan (Ramazzini, 2007, interview). Similarly, in the Philippines, the church is
of the view that the government should be exploring alternative methods of achiev-
ing 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 cul-
ture” (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).
23.5 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 devel-
oping 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 liveli-
hood (Bryant & Bailey, 1997). In Guatemala, large numbers of people are leaving
rural communities for Guatemala City where they work long hours in harsh work-
ing 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 num-
bers 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 them-
selves, 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 oppo-
sition 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 min-
ing 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
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 wors-
ened” (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 impor-
tance of the widespread social and economic exclusion generated by the ‘new econ-
omy’ 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).
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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 clas-
sified 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 dis-
turbed 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 irregu-
larities 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 pop-
ulation 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

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 popu-
lation, 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 environmen-
tal degradation in the KMA region. Improving the ecological situation in the region
could be realized by implementing urgent measures aimed at preventing furher envi-
ronmental 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 facili-
ties 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 engineer-
ing 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, concentra-
tion 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 pel-
let 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 inunda-
tion 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 min-
ing 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 com-
plex 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 atten-
tion 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 fuel-
energy complex, industrial safety consulting groups, etc.) are among the leading
Russia’s institutions carrying out research in the region on the impact of the min-
ing 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 prac-
tical results used in the course of solving of problems related to the maintenance
of environmental safety while also studying the atmosphere, land, surface and sub-
surface 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 «population-
facilities-nature». The theoretical and methodological bases of such interrelation-
ships, 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 geo-
graphical systems. Russian scientist V. I. Papichev (2005) developed a methodology
for use in studying a complex engineering-ecological assessment that also mea-
sured 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.
24.3 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, statisti-
cal, 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 informa-
tion, 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, representa-
tive 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 con-
ditions 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 dis-
eases 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
Table 24.1 Criteria and parameters used in the complex assessment of human-caused impacts on the areas of iron ore extraction
418
Categories of ecological disaster areas according to the scale of Russia’s ministry on

emergency situations
Criteria Satisfactory Stress-like Critical Crisis-like Catastrophic
Natural features
Karst and suffosion processes (occurrences per 100 km2 ) – – 5–10 10–15 >15
Percentage of eroded lands (%) < 20 20–40 40–60 60–80 >80
Deflation processes (mean annual amount of blown soils, <5 5–10 10–20 20–50 >50
ton/ha)
Human-Caused Impacts
1. Water pollution
Wastewater amount (% of mean regional values) <10 11–20 21–30 – –
Water pollution more than
(a) water pollution index <1.0 1.0–3.9 4.0–6.0 6.1–10.0 10.0
(b) indicator of chemical pollution:
– for substances of the 1st–2nd degree of risk <10 <20 21–35 36–80 80
– for substances of the 3rd–4th degree of risk <10 <50 50–100 100–500 500
Changes of aquifer level (m) < 0.5 0.5–1.0 1.1–2.0 2.1–5.0 > 5.0
2. Soil pollution
Chemical pollution of soils with heavy metals (value of < 16.0 16.1–24.0 24.1–33 33.1–128.0 > 128.0
the aggregate index Zc),
Indicator of chemical pollution:
– for substances of the 1st –2nd degree of risk <1.0 0.1–2.0 2.1–3.0 3.1–5.0 >5.0
– for substances of the 3rd –4th degree of risk 1.1–5.0 5.1–10.0 10.1–20.0 > 20.0
3. Air pollution
Pollution caused by enterprises of the mining complex in 1–2 times 2–5 5–10 10–50 50–100
(tenfold exceeding of norms for SO2 , CO, NOx , CHx ,
Pb, Cr, Zn)
A. Nekrich
24

Air pollution index <5 6–15 16–50 51–100 more than 100
4. Deformation of rocks
Deposit depletion (%) <10 10–30 30–50 50–70 more than 70
5. Fragmentation of land cover

Degree of projective cover (%) <5 5–20 20–40 40–50 more than 50
Amount of woodland (%) <10 10–25 25–50 50–80 more than 90
Medical-ecological features
1. Medical-demographic rates
Mortality:
(a) total mortality no increase (a) and (b) (a) and (b) 2.1–2.5 more than 2.5
cause-and-effect cause-and-effect
relation relation
(b) perinatal mortality 1.6–2.0 2.0
(c) infantile mortality (<1 year) (c) <1.2 c) 1.3–1.5 1.6–2.0 2.0
Environmental Disturbances Resulting from Mining in the KMA
(d) child mortality (d) <1.2 d) 1.3–1.5 1.6–2.0 2.0

Life expectancy:
(a) men
– birth statistics no increase cause-and-effect 2.8 3.2 3.6
relation
–up to 15 years old 3.9 3.4 4.0
– 35 2.0 2.5 3.0
– 65 1.8 2.0 2.3
419
420

(b) Women
– birth statistics 2.0 2.6 3.5
– <15 years 2.0 2.5 2.9
– < 35 2.0 2.5 2.6
– up to 65 1.5 1.8 1.9
2. Occupational morbidity (for people working

in the mining industry)
Class and nosological appearance of ecologically no increase cause-and-effect 2.1–2.5 2.6–3.5 > than 3.5
conditioned diseases relation
3. Medical-genetic and immunological indexes (increase)

Congenital malformation rate indexes are close up to 1.2 1.3–1.5 1.6–2.0 > than 2.0
to background
value
A. Nekrich
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 crisis-
like situation is characterized by significant changes in landscapes, the complete
depletion of natural resources, and the deterioration of the health of the popula-
tion. 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 reduc-
tion 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 human-
caused 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 eco-
nomic 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 infor-
mation 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, resi-
dential, 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 identifi-
cation 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 dif-
ferences 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 fea-
tures, 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)
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 sepa-
rate 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 human-
caused 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.
424
Table 24.2 Assessment of the ecological situation in the areas of iron ore mining
Combination of ecological situations leading to:
Intensity of environmental
disturbances Activating of negative environmental processes Health hazard
Catastrophic Rock dewatering, rock mass disturbance, formation Air pollution, bacterial pollution, industrial pollution,
of subsurface voids, rock deformation, landslides, pollution by drilling and blasting operations, toxic
mineral depletion, formation of gullies, pollution, chemical pollution
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
Crisis-like Rock dewatering, occurrence of cones of depression, Air pollution, industrial pollution, pollution by drilling
formation of gullies, karst, suffosion, dewatering and blasting operations, chemical pollution
of soils, ground removal, humus decay, soil
erosion, changes of water level, partial projective
cover fragmentation
Critical Mineral depletion, formation of gullies, occurrence Industrial pollution, chemical pollution
of cones of depression, karst, suffosion,
dewatering of soils, ground removal, humus
decay, soil erosion, chemical pollution, changes of
water level, projective cover fragmentation
Stress-like Karst, piping, dewatering of soils, ground removal, Air pollution, chemical pollution
humus decay, soil erosion, chemical pollution,
changes of water level, projective cover
fragmentation
Satisfactory Dewatering of soils, ground removal, humus decay, air Pollution, water and soil pollution
soil erosion, chemical pollution, changes of water
level, projective cover fragmentation
A. Nekrich
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 sig-
nificant 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 objec-
tives of this algorithm are to present the current geoecological situation and to
prevent environmental risks. The GIS-based research carried out allows us to coor-
dinate 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 improve-
ment. 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
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geosistem. In V. M. Kotlaykov (Ed.), Vremennaya organizatsia geosistem. Moscow: IGRAN.
Ivanov, B. A. (1989). Inzhenernaya ekologia. Moscow.
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proizvodstva na osnove situatsionnogo plana, Gorny zhurnal, 5, 68–73.
Kochurov, B. I. (1997). Geografia ekologicheskih situatsy. Moscow.
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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 geol-
ogists 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 sur-
face 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,” there-
fore, 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

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 pro-
cessing, 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 sec-
ond 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 decom-
pose 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 forma-
tion, 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 deposi-
tion 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 coloniza-
tion 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 gain-
ing 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 mech-
anized 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 plat-
form 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 mech-
anized 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 devel-
oped 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 transform-
ing 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 prob-
lem 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 residen-
tial 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
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 accom-
modation 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 con-
structing 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)
between rural and urban areas (Curry, 1987). While the combination of this demo-
graphic 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 organiza-
tion 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 ini-
tially 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 tra-
ditionally 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 pow-
der 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 destina-
tions (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 fur-
ther 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 mech-
anized production methods, the nature of Bord na Móna’s workforce changed
profoundly. There was now a much greater need for more technically-skilled work-
ers 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
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 consider-

ably 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 engi-
neering 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 adjoin-
ing 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 develop-
ments 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 pro-
vided 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 toi-
let. 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 set-
tled. 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 estab-
lished 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 posi-
tions 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.
25.8 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 sub-
stantial 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 eco-
nomic 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 farm-
ing 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 out-
side 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 peat-
lands 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
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, lead-
ing 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 fur-
ther 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 pro-
duction 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 produc-
tion. 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 main-
tained 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 bri-
quette 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
preserved in their current state in the interest of maintaining ecosystems and biodi-
versity (Feehan & O’Donovan, 1996; Irish Peatlands Conservation Council, 2009).
In addition, large scale harvesting of peatland is a significant direct source of pollu-
tion, 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 environ-
mental 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 com-
prise 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 free-
draining 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 grass-
land 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 com-
pany 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 suit-
able 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 for-
mat 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.
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 hard-
woods 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 orga-
nizations 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
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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.
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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 Pučnik 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 Borisovič Miller.
Aleksej Borisovič 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 Borisovič 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 com-
pany: 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 dis-
ease, 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 ill-
ness 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 identi-
fied in transitional economies, threatened to dismantle the firm. Viktor Černomirdin
(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

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 coun-
cil colleague and protégé (similar to Dmitrij Medvedjev), was named Gazprom’s
president. Critics were saying that Putin was unfair to Remu Vjahirjev, the for-
mer 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 Abramovič’s (second rich-
est 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 simi-
larly 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 comfort-
ing 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. disin-
tegration 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 sec-
tors 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 thou-
sand 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
Crude oil (000 Natural gas Population

Rank Country bbl/day) (mil cu m) (000) Oil/p/day Gas/p/year
1 Germany 2,456 97,440 82,218 29.87 1185.14

2 France 1,950 42,690 64,473 30.25 662.14
3 United Kingdom 1,763 91,100 61,004 28.90 1,493.34
4 Italy 1,702 84,890 59,619 28.55 1,423.87
5 Spain 1,611 34,430 46,063 34.97 747.45
6 Netherlands 984 46,420 16,472 59,74 2,818.12
7 Belgium 628 17,390 10,666 58.88 1,630.41
8 Poland 524 16,380 38,116 13.75 429.74
9 Greece 441 4,069 11,125 39.64 365.75
10 Sweden 354 1,006 9,254 38.25 108.71
11 Portugal 301 4,112 10,599 28.40 387.96
12 Austria 289 8,436 8,340 34.65 1,011.51
13 Romania 238 17,090 21,538 11.05 793.48
14 Finland 228 4,581 5,312 42.92 862.39
15 Czech Republic 207 8,622 10,403 19.90 828.80
16 Ireland 201 4,984 4,339 46.32 1,148.65
17 Denmark 191 4,555 5,482 34.84 830.90
18 Hungary 163 13,360 10,036 16.24 1,331.21
19 Bulgaria 110 5,600 7,640 14.40 732.98
20 Slovakia 83 6,216 5,401 15.37 1,150.90
21 Luxembourg 61 1,329 484 126.03 2,745.87
22 Cyprus 58 0 778 74.55 0.00
23 Lithuania 57 3,440 3,358 16.97 1,024.42
24 Slovenia 54 1,105 2,026 26.65 545.41
25 Latvia 35 2,040 2,266 15.45 90.26
26 Estonia 30 1,480 1,341 22.37 1,103.65
27 Malta 19 0 408 46.57 0.00
28 EU 14,738 500,100 498,761 29.55 1,002.68
29 United States 20,680 652,900 305,953 67.59 2,133.99
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, consum-
ing 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 deliv-
eries 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 disagree-
ment 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

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 sup-
plies to Ukraine. The situation calmed after 4 days when supply was restored and a
preliminary agreement between Russia and Ukraine was achieved. Another gas dis-
pute 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 fore-
runner 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 indepen-
dence 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 pro-
moting 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 crude-
oil 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 deliv-
eries 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
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 execu-
tion. 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 sec-
ond 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 envi-
ronment, 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 geologi-
cal 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 re-
route 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 pre-
sented 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 gov-
ernment rejected the consortium’s application which it had found insufficient on
which to make a decision. A new application to the Swedish authorities was sub-
mitted 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 authori-
ties. 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 con-
fidence 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 envi-
sions 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 facil-
ity 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 intergovern-
mental 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 construc-
tion 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 lay-
ing 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 sys-
tem near Vienna. The section to support northern Italy’s energy needs would be
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 Ploče; 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 BOTAŞ 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 Erdoğan
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 des-
tination 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 soci-
ety. Despite protests, the LNG storage at Italian Rovigo (Isola di Porto Levante)
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 for-
ward 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 plan-
ning 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 tra-
ditional (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 hun-
gry 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).
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 relation-
ship 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.
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review.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 človek Gazproma, ki naj bi Južni tok speljal čez Slovenijo
(portret tedna). Delo (14. 06. 2008), 3.
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Advantages for border regions, Koper, 30th November–2nd December 2007. Koper: Univerza
na Primorskem, Znanstveno-raziskovalno središče..
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., Juvančič, 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
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wiki/Russia%E2%80%93Ukraine_gas_disputes
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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 capabil-
ity 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 genera-
tions 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 contro-
versy. 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

462 M.J. Pasqualetti
Energy projects of the immediate future will come in many forms and loca-
tions, 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 expecta-
tions 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 cen-
tralized 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 con-
verging 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 mas-
sive extraction process is complete, the oil is transported outward by pipelines and
roads toward markets. In such a scenario, most impacts, especially those affect-
ing 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, espe-
cially when compared with their fossil counterparts. Their impacts will, also, be
of a different sort, mostly aesthetic and temporary. In addition to these advan-
tages, 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 Trapido-
Lurie, 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.
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
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 commer-
cial 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 differ-
ent. 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
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 recov-
erable 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 chal-
lenges 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 waste-
products 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 pol-
icy. 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
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 bitu-
men 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 opera-
tions held licenses to divert 359 million m3 from the river, or more than twice the
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 con-
cern 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 sig-
nature. 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 bitu-
men; 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 prod-
uct 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 tempta-
tion 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
than it at present appears. Even under the most favorable economic conditions, how-
ever, 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 under-
ground 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 vol-
ume 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, prob-
ably 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 para-
graph 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 cre-
ate 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.
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.)
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 work-
force 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 con-
ventional 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 govern-
ment. 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
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 con-
venient 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 best-
known 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 infras-
tructure (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 mil-
lion 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 tur-
bines 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
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
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 south-
ward 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.
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 commu-
nity 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 Capacidad total MW
development projects in
Autoabastecimiento 1,986.95
coastal Oaxaca by 2012. The
CFE (Instalado) 85.50
total capacity is comparable
CFE (IPP en licitación) 101.00
to that installed in California
CFE (Oaxaca I, II, III y IV) 405.60
by Jan 31, 2009, over a period
TOTAL 2,579.00
of 35 years
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
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 res-
idents 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 offi-
cial 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 ques-
tions. 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 free-
doms 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 lead-
ing 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 develop-
ments, 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 migrat-
ing 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
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, per-
sonal 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 domi-
nantly 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 concen-
trating 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,
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 capac-
ity 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
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, threat-
ens 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 increas-
ing 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 oppor-
tunities for meaningful improvements in energy efficiency and we must prepare
new approaches to satisfy our energy needs. Because the demand for energy is ris-
ing so quickly, many governments and intergovernmental agencies are looking to
megaprojects to rescue us from our own appetite. For energy liquids, some are look-
ing 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 envi-
ronment 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
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 megapro-
jects, 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, ura-
nium, 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 nec-
essarily 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
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 submit-
ted. 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.
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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 con-
centrated, with Russia in control of the largest reserve. Political instability, attacks
against energy infrastructure, attacks against transportation vessels, natural disas-
ters 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 geopo-
litical 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

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 geogra-
phies 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, environ-
mentally. 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 ques-
tion: 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 ten-
dency 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 quasi-
monopolist 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 nego-
tiations. 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 deter-

mined, 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
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, limit-
ing 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 approx-
imately 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 ter-
rorist 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 Limon-
Covenas pipeline lost almost $1 billion worth of crude oil between 1990 and 1995.
Pipelines in Columbia are also vulnerable to siphoning of gasoline. To protect their

facilities, companies must spend money for protection or buy off threatening orga-
nizations. 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 character-
istically ‘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 com-
munities 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 con-
trol 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

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 mar-
kets 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 sig-
nificant 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 mar-
kets 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 ter-
rorist 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 vari-
ation 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 mea-
sured include its reliance on oil imports to satisfy demand for the resource, oil
consumption in relation to Gross Domestic Product (GDP), import share of prod-
uct 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
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 sec-
tion 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 export-
ing 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 fol-
lowing 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
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 bar-
rels 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 coun-
try, 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)


k
ESDi = 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 con-
sumption 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
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 per-
cent 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
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

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 bot-
tom 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 vulnerabil-
ity 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 oil-
dependent. 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 export-
ing nation. However, countries that fall into this category like Turkey and Portugal
are not necessarily immune to global oil price shocks produced by violence, terror-
ism 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
Low High
Vulnerability Low Mexico Turkey

Norway Portugal
Switzerland
Iceland
Philippines
South Korea
Azerbaijan
Ecuador
High Kazakhstan Japan
Russia Ukraine
Canada
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 indica-
tors 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 anal-
ysis 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 vulnera-
bilities. 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.
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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 every-
where, 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 bet-
ter 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 trac-
tor. 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 vehi-
cle 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

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 (on-
line 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 infor-
mation, 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 loca-
tion was in doubt, WikiMapia was searched for labels and company names typed
into GoogleEarth or GoogleMaps (say “Volkswagen plant” or “Volkswagen fac-
tory”) 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 coach-
works 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 disassem-
bled 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 unfa-
miliar 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 devel-
oped 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 thou-
sands 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 dis-
tinction 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. Nabarezhnye, Tatarstan, Russia Kamaz/OKA/FIAT Truck 11,775/4,765

2. Tolyatti, Russia Avtovaz/GM 5,020/2,031
3. Marysville, OH, U.S. Honda (with proving ground) 3,449/1,396
4. Nizhny Novgorod, Russia GAZ 1,548/626
5. Nabarezhnye, Tatarstan, Russia Severstal Auto/FIAT 1,540/623
6. Tanjung Malim Town, Malaysia Proton 1,280/518
7. Ulsan, South Korea Hyundai 1,225/496
8. Wolfsburg, L. Saxony, Germany Volkswagen 1,054/426
9. Changchun, Jilin, China FAW/VW/Audi/Mazda 1,049/424
10. Kaluga, Russia Volkswagen/Skoda 988/400
11. Gülcük, Turkey Anadol/Ford/Otosan Kocaeli 976/395
12. Dearborn, MI, U.S. Ford Rouge 891/361
13. Saltillo, Coahuila, Mexico Chrysler 846/342
14. Lafayette, IN, U.S. Subaru/Toyota 820/332
15. Spring Hill, TN, U.S. GM/Saturn 818/331
16. Greensburg, IN, U.S. Honda 803/325
17. Smyrna, TN, U.S. Nissan 797/323
18. Oshawa, ON, Canada GM 726/294
19. Hwaseong/South Korea Kia Asan Bay 726/294
20. Georgetown, KY, U.S. Toyota 726/294
21. Warren, MI, U.S. Chrysler/Dodge truck 725/293
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 exam-
ples like Russia and the Czech Republic which under their previous command
economies produced incredible amounts of land in auto and truck production, dis-
proportionate 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 exam-
ple 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 protec-
tionist 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 coun-
try 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 anti-
quated 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 trim-
mer 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. compa-
nies. 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 sub-
stantially 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 mono-
lith” 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 hid-
den 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.
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 com-
parison, 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 trans-
plants 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 for-
mer 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. produc-
tion 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
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 fabrica-
tion 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, spe-
cialty 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 vehi-
cle “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 hun-
dred 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 com-
petitive 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 C.S. Campbell
Table 29.2 Selected

countries and total land United States 34,200 acres (13,840 ha)
in vehicle fabrication Russia 26,501 (10,724)
specifically comparing China 13,496 (5,462)
to Great Britain (excluding Germany 9,211 (3,728)
Northern Ireland) Japan 8,136 (3,293)
France 6,105 (2,470)
Italy 5,521 (2,234)
England 4,728 (1,913)
Brazil 4,379 (1,772
South Korea 4,354 (1,762)
Canada 4,282 (1,733)
Mexico 4,147 (1,678)
India 3,889 (1,574)
Spain 3,858 (1,561)
Malaysia 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 produc-
tion 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,
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 produc-
ing. 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 begin-
ning 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 com-
munist 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 produc-
tion, 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
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 com-
panies 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 mea-
sured 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 pri-
vate 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 produc-
tion 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 ignor-
ing 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 con-
gested 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
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.
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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 imple-
mentation 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 citi-
zens 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

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 expecta-
tions 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 con-
straints 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 empiri-
cal 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 develop-
ment 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 view-
point 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 envi-
ronment 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 effi-
cient 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, espe-
cially 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 cost-
efficient. 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 procure-
ment of forest residues is integrated with harvesting cycles, the stages of harvesting
and regeneration and the synergetic use of machinery and logistics. Without the his-
torically 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 infrastruc-
ture, 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.
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 owner-
ship 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 produc-
tion 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 mate-
rial 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
Table 30.1 Forest residues by cutting alternatives in North Karelia
Cutting scenario Biomass Gg/a 1,000 m3 /a GWh/a
Maximum Tops, branches and undersized 344 795 1,863

sustainable cutting
Roots and stumps 261 603 1,414
Average cutting Tops, branches and undersized 246 568 1,332
(2000–2005)
Roots and stumps 201 464 1,089
Use in 2006 Forest residues 80 191 460
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 appli-
cation 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 assump-
tion 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
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 sec-
tor. 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= (30.2)
hi h.
and the augmented input–output model was thus

−1
x= I−A y (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 produc-
tion 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 pro-
duction 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, techni-
cal information and coefficients describing the manufacture of refined petroleum
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 employ-
ment 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 domi-
nated 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 gener-
ated 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 contin-
uing 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
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
Core rural Distant rural Core municipal Suburban

Socio-economic characteristic areas areas areas areas
Forestry contractors 37 15 75 19
Large wood-processing companies 2 0 7 0
Median income (C) 11,821 10,245 12,588 16,268
Unemployment (%) 22 26 19 16
Proportion of persons over 18 27 24 10
65 years of age (%)
Persons working in primary 54.5 47.4 10.4 11.1
production (%)
Persons working in secondary 17.1 9.9 22.5 26.7
production (%)
Persons working in public 25.3 40.6 66.1 60.5
services (%)
Distance from Joensuu (km) 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 sce-

nario, 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 tim-
ber cuttings in the region and the market forecasts (ibid.). The post–September 15
global economic crisis is bringing about similar job losses, when mills are temporar-
ily 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. pel-
lets) 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 elec-
tricity. 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
1
E= ηθDV (30.4)
3, 6
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 com-
pressing residues from the mechanical wood-processing industries. They are often
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 produc-
tion 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 pro-
cessing 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 sig-
nificant 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
DV
P= (30.5)
ω
where P is the amount of pellets produced (t) and ω is the compression ratio of pel-
lets 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
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
μDV
Py = (30.6)
σ
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 com-
mercially 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.
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 pel-
lets 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
Proportion of respective
Type of Estimate for Energy content potential (GWh) energy consumption (%)
consumption energy
consumption Replacement Maximum Maximum
2004 (GWh) biofuel sustainable Average sustainable Average
Total 10,390 Residues 3,277 2,421 31.5 23.3

Power plants∗ 7,685 Residues 3,277 2,421 42.6 31.5
Heavy and light 1,367 Pellets 1,305 964 95.5 70.5
fuel oils
Heavy and light 1,367 Pyrolysis oil 1,720 1,271 125.8 93.0
fuel oils
Traffic 1,400 FT diesel 405 283 28.9 20.2
Source: Pohjois-Karjalan bioenergiaohjelma 2015 (2007)

∗ including imported electricity
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 correspond-
ing 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, equiva-
lent 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 produc-
ing 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.
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 on-
site. 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 employ-
ment 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 Induced Total

employment employment employment
effects effects effects
MWh/
Supply chain Raw material employee Max Avg Max Avg Max Avg
Composite Forest residues 12,000 164 111 79 53 243 164

residue logs
Chipping beside Forest residues 6,153 320 217 154 104 474 321
the forest road
Integrated Small trees 5,714 344 234 166 112 510 346
harvesting
Cutting by a Small trees 3,582 550 373 264 179 814 552
forest worker
Sources: Ahonen (2004; communications with experts)

Max – Maximum sustainable cuttings, Avg – Average cuttings
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 ratio-
nalization 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 there-
fore 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 analy-
sis. 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 devel-
opment (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 ear-
lier 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 con-
sumption by households in the region, whereas a large FT diesel plant accept-
ing 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 bioen-
ergy 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 possi-
bilities 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
528
Table 30.5 Estimated potential employment effects of sample plants in North Karelia with a composite residue log supply chain
Employment effects, person-years
Possible number of plants Indirect and induced Total
Max sust. Use of forest For. & Per mill. Employment

Plant Size Cut Avg cut residues (m3 ) Direct trans. Other Sum (m3 ) multiplier
Heat and 35 MW 9 5 80,020 12 16 22 50 625 4.14

power
Heat and 200 MW 2 1 404,800 60 76 113 249 615 4.14
power
Pellets 70,000 t/a 4 3 168,000 16 29 19 64 381 3.99
Pyrolysis 31,000 t/a 7 5 100,000 14 21 27 62 620 4.46
oil
FT diesel 68,000 t/a 1 0 850,000 70 175 156 401 472 5.73
O. Lehtonen and M. Tykkyläinen
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 compen-
sation 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 wood-
processing. 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 transporta-
tion 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
be exploited. According to our results for North Karelia, such means of energy pro-
duction 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 vari-
ous 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 con-
ventional 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 for-
est 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.
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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, engineer-
ing 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 develop-
ment 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, resource-
based 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 develop-
ment. 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 indus-
trial 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

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 megapro-
ject framework with three objectives: first, to assess the complements and con-
straints 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): physi-
cal 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 multina-
tional 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 physi-
cal 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 for-
mation 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 transac-
tion 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 strat-
egy 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 infrastruc-
tural investments can create localization and urbanization economies. Localization
economies are defined by the efficiency gains which occur due to the agglomer-
ation of firms from a specific sector in a given region. Urbanization economies
are defined by efficiency gains from the agglomeration of firms from many sec-
tors 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 pro-
duces 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 pro-
ducing 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 urban-
ization 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 gov-
ernment 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
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, resource-
based industrialization, represents a sensible strategy for an oil-rich and labor-
deficient economy. Petrochemical, plastic and aluminum complexes are capital-and
resource-intensive, but require few workers (Auty, 1988). Prominent early exam-
ples 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 fun-
damental 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 pro-
vided 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.
Each of the new resource and service/knowledge-based approaches of con-

structing 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, sector-
specific 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 pro-
vide 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 com-
prised 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
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 pro-
duction (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 mea-
sure 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, hav-
ing 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, fast-
growing 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 popula-
tion 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 chal-
lenges and create new opportunities for economic diversification. The objectives of
the cities are to “promote balanced regional development, achieve economic diver-
sification, create jobs and upgrade competitiveness” (SAGIA, 2008a). The goal is
to generate over one million jobs, produce between a quarter and a third of the pro-
jected 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 pub-
lic/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 cap-
ital, 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 develop-
ment 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, cho-
sen 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,
540
Table 31.1 The Saudi economic cities
Size in Population/
Mn sq Cost Est. in Employment
Name Region meters US $ billion Estimates Components Industrial activity
Jizan Economic Jizan 100 30 500,000/250,000 Industrial park, agriculture export and Energy- and
City distribution, business and cultural labor-intensive
center, port, fisheries, health and industries
education areas
King Abdullah Mecca 168 27bn 2,000,000/1,000,000 Port, financial island, resorts, industrial Transport and logistics,
Economic City district, education zone, residential area light industry,
services
Medina Medina 4.8 25 50,000/20,000 Islamic education theme park, health and Knowledge and
Knowledge City biotechnology center, high tech park, technology (IT and
Islamic civilization research center, communication)
multimodal transport center, business,
retail and hotel districts.
Prince Abdulaziz Hail 150 30 300,000/55,000 Logistics and transport, petrochemical, Transportation and
Bin Mosaed agribusiness, mining and business logistics,
Economic City centers, international airport, dry port agribusiness, minerals
and entertainment zone and construction
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
M.C. Ewers and E.J. Malecki
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 bal-
anced 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 cre-
ate 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 sig-
nificant 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 ben-
efited 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
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 com-
pany, 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 air-
port 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).
Table 31.2 Key special economic zones in operation or under construction in Dubai
Zone
Name Type Est. Sq Km Economic activities
Jebel Ali Free 1985 100 Trade, processing, manufacturing,

packaging and assembly, storage
Dubai Airport Free 1996 12 Manufacturing, processing, assembly
activities, trade activities, selected
services
Dubai Internet City Industry 2000 4 IT Support, Software development,
Web-based marketing
Dubai Customs and Industry 2000 8 Automobile trading
Automobile Free
Zone
Dubai Media City Industry 2001 0.3 Broadcasting, production, advertising,
public relations, music, publishing,
marketing, consultancy
Dubai Metals and Industry 2002 2 Gold, diamond and commodities
Commodities trading
Center
Dubai Technology Industry 2003 3 Advanced Engineering (material
Park science), Agro-Food, Biotech
(pharmaceutics), Environment
(desalination), oil
Knowledge Village Industry 2003 Education, training, research and
development
Dubai Healthcare Industry 2003 2.1 Healthcare
City
Dubai Industrial City Industry 2004 52 Machinery and Mechanical
equipment, Base Metals,
Chemicals, Food, Beverage and
Mineral Products
Dubai Int’l Financial Industry 2004 .44 Banking; Capital Markets; Asset
Center Management and Fund
Registration; Insurance and
Re-insurance; Islamic Finance
DuBiotech Industry 2006 2.3 Agro-Food, Biotech, Environment,
Health Care, R&D
Dubai Silicon Oasis Industry 2007 7 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.
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 for-
eign 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 petrochemi-
cals, 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).
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 increas-
ing number of service and knowledge-based development strategies (Keivani,
Parsa, & Younis, 2003; Pacione, 2005). As it currently stands, however, despite cre-
ating 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 work-
ers 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 indige-
nous 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 polit-
ical 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 build-
ing 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
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 repre-
sent 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 signifi-
cant amount of construction activity in the region has been intended to accommodate
higher skilled, higher net-worth expatriates. A decline in demand for luxury expa-
triate 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 work-
ers, 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, primar-
ily 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 work-
ers 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 gen-
erations. The presence of foreign companies and labor is justified in Gulf political
discourse as a necessary and temporary evil required for jump-starting local capac-
ity 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 poten-
tial 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 cap-
ital 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.
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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 high-
way 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 mul-
tilane 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) rec-
ommended 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

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 indiffer-
ent, 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 sys-
tem. 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 com-
pletion 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 there-
fore 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 com-
prised 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.
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 offi-
cials 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 opportu-
nities 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 oper-
ated 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 signif-
icance 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 high-
way 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.
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 busi-
nesses. 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 pro-
vide 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 jour-
nalists, 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 caus-
ing undue disruption and also providing mitigation for disruptions (Blair & Pijawka,
2001). Unfortunately, there is apparently little effort made to test whether these mit-
igation efforts were actually successful. A survey of residents living near a new
freeway in Phoenix suggests that residents may now be largely indifferent to free-
way 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 stretch-
ing 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 fol-
lowing a 4.4% reduction in travel by Americans (Federal Highway Administration,
2008b). Annual vehicle miles traveled has grown tremendously since 1956, but actu-
ally 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 trans-
formed 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 begin-
nings 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 depart-
ments 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 col-
lection of industrial towns, each with its own commercial and residential areas,
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 expec-
tations 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 neighbor-
hoods. 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 hous-
ing in black areas and mass movement of blacks into white neighborhoods during
the 1960s. Whites moved into newly developing suburbs and the city lost popu-
lation. 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 sug-
gest 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 fund-
ing 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 devel-
opment (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 con-
gressional 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
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 East-
West 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 east-
ern 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 owner-
ship 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 participa-
tion 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 multi-
modal 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 pro-
mote 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 experi-
ence 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 depen-
dence 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 increas-
ing 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 oth-
ers (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 under-
neath Hurricane Katrina’s floodwaters are important reminders both for highlighting
the vulnerability of these highways as well as the continuing presence of large num-
bers 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.
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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, espe-
cially 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 spa-
tial 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

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 impass-
able 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 after-
math 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 recov-
ery 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 dis-
cussion 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 accom-
pany 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 invest-
ment. 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 high-

ways 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 study-
ing 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 fed-
eral 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 unof-
ficial 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 transporta-
tion 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 hap-
hazard, 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 trans-
port 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 gov-
ernment system, becoming an official road at the municipal, state, or even federal
level.1
Table 33.1 Build-up of the official highway system in Amazonia
Federal State
1968 400 0
1975 17,504 13,276
1981 18,672 31,044
(1985)
1999 19,223 37,410
Paved and Unpaved components of system. To create the data, a dig-

ital 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 spa-
tial 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
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 acces-
sible 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 Santarém-
Cuiabá, 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 develop-
ment project starting in the middle of the 20th century, with the strategic move of the
nation’s capital to Brasília, off the coastal plain where Brazilian society had devel-
oped 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 sig-
nificant 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

elements of the federal system show only one significant detour from the straight-
line 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 west-
ern 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 northeast-
ern 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, respec-
tively, 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 pur-
sue 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

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 con-
tinued 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 sup-
pressed 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 impe-
tus 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 stu-
dents 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 comple-
tion of the Belém-Brasília Highway (BR-010) had sparked mass migration of about
two million spontaneous colonists, who settled at roadside, built towns, and intro-
duced a cattle economy, thereby promoting development at very low cost (Moran,
1983; Valverde & Dias, 1967). Work on this highway began shortly after the forma-
tion 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 road-
bed 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
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 construc-
tion 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 possi-
bly 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 com-
pared 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 BR-
230 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 real-

ized by the development of settlements, or Projetos Integrados de Colonização
(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 govern-
ment, 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 east-
west 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 bound-
aries 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

Fig. 33.6 The cadastral geometry of Transamazonia colonization
vertically above and below it. Back from the highway in the strips of land, or gle-
bas, 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 bound-
aries. 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 ser-
vices to the approximately 50 families (48–62) expected to settle in its vicinity
(Kleinpenning, 1977; Smith, 1982). One rung up the urban hierarchy, the agropo-
lis 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 devel-
opment 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 indus-
tries, 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
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 incen-
tives 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
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 migra-
tory 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 northeastern-
ers 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 hier-
archy, 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 struc-
tures 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
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 reces-
sion. 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 cul-
tural 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 coter-
minous 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 seg-
ment 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 govern-
ment 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
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 establish-
ing closer economic ties with neighbors to the north and west (Sant’Anna, 1998;
Walker, Browder, et al., 2009).
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 iden-
tified 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, plac-
ing 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
Table 33.2 Cattle herd and population in the Transamazon Corridor, 2007
Cattle Herd Population
Amazonas
Apuí 130, 371 17, 451
Canutama 13, 618 11, 463
Humaitá 20, 801 38, 559
Lábrea 285, 519 36, 909
Manicoré 56, 390 44, 327
Maués 22, 358 47, 020
Novo Aripuanã 11, 620 18, 196
Para
Altamira 402, 340 92, 105
Anapu 280, 321 17, 787
Brasil Novo 225, 866 18, 749
Itaituba 174, 318 118, 194
Itupiranga 290, 000 42, 002
Jacareacanga 26, 789 37, 073
Marabá 430, 300 196, 468
Medicilândia 143, 359 22, 624
Nova Ipixuna 74, 600 14, 086
Novo Repartimento 363, 456 51, 645
Pacajá 256, 420 38, 365
Placas 59, 450 17, 898
Rurópolis 117, 821 32, 950
Senador José Porfírio 60, 899 14, 302
Trairão 68, 497 16, 097
Uruará 293, 640 35, 076
Vitória do Xingu 195, 201 9, 693
Total 4, 003, 954 989, 039
Source: www.sidra.ibge.gov.br
ranching has become Amazônia’s primary agricultural activity, even by small pro-
ducers. 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 com-
pares 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 excep-
tionally 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 southeast-
ern 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
Fig. 33.10 Counties crossed by BR-230 in Pará and Amazonas
Fig. 33.11 Transamazonia colonist family

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 con-
sistent 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 ani-
mals 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 north-

south 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 substan-
tial 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 con-
siderable 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
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 defor-
estation occurring within a narrow strip along the region’s major roads, including
the Transamazon Highway (Laurance et al., 2001; Alves, 2002, 2007). In this chap-
ter 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 diver-
sified 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 com-
plete 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
Table 33.3 Unofficial road

construction. Transamazon Agent Total (km)
highway
Federal Government (F.G.) 162
Loggers 153
Mayor 184
Private Company 9
Ranchers 17
Colonists 61
F.G and Colonists 11.5
Mayor and Loggers 157
F.G. and Private Company 10
F.G. and Mayor 35
Unknown 71
system in a positive feedback that drives continuing expansion of the transporta-

tion 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 exoge-
nous 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 colo-
nization 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 inde-
pendently of federal government support, or intervention (Simmons et al., 2007).
Although loggers were heavily involved in road construction, the emergent land-
scape 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
Fig. 33.13 Cadastral geometry and fishbone settlement
cadastral geometry of the original PIC in order to facilitate land claims. In gen-
eral, the office of the mayor has found ample reason to help the colonists given
electoral considerations, and loggers have their own motivations provided by loop-
holes 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 tip-
ping point is a clear and present danger associated with continuing agricultural
development in the region as a whole. Scientists have long speculated that rainfall
reductions stemming from an altered hydrometeorology could alter the vegetation-
bound 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 tribu-
taries 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 contin-
ued 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 con-
flict. 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 them-
selves 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
of indigenous reserves. Historically, Brazil’s policy on indigenous peoples has been

to assimilate them. To accomplish this, the Brazilian government created indige-
nous 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 peo-
ples of present-day Amazonia have experienced hardship and loss owing to their
uninvited contact with Brazilians, they have not generally been forced onto reserva-
tions 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 envi-
ronmental stewardship. This expectation is also stated in the Brazilian Forestry Code
Fig. 33.14 Protected areas in the Brazilian Amazonas

(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 obvi-
ous 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 neces-
sary 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
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 pri-
vate 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 magnif-
icent ecosystems. Of course, this was done in a less civilized time, before ecology
had blossomed as a discipline, before anyone understood the importance of biodi-
versity, 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 matura-
tion 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 max-
imum 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 Biosphere-
Atmosphere 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.
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, includ-
ing the Apinayes, Parakana, Koatinemo, Kararo, Arara, Caitutu, Pirahã, Tenharim, and
Mundurucu.
References
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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 propor-
tion 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 regula-
tory frameworks related to environmental and land acquisition aspects (Ministry
of Statistics and Program Implementation, 2008). Various committees have identi-
fied 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

602 G. Raghuram et al.
Table 34.1 Investment indicators in India
Item Share of GDP % (year)
Gross fixed capital formation 22.7 (2003) 33.8 (2005)

Investment in all infrastructure 3.5 (2004)
Investment in road infrastructure 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 advi-
sory 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 sub-
stances; to reduce noise pollution; and to provide for the conservation of
biological diversity.
Under the EPA, many projects required an environmental impact assess-
ment (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
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; introduc-
ing 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, irriga-
tion, flood control etc), thermal power plants, mining, highways, ports, and
airports. Setting up manufacturing industries like petroleum refineries, chem-
ical 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 emis-
sions 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 rec-
ognized 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 environ-
mentally fragile region, must obtain clearance from Ministry of Environment and
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 authori-
ties. 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).
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), moderniza-
tion 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 trans-
actions 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 multi-
purpose 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.
Requiring body
Requisition to the government

represented by the Collector
Notification
legitimizing
government to
Study of the Notification: Gazette and conduct feasibility
proposal Two daily newspapers study on the said land
Objection to be
Identification of probable losers registered at the
Calculation of compensation 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 dis-
putes 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 iden-
tify 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 pro-
cess 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.
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 high-
ways 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 commer-
cial 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.
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 acqui-
sition 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 infrastruc-
ture 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 negoti-
ation, 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).
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 var-
ious 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
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 environ-
mentalists 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 dis-
putes 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 farm-
ers 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
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 bid-
der 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 modi-
fying the regulation and allowing for higher compensation. However, this was a
lengthy process as land markets were distorted due to regulatory and informa-
tional 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
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 peo-
ple 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 num-
ber 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
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 addi-
tional 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 par-
ticipation, delays due to project management as expected to reduce significantly and
the focus would be left to environmental and land acquisition issues. The modifica-
tions 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 con-
suming. 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
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/doc2004-
05/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 integra-
tion 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 cer-
tainly 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 territo-
ries, 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 tropi-
cal 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 fas-
cinated 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 articu-
lated 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 exper-
imentation unimaginable elsewhere were deemed not only possible but necessary
(Broc, 1987).
M. Heffernan (B)
School of Geography, University of Nottingham, Nottingham NG7 2NR, UK

618 M. Heffernan
The French Saharan debate developed in two distinct forms. The first con-
centrated 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 manage-
ment, 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 con-
quering 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 pre-
cious 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, par-
ticularly 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 con-
ceived, 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 pub-
lished 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, sug-
gests that the trans-Saharan campaign moved through five distinct phases, each
shaped by different external and internal forces and involving continually chang-
ing 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 acqui-
sition 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 archi-
tect 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 colo-
nial 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 engi-
neer 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 expand-
ing the French domestic network as Minister of Public Works from 1877 to 1879.
Freycinet established a commission of inquiry in 1879 to investigate the feasibil-
ity 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 dis-
aster 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 rap-
prochement 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 com-
petition 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 trans-
Saharan scheme. British ambitions to establish a Cape to Cairo railway connection
across the eastern part of Africa, an objective associated with Cecil Rhodes, pro-
vided 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, pres-
ence 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 func-
tioning 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 geostrate-
gic 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 politi-
cians, businessmen and scientists rehearsing by then familiar arguments about the
technical feasibility of the rail connection and about the many economic and polit-
ical benefits that would result from its construction. Despite the general agreement
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 expe-
ditions, 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 evi-
dently 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 support-
ers 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 unmit-
igated 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 wel-
come, 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 build-
ing 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 pub-
lic 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 funic-
ular 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 rail-
way 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 inte-
rior. 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, reconsid-
ered 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
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 develop-
ment 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 opposi-
tion 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 non-
existent 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 rail-
way 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 spe-
cially 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 enthu-
siasm for “this passionate railway” flared once again in the late 1930s when the gov-
ernment 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 geostrate-
gic 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 confeder-
ation, 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 inter-
national 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 out-
break 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 techno-
logical 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
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).
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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 soci-
eties 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 prin-
ciple of late modernity, transforming societies in the context of globalization (Urry,
2000). Reflecting the significance of this volume’s theme, it is clear that mega-
transportation 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 cul-
tural paradigm and ecological setting in which a given mega-project is enacted
can, therefore, not be understated. Development-induced ecological change result-
ing 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 simi-
larities 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

628 A.C. Diener
exchange rate policies that encourage export of raw materials) compel compara-
tive 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 accu-
rate “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 target-
populations. 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 fed-
eral investment in highways and rural roads at the expense of public transportation
catalyzed suburbanization and recast America’s ethnic, social, political, and eco-
nomic landscapes (see also Wells, 2006). At a regional scale, Teresa Van Hoy (2000)
and Chapin, Peterson, and Berkes (2004) explore how new modes of transporta-
tion 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, fam-
ily, 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 longstand-
ing 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 pat-
terns 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 earn-
ers. 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 pat-
tern 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 fac-
tories 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 col-
lectivized 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 herd-
ing 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 pas-
toralists 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
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 inter-
national 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 tradi-
tional 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, how-
ever, 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 identi-
ties, the latter are more or less permanent” (Dore & Nagpal, 2006: 15). Despite the
common practice of “summer nomadism” among cosmopolite city-dwelling pro-
fessionals, 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 for-
eign 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 con-
sists 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 sim-
ply, 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 automo-
biles. 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
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, restau-
rants, shops, hotels, various tourist related businesses and commerce nodes for local
products are expected to generate revenue for an increasingly sedentary popula-
tion. 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 con-
sistent 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 extend-
ing 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 complica-
tions. 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 undoubt-
edly 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 peri-
urbanization 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 devastat-
ing. 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” (tuur-
gatan) 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 antithet-
ical 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 inter-
view, 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 tra-
ditional 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 eco-
nomic 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 demon-

strate a profound capacity to transform the societies they cross. The completion of
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 infras-
tructure. 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 west-
ernmost 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 ser-
vices, 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 pas-
toralist 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 pat-
terns of mobility on a regional scale. In addition to internal development, revolving
around vertical arterial links connecting remote regions with the capital and indus-
trial 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 com-
ponents of this plan are far from fruition, recent improvements in transportation
infrastructure within neighboring states (see Fig. 36.3) could generate imma-
nent 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
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 nat-
ural 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 interna-
tional 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 mil-
lion 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 pas-
toral 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 develop-
ment. 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 indi-
viduality, 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-transportation-
project. Mobility for the Mongolian population is omnipresent. It has long
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 sys-
tem 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 oppor-
tunity 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.
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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 aes-
thetic 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 domi-
nate most of the state. Another potentially calamitous hazard to infrastructure lurks
below the surface of vast expanses of Alaska and adjacent Yukon Territory: per-
mafrost (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 treat-
ment 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

644 F.E. Nelson
The discovery of rich mineral resources in the vast territory awakened the U.S. fed-
eral 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 geol-
ogy. Most of the scientists responsible for these expeditions were generalists, well
versed in survey methods, topographic mapping, physiography, botany, and anthro-
pology. 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 min-
ing operations (Wimmler, 1927), an extensive knowledge base was not developed in
systematic fashion and made available in accessible form to the engineering com-
munity. Information about perennially frozen ground was (a) acquired by personnel
on expeditions to the North American Arctic sponsored by such private organiza-
tions 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 disci-
plines (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 perenni-
ally 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 ter-
ritory’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 homoge-
neous 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 strate-
gic 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 over-
coming 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
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 pro-
posed (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 interpreta-
tion 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 pho-
tos 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 shov-
els, one truck crane, six 12-yard scraper/carriers, one portable sawmill, two pile
drivers, as well as light tools, water purification equipment, and electricity gener-
ation 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 tim-
ber, 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
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 construct-
ing 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 cross-
ings 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 Wisconsin-
Milwaukee. 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 per-
mafrost 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 loca-
tion, the composition and thermal properties of the substrate, and type and properties
of the surface cover. Where surficial materials have highly insulative properties
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 bull-
dozer 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 upper-
most 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 litera-
ture 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 some-
thing 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 pen-
etrate 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 con-
trast, 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 begin-
ning 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.
Table 37.1 Specifications for Alcan highway
Feature Specification
Total length (pioneer road, Dawson Creek to 1,591 mi (2,545 km)

Delta Junction, PRA road shortened to 1,440
mi [2,317 km])
Maximum elevation 4,212 ft (1,284 m)
Clearance width 50 ft (15.2 m) on either side of centerline (32
ft (9.75 m) minimum)
Surface 18 ft (5.5 m) (12 ft (3.65 m) minimum) on
pioneer road; two lanes (20–22 feet
minimum) for PRA road
Shoulders 5 ft (1.52 m)
Surfacing materials gravel/dirt (specified to be of local origin)
Grade 10% maximum for pioneer road; 5–7% for
PRA road
Curvature 50 ft (15.2 m) radius on pioneer road; 3◦ on
“prairie” segments of PRA road, 19◦ in
mountains
Ditch depth 2 ft (0.6 m)
Crown 1 inch/foot (25.4 mm/305 mm) maximum
Major bridges (∼200) 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
Culverts (∼8,000) 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 8 13 by 35th Engineers

May 31 95 152 by 4 regiments
June 30 360 576 all 7 regiments
July 31 794 1, 270 all 7 regiments
August 31 1, 186 1, 897 including PRA work
September 30 1, 479 2, 366 road passable to Whitehorse
October 25 1, 645 2, 632 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” per-
mafrost, 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 oper-
ating. Removal of insulating layers of vegetation, peat, and humus meant that
ice-rich permafrost was exposed directly to solar radiation and high surface tem-
peratures. 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 hol-
lows (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 dele-
terious 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 insulat-
ing 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
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 prerevolu-
tionary 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 com-
pilation 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 pro-
vided 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 etymo-
logical 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 under-

standing 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 relo-
cated, 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 eval-
uation 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 pro-
cess 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)
37.5 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 employ-
ing 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 com-
pleted 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 two-
wheel-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 set-
tlement 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 exper-
tise. 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 arti-
facts 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.
Note
1. Including on the cover of at least one U.S. Army permafrost manual (Muller, 1944).
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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 impli-
cations 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 megaengi-
neering 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, con-
structing 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 con-
struction. 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

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, typi-

cally they attract wide public debates as well as involvement of the central govern-
ment and parliament. Therefore, decisions about these projects tend to reflect, and
sometimes challenge, deeply rooted socio-political values. Although megaengineer-
ing 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 insti-
tutions 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, intel-
lectual 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 coher-
ent 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 deci-
sions, 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 ideol-
ogy, 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, comprehen-
sive 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 transform-

ing 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 lim-
ited 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 gen-
eral 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 organiza-
tions 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 prin-
ciples 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 gen-
eral public (Gordon, 1999). Nevertheless, the general public relates to the frame and,
accordingly, influences political action and decision making. The media is becom-
ing 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 increas-
ingly 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 differ-
ent 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.
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 val-
ley 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 pio-
neering 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, specif-
ically, 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 final-
ized project. We need to set a monitoring committee common to the government
and the KKL” (Government Session, 1950). In general, the KKL leaders were wor-
ried 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
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 redemp-
tion of lands from its desolation” (Granot, 1950). Thus, the Hachula project became
a focus of KKL’s activities after Israel’s independence.
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 agricul-
tural 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
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 zool-
ogists 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
journalists, in order to raise awareness about the risks of destroying unique ecosys-
tems. 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 ani-
mals 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 deso-
lation 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 argu-
ments 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 redeem-
ing 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
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, there-
fore 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 ide-
alistic 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, releas-
ing nitrogen into the lake of Galilee and thus result in drinking water of reduced
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 preserva-
tion 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 domesti-
cate 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 pro-
posed 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 relat-
ing to the central part was delivered to the National Planning Committee, which
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 com-
pany’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 manage-
ment 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,
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 fre-
quently to the successful profitability test performed by the government road
company. In their Internet site, the consortium contrasted their investment of more
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 trans-
ferred 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 neo-
liberal economic journalists, Strassler, who wrote in Ha’aretz (1999): “There is a
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 prof-
itable. 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 com-
prehensive 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 transporta-
tion. 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 eco-
nomic 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).
38.4.4.2 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 popula-
tion 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 resi-
dents 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 trans-
portation 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 sev-
eral 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 sen-
sitive 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 cit-
izens. While most of the Jewish landowners were compensated with money, the
government company compensated Arab landowners with alternative lands in the
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 indi-
rectly 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 vulner-
ability 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
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 popu-
lated 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 reg-
ulate 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, satu-
rated 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 ide-
ology 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 environ-
mental 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.
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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 design-
ing 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, fragmen-
tation 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 dys-
functional 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

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 for-
mulating and guiding planning legislation that would subordinate “local planning
to metropolitan/district, provincial and national development planning (for exam-
ple, 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 prin-
ciples that encourage the emergence of compact cities that would prevent further
urban sprawl, a prominent characteristic feature of the South African urban land-
scape – and also encourage mixed land use and integrated land development;
(3) promoting the creation of sustainable cities; (4) promoting stakeholder involve-
ment that would be transparent to all involved during the process of restructur-
ing; and (5) capacity building which would involve active public participation.
Numerous policy documents and legislation related to urban form were subse-
quently 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 com-
mercial, along transport routes. It is meaningful from a theoretical point of view to
postulate a corridor city development concept especially in a fragmented urban spa-
tial setting such as the apartheid city (Green, Aberman, & Dominik, 2002; Harrison,
Todes, & Watson, 1997; Tait et al., 1999). The likely outcomes of urban corri-
dor 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 effi-
ciency and productivity could lead to more efficient utilization of infrastructure and
resources and increased economic linkages. The integration of land-use and trans-
port 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 restructur-
ing 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 decen-
tralized 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 empow-
erment 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 automo-
bile 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 trans-
portation 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
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 grow-
ing 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 allevi-
ating 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 esti-
mated 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 sub-
sequent 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
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 develop-
ing 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 reor-
ganization 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 cur-
rent 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
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 combi-
nation 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
process is because many observers speculated that it would not be worth contest-
ing 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 develop-
ment 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 val-
ues” that support low density mono-functional sprawl as opposed to higher density
living (Schoonraad, 2000: 227). International experience also indicates that cul-
tural preferences and lifestyles must be recognized when planning for densities
around stations (Van Wee, 2002). Furthermore residents in Pretoria felt that her-
itage conservation and social aspects, such as place identity, have been ignored.
In addition, of great concern to affected Pretoria residents are the planned inter-
ventions surrounding the stations and park-and-ride facilities, and the practical
implications of the project. Most important, residents are concerned about the via-
bility 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 govern-
ment’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 cur-
rent car owners and users. Overambitious and politically motivated statements in the
Gautrans inception report argued that “it is possible that there may be some oppo-
sition 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).
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 var-
ied 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 sys-
tem 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 sym-
bolic significance. At the launch of the Gautrain project, former Gauteng premier,
Mbhazima Shilowa noted that a dedicated service for local and international air
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 exam-
ple, 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 descrip-
tions 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)

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, accord-
ing 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 suc-
cess 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 inter-
national airport are significant demonstrations of the external face of the country’s
marketing power (Black and Van der Westhuizen, 2004). Notions of speed, connec-
tivity 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 techni-
cal 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 plan-
ners, 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 bet-
ter 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 con-
vince 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 mem-
bers’ connivance in governmental approval of the Gautrain, Mbeki lambasted critics
for being racist and the assumption of the stereotype that black people are “inher-
ently 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
be included in the achievements of civilization. This argument raises the question

regarding the Gautrain’s success in enhancing South Africa’s marketing power, par-
ticularly 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 neu-
tral, unifying symbols in a divided polity, the Gautrain case seems decidedly more
complex and the outcome uncertain. While South African political culture has his-
torically 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 inter-
national 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 worth-
while 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 segre-
gation 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 char-
acterized 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 fac-
tor involved, given the sheer scale of the infrastructure, the project remains marred
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 fig-
ures 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.
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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 high-
way 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

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 con-
nections 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 center-
piece 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 transforma-
tion 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 transforma-
tion 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 sub-
ways 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, under-
ground. 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 exam-
ple 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)

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 vehi-
cles 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 eye-
sore, 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 con-
struction 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)
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 expen-
sive, 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 essen-
tially 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 accom-
modate 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 rel-
atively 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 dis-
posed 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 tun-
nel 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
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 con-
crete 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 sub-
stantially 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 some-
where. 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)

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 impor-
tant 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)
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 empha-
sized 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 achieve-
ments 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 underesti-
mate 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 eco-
nomic 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
a hindrance to, than aid in, further growth. It is thus of a piece with, and exhib-
ited 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 activ-
ity, 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 capi-
tal 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 time-
consuming and unappealing, whether for commuters thinking about jobs, businesses
making location decisions or moving goods, or business visitors or tourists plan-
ning 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 infrastruc-
ture 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 busi-
ness interests crossed party lines, worked connections at all levels of government
vigorously, and rewarded or punished elected officials in part based on their com-
mitment 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 aes-
thetics 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 inter-
urban 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 pro-
ductive 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.
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 com-
plex 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 author-
itative 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 con-
sent 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, con-
sensus 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
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 chal-
lenges. 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 encapsu-
lates the dominant approach to urban planning, transportation, and redevelopment
in the United States from the 1940s through the 1960s, and Boston was no excep-
tion. 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 afford-
able 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 self-
confident 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
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 metropoli-
tan 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 high-
way 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 forma-
tion 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 per-
mission 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 envi-
ronmental 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 politi-
cal 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
individual mitigation agreements, designed to secure the consent of affected com-

munities 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 restric-
tions 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 sur-
face 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 tun-
nel 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 connec-
tivity 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
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 permis-
sion 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)
A third category of mitigation measures was even more explicitly environmental,

providing not only amenities but measurable improvements in ecological function-
ing 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 bene-
fits have become fully available. Others, though, have noted that the highway is still
congested, and that the full costs of corruption and associated substandard construc-
tion 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 ele-
vated 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 complet-
ing 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.
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.
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 trans-
portation (Greg & Ainsley, 2001). In recent years, problems in transportation
have started to be solved by increasing the rail systems. Due to its use of under-
ground, 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]

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 direc-
tion. 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 vege-
tation 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
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 oppo-
site 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
12
POPULATION (million)
10
0
1927
1935
1940
1945
1950
1955
1960
1965
1970
1975
1980
1985
1990
1995
2000
2005
2010
YEARS
Fig. 41.3 Population change in Istanbul, 1927–2010. (TUIK, Turkish Statistical Institute)
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 sustain-
ability 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, traf-
fic 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
70
60
RATE (%)
50
40
30
20
10
0
1935
1940
1945
1950
1955
1960
1965
1970
1975
1980
1985
1990
1997
2000
2005
2010
YEARS
Fig. 41.4 Population change in Asian and European sides of Istanbul: 1935–2010. (TUIK, Turkish
Statistical Institute)
41.1.4 Transportation in Istanbul

One-fifth of Turkey’s economic production occurs in Istanbul and 90% of pas-
senger 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 sec-
tions 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 den-
sity 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 accor-
dance 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)
41.2 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 con-
straints. 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 tun-
nel 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 struc-
ture, 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 charac-
teristics of the city were identified by a computerized design and several alternatives
were developed with combinations of different transportation systems. After a mul-
tidimensional 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)
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 struc-
tures and systems include the immersed tube tunnel, bored tunnels, cut-and-cover
tunnels, at – grade structures, three new underground stations and 37 surface sta-
tions. 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

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 environ-
ment 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 indi-
vidual 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.
The Project will reduce other negative environmental problems currently affect-
ing 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 green-
house 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, punc-
tuality 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 prob-
lems, 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 inter-
operability 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 consid-
erable amount. At peak construction time some 6.000–8.000 people will be directly
employed and double that amount with subcontractors and suppliers. The work-
ers 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
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 improve-
ment in air quality as reduced highway vehicle kilometers will reduce transport
air pollution in the metropolitan area; the project will also cause reduction in air-
borne 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 num-
ber 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 num-
ber 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-and-
ride facilities will allow more passengers to have greater accessibility to a fast,
safe, and clean rail transport service; all stations will be environmentally com-
patible; 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 Söğütlüçeşme (Kadıköy)
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 Kazlıçeşme 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); sur-
face 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); max-
imum 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 plat-
form (minimum) 225 m (738 ft); type of platform center; capacity of existing com-
muter 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 con-
sulting 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 bid-
ding. 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.
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 exten-
sive 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 Terzibaşıoğlu
Müşavirlik Mühendislik Ltd. Sti. (TMM) and Yerbilimleri Etüd ve Müşavirlik
Ltd. Şti. (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 Kazlıçeşme-Ayrılıkçeşme, 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 construc-
tion 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 com-
panies 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-Haydarpaşa, Sirkeci-Halkalı commuter rails and con-
struction 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-Doğuş) Group on 28 March 2007.
Work started 21 June that year.
The scope of the contract includes the following: the renovation and upgrad-
ing 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 reno-
vating 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
Kazlıçeşme to Söğütlüçeşme 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
historical buildings (10). The system will include 300 km (186 mi) of electri-
fication, 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 vehicle-
modern 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 cor-
rectly; testing before and after termination of the project; procuring all backup
and substitute parts and tools; five years of job maintenance on all work com-
pleted, 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, Ayrılıkçeşme 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 Bayrampaşa (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
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 recon-
struction 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 archi-
tectural 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 his-
tory 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 build-
ing and the Temenos Wall (Belkaya et al., 2008). Excavation work was also done
in Ayrılıkçeşme (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 addi-
tion 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
basis. Excavations at these sites continue. Those in Ayrılıkçeşme (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 respon-
sible 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 col-
lapse 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 build-
ing 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 experi-
ence 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 grout-
ing (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 environ-
mental 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 pre-
pared by Dokuz Eylül University Institute of Marine Science and Technology.
The Ministry of Agriculture and Rural Affairs were contacted for legal permis-
sion 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 con-
struction 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 environ-
mental 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 construc-
tion 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
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 num-
bers 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 arti-
facts 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 trans-
portation 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 sub-
stantially 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, tun-
nels and stations. Ankara, Turkey: Republic of Turkey, Ministry of Transportation, General
Directorate of Railways, Harbours and Airports Construction (DLH).
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 qual-

ity. 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 embarka-
tion 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 cen-
tral 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

736 C.W. Matthiessen and R.D. Knowles
Table 42.1 The world’s biggest bridges as measured by free span
Year
Bridge name and country completed Span, meters (feet)
Akashi-Kaikyo, Japan 1998 1,991 (6,529)

Xihoumen Bridge, China 2007 1,650 (5,414)
Great Belt East Bridge, Denmark 1998 1,624 (5,328)
Runyang South Bridge, China 2005 1,490 (4,888)
Humber Bridge, United Kingdom 1981 1,410 (4,626)
Jiangyin Bridge, China 1999 1,385 (4,543)
Tsing Ma Bridge, China 1997 1,377 (4,518)
Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, United States 1964 1,298 (4,260)
Golden Gate Bridge, United States 1937 1,280 (4,200)
Yangluo Bridge, China 2007 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 differ-
ences 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 cross-
boundary 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 tun-
nels 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 pop-
ulation 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.
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 sus-
pension 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 rail-
road. 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 com-
panies). 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 advan-
tage. 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)
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 motor-
ways 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 avail-
ability, 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
Fig. 42.4 The Great Belt’s East Bridge under construction. (Photo: Jan Kofod
Winther/Øresundsbro Konsortiet and A/S Storebælt)
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 advan-
tages. 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 link-
ing 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
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 Spanish-
made. 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 con-
struction 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)
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, tun-
nel, 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.
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 interac-
tion, 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 con-
centrated 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 rebuild-
ing 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.
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 con-
siderations 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 (incom-
ing 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 evap-
oration 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 threat-
ened 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
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 effi-
ciency 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 con-
suming. 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
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 trans-
port 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 communi-
cation 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 construc-
tion 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 proxim-
ity 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 com-
pleted. 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

748 S.A. Harris
43.2 The Physical Setting

The Tibetan Plateau occupies a very large (1.3 M km2 ) area, generally with ele-
vations 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 con-
sist 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 ecosys-
tems 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 trans-
mission 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 cli-
mate 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 mois-
ture 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, low-
elevation 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
was established as the Qinghai Province of China in 1928 with Xi’ning as its admin-
istrative 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 con-
nection 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 pro-
vided 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 eco-
nomic 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 subsi-
dence (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 con-
struction 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 observa-
tions 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 north-
ern 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 exper-
iment 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 evi-
dence 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 east-
ern 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 effec-
tive in regions with dry summer air such as southern Alberta and the Tibetan
Plateau.
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 pro-
cess. 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 cross-
sectional 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, result-
ing 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 sym-
metrical 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)
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 con-
figurations 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 insu-
lation 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).
43.6 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 travel-
ing 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 per-
mafrost 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 main-
tained 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)
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 (usu-
ally 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 rail-
road 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. Track-
laying 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 transporta-
tion 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 exten-
sions 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 rail-
way 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.
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 life-
threatening 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 prob-
lems. 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 desertifi-
cation. 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 south-
ern 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 per-
mafrost 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 situa-
tion. 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 com-
paction 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 trans-
portation 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.
From an international point of view, the railroad represents an important mile-

stone 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.
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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

770 A. Mehra et al.
of economic, interpersonal, and institutional relationships. The structure of this net-

work 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 intercon-
nected 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 fam-
ilies 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 con-
ference (“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 cita-
tions 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 repre-
sent 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, epi-
demiology, 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
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 individu-
als, 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 con-
nected 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 operational-
ized in terms of the commonly used “degree” measure of centrality (see Appendix
for descriptions, including mathematical formulas, of commonly used network cen-
trality 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 dif-
ferent 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 rep-
resent 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 net-
work 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 net-
work.” 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
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 employ-
ees. 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 for-
mulation 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 perfor-
mance 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?
Here we describe three canonical mechanisms that seem most relevant to the study
of MEPs:
Transmission. A mechanism invoked in network analysis involves direct trans-

mission 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 envi-
ronmental 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 direc-
torates. 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 inter-
organizational 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 impor-
tance. From a network perspective, a crucial predictor of system performance is
system structure. Future research should examine the relationship between the struc-
ture of MEPs and their relative performance. It could be hypothesized, for example,
that MEPs with denser network structures will outperform those with sparser net-
work 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 pow-
erfully 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
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 inno-
vative 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 dif-
ferent 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 meth-
ods 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 influ-
ence 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.
For a given binary network with vertices v1 . . . vn and maximum degree cen-
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 normal-
ized closeness centrality of a vertex is the reciprocal of farness divided by the
minimum possible farness expressed as a percentage. As an alternative to tak-
ing 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 mea-
sure 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.
For a given network with vertices v1 . . . vn and maximum betweenness
cen-
trality cmax, the network betweenness centralization measure is (cmax –c(vi ))
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 52.941 2.315 49.810

44.444 52.941 2.315 49.810
33.333 50.000 0 40.423
66.667 60.000 10.185 68.027
33.333 50.000 0 40.423
55.556 64.286 23.148 56.242
55.556 64.286 23.148 56.242
33.333 60.000 38.889 27.699
22.222 42.857 22.222 6.799
11.111 31.034 0 1.579
divided by the maximum value possible, where c(vi ) is the betweenness central-
ity 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 ver-
tex 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 cen-
trality 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).
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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 con-
troversial “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 con-
tinuing 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 contrac-
tors 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 reinvig-
oration 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

784 J. Henderson
Fig. 45.1 Map of significant Bechtel projects in 2008
government expenditure on civilian public works. Notably Bechtel works in inter-

city 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 News-
Record 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. consid-
ers 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 subcon-
tractor with a scraper and two mules grading railroad beds in the Midwest. Moving
to Northern California, Warren Bechtel worked in the Southern Pacific engineer-
ing 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 head-
quarters 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 rela-
tionships 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 gen-
erous 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 megapro-
ject 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 dur-
ing 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 investiga-
tion which concluded that the builders had 70,000 labor violations; the consortium
was fined $350,000. The consortium put out media releases promoting the great-
ness 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 mas-
sive 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 pres-
ence 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
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 dur-
ing 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 fos-
sil 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 can-
celed 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 1,200-
MW 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 sim-
ply 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 investi-
gated 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 con-
firmation 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 mis-
truths, 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
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 contrac-
tors 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 con-
tracts 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 speak-
ing engagements. Salaries of executives and directors are not disclosed, and Riley
Bechtel, continuing the family tradition, even created an obscure foundation to han-
dle 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 infor-
mal group organized the Bay Area planning agenda by forming local planning
think tanks and pro-business advocacy organizations, and most notably, promot-
ing 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 com-
pany 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 establish-
ment 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
and Bechtel contributed $15,000. According to Hall (1982) there was little orga-
nized 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 industri-
alists 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 tran-
sit 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
$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 down-
town 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 shel-
ter 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 scat-
tered, 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 glob-
alization. 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 mega-
engineer America away from fossil fuels and towards realistically reducing carbon
emissions. Specifically, the company has strength in building the type of mass transit
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 stimu-
lus 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 develop-
ing 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 orig-
inal 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 consor-
tium 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/)

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, includ-
ing 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 air-
port 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 con-
flicts 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 megapro-
jects. 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. transporta-
tion 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
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 nat-
ural 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 pat-
tern 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, partic-
ularly 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).
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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 $US 1.7 trillion (TACO, 2002) It is vital for China, especially for the
development of public infrastructure. In 2004–2005, the total production of the con-
struction industry reached RMB 3455.2 billion (US$ 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 thou-
sand 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 activ-
ity (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

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 mar-
ket 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 regis-
tered 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 com-
petitive 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 mega-
infrastructure 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, construc-
tion, 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 well-
established 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 admin-
istration 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
Table 46.1 Examples of mega infrastructure projects in China
806
Brief introduction Budget and schedule
Olympic venues 1. to host 2008 Beijing Olympic Games US$ 2 billion

2. 31 venues in Beijing and 5 venues in other cities, e.g. 3 years
1. National Stadium (Bird’s Nest)
2. National Aquatics Centre (Water Cube)
South-to-North 1. strategic restructuring of water resources of China’s Yangtze and Yellow river valleys; 500 billion RMB
water diversion 2. relief China’s drought-ridden north by diverting water from the Yangtze River; First stage:
3. comprised of three water diversion routes: Western Route Project (WRP) and Middle Route Project 2003–2010
(MRP) and Eastern Route Project (ERP); Second stage:
4. will divert water from upper, middle, and lower reaches of Yangtze River respectively, to meet the 2010–2020
developing requirements of Northwest and North China Third stage:
5. 38 billion to 48 billion cubic meters of water will be transferred yearly to the areas with a 2020–2050
population of 300 million
Three Gorge Dam 1. The dam, the hydropower station, the two-lane 5-stage navigation locks and the single-lane vertical 90.09 billion RMB
ship lift yuan on the basis
2. The largest hydropower project, which can be used for flood control (improved from that of 10-year of the prices of
flood control to that of 100-year flood control), power generation (to Chongqing, East China and 1993
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
West–East electricity 1. To balance the distribution of China’s energy More than
transmission 2. Satisfy the power demand for the eastern region development 526.5billion yuan
project 3. Format of a north-middle-south route power transmission pattern (excluding Three
4. Compromised of three routes: the north route; the middle route and the south route Gorge project)
2001–2010
West–East natural 5. To balance the distribution of China’s energy 146.3 billion yuan
gas transmission 1. To build a 4,200-km pipeline laid to transfer the rich natural gas from western Xinjiang and other 2002–2004
J. Zuo et al.
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
Source: BOCOG, (2008); NSBD, (2008); Xinhuanet, (2008); Zhao, (2006)

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 contract-
ing 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 supervi-
sion 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 inde-
pendent 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 prin-
ciples 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 engi-
neers 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 com-
prehensive 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 for-
mulates 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 munici-
pal 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 strate-
gies 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 opti-
mize 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 reg-
ulations 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
The National People’s

Congress (NPC)
The Standing Committee of

the NPC
Supreme People’s Supreme People’s Central Military

The State Council
Court Protectorate Commission
The National
Ministry of
Development and
Construction
Reform Commission
Provincial
Provincial Provincial
People’s
Committee of Committee of
Congress and
Construction Development
The Standing
and Reform
Committee
Municipal Municipal People’s Municipal Committee of

Committee of Congress and The Development and
Construction Standing Committee Reform
Municipal Fire Municipal Municipal Municipal Municipal Other

Central Government Fighting Engineering Environmental Commission of Tendering Municipal
Bureau Bureau Protection Bureau Urban Planning Office 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 back-

ground. While they may not have the skills and knowledge of contract law,
construction economics and contract administration are essential for the success-
ful management of the project.
2. There are a series of competing and overlapping (in function) temporary orga-
nizations 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 construc-
tion, 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 sys-
tem 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 ten-
dering 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 state-
owned 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 indus-
try 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 pro-
cess 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,
User unit Raise the requirements; develop the project proposal; submit the
proposal to MCDR for approval
Approve the project proposal; state clearly that DaiJianZhi will be

MCDR adopted in the approved project
MCDR Choose the Agent via tendering
MCDR; Agent; User Unit Sign the DaiJianZhi contract
Agent Choose the surveying firm via tendering; the surveying firm conducts
the preliminary design
MCDR; DUP; DoC, and other Approve the preliminary design and the estimation of budget
relevant authorities
Agent Choose the firms to be responsible for the construction, the Legend
supervision and supplying of major equipments and materials
MCDR: Municipal Commission of
Development and Reform
MCDR; DUP; DoC and other DUP: Department of Urban Planning
relevant authorities; User Final check and acceptance of the completed project according to
the contract and relevant laws and regulations DoC: Department of Construction
unit
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 incen-
tive 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 qual-
ity, 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 con-
struction 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 man-
agement. 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 govern-
ment) 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 environ-
ment.
(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 construc-
tion 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
professionals with rich knowledge and experiences in international contracting prac-

tices. Stewart and Jiang’s research (2004) found that even though these professionals
have had tertiary training, they have had little chance to receive formal profes-
sional 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 perfor-
mance of construction projects. The results revealed several common theme of the
construction project culture, including the following:
1. Satisfying the client’s needs (Making the client happy),

2. Establishing good interpersonal relationships (Guanxi),
3. Support coming from the senior management,
4. Clearly defining each party’s responsibilities, power and benefits,
5. Rewards for cost savings,
6. Consideration of others, and
7. 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 num-
ber 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 iden-
tified 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 inter-
national 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 produc-
tivity 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
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 indus-
try 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 construc-
tion 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 mate-
rials, 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 partici-
pating 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 pro-
file 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 gener-
ally easier to be transferred to the local industry. Initially most of CICs choose
the low-level technology which is relatively easy for African construction com-
panies to emulate (Centre for Chinese Studies, 2006). Nowadays more and more
CICs are adopting more sophisticated methods and technologies whereas com-
paratively cheap equipment is utilized. This equipment is easy to be accessed by
local firms.
Finally, the government’s support and its diplomatic relationships with develop-
ing 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, West-
East 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 con-
tracting (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 inno-
vative 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.
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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 com-
mission 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 exist-
ing situation and work environment. The industry involves many different sectors,
including the construction of individual houses and residential developments, com-
mercial 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 spend-
ing 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

820 A. Sivam et al.
one of the most significant is allowing foreigners to purchase property. This pro-
gram 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 con-
tributes 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 construc-
tion 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 Manama 1, 046, 814 716

Qatar Doha 1, 307, 229 11, 437
Kuwait Kuwait 2, 460, 000 17, 818
Oman Muscat 2, 534, 000 309, 500
Saudi Arabia Riyadh 26, 417, 599 2, 240, 000
United Arab Emirates Abu Dhabi 4, 588, 697 83, 600
Total 38, 354, 339 2, 663, 071
47.3 Construction Industry Overview

This section provides an overview of growth of the construction sector; the work-
ers 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)

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 condi-
tions, 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 infras-
tructure 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 contract-
ing 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 infrastruc-
ture, 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/)
Fig. 47.7 The dynamic tower Dubai. (Source: http://malaysiacity.wordpress.com/2008/06/25/the-

dynamic-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/projects-

66-al_madina_azarqa_blue_city/)
826 A. Sivam et al.
The city will cover 34 km2 (13 mi2 ) and accommodate around 200,000 resi-
dents. 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)
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 pro-
vide 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-city-
the-story-of-dubai/)
and 47.11). The residential areas are not separated by nationality as all nationali-
ties 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 com-
mitment 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 state-
ment 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 accommoda-
tions 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
included women in the construction industry, but mostly at offices not on con-
struction 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 fam-
ily. 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 immigra-
tion 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 some-
what 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 construc-
tion 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 short-
age, 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 num-
ber 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 man-
agerial 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 admin-
istrators, 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 col-
lar 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 sec-
tor (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 pol-
icy 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 con-
struction 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 work-
ers 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
10.6%. UAE and Qatar salary increases are close to Oman’s. In addition to short-
ages 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 pro-
fessionals 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 indus-
try 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%, infras-
tructure 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 over-
seas 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 con-
sulting 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 construc-
tions. 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 solu-
tions 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 profes-
sionals 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
reviewing design documentation; reviewing pre-tender estimates; preparing ten-

der documentation; assisting the client to select the most appropriate procurement
method; appraising tenders and making tender recommendations; assisting in draft-
ing contract conditions and negotiating contracts with the selected construction
enterprises; verifying subcontractors nominated by the general contractor; review-
ing 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 con-
struction such as labor, materials and construction plants. There are both local and
overseas contractors. However, as noted above, the percentage of overseas contrac-
tors 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 Projects
Emaar Dubai Marina, Arabian Ranches, Emirates Hills, the Meadows, the Springs,
the Greens, the Lakes, the Views and Emaar Towers and Burj Dubai
Nakheel 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 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 com-
mitted themselves to more investments in basic infrastructure, such as the construc-
tion 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 accom-
modation standards and a mechanism to ensure the payment of salaries to protect
workers’ rights and to improve living standards (Issa, 2009b). The Dubai govern-
ment 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 hav-

ing 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
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 bil-
lion 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 continu-
ing 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$10 billion-worth of Dubai’s five-year bonds (The Economist,
2009). However, most of the bank did well in the first quarter of the year 2009 and
their assets have risen (Husain, 2009). The performance was much better in the first
quarter of 2009 than the same period in 2008. There were 405,000 work permits
cancelled from October 2008 to March 2009, whereas 662,000 work permits were
issued during the same period (Issa 2009b, 2009d). The figures show an increase
in the number of expatriate workers. Thus it is clear that there the GFC is hav-
ing an impact on the construction industries in GCC countries. But the intensity of
the crisis is not the same and the Central Bank of the UAE demonstrates that Gulf
countries are coming out of crisis (Husain 2009). Recently Abu Dhabi announced a
number of new projects whose cumulative cost is Arab Emirates Dirhams 30 billion
(approximately US$ 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 con-
struction projects in the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) countries. Due to a limited
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, primar-
ily 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 struc-
tural specialists, quantity surveyors, planning engineers, project directors, design
managers, contract administrators, and urban planners. The shortage of these work-
ers 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 gradu-
ates 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.
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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 cli-
mate 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 poten-
tial 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 restau-
rant 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 con-
verts used cooking oil into biodiesel for delivery trucks in the United Kingdom and
Hawaii (Rogers, 2008). Hook Seafood of Washington, D.C., exemplifies a grow-
ing 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 environ-
mental 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

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 collab-
oration 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 con-
sideration 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 man-
agement 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 fig-
ures 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 repre-

sent 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 con-
trast to the extent of formalization operating in the channel (Dwyer & Oh, 1988).
Formalization refers to the extent to which procedures have been codified, yet mon-
itoring 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 can-
not continue without achievement of other objectives, our study addresses multiple
organizational outcomes. Prior analyses of sustainability efforts recognize that sus-
tainable 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 work-
ing 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 environ-
mental 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 con-
sumer 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 alter-
natives to traditional chemicals such as laundry detergent and household cleansers.
Environmentally motivated purchasing decisions have been facilitated by indepen-
dent 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 compli-
ance 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
sustainable resources enable firms to become more environmentally responsible

(Russo & Fouts, 1997). This proactive approach necessarily changes the inter-
nal 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 per-
formance. 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 con-
trol 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 sus-
tainability. 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 out-
comes, the agent maintains a sense of control over the action (Deci & Ryan 1987).
Consequently, the agent retains a sense of autonomy that yields heightened satis-
faction 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
solutions. They provide the ability for companies to reduce paper, printer, ware-
house 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 prod-
ucts 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 auton-
omy (Perrow, 1986), and therefore yield lower satisfaction in the relationship with
the principal (Heide et al., 2007). Behavioral monitoring should influence the out-
puts and inputs associated with financial performance. The oversight of agent action
is viewed as intrusive and produces negatives attitudes toward associated relation-
ships. 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 deci-
sion 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 require-
ments 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 capabil-
ities 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 sim-
ilar 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 relation-
ship between resources possessed by the firm and competitive advantage confound
competitor efforts to imitate their rivals. For example, Cisco coordinates order man-
agement 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 prod-
uct 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 environmen-
tal 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 envi-
ronmental 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 com-
petitive 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 suppli-
ers 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 col-
laboration 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 neg-
ative 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 mon-
itoring 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 out-
puts 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.
H3 suggests that the output collaboration exacerbates the influence of output

monitoring on multiple forms of effectiveness. In contrast, the influence of behav-
ioral 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 priori-
ties, 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 struc-
tures 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
goals. Moreover, we illustrate how combined use of these mechanisms can yield bet-
ter environmental, economic, and social performance. We hope that our treatment
of monitoring and collaboration offers insight to retail management and channels
research.
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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 inter-
modal terminal projects, particularly ports (Rimmer & Comtois, 2009). All over the
world, terminals and their surrounding areas face mounting pressures to accom-
modate 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 mar-
kets. 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 oper-
ations, 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

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 con-

sumption for freight terminal activities, intermodal terminals remain an under-
represented 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 individ-
ual 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 inter-
national 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 opera-
tions, an ownership and management structure that reflects well the emergence of
mega-terminals has been established. Like the industrial sector, the terminal oper-
ation 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 ter-
minal 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 ter-
minal 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 specializa-
tion 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 con-
tainer 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),
World Traffic
500
World Throughput
Full Containers
400 Transshipment
Empty Containers
Million TEU
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 com-
plexes 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.
49.2.2 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, container-
ization 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 oper-
ations 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 con-
tainer 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 man-
aged 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 accord-
ing 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 con-
tainer 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 container-
ship 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 con-
tainer crane can have a 18–20 wide coverage, implying that it can service a
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 per-

form 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 contain-
ers 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 allo-
cated to a truck or a holster. These areas can also be outside the terminal
facilities. In inland freight distribution, there are on average three chassis

available per container.
Administration. The management facility of the terminal, often having a con-
trol tower to insure a level of visibility of the whole terminal area. This is
where many complex logistical functions are performed such as the assign-
ment of delivered containers to a storage space location as well as the location
and the loading or unloading sequence of containers by straddlers and hol-
sters. 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 termi-
nal’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 inter-
modal 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
Intermodal Yard
Repair/maintenance
Up/Drop Off/Storage
Gate/Administration
Container/Chassis Pick
Chassis storage
1 km
Rail Track Operations Storage Yard Operations Gate Operations
Fig. 49.7 Intermodal rail facility. (Source: Author)

several occasions. This assignment mainly takes place at the origin, des-
tination 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, distribu-
tion 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 load-
ing 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 infrastruc-
tures 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 estab-
lishment 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 pro-
cess 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
Transshipment
Costs per TEU
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 termi-
nals. 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 transporta-
tion 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 conve-
nience countries to take advantage of less stringent regulations, notably concerning
14,000
12,000
10,000
8,000
6,000
4,000
2,000
0
70
72
74
76
78
80
82
84
86
88
90
92
94
96
98
00
02
04
06
08
19
19
19
19
19
19
19
19
19
19
19
19
19
19
19
20
20
20
20
20
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 con-
tainerships 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 thresh-
old. 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 pro-
cess 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 para-
dox 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 lim-
itations 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 stan-
dard 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 sig-
nificant improvements (Table 49.1). This change brings with it new infrastructures,
equipment and procedures. It is also a matter of competitiveness, both on the mar-
itime 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 out-
come 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 con-
tinued 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 capac-
ity for Rotterdam, outside the reconversion of existing terminal sites into more
productive uses.
Table 49.1 Technical changes in container port terminals
Standard container port Emerging paradigm
Berthing depth 12–15 m (40–50 ft) More than 15 m (50 ft)

Stacking density 1,000–1,200 TEUs per ha 2,000–4,000 TEUs per ha
Ship-to-shore gantry crane About 30 movements per hour About 50 movements per hour
(portainer) productivity
Dwell time at container About 6 days About 3 days
yard
Truck turnaround time About 60 min About 30 min
Rail access In port area On dock
Source: Ircha (2006)

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 facili-
ties 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 endur-
ing 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 container-
ized freight movements with notable impacts on the landscape. The principle of
economies of scale has resulted in impressive high capacity engineering achieve-
ments 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 amor-
tize 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 ship-
ping. 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 pro-
moters, 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 pas-
sengers 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 dol-
lars 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 cen-
ter. Dubai was ranked 314th in metropolitan population in the United Nation’s 2005
World Urbanization Prospects database. And while the emirate’s sparkling new sky-
line 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

868 J.T. Bowen and J.L. Cidell
Table 50.1 World’s leading passenger airports, 2007
Passengers
Rank Airport (Million) Growth (% over 2006)
1 Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta Int’l 83.4 5.3

2 Chicago O’Hare Int’l 76.2 −0.1
3 Heathrow (London) 68.1 0.8
4 Haneda (Tokyo) 66.8 1.1
5 Los Angeles Int’l 61.9 1.4
6 Paris Charles de Gaulle Int’l 59.9 5.4
7 Dallas-Fort Worth Int’l 59.8 −0.7
8 Frankfurt 54.2 2.6
9 Beijing Capital Int’l 53.6 10.1
10 Madrid Barajas Int’l 53.6 13.9
11 Denver Int’l 49.9 5.4
12 Amsterdam Airport Schiphol 47.8 3.8
13 John F. Kennedy Int’l (New York) 47.7 11.9
14 Hong Kong Int’l 47.0 7.3
15 Las Vegas McCarran Int’l 47.0 3.2
16 George Bush Intercontinental (Houston) 43.0 1.1
17 Phoenix Sky Harbor Int’l 42.2 1.8
18 Suvarnabhumi (Bangkok) 41.2 −3.7
19 Changi (Singapore) 36.7 4.8
20 Orlando Int’l 36.5 5.3
21 Newark Liberty Int’l 36.4 2.1
22 Detroit Metro 36.0 0.0
23 San Francisco Int’l 35.8 6.6
24 Narita Int’l (Tokyo) 35.5 1.4
25 Gatwick (London) 35.2 3.1
26 Minneapolis-St. Paul Int’l 35.2 −1.3
27 Dubai Int’l 34.3 19.3
28 Munich-Franz Josef Strauss 34.0 10.4
29 Miami Int’l 33.7 3.7
30 Charlotte Douglas Int’l 33.2 11.7
Source: Airport Council International (2008)
a peer of Frankfurt or Chicago, much less New York or London. In fact, the air-
ports – 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 cen-
tury, 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 air-

port 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 high-
way) 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 combina-
tion 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 air-
ports 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
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 mega-
project: 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
Table 50.2 The world’s most expensive airports
Cost (billions of
Country Airport Year opened 2007 US dollars)
China Hong Kong Int’l 1998 24.8

Japan Kansai Int’l (Osaka) 1994 19.9
Saudi Arabia King Abdul Aziz Int’l 1982 9.5
(Jeddah)
Saudi Arabia King Khalid Int’l 1983 9.2
(Riyadh)
Japan Central Japan Int’l 2005 7.7
(Nagoya)
Germany Munich-Franz Josef 1992 7.4
Strauss
South Korea Seoul Incheon Int’l 2001 7.3
USA Denver Int’l 1995 6.5
Malaysia Kuala Lumpur Int’l 1998 4.0
Norway Oslo – Gardermoen 1999 3.4
Thailand Bangkok Int’l 2006 3.4
Suvarnabhumi
Japan Kobe 2006 2.8
Japan Narita Int’l (Tokyo) 1978 2.8
China Guangzhou-Baiyun 2004 2.7
Int’l
USA Dallas-Ft. Worth Int’l 1974 2.4
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 trans-
port 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 Heathrow (London) 2008 8.7

New terminal Madrid Barajas Int’l 2006 8.0
New runway Haneda (Tokyo) 2009 5.5
New terminal Dubai Int’l 2008 4.1
New terminal/new runway Bejing Capital 2008 3.9
New terminal Pudong Int’l (Shanghai) 2008 2.9
New terminal Toronto Pearson Int’l 2004 2.7
New terminal Indira Gandhi Int’l (Delhi) 2010 2.6
New runway/terminals Tripoli Int’l (Libya) 2009 2.1
New terminal Zurich 2005 2.1
New runway Kansai Int’l (Osaka) 2007 1.8
New terminal Mineta San Jose Int’l (USA) 2010 1.8
New terminal Munich-Franz Josef Strauss 2003 1.7
New terminal King Abdul Aziz Int’l (Jeddah) 2010 1.5
New runway Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta Int’l 2005 1.4
∗ The costs indicated have not been adjusted for inflation
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), fin-
ished 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 ter-
minal 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 engi-
neering 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.
Table 50.4 A comparison of the new airport terminals in Beijing and London
Heathrow airport
Item Beijing capital int’l airport terminal 3 terminal 5
Size (m2 ) 1,300,000 465,000

Capacity 47 million 30 million
(passengers
per year)
Cost ($ billion) 3.9 8.7
Lead architect Norman Foster + Partners Richard Rogers
Partnership
Design selected November 2003 July 1989
Construction March 2004 September 2002
Began
Opened to public February 2008 March 2008
Airlines Many foreign airlines (including all members of British Airways
the Star Alliance and oneworld) and
international flights by most Chinese carriers
Yet for all their differences, there are important similarities between the new
terminals at Beijing and Heathrow and between those terminals and new “megater-
minals” and mega-airports built elsewhere in the world. To begin, each is extraordi-
narily 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 sys-
tems, 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 for-
mer 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 strik-
ing 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
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 envi-
ronments 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 archi-
tectural 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 encour-
aged 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
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 pas-
senger 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
Average annual
Region 1998 2008 growth rate (%)
North Africa and Middle East 1, 493, 561 2, 880, 664 6.8
Subsaharan Africa 840, 594 1, 296, 745 4.4
South and Central Asia 988, 537 2, 467, 239 9.6
Northeast and Southeast Asia 8, 799, 090 14, 501, 459 5.1
Western Europe 10, 701, 871 16, 911, 805 4.7
Eastern and Central Europe 919, 896 1, 963, 235 7.9
Latin America 4, 510, 569 5, 507, 694 2.0
North America 21, 345, 358 21, 261, 471 0
Southwest Pacific 1, 593, 427 2, 178, 474 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
(Feldman & Milch, 1982: Chapter 3). There has been a tendency for forecast-
ers 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 infras-
tructure, such as the maximal use of existing runways and terminals through
congestion pricing. Given such impediments to accurate forecasting, it is hardly sur-
prising 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 traf-
ficked 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 else-
where 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 fast-
growing Houston and its airport, and the development of the new airport at Roissy-
en-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 headquar-
ters 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 knowledge-
intensive industries like business consulting, finance, microelectronics, and
pharmaceuticals.
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 rela-
tions, 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 pro-
cess 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
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 poli-
tics 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 facili-
tate 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 com-
plement 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
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 com-
mercial 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, passen-
ger 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 caution-
ary 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), result-
ing 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 juris-
dictions 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 anniver-
sary 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
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 diffi-
culties 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 build-
ing 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
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 passen-
ger 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 sub-
sidence 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 con-
cerning 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 inter-
ests. 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 pro-
hibition 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 under-
lines 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
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 sus-
tainable 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 econ-
omy, 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 vaca-
tioning 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 con-
templating 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 attrac-
tiveness 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.
Although aviation represents a small percentage of the total contribution of trans-

portation 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 environmen-
tal 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 carri-
ers, 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 own-
ership 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
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 eventu-
ally 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 ultra-
fuel-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 air-
craft, 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 chal-
lenges today that are likely to have a significant impact on airports and related
infrastructure. The economic challenges to airline manufacturers, airlines, and air-
ports themselves mean that physical capacity constraints are eased somewhat for the
time being, although the concomitant declining revenues are obviously not desir-
able. 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 fund-
ing 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 else-
where 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
opposition from local communities and significant concerns about the proposed airport’s
impact on wetlands (Johnson, 2002).
5. Called Rogers Stirk Harbour and Partners by the time the terminal opened.
6. 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’ cal-
culations based on contemporary development cost estimates adjusted with the relevant GDP
price deflator).
7. 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.
8. Passenger traffic is measured in passenger-kilometers; cargo traffic is measured in freight
tonne-kilometers.
9. 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).
10. 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 air-
port 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.
11. The total cost of the airport’s expansion was estimated at $2.6 billion in 2006 (Airline
Business, 2006).
12. 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.
13. At Washington Dulles International, O’Hare International, and Seattle-Tacoma International.
14. 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).
15. 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.
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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 build-
ing. 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 well-
tread 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 intensi-
fied. 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, includ-
ing museums, stadiums, and hospitals. People have many destinations, and if a
university destination is not one of them, it can usually be avoided without diffi-
culty. 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

890 J.A. Martin
disciplines, and the research ambitions of faculty and administrators. The atten-
tion, 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 col-
leges 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 Ohio State University 53,715

2 Arizona State University 52,734
3 University of Florida 51,413
4 University of Minnesota-TC 51,141
5 University of Central Florida 50,254
6 University of Texas at Austin 50,006
7 Texas A&M University 48,029
8 Michigan State University 46,648
9 University of South Florida 46,174
10 Pennsylvania State University 44,406
11 University of Washington 42,113
12 University of Wisconsin-Madison 42,041
13 University of Illinois at Urbana 42,025
14 University of Michigan 41,028
15 Purdue University 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 iden-
tified 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 cul-
tural 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 uni-
versity 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 aca-
demic 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 far-
ther 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 idiosyn-
crasies, as its founding predated Minnesota becoming a state, the University has a
level of political autonomy unusual among peer public institutions]. Lack of enroll-
ment 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 “experimen-

tal 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 observa-
tory, 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 phys-
ical 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 eventu-
ally 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 sub-
urbs. 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 experi-
enced a significant construction boom. The core East Bank campus leapt decisively
across Washington Avenue toward the river, adding massive new structures for med-
ical, dental, nursing and public health education. Clinical education took on new
importance (500,000 patients annually visit University clinics and the hospital). It
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 accom-
modating 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 vegeta-
tion 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 mas-
sive 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, economically-
significant, 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
(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) dis-
tance between the two main segments of the Minneapolis campus. Two existing
bridges from the 1880s already joined the campus to the Cedar-Riverside commu-
nity 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 rebel-
lious 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 anti-
establishment 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 com-
mitted, 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 devel-
oper 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 differ-
ent. Academic Health Center (AHC) ambitions deemed the south-of-Washington
facilities inadequate by the 1990s. (The AHC was created in the 1980s as an admin-
istrative 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
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 cre-
ated 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 com-
pleted in 1991, the second (Center for Magnetic Resonance Research) in 1998;
the Maguire Translational Research Facility was added in 2004. As these build-
ings 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 for-
ward, 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 long-
term 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 biologi-
cal 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 can-
cer, 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 plan-
ners 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 mov-
ing 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 equip-
ment 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, bypass-
ing 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 perspec-
tive. 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, wor-
ries 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 cre-
ated 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 north-
ern perimeter of the East Bank, but the traffic questions remain unanswered. The
University’s other major concern addressed the noise/vibration impact on multi-
million 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 tech-
nology 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 cur-
rently 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.
51.5.4 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 bond-
ing, 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 remain-
ing 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 poten-
tial 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 ongo-

ing 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 exam-
ple 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 cam-
pus, 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 disinvest-
ment 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 coopera-
tion. Four close-by neighborhoods are specifically targeted for attention, including
a homeowner buying incentive program for University staff and faculty, monitor-
ing 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 mea-
sure 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+ under-
graduate 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.
It has morphed from a small traditional campus focused on undergraduate edu-

cation, 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 “eco-
nomic 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 foreshort-
ened 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, trans-
gressing 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 edu-
cation 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, uni-
versities are physically grounded. The University of Minnesota, and nearly every
other higher education institution that is not “virtual,” is place-bound. This institu-
tion 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 establish-
ing 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 sub-
urbanization of the population in the United States. The migration of populations
S. Thumma (B)
Sociology of Religion, Hartford Seminary, Hartford, CT 06105, USA

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 con-
text 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 educa-
tion programs, certain churches expanded and adapted to a new world at only a
slightly slower pace than did the large magnet high schools, transnational corpo-
rate 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 move-
ment 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 mega-
level, 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 nonde-
nominational 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 con-
centrations 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 con-
temporary 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.
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
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 guard-
edness of these churches, very little writing or research has focused on these
congregations. Christian consultants and church growth experts did the earliest writ-
ings 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 presenta-
tion (1993) and dissertation in 1996 were the first academic writings to suggest that
the megachurch reality should be considered a distinctive national social and reli-
gious 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 con-
tinued 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 coun-

try is as dramatic a change to the nation’s landscape as it is culturally and
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 sub-
urbs 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 coun-
try 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 estab-
lished 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 clus-
ter predominantly around suburbs and exurbs of the largest sprawling metropolitan
areas of Dallas, Atlanta, Los Angeles, Chicago and Houston but significant concen-
trations 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 migra-
tion 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 inten-
tionally 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 unde-
veloped 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
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 reli-
gious 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.
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.)
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 sub-
urban 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 dis-
tribution 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 – mean-

ing 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 repre-
sentations 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
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 tradi-
tions, 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 com-
plete 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 adapt-
able to the context in which it resides and the clientele it hopes to attract. One
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, depend-
ing 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’ reli-
gion, 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 congrega-
tions 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 blend-
ing of the two previous styles. This blended form attempts to retain some connection
to traditional religion but also embraces a contemporary sanctuary format and effi-
cient 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 “church-
like,” 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 build-
ing decorated with many Christian symbols, huge old stained glass windows, and
the pipes of a giant organ. A Midwest Pentecostal version of this external archi-
tectural 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
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 distinc-
tive 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 aus-
tere deity. The architectural form connects the community of saints to each other
while also giving them an unobstructed and immediate encounter with the perfor-
mance 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 dis-
tinctive 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 man-
age these projects (Reliance Trust of Atlanta, GA, Evangelical Christian Credit
Union in Brea, CA, Chitwood and Chitwood, of Chattanooga, TN) provid-
ing 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 prop-
erty 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 build-
ing 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
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 ser-
vices 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 sanc-
tuary, 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
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)
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 ser-
vice 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 cre-
ation 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 “hos-
pitality 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).
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 activ-

ities 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 sub-
urban context required more deliberate connection efforts. As such, these churches
had to become smaller through the intentional creation of intimate group struc-
tures 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 increas-
ingly 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 small-
town 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
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 fac-
tory 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 multira-
cial Chapel Hill Harvester Church of Atlanta worked with several developers to
create four housing communities. These were intentionally made available to per-
sons 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 atten-
dees, 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.
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 per-
sonnel 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 spot-
light, 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 function-
ally nondenominational nature of most megachurches. Although two-thirds belong
to a denomination (with the Southern Baptist Convention having the most, fol-
lowed by the Assemblies of God, United Methodist, Calvary Chapel Fellowship,
Churches of Christ and others) a combination of the diminished salience of denom-
inational 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 inten-
tionally 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.
Many megachurches, even denominational ones, have become quasi-

denominations 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 seminar-
ies 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 denomi-
nation, 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 organi-
zational 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, stimulus-
overloaded 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 impossi-
ble 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)
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 mag-
nify 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 wor-
ship” 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 ser-
vice resonates far better with the daily lives most Americans lead than does the
often slow moving, sedate, highly liturgical service complete with centuries-out-
of-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 atten-
dees. 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, bowl-
ing 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,” hav-
ing to do with every aspect of personal and interpersonal life, such as marriage
development, child rearing, support groups, job skills, leadership development, and
personal enrichment through hobbies, weight loss, education and trips to meet mem-
bers’ 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 flexibil-
ity 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 per-
sonal 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 multi-
ple 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.
These new models of growth are establishing multiple physical sites linked as a sin-
gle 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 strate-
gies 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 bud-
get, 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 congrega-
tion, 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 inten-
tional 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 peo-
ple 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 off-
campus 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)
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 com-
munity 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 sanc-
tuary 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 per-
ception 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).
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)
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 real-
ity 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-and-
mortar 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 vir-
tual 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 dra-
matically reworking the spiritual, social and physical landscape. This congregational
form has gradually evolved from urban centers to the exurbs and shifted from tra-
ditional 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 twenty-
first 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 thou-
sands 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 min-
istries 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 tech-
nologically 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 cou-
ple 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.
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 sym-
bolized 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 impor-
tantly, 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 expres-
sion 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.
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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 popula-
tion. 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

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 occu-
pied 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 strate-
gic intersections throughout the city in the form of infilling (Blinnikov, Shanin,
Sobolev, & Volkova, 2006). There has also been additional need for new elite apart-
ment 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 sup-
ported 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 construc-
tion projects; and progressive business agenda (Hoffman, 2003). Common percep-
tion 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 por-
tion 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 ven-
ture 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 interna-
tional 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 environ-
mental 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)

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 transporta-
tion 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 evi-
denced 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 build-
ings that are being broken by the project. Considerable attention is also given to
the discussion of various skyscrapers’ designs. Muscovites are passionate about the
53
Table 53.1 Data on Moskva Siti objects. (Compiled from various sources by authors)
Finished
Lot Name Height (m) space (m2 ) Function When built Developer
0 Tower 2000 104 61,000 Offices 1996–2001 OAO City

2, 3 Wedding Palace 250 169,000 Offices, recreation, retail 2007–2010 City Palace
4 Imperia Tower 239 281,000 Hotel, office, recreation 2006–2009 GDO Group
6, 7, 8 Core Varies 530,000 Retail, recreation, 2008–2010 Moskapstroi
Mega-Engineering Projects in Russia
transport
9 City of Capitals 294, 255 289,000 Residential, offices 2003–2009 Capital Group
10 Tower on the Quay 268 266,000 Offices 2003–2007 ENKA
11 Transportation Terminal 165 228,000 Transportation 2007–2009 Citer Invest
12 Eurasia Tower 305 208,000 Offices, residential, 2004–2010 Tech-Invest
retail
13 Federation Complex 243, 360, 506 439,000 Offices, hotel 2004–2009 Mirax Group
14 Mercury City Tower 380 159,000 Offices, retail, 2008–2011 Mercury C.T.
residential
15 Administrative Center 308 398,000 City of Moscow offices 2006–2011 Moskapstroi
16 Office complex 215, 330 429,000 Offices, residential 2007–??? OAO City
17–18 Rossiya Tower 612 521,000 Offices, retail 2007–2012 ST Towers
19 Northern Tower 108 139,000 Offices, retail 2005–2007 North. Tower
20 Business Expo Center 228 180,000 Offices, residential, recr. 2008–2010 OAO City
937
visual look of their city, but at least on the forum, very few users leave any construc-
tively critical comments. Most seem to be overly enthusiastic about the new, ever
bigger, construction happening, but are little concerned with the matters of envi-
ronmental conservation, neighborhood preservation, traffic congestion, or negative
visual impact of Moskva Siti. Perhaps this is a reflection of the forum demograph-
ics: 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 perspec-
tive, 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 heav-
ily 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 thou-
sands 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 cate-
gories, 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 con-
struction 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
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 lat-
ter 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 environ-
ment 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 park-
ing spaces; increased water and electricity consumption; negative visual impact, that
is, drastically altered city skyline, especially at night; reduced insolation of the sur-
rounding 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 sur-
rounding 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 water-
way. 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 discov-
ered 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
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 assess-
ment. 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 contra-
dicts 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 surround-
ing 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)
shortest, but Moscow with its northern latitude of 56◦ N still gets plenty of shad-
ows 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 ref-
erendum. 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 character-
istics 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 kilo-
meters 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 fac-
tories 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 develop-
ment 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 cen-
tral area has put pressure on the uses of the center mandated in the communist
era; expensive cafes and restaurants, Western boutiques and business and commer-
cial interests, seeking a central location, are displacing residential use of historical
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; reclama-
tion 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 chal-
lenges 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 governor-
ships 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
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; accord-
ing 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)
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 sys-
tem, 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 con-
struction 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.
53.7 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 neigh-
borhood 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 headquar-
tered 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 sub-
sidiary’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 head-
quarters 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, empha-
sizing 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 administra-
tion 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 con-
struction 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 pro-
posed 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 his-
toric preservation zone (which encompassed the cathedral directly across the river),
opponents argued that the impact on the traditionally horizontal skyline of a solitary
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 pro-
duced 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 expen-
sive 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 world-
famous 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 regu-
lation 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)
of hearings on construction regulations and building codes during fall 2006, par-
ticipating 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 res-
idential 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 provi-
sionally 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 per-
missiveness 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 prob-
ably 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 announce-
ment, 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 win-
ning 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 neigh-
borhood is the renovation of New Holland, a former military storage site. British
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 con-
tract 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 pur-
chased 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 admin-
istration 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 con-
struct 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 con-
struction 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 pur-
poses 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 (506-
acre) 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 edu-
cated, 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
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 engineer-
ing 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 promi-
nent examples of high modern architecture engaging some of the most renowned
international architects, these megaprojects seem to align Russian urban devel-

opment practice with that observed in other major world cities such as London,
Beijing and Los Angeles; one aspect of the practice could be termed “gentrifica-
tion 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 gov-
ernment’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 politi-
cal 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 popula-
tion (see Kolossov & O’Loughlin, 2004). While the prominence of Moscow always
belied the Soviet ideology of spreading public goods in a somewhat even distribu-
tion 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 exam-
ple, 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 disproportion-
ately 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 fun-
damental 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 archi-
tecture, 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 build-
ing 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
facing a boom in “suburban” building with implications for the agricultural land
immediately around urban areas. Interviewees in the St. Petersburg planning pro-
cess 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 enti-
ties 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 environ-
mental 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 some-
what 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” move-
ment 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 skyscrap-
ers 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.
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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 awe-
inspiring), 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 Dubai-
based 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
∗ Burj Dubai was renamed into Burj Khalifa after it was opened in January 4, 2010

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 Taipei 101 509 1,671 101 2004

2 Shanghai World Financial 492 1,614 101 2008
3 Petronas Tower 1 452 1,483 88 1998
4 Petronas Tower 2 452 1,483 88 1998
5 Sears Tower 442 1,483 108 1974
6 Jin Mao Tower 421 1,451 88 1999
7 Two International Finance 415 1,380 88 2003
8 CITIC Plaza 391 1,362 80 1997
9 Shun Hing Square 384 1,260 69 1996
10 Empire State Building 381 1,250 102 1931
11 Central Plaza 374 1,227 78 1992
12 Bank of China Tower 367 1,205 70 1990
13 Bank of America Tower 366 1,200 54 2008
14 Almas Tower 360 1,181 74 2008
15 Emirates Office Tower 355 1,163 54 2000
Source: Emporis.com, after McNeill (2005)
jockey,” or Falcon City of Wonders, which will have replicas of many of the won-
ders 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 struc-
ture) 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 some-
one 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 ten-
ants 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 air-
port 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 shop-
ping 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
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 liter-
ally 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 cor-
ners 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 ambi-
tious. 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 com-
munity, 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, peo-
ple 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 tak-
ing 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 recov-
ered. 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
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, espe-
cially 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 build-
ing than Pyongyang’s still incomplete Ryugyong Hotel, a giant pyramid-shaped
hotel which was started when the Soviet Union subsidized the country and subse-
quently 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 walk-
able 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 argu-
ing 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 non-
representational 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 townhouse-
style development. It is the coming of infill, something recommended by Harvard’s
architecture school directly to Sheikh Mohammed, to the currently sprawling devel-
opment 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:
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 histori-
cally 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 impor-
tant 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), some-
thing 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 compa-
nies 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: pros-
perous, 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 con-
sider 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 por-
trayed 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
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 icono-
graphic 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 cor-
poration, 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 com-
pleted 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
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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 construc-
tion 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 world-
ocean—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

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 pro-
duce 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 aquacul-
ture. 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, house-
boats, 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 Chūbu 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, includ-
ing 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 macro-
engineering 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

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 float-
ing 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 liv-
ing, 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 com-
muter 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 require-
ments 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 shore-
line, 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, includ-
ing 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 neigh-
borhood 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 doctor-
ing 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 differ-
ent 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.
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 sur-
rounded 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 differ-
ent 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
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 compo-
sition, 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 win-
ter. 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 conven-
tional 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 tough-
ness 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).
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 plat-
forms 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 (55.1)
where all value are in kg/m3 .

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 melt-
ing 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 plas-
tic, 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;

(55.3)
q = k(t2 − t1 ) = 0.0244(10 − 0) = 0.244 W/m2 K
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).
55
Table 55.1 Estimation of different variants of floating platforms
Cost Load
Type of floating (material Life time, capacity, Maintains, Mass of Cooling
Floating Cities
# platform Height, m only) $/m2 Year ton/m2 $/m2 year Draught, m platform, ton/m2 energy, W/m2
1 Air-steel cylinder 10 100 30–50 7 1 7.6 0.6 0

with steel walls 20 200 17 2 18.2 1.2
2 Steel cubs with net 10 150 40–60 7 2 7.5 0.5 0
walls and air 20 300 17 4 18 1
balloons
3 Steel cubs with net 10 150 40–60 7 1 7.6 0.6 0
walls and foam 20 130 17 2 18.2 1.2
plastic filler
4 Concrete empty cub 5 400 100–200 2.4 0.5 4 1.6 0
with walls 0.1 m, 10 800 6 1 9.2 3.2
100 $/ton
5 Aero Crete 10 220 100–200 4 1 9 6 0
γ = 500 kg/m3 20 440 7 2 17 17
6 Ice and 1 m air heat 5 2 ∞ 1 4 5 4 2 W/m2
protection in 10 3 2 6 10 8 2 W/m2
bottom
7 Air ice, 20 4 ∞ 9 5 19 10 2 W/m2
γ = 500 kg/m3 30 6 15 10 30 15 2 W/m2
and 1 m air heat
protect.
Data of materials in Naschekin (1969); Koshkin and Shirkevich (1982); Macro-Engineering (2006)
979
980 A.A. Bolonkin
Estimate now the heat flow from outside air to the platform’s top surface pro-
tected 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,

(55.4)
q = k(t2 − t1 ) = 0.9∗ 25 = 22.5 W/m2 K
If we change the wooden gasket for an asbestos plate of exactly the same thick-
ness, 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 tem-
perature −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.
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 bor-
ough 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 rea-
sonable 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 satel-
lites. 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
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 Yongi-
Kongju 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 Moo-
Hyun 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

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 relo-
cation plan, former president Roh with sufficient support from national legislators
of his own party proceeded to move some administrative functions of central gov-
ernment 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 perva-
sive ownership in and support for new policy direction. This is critical especially in
cases of expensive high-impact megaengineering efforts. This is intelligent devel-
opment. 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 par-
ticular 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 stake-
holders 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) facil-
itate 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 relo-
cate 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 plan-
ning 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 liter-
ature 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 improve-
ment 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 relational-
ities 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 applica-
tions 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 devel-
opment 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 com-
plex 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 func-
tions, 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 bench-
marking.
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 develop-
ment benefits are seen widely to be informed, thoughtful and not narrowly
self-serving. Thereby, the politics inherent in high-impact, expensive, megaengi-
neering 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 develop-
ment 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 devel-
opment, 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, equi-
tably 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 behav-

iors 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 incorpo-
rates 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 digi-
tal 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.
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 strategi-
cally important ministries remain in Seoul along with the Supreme Courts and the
National Assembly. Thus, a kind of “partial capital” or an administrative or govern-
ment new town began construction in 2007. By 2012 the administrative personnel
are to be relocating from Seoul and to begin government work in their newly-
constructed 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 illus-
trated (Corey, 2004a). The illustration was derived principally from eight individual,
heretofore unconnected, threads of thinking that were made to be related for the pur-
pose 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 long-
standing 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 sus-
tained. 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
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 inter-
dependencies 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 contem-
porary 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 develop-
ment 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 agglomer-
ation 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 city-
region 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 infras-
tructure. 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 engi-
neering 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 coun-
try’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 con-
sequences of separating by location and time the top government officials from this
highest level decision making environment needs to be thought through most care-
fully to avoid negative effects to the continued world-city development trajectory of
the Seoul region. Other economic-political-policy functions and less strategic lev-
els of human resources may be relocated away from the Seoul region with much
less impact, e.g., selective military redeployments and the most routine manufactur-
ing 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
capital. For instance, one could envisage a scenario whereby some national admin-
istrative 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 relo-
cated 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 uni-
fied 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 alto-
gether. 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 capi-
tal, 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 per-
mutations 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 ser-
vices 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 mod-
els 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 economic-
political 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 pro-
nouncements 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 delib-
erately 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 confeder-
ation 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
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 technologi-
cally 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 devel-
opment (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 theo-
ries 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 con-
gruent 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 pro-
duction 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 var-
ious economic functions have their own spatial and locational patterns, scales,
and requirements. So, in planning for particular economic functions, the appropri-
ate 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 intel-
ligent 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 megaengi-
neering 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 develop-
ment. 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 par-
ticular solutions to the perennial Korean goals of national capital relocation and
balanced national development. The purpose in connecting these individual and sep-
arate 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 attain-
ing 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 implement-
ing the relocation of the national capital, and or addressing the long standing and
exceedingly complex issue of balanced national development, both for contempo-
rary 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 infor-
mation 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
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 gover-
nance 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 appro-
priate 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 eco-
nomic functions better than others. At local and regional levels, highest priority of
continuing attention and investment must be steered differentially to the most criti-
cal 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 megengi-
neering 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 con-
servation 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 consen-
sus resulted in the construction of a “partial capital” of some executive-branch
functions. An ongoing process of research and continuous national intelligent devel-
opment 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.
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metric 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.
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Healey, P. (2007). Urban complexity and spatial strategies: Towards a relational planning for our
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development through regional integration: A new vision announced. Space and Environment
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istrative capital in Korea: Balanced development or not? Systems Dynamics Review, 21(1),
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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.
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projects in balance with the earth’s carrying capacity. Paper presented at the Conference on
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of Kentucky. 23 July.
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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, eco-
nomic 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 repre-
sents 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 exist-
ing 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 afore-
mentioned 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

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 omnipo-
tent (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 numer-
ous 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 sys-
tems. 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 secre-
tary 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 auto-
matically 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 mem-
bers 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 coun-
try 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 con-
tinues 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 indus-
try 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 dupli-
cate 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 enti-
ties 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 mili-
tary 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 geograph-
ically, 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).
As Soviet-era restrictions fell, embassies quickly positioned themselves in prime

locations in the city. As a result, Almaty increased its prestige and dominance fur-
ther. 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 popula-
tion 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 particu-
lar 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 col-
lapse 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 per-
fectly. 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 mov-
ing 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 cap-
ital 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
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 con-
sidered 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 chal-
lenges. 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 administra-
tive 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 con-
nect 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 immedi-
ately 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 unpre-
dictable. 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
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 juris-
diction 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 con-
struction 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 con-
struction 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 expres-
sions, 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
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 reli-
gions 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
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
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 com-
pete 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 popu-
lation 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).
57.10 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 eas-
ily 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 ben-
efit 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 peo-
ple; 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).
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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

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, demo-
cratic 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 con-
ducted 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 likeli-
hood, 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 lead-
ers have never forgotten that the U.S Navy (an aircraft carrier and four warships)
violated Myanmar territorial waters in September 1988 during the political demon-
stration 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 circum-
stances, 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 hav-
ing 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 emer-
gency (Dulyapak, 2009: 56–57). Moreover, relocating the capital to the continental
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 strategi-
cally 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 governmen-
tal seat of power from surprise maritime attacks (Cornish, 1923; Gottman, 1983;
Hilberseimer, 1995). For example, the communist party of the Soviet Union relo-
cated the capital from coastal St. Petersburg to continental Moscow because of mar-
itime 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 depart-
ments to a new location near Pyinmana was to ensure more effective administration
in the hinterland and “with the expansion of the government’s national develop-
ment 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.
Similarly, some developing states also relocate their capital for reasons of eco-
nomic 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 logisti-
cal 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 devel-
opment. Nigeria relocated its capital from coastal Lagos to inland Abuja, which is
geographically situated in a central position, for political administration and hinter-
land 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 cul-
tural 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 – log-
ical 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 cur-
rent 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 histori-
cal humiliation and perhaps, in the view of the present military junta, the capital of
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 tra-
dition 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 signif-
icant 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, pop-
ular 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 histori-
cal 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 advan-
tage 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 devel-
opment 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 nat-
ural ‘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).
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 south-
wards 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 cap-
ital 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 water-
shed 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 pre-
sented 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
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 resis-
tance 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, espe-
cially 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 com-
munist 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 sig-
nificance 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 urbaniza-
tion 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 bur-
den 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
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 compa-
nies 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 fis-
cal 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 engi-
neers 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 look-
ing 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 prof-
its 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
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 construc-
tion 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 ser-
vices 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 construc-
tion 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)
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 competi-
tions 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, gen-
eral 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
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 com-
plexes, 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 char-
acteristics 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 high-
way from Yangon to Mandalay and some government offices and other important
buildings in this area, for example, the Mining Office, the Department of Forestry,
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 land-
scape. 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” pol-
icy in order to increase the network of urban settlements and agricultural areas
around Pyinmana. As a result, many self-sufficient communities and plantations
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 build-
ings, 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 reflect-
ing 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 civil-
ian 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, popu-
larly 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 sep-
arated 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,
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 north-
east 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
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 popula-
tion 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 govern-
mental seat of power had already been moved to Naypyidaw and thus the ruling
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 moun-
tainous 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, com-
munications 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 gar-
risons surrounded by mountainous areas clearly shows that the junta has decided to
conduct guerrilla warfare against external enemies, while the improvement in mili-
tary 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 strate-
gic 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 pow-
ers, 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,
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 con-
sidered 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 sup-
port 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 devel-
opment. Myanmar Electric Power Labor Housing and Myanmar Electric Power
Enterprise have been built in the western section to provide electricity through-
out 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, south-
east 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 vil-
lages 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 set-
tle 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 agri-
cultural 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 archi-
tecture 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).
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 cere-
mony. 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,
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 origi-
nal, 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 cri-
sis 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 sym-
bol 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 cul-
tural 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 obvi-
ous 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 cross-
road 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.
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 develop-
ing 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 con-
text 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 headquar-
ters 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 con-
struction of the underground complex in Cheyenne Mountain, an integral part of
North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD) in Colorado Springs

area. NORAD is a joint organization of Canada and the United States that pro-
vides aerospace warning, air sovereignty, and defense for the two countries. The
original requirement for an operations center in Cheyenne Mountain was to pro-
vide 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, demon-
strated 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 con-
ceivable 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)

be an interesting mixing between the NORAD and Cu Chi underground labyrinth

(Fig. 58.16). Moreover, it might reflect a harmonious combination between a strate-
gic legacy during the Cold War period and a changing security scenario in the
Post-Cold War circumstances (Taylor, 1987; Selth, 2001; Steinberg, 2001).
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capital/
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 land-
scape 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 tran-
sit 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

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 pre-
occupation 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, post-
event 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 ana-
log 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, ini-
tially 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 sum-
mer Olympic Games (IOC, 2009). The IOC selects its members, and while many
interests and countries are represented, the organization must be seen as a pri-
vate 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 mem-
bers 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 impenetra-
ble 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 tra-
dition. 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 achieve-
ment 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 coun-
try’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 contem-
plating 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 regener-
ation 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 expe-
rience 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
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 infras-
tructure 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 infrastruc-
ture and building improvements. The actors most involved in the bid and subsequent
preparations vary from case to case, although the activities undertaken are strik-
ingly 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 substan-
tially from the participants in the original political decision to undertake an expo
or pursue a similar type of ephemeral event. The event authority takes responsibil-
ity for land assembly, site design and development, and liaison and direction with
associated government departments. In addition to the site itself, considerable devel-
opment 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 eco-
nomic 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 long-
term 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 leg-
islation 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 impor-
tant 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 immedi-
ate 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 dis-
trict 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
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 invest-
ments 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 orga-
nizing 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 sur-
plus. 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 invest-
ment. 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 over-
spent 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 rev-
enues. 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 mea-
sure 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 redevel-
oped 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 foot-
print 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 develop-
ment (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 universi-
ties. 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).
Table 59.1 Land use legacies of Olympic and world’s fair sites
Year City Event Legacy
1980 Moscow Summer Olympics Luzhniki Olympic Complex

1980 Lake Placid Winter Olympics Sports Center/Museum
1982 Knoxville Expo82 World’s Fair Park, convention center,
Sunsphere
1984 Los Angeles Summer Olympics Memorial Coliseum, university sporting
facilities
1984 Sarajevo Winter Olympics Stadium/war damage
1985 Tsukuba Expo85 Science city
1986 Vancouver Expo96 Mixed use
1988 Brisbane Expo88 Southbank Park, housing, entertainment,
mixed use
1988 Calgary Winter Olympics Canada Olympic Park/recreation
1988 Seoul Summer Olympics Jamsil Olympic Stadium
1992 Seville Expo92 R&D Center
1992 Genoa Colombo92 Mixed use
1992 Barcelona Summer Olympics Estadi Olímpic Lluís Companys
1992 Albertville Winter Olympics Sports facilities
1993 Taejon Expo93 Amusement park/science
museum–demolished 2008
1994 Lillehammer Winter Olympics Lillehammer Olympiapark, Sports
facilities
1996 Atlanta Summer Olympics Centennial Olympic Park
1998 Lisbon Expo98 Parque das Nações, Expo Urbe; mixed
use, entertainment
1998 Nagano Winter Olympics Sports facilities/baseball stadium
2000 Sydney Summer Olympics Sydney Olympic Park, Telstra Stadium;
Sports facilities, housing
2000 Hannover Expo2000 Hannover Messe; Enhanced fair grounds
2002 Salt Lake City Winter Olympics Utah Olympic Park; Sports facilities
2004 Athens Summer Olympics Stadium/pool unused
2005 Aichi Expo2005 Greenfield
2006 Turin Winter Olympics Winter sports, soccer stadium
2008 Zaragoza Expo2008 Park and commercial space
2008 Beijing Summer Olympics 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 loca-
tions 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).
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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 capitalist-
corporatist 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 dif-
ferent cultures that do things well and that have operated not far from sustainability,
at least in their balance-seeking relationship with their surrounding and support-
ing 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 compe-
tition 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

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 sus-
tainability 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 sustain-
able 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 envi-
ronmental “proto-sustainability” found in historic and traditional settlements, the
Center for Sustainable Cities’ competition entry offers a bold new vision for build-
ing 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 scenario-
building planning process; the Sustainability EngineTM , an urban modeling software
that provides sustainability feedback to architect and stakeholder-proposed scenar-
ios; 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, manu-
facturing 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 envi-
ronment. 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 met-
rics 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 sus-
tainable 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
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 approx-
imately 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 sce-
narios 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 sustain-
able 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 bud-
get 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
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 gal-
lerias 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 accommo-
date 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 inte-
rior 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
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 ter-
minates 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 continu-
ous 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.
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 sys-
tem 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 pri-
vate or commercial vehicles, they are well suited for use by emergency vehicles and
service vehicles when they are needed.
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, amphithe-
aters, 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 reten-
tion, gray water and sewage retention and processing, composting, recycling, and
energy production facilities are located here. Public parking, secure parking, eleva-
tor 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 heat-
ing 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 purifica-
tion 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 com-
plete inventory of details, materials, costs, systems, utilities, energy use, and water
use as well as the consumption patterns associated with their occupancy. A library
of function modules and systems represents the different alternative sustainability-

oriented 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 mod-
ule 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 lev-
els 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 stu-
dios, 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 imma-
ture phase the ecosystem is dominated by growth and production. In the mature
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 perpetu-
ated 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 lim-
its 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 imbal-
ances 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-and-
error 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 syn-
thetic 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 alterna-
tive scenarios which are modeled and displayed digitally. This “Game” can come
into play once the Sustainable Area Budget for the town-region has been formu-
lated 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 tra-
ditional 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 ordi-
nary 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 design-
ers, social scientists, natural scientists, and other professionals, assemble a number
of different design scenarios that represent these competing interests. Design sce-
narios 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
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 proposi-
tion 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 demon-
strated 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 counter-
intuitive 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 dis-
playing 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 devel-
oped 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
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 univer-
sally 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 mate-
rial 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 build-
ing 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 facili-
tate 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 increas-
ing 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 repre-
senting 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
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 out-
side 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 dis-
cipline 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 pro-
cess 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 balanc-
ing 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’ con-
tribution 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 sci-
entist, 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 ten-
sion 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
References
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Earthscan.
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community, environment, and a sustainable future. Boston: Beacon Press.
Levine, R. S., Yanarella, E. J., Dumreicher, H., & Broyles, T. (2000). Beyond sustainability indi-
cators: 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 strat-
egy 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 con-
texts 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

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 subur-
banization 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 destina-
tion 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 desti-
nation (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 den-
sity, 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 build-
ings. 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 com-
petition 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 col-
lection 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), pri-
vate 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 institu-
tions 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 develop-
ers 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, devel-
ops, 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
Table 61.1 Selected megadevelopers by region in US
South CBL and Associates, Based in Chattanooga

Turnberry and Associates, Florida
Premier Properties, Indianapolis, Virginia Beach
MG Herring, Dallas
Northeast Kraft Group, Boston Area
Simon Properties, KenAM, Meadowlands
Donald Trump, NY and NJ
Sturbridge Associates, Maryland
West Centra, Nevada
Marcerich, Phoenix
Las Vegas/Beverly Hills
Steve Wynn, Las Vegas
Harsch Investment Properties, Oakland
Midwest 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 head-
quarters (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
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 com-
muting 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 neigh-
borhood 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 concentra-
tions 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 metropoli-
tan 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 surround-
ing 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 dis-
parities; 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, includ-
ing 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 emerg-
ing 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 sec-
tors. 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 level-
one 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.
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 ethni-
cally 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
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 resi-
dents 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 neighbor-
hoods, 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 work-
ers 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 pro-
vides 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 eco-
nomic 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, Hays-
Mitchell, & 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 com-
mercial 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 auto-
mobile, and the lack of an automobile-oriented transport system has worked against
the development of such edge cities in the developing world. However, many satel-
lite 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
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 innova-
tions 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 cap-
ital 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 cen-
tral 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 devel-
opments 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 exam-
ple, 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 disrup-
tions to the supply of fossil fuels that run automobile oriented cities, and the specter
of global climate change (Newman, Beatley, & Boyer, 2009). Traditionally, subur-
ban 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
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 poly-
centric 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 con-
stitute specialized commercial nodes, which often appear in the early stages of
suburban office development (Fujii & Hartshorn, 1995). With the impact of infor-
mation 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 mid-
sized 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 develop-
ments 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 substan-
tial 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 spa-
tial 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 megas-
tructures, 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 activ-
ities (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.
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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 repre-
sents 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 (depres-
sion), 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 proxi-
mate 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 spear-
headed 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)

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 cri-
sis” 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 con-
flated 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 eco-
nomic rationales and, represent, therefore, distinctive ideological/political moments
in the construction of, and response to, crisis. Viewed up close, and without the dis-
tancing 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 visi-
ble, 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 per-
haps “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 infras-
tructural 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 $3,000

Medicaid $990
Education $924
Roads and bridges $421
Health and welfare $272
General fund $120
Water and sewer lines $71
Job training and public safety $66
Energy projects $63
Transit $50
Community development $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, sew-
ers, 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 gov-
ernment 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 cri-
sis 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 alpha-
bet 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 imple-
mentation) 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 recov-
ery” (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 archi-
tecture are, quite deliberately, held in tension with one another, their particular
empirical and ideological workings in each specific case forming a basis for a com-
parative 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
Table 62.2 WPA expenditures for projects completed to December 31, 1936
Type of project Expenditure ($ millions)
New construction $1,243

Highways, roads, and streets $414
Public buildings $158
Sewer systems and other utilities $241
Other new construction $429
Repairs and improvements $1,487
Highways, roads, and streets $907
Public buildings $232
Sewer systems and other utilities $75
Other repairs and improvements $273
Other types of projectsa $799
Adapted from WPA (1937, Table 13)

a The “other types of projects” were diverse and numerous. From the WPA (1937): “(1) modern-
ization 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 recre-
ational 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 subse-
quent distribution to persons on relief rolls. Other important operations of the Works Progress
Administration were directed toward flood and erosion control, irrigation and other conserva-
tion 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 sta-
bility 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 dimen-
sions 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” (draw-
ing 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 thou-
sands, 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 “vir-
tual” 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 sim-
ply, 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 signifi-
cance. 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 maneu-
verings of ideologically committed, more-or-less powerful, and socially situated
actors. Among the multiple overlapping and conflicting personal and political posi-
tionalities 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 policy-
making towards a less masculinist framing of the unemployment problem (Ware,
1981). It was precisely these women’s counter-narratives, and their personal ideo-
logical/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
complexity may, in any case, be simply inaccessible in an ex post facto unset-

tling 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 super-
fluous, 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 paradig-
matic 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 dis-
course, 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 authorita-
tive, 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 thou-
sands 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 dom-
inant 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 there-
fore 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 (phys-
ical architecture, Internet architecture, financial architecture) between the attendant
jargons of (1) “material” engineering projects (the Pyramid), (2) “virtual” engi-
neering 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 “engi-
neering.” 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 agglom-
erations of labor associated with the individual WPA and CCC construction
projects, there are clear continuities. In “cloud engineering,” labor (time, phys-
ical and emotional investment) remains central to the practices by which “vir-
tual” 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 mun-
dane 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 “cloud-
sourcing,” collaborative mapping, and social networking). Thus, Zook and Graham
(2007) draw attention to the “situatedness of individuals balanced between the vis-
ible 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.
Together, the space of the plan and the space of the laborer might be charac-
terized 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 repre-
sentational 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 pro-
gram 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 unforget-
table 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 sin-
gle 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 spe-
cific, 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 thou-
sands 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.
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 com-
mentators 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 nos-
talgic 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 phys-
ically 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 gov-
ernment” 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 geo-
graphic 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 financializa-
tion 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 “financializa-
tion 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 finan-
cialization, one of those monolithic narrative “izations’ ” like globalization that
are so problematic, we can certainly suggest that the discourse of financializa-
tion as a way of identifying, then framing, economic “crises” was well ingrained
into the collective imagination of economic policymakers, and the American pub-
lic, 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 adminis-
tration, 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 injec-
tion 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 prob-
lems 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 solu-
tion” (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
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 “fis-
cal 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 capital-
ism,” 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 contra-
dictory and overlapping ideological stances, and numerous differentially interested
parties, at all levels of New Deal planning and implementation. As many schol-
ars have noted, the Roosevelt regime was, throughout the process of government
expansion, concerned to maintain the fundamentally capitalist basis of the US econ-
omy 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 histo-
riography 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 narra-
tive 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 produc-
tion 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 reintro-
duced 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 political-
economic 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 var-
ious 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 con-
trary) 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 adminis-
tration and its advocates in seeking, explicitly, to account for (if not use politically)
the fear of inaction in its economic strategizing.
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 gov-
ernment’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 inter-
pretation 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 administra-
tion 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 impenetra-
ble 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 pro-
gram 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 pro-
grams 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 train-
ing 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).
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).
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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 redevelop-
ment in alignment with official plans, often directed at realizing clearly defined
visions of the future. The dynamics of the planning process, outcomes and under-
lying 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 com-
prises 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 chal-
lenge 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

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 (Cheong-
Chua, 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, precipi-
tated 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 clear-
ance 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 environ-
ment – 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 acknowl-
edgement 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 com-
pared 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 con-
servation 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 com-
munities 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 com-
merce 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 over-
commercialization 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 engi-
neered 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
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 natu-
ral 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 man-
aged, 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
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 plan-
ning, encompassing conservation and development, can yield financial gains. Social
stability too has economic implications and its presence reinforces Singapore’s rep-
utation overseas as a safe destination for tourists and foreign investment, helping to
ensure the foreign trade on which it depends. Finally, the political dimension can-
not 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 prod-
uct 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 gov-
ernment 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 strate-

gies 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 stim-
ulating 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.
63.6 Redefining Singapore as a Tourism Destination

The STB is committed to making Singapore the “events and entertainment cap-
ital” 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 revi-
talize and occasionally reinvent Singapore as a destination, and several of the
enhanced or new amenities are characterized by their largeness of scale and ambi-
tion. 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 quan-
tum 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$1.4 billion) in the Marina Bay infrastructure (URA, 2008c).
The second integrated resort, occupying 42 ha (103.8 acres), is on the largest
offshore island of Sentosa which houses assorted leisure amenities and is linked to
the mainland by a causeway. Sentosa itself is in the midst of a 10 year masterplan,
embarked on in 2002, to “refresh, renew and revamp” the entertainment and accom-
modation offerings there (MTI, 2007). Resorts World is geared to families and will
have hotels, spas, dining, retailing, a maritime museum, waterpark and Universal
Studios theme park. The Malaysian Genting International and Star Cruises are part-
ner developers and final costs are anticipated to be S$ 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 indepen-
dence. 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”
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 reju-
venation 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 exer-
cise 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 public-
ity 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 sin-
gle 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 build-
ing 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 recog-
nition that the “provision of world-class – and in some cases world-beating –
infrastructure” is vital to preserving Singapore’s “competitive edge.” The same anal-
ysis 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
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 govern-
ment 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 agen-
cies 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, par-
ties 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 sus-
tain a successful industry and officials stress the imperative of partnerships within
government and between public and private sectors. The schemes already made ref-
erence to in the chapter have provided examples of cooperation and suggest the
involvement of architects, developers, investors and construction and other compa-
nies. 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 flag-
ship 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 coun-
try 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 gen-
eral 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 gener-
ate 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
on its journey to nationhood, full economic development status and perhaps a final
stage of slower and less restrictive physical development.
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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 sec-
tor 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 con-
tinually 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 public-
private 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

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 destina-
tion 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 orga-
nization 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 gov-
ernment. Many governments have identified planning as an appropriate device to
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 interven-
tion 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 pur-
chased, 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 super-
vision 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 manage-
ment 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 Inter-
Ministériel, 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
(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 sequenc-
ing, 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 flab-
bergasted 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 prof-
its. 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
a partnership in order to revitalize the economy by attracting businesses and resi-

dents 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 eco-
nomic 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 adver-
tised 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 east-
ern 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 commu-
nity 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 sec-
tor 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 specifi-
cally 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
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 disrup-
tive 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 harmo-
nious 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

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 gov-
ernment. 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 nego-
tiations 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 consis-
tently 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 oper-
ated 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 run-
ning 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 addi-
tion 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 prop-
erty 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 defend-
ing 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
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 look-
ing 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 per-
fected 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 devel-
opment. 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 stan-
dards. 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 architec-
tural 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 partner-
ship 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.
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 cre-
ative 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 remain-
ing 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.
New towns were to provide a high quality urban life. They were required to main-
tain 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, cov-
ering 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 cre-
ated 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

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 com-
pensation 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 urban-
ism 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 regen-
eration. 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 desti-
nations. The theme park had to be modified so that it would not be so blatantly
Americanizing . . . just American. Visitors to Disney readily embraced the enjoy-
ment 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 par-
ticipated little in commodity purchase (Shields, 1992: 102). A French intellectual
had predicted even before its opening that “of course, Euro Disney will be a suc-
cess; 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
cultural hegemony (Varenne, 1993). Some executives of the company made state-
ments 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 “seduc-
ing 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 urbaniza-
tion: 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 visi-
tors 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 adapta-
tions. 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
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
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 con-
frontational 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 com-
plex 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 sub-
culture” (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 con-
struction 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 con-
sequences 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 sus-
tainable 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 gov-
ernance 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
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 coop-
erate) 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 under-
lined 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 com-
mune 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 rev-
enues (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
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 representa-
tions 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 pos-
itive 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 pres-
sure 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.
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d’Hauteserre, A.-M. (1997). Disneyland Paris: A permanent growth pole in the Francilian
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Gottdiener, M. (1985). The social production of urban space. Austin, TX: University of Texas
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Grover, R. (1991). The Disney touch. New York: Irwin.
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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 dredg-
ing 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])

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 coun-
tryside 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 sur-
rounded 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 under-
funded. 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 offi-
cers 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 vari-
ety 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
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, espe-
cially 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 impor-
tant 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 artis-
tic diorama to present to the voters. Rick visited a variety of other cities from
San Francisco to Boston to examine waterfront developments. In 1947 the gover-

nor 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 gov-
ernment 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 influ-
ence 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

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 amuse-
ment 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 inter-
changes 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 com-
muters 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 main-
tenance 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.
65.8 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 lead-
ers 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 need-
ing 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 con-
vince 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 multi-
billion 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.
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 Union-
Tribune. 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, emphasiz-
ing 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 embod-
ied 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

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 equip-
ment 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 graz-
ing 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, pro-
vided 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 organi-
zation, 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 Attribution-
ShareAlike 2.0 license.)
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)
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)
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 geo-
morphology). 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 sel-
dom 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 re-
introduced 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 sym-
bol 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
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: devo-
tees 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 pub-
lic works projects such as dams, highways, or bridges. Elaborate earth work was
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, recruit-
ing 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 mainte-
nance is a high-tech operation, using satellite weather data, locally adapted plant
species, and IPM (Integrated Pest Management) to create healthy, safe and water-
efficient 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 pro-
vided 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 contigu-
ous, 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.”
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)
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, repre-
sented 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 inher-
ent 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 cre-
ate 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
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 collabora-
tion 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 irri-
gation 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
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 capa-
ble 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).
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 engineer-
ing 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, super-
vising 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 sil-
houette of the horizon line when the course is built in hilly terrain, an idea inspired
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
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
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 applica-
tions, 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,
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, sustain-
able 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 north-
ern 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
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 contam-
inating 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 contami-
nation. 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
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 else-
where 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.
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, function-
ing 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 com-
plete 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).
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 con-
cepts 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 pro-
grams 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 scenar-
ios, 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
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).
Fig. 66.17 30-scale detail green drawing. (Reproduced with permission from Arthur Hills/Steve
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 con-
struction 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.”
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, eco-
logical 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 ele-
ments 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 infor-
mation 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 plant-
ing 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 develop-
ment 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
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)
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 sea-
sonal 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.
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 peo-
ple 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 mem-
bership. 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 extraor-
dinary 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)
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 expe-
rience 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 initia-
tives 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 corol-
lary 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 wet-
lands 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
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 sky-
line 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 pro-
fessional 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 con-
verted 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 con-
straints 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,
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
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.
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, wilder-
ness 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
∗ Retired, Manager of Interpretation, Culture and Design Branch at the Toronto Zoo, Toronto, ON,
Canada.

1192 P. Harpley
their interrogation in planning and development forums and resource analysis stud-
ies 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 megamor-
phology (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 geo-
graphic 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 mil-
lennium B.C. from about that time date the earliest artistic achievements worthy of
superior cultures, the first decipherable records of humans’ higher rational devel-
opment, 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 surround-
ings, 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 civi-
lization 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 botan-
ical 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 collec-
tions 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 com-
mon. 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 moun-
tains. 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 ter-
raced 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 prac-
ticed. 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 con-
fused. 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
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 con-
structive 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 charac-
teristics, 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 devel-
opment 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 reward-
ing 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 knowl-
edge 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 contempo-
rary 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 theo-
ries 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 lit-
erature” . . .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 cen-
tury) 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
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 institu-
tion, 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 cul-
ture, 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 pub-
lic. 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 dis-
played 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 colo-
nial 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).
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 imagi-
nation 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 enjoy-
ment 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 call-
ing 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 multidis-
ciplinary 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 ani-
mals, 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, illu-
sions 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 estab-
lished 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 num-
ber 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
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 collec-
tion to be arranged entirely zoogeographically representing much of the world in its
collection. As Cherfas (1984) states, the Metropolitan Toronto Zoo was the first col-
lection 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 com-
bined 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 rain-
forest animals of Malaysia. He recognizes that animals are usually found in areas
created by the unique cause-effect relations of climate and vegetation. This sys-
tem organizes the world into similar natural units or biomes, irrespective of their
geographic location. In instituting this organization system, zoos become increas-
ingly 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 geomorphol-
ogy 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 con-
ditions 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 under-
standing 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 “natu-
ral” 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 substi-
tutes 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, con-
servation, 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 anal-
ysis 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
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 con-
fined animals to small, static, often sterile compounds. Modern ideas of ecosystem
change, notably our understanding of the dynamic global energy systems of the bio-
sphere, 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 con-
cepts 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 exam-
ples: (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 par-
ticular 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 cre-
ative 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 typ-
ical 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 “life-
worlds” 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 dif-
fer 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 ani-
mal 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 pro-
gram 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 con-
servation, 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
project, implement necessary change working on up to 20 projects a year, varying

from small indoor and outdoor exhibit renovations to large many acre redevelop-
ments. 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 recre-
ational 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 prop-
erly 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, con-
sultation, 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 imme-
diately and directly than any other institution or collective kind of public space to
impart complex environmental information to lay members of society in an acces-
sible 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 suc-
cessful 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 architec-
tural integrity of the building. The exhibit won the Canadian Zoo and Aquarium
Association (CAZA) 2001 Baines Award.
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 (vis-
itor 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 manage-
ment, 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 recre-
ation of an entire rainforest habitat. There are other animal exhibits including dwarf
crocodile, spotted-necked otter, hingeback tortoise, green-crested touraco and vio-
laceous 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 sub-
ject 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 his-
torical 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, aris-
ing from the burgeoning conservation and environmental movement favored by the
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 psycho-
logical 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 scien-
tists, 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 instru-
ment was designed to seek insight into specific themes of zoo exhibit design.
Through the research instrument of the survey, visitor knowledge and understand-
ing 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 pop-
ulation 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 per-
spectives, providing new directions to detailed design, including and important
parallel planning process with the academic, African Canadian cultural commu-
nity 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 philo-
sophical 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 rec-
ognized 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
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 devel-
opment, 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 develop-
ment 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 environmen-
tal 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
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 con-
servation. 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 cri-
sis, 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 develop-
ment 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 multi-
disciplinary 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 every-
where. However, the propagation of vernacular landscape and architecture is often
the artistic standard in zoo projects delivered by consultants, and has been carefully
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 con-
sidered 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 con-
cerns 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 ren-
dered, 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 colonial-
looking 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 intro-
duction 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 recre-
ation 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 pro-
vide 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 sig-
nage 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 cer-
emonial planting, throughout the summer weeding and tending occur as needed and
in the fall it is harvested. During these periods there is active authentic interpreta-
tion 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 initi-
ated 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 habi-
tats. 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 signifi-
cant 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
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 repre-
sentations 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 com-
pared 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 ani-
mals 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 plan-
ning 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 tech-
niques and, in some instances, costing a great deal of money (Cherfas, 1984).
Critical analysis of philosophical and epistemological foundations for natural land-
scape 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 con-
servation 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 vege-
tation. In fact, as early as 1975 Cynthia Moss noted in Uganda in particular, after the
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 engi-
neered 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 obser-
vation 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 poten-
tial 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 fur-
ther 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 cul-
tural 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 con-
temporary 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 iden-
tified 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 imag-
inative artistic process, with rigorous social science research to inform decisions
and that are cognizant of historical influences and with emotion, feeling, and orig-
inal experiential connection to place, will attain higher levels of exhibitry methods
of success. With the coordinated implementation of planning design and construc-
tion 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 impor-
tance 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.
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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 extrac-
tion 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, rou-
tinely 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 megadevelop-
ment 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 under-
standing 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 the-
orizing 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

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 char-
acter 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 gen-
eral 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 exam-
ple, 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, intention-
ally, 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 opera-
tions, hydroelectric and other large dams, and urban renewal initiatives surely
count as megaprojects given these criteria, what about large scale conserva-
tion projects, transfrontier or otherwise? With few exceptions, including Geisler
(2003: 74) who sees them as “close relatives of megaprojects,” expansive con-
servation 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 com-
mitment 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 gen-
erally 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 ) (GLTFCA-
AHEAD, 2008) (Fig. 68.3).
TFPs vary quite radically in terms of their geographical location and biophysi-
cal 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
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 exist-
ing 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 constitu-
tive 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 colo-
nial 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 ini-
tiatives 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 reestab-
lishment 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 exam-
ple, 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 bor-
ders (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 satu-
ration. Rather, Kruger from this perspective is expanding into Mozambique in the
form of the Limpopo National Park, resulting in an immense cross-border mega-
park, 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
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 specif-
ically (Dressler & Büscher, 2008; GLTP, 2009; Peace Parks Foundation, 2009b).
In fact, the South African Department of Environmental Affairs and Tourism, sup-
ported 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 megapro-
jects 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 pri-
mary 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 govern-
ments 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 leg-
islation that enables land appropriation for the “public good.”8 In addition, unlike
most other megaprojects, TFPs are necessarily public projects given their transna-
tional 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, build-
ing 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 jus-
tified by promises of conservation and economic development, both for the public
good, and they open spaces to certain groups. For instance, these are public conser-
vation spaces whose managements actively seek visitors. On the other hand, TFPs,
like other megaprojects, are often marked by exclusions and conscribed understand-
ings 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 transporta-
tion 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 “stand-
ing 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.
68.2 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 uncom-
fortably 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 conser-
vation 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) dis-
placement 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 suc-
cesses,” 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 them-
selves 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 prob-
lem 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 environmen-
tal 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 destruc-
tive. Nonetheless, they, like other megaprojects, have contributed to environmental
harm on several registers.
If large scale conservation projects including TFPs seem opposed to megapro-
jects on environmental grounds, there are larger, more entrenched obstacles block-
ing their entry into the category of “the megaproject.” These obstacles are rooted
in stubborn and profoundly problematic assumptions that these are sites of “wilder-
ness” that are in their essence “natural,” “pristine,” “untouched” both by humans
and time, and ultimately a-modern. This is especially the case for African conserva-
tion spaces which are celebrated as paradigmatic spaces of wilderness (Fig. 68.4).
The Peace Parks Foundation (2009b), for instance, as the most influential organi-
zation 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 defi-
nition, but rather with notions of “pristine wilderness.” Such notions are not only
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 assis-
tance 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 encour-
aging 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 translo-
cated 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 resi-
dents, 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 land-
scape transformations, including socialist villagization and the construction of the
Massingir Dam in Mozambique in the 1970s and 1980s, which displaced communi-
ties 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 reset-
tlement 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 conserva-
tion 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 relo-
cations show us that TFPs and the GLTP more specifically are strikingly similar to
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 megapro-
jects 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 assump-
tion 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 “part-
nership” with others) and hence determine who can benefit from these projects
and enter the spaces they occupy. Megaprojects, moreover, are suffused with sym-
bolic 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 moder-
nity 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 trans-
portation 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 deter-
mining 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 sub-
Saharan 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 megapro-
jects, 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 con-
tained” 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 pro-
mote 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 hydroelec-
tric 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 obvi-
ous 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 envi-
ronment and “nature” shape understandings of both. The roots of the tension are
twofold. Megaprojects are understood by many of their critics as inherently envi-
ronmentally 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 sub-
sequently position these projects well within the terrain of megaprojects. TFPs, like
other megaprojects, are quite simply heavily engineered spaces. Similarly, assump-
tions 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 conser-
vation 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).
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 gov-
ernment 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 resettle-
ment 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, ani-
mals 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 fight-
ing 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 chem-
ical 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 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).
12. 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.
13. On the Kariba and Cahora Bassa Dams and their related underlying spatial transforma-
tions, including dislocation, see Hughes (2006); Isaacman (2005); and Isaacman and Sneddon
(2000).
14. 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).
15. For a discussion of what motivated this decision, see Peddle et al. (2004).
16. Conservation areas that are smaller than TFPs but still quite large, such as conservation cor-
ridors, can demand similar spatial transformations (see, for example, Goldman, 2009), and
hence they too can arguably be seen as megaprojects on similar grounds.
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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 devel-
opment 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 physi-
cal 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

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 elec-
tricity 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 sec-
tor 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 ame-
liorate 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 mod-
est 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 organiza-
tion 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)
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 har-
vesting, 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 bam-
boo 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 com-
plaint 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 enthu-
siastic 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
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 consul-
tancy (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 gener-
ating 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 gov-
ernment’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
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 soft-
spoken, 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 con-
clusion 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
China as well as other emerging donors such as Kuwait, which pledged $546 million
to Cambodia in 2008, most of it for a dam (Chun, 2009).
Yet Mr. Zhang is not an unreflexive evangelist of “Chinese-style development.”
He admits that his Chinese workers see the two-story colonial houses on the Kampot
riverfront, where we are having lunch, as a sign of poverty. He also adds, plausibly,
that the local inhabitants would not hesitate exchanging them for a glass-and-tile
building of the kind one sees in Chinese county towns. But he personally likes these
houses. Cambodia, he says, is not like China, where houses are always pulled down
and new ones erected, so that people always want to move to a new one, so that
construction companies and construction material companies are kept in business
and provide employment. He implies that this is necessary for development, and it
is Cambodia’s failure as a state not to follow this model; but the statement is tinged
with regret.
69.2 Casinos
Unlike Kamchay, the Dork Ngiew Kham (Golden Kapok Flower) tourist develop-
ment project in the Lao part of the Golden Triangle has attracted little attention,
either from Lao state-controlled media or international organizations. The project,
begun by Myanmar Macao Lundun Co. on 827 ha (2,044 acres) of leased land
in 2007, will entail an initial investment of close to US$ 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 prom-
enades 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 river-
side 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.
While discussions over further land annexation take place at the central govern-
ment 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 some-
what 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 fur-
nish 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 work-
ers 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 dis-
tricts (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 immi-
nent security threats: seven murders are said to have taken place on the Dork Ngiew
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 salu-
tary 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 ele-
gance 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 for-
mer 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:
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 trop-
ical 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 eth-
nic exoticism and eroticism in Chinese tourism (see, for example, Nyíri, 2006a),
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 shop-
keepers) 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 vil-
lage!). 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 destina-
tion. 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 forma-
tions 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 qui-
etly 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 envi-
ronment, 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 gam-
bling 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 (sport-
ing, 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 – oper-
ate – 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
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 China-
Burma 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 build-
ings 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, market-
ing 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 mono-
culture (Cohen, 2009; Lyttleton Cohen, Rattanavong, Tongkhamhan, & Sisaengrat,
2004; Shi, 2008).
69.3 Concessions
The dam and the casinos are very different kinds of places. The former is clas-
sified 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 extraterri-
toriality: 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 lead-
ers, foreign concessions in port cities and the Japanese-controlled puppet state
of Manchukuo were at once a burning humiliation and a lesson in industrializa-
tion, 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 extrater-
ritoriality 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 north-
ern 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,
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 Chinese-
run 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 impo-
sition 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 juris-
diction 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 addi-
tion, 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 com-
patriots 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 con-
spicuous 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 repli-

cating 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 evo-
lution 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 conces-
sion model has come to dominate the Cambodian economy to such an extent that
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 compa-
nies 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 exist-
ing 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 postcolo-
nial 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 imple-
mentation 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 char-
acteristic 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 develop-
ment of China’s western provinces since 2000 and has similarly attracted migrants
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 cen-
tral state funding and limited regard for the economic viability of infrastructural
megaprojects. This view suggested that it was designed to entrench local authori-
ties’ 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 eco-
nomics, 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 individual-
empowerment 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 pre-
sented 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 dissem-
inating 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 build-
ing and opium replacement (a scheme under which Chinese companies investing
in Laos can receive state subsidies) can be unproblematically and seamlessly con-
nected 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
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 mid-
1990s, and IMF-style structural adjustment has been transforming governmental
management in numerous countries for even longer. Insofar as Western-based pro-
grams 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 cap-
ital, 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 indi-
cators, 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 transi-
tion 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 Chinese-
Cambodian joint ventures that have been granted large agricultural concessions
(NGO Forum, n.d.). A Hong Kong entrepreneur who is a contractor for a flood con-
trol 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 govern-
ment 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 subcon-
tractors 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 fol-
lowed.” 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 construc-
tive 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 trig-
gering 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
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 con-
tract 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
Northern Laos, for instance, calls for the setting up of vocational schools and “spe-
cial 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 offi-
cials 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 glob-
alization. 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 temporar-
ily, 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 con-
strued 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 peas-
ants 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 desper-
ate 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
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).
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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, repre-
sents 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 brand-
ing 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 con-
sidered 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

1268 J.L. Scarpaci et al.
ecosystem (Clark, 1996). A major impact of coastal tourism is related to water qual-
ity 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 dam-
age 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 enforce-
ment 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 environ-
mental 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 communi-
ties (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 east-
ern 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 popula-
tions 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, par-
ticularly 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 con-
flicts, 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 pri-
marily 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 develop-
ment 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 gener-
ator 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
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 air-
port 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 signifi-
cant 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 devel-
opment 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 boom-
ing 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 elec-
tion, 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
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 sys-
tem, 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 his-
torical 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 offer-
ing 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 ground-
water, 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 sus-
tainable 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 responsi-
ble 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 devel-
opment, inadequate water supplies, groundwater contamination, and coral reef
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 com-
munity, 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 com-
prise 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 res-
idential 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

(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 buy-
ers 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 set-
tings 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 his-
torically, 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 look-
ing 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 set-
ting 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:
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 Size
Infrastructure
Paved roads 44 km
Aqueduct 1.5 million gallon daily capacity
Electrical Utility plant 5 Mega-Watts with its own grid
Recreation
Marina Up to 1,000 slips with about 100 in first phase
Golf course Jack Nicklaus-designed 18-hole Punta Espada Golf Course
Beach Club
Cap Cana Sanctuary and Spa Including 176 luxury suites
Alta Bella Fishing Lodge Including 290 apartments
Restaurants 9 “world-class” restaurants such as David Crocket
Residential Communities
Villas Caletón 16 units
Golden Bear Lodge 98 condominiums
Trump Farrallón 65 homes
Aguamarina Condominiums 125 units
Punta Palmera 185 units
Ribera Town Homes At least nine homes in early 2008
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 Nicklaus-
designed 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).
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 “free-
market” 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
dampened international travel. In response to the vicissitudes of the market, brand-

ing synergism is one way to energize the attraction of second home or travel
destinations. As Starkov and Price (2007) note, “[p]roviding unique value propo-
sition 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 share-
holder 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 capi-
talist 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, cer-
tainly 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 assess-
ment 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
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)
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 seg-
ment 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 num-
ber 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).
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.
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worldgolf.com/newswire/browse/13284-Donald-J--Trump-unveils-next-phase-of-Trump-at-
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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 sea-
sonal 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 clos-
ing 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

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 ele-
ments 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 per-
sistent 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 extend-
ing 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 flood-
plains, 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, “com-
pare 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 steam-
boats 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 nine-
teenth 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 over-
come 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 per-
suaded 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
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 signifi-
cant 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 subse-
quent 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 dur-
ing 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 real-
ized 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 naviga-
tion 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 per-
manent 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.
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, steam-
boat 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 num-
ber 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 sand-
bars 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 autho-
rized 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 bot-
tleneck 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
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 autho-
rized 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 imag-
ined 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 sto-
ries. 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 possi-
ble. 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 autho-
rized 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 navi-
gable 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 autho-
rized 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.
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 move-
able 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 propo-
nents. 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, how-
ever, 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,
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 sec-
ond 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 agricul-
tural 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 com-
mercial 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 oth-
ers, 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.
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 signif-
icant 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

1298 T.J. Nieman and Z.R. Merkin
The Bluegrass is an area under contention, where economic growth and restruc-
turing 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 sub-
urban 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 lime-
stone, 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 cane-
brake 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 geo-
logic 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?
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
ss
ra
g
d
u iss er
ue
te
ea D w
s
ec
Bl
as
at to Lo
gr
Pl cio bs:
th
ue
S no
of
Bl
K
ills
er
H
ut
O
s
as
s
r
as
eg
gr
lu
ue
rB
Kn
Bl
ne
o
er
In
bs
ut
No
O
:
rm
an
Up
land
Fig. 72.2 Ecological regions of Kentucky. (Source: Woods et al., 2002)

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 inter-
est 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 orig-
inal 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 rela-
tively 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”
Fig. 72.3 Regions defined by various organizations

(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 polit-
ical 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 impor-
tant 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 rail-
road development was strong by the 1880s and through the turn of the century,
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 develop-
ing 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 breed-
ing 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 corre-
spond,” 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 princi-
pal residence elsewhere and just visit periodically, usually during the racing seasons.
Henryk de Kwiakowski, airplane magnate, rescued fabled Calumet at its bankruptcy
1304
T.J. Nieman and Z.R. Merkin
Fig. 72.4 Bird’s eye view of the principal breeding farms of the bluegrass region of Kentucky, 1900
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 land-
scape, which bespeaks wealth and leisure. Certain details of materials and style, in
fences, buildings and grounds, are associated with this image, while other materi-
als 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, breed-
ing 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
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)
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 fre-
quency 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 pro-
duction 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)
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 direc-
tions. 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 oppor-
tunities 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 suppli-
ers 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
Table 72.1 Growth rates of bluegrass counties
1930– 1940– 1950– 1960– 1970– 1980– 1990–

1940 1950 1960 1970 1980 1990 2000
County (%) (%) (%) (%) (%) (%) (%)
Bourbon −0.7 −1.0 2.4 1.6 5.0 −0.9 0.6

Clark 2.0 5.1 11.5 14.3 17.6 4.1 12.4
Fayette 15.1 27.7 30.9 32.2 17.1 10.4 15.6
Jessamine −2.1 2.3 9.4 27.9 50.0 16.7 28.0
Madison 3.3 9.2 7.4 27.6 24.9 7.8 23.2
Scott −0.6 5.8 1.6 16.7 21.5 9.4 38.5
Woodford 7.9 −5.4 6.3 21.2 23.2 12.2 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)
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, construc-
tion 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 All industry totala 20,007 21,238

2 Private industriesa 17,371 18,420
3 Agriculture, forestry, fishing, and hunting (D) (D)
4 Crop and animal production (Farms) 422 590
5 Forestry, fishing, and related activities (D) (D)
11 Construction 957 932
12 Manufacturing 3,643 3,845
35 Retail trade 1,408 1.439
50 Finance and insurance 775 819
55 Real estate and rental and leasing 2,643 2,786
71 Arts, entertainment, and recreation 176 (D)
72 Performing arts, museums, related activities 116 112
73 Amusement, gambling, and recreation 60 (D)
74 Accommodation and food services 575 607
78 Government 2,636 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 newspa-
per, consistent with concerns across the country. Beyond just housing demand,
farmland in general and equine operations in particular have been affected both
Table 72.3 Selected equine related businesses in the Bluegrass
Business type Estimated number
Breeding, bloodstock and pedigree services 100

Equine art and photography 8
Equine database 1
Equine education 9
Equine feed and veterinary supplies 14
Equine Insurance 4
Equine related publications 14
Equine research facilities or hospitals 10
Equine transport 13
Expert witness 1
Farriers 30
Fencing and building contractors 10
Horse farm tours 14
Lawyers specializing in equine law 8
Lobbying organization 1
Real estate agencies specializing in horse properties 12
Rescue organizations 9
Retail specialty stores with equine themed merchandise 5
Tack stores 35
Veterinarians specializing in horses 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 develop-
ment 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 organiza-
tions 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
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 neighbor-
ing 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 cor-
ridor’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, sen-
sitive 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 conduct-
ing interviews and focus groups with adjacent landowners and historic preservation
experts to identify important historic and cultural features to be retained. They doc-
umented 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 construc-
tion 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 recre-
ate historic and scenic features to perpetuate a particular image of the Bluegrass
landscape.
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 work-
ing 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 sight-
seeing and shopping. The web page invites people to a farm tour, during which
people can “. . .visit with Thoroughbred celebrities at some of the most beauti-
ful horse farms in the world. . .. tour[ing] the grounds of historic estates of the
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 automo-
bile endurance tour, and Lexington became a popular stop for automobile clubs
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 contin-
ued 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 attrac-
tions 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
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 land-
scape 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 cupo-
las 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 subdivi-
sions 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 thor-
oughbreds, 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
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 lead-

ers, 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 com-
pleted 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 tradi-
tion 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
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 neighbor-
hoods, 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.
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 agri-
cultural technologies, the science of breeding, and transportation developments. It
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 engi-
neering, through tax laws, planning and zoning restrictions and government and
private mechanisms to transfer development rights, is being employed to prolong

the viability of the equine industry and thus its landscape. However, the prolifera-
tion 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 land-
scape 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
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Birds eye view of the principal breeding farms of the Blue Grass Region of Kentucky, U.S.A
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Clark, T. D., & Spelman, J. A. (1942). The Kentucky. New York: Farrar & Rinehart.
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Lexington Chamber of Commerce, Inc.
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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 high-
way 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 econ-
omy, 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 differ-
ent 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

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 thorough-
bred 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 south-
west 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 his-
toric 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 thorough-
bred 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 impor-
tance 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 identi-
fying 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, brand-
scapes 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 land-
scape 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 under-
stood 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, mov-
ing 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 land-
scape 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
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 ecolog-
ical 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 landscap-
ing 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 inter-
pretations 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 environ-
mental 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 pris-
tine 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.
Despite these critiques, rural landscapes that appear natural, but well man-
aged 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 non-
Indigenous 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 gentle-
men 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 recogni-
tion 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 standard-
ized 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;
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 main-
tained 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 facil-
ities 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 environ-
mental 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 land-
scaping is transferred into care for the horses. Landscape is therefore symbolic of
caring for animals and for an owner’s investment.
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.
Fig. 73.3 Ornate main entrance to Patinack farm
In Kentucky this landscaping ranges from Calumet Farm’s white fences, the tradi-
tional 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 thorough-
bred 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 sim-
ilar 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 peo-
ple 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.”
73.3.3 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 own-
ership 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 usu-
ally 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 estab-
lishments. 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
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 thou-
sands 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 thorough-
bred 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 ulti-
mately 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 glam-
orous 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 inten-
sive. 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 appar-
ent 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
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 breed-
ing 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 com-
petition from other industries. This includes education and training, including the
development of a Technical and Further Education (TAFE) program in equine stud-
ies at Scone in the Upper Hunter Region. Other Australian states offer various
education programs for people working in the equine industry, although the presti-
gious 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 indus-
try as a “clean and green” activity; particularly around the issue of water, as
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
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.
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 similar-
ities to other thoroughbred breeding regions throughout the world, mainly because
the needs are similar in different places; the safety and health of horses and peo-
ple, the client based industry where visits to the premises are expected and the need
to communicate an image of care and professionalism. Many thoroughbred breed-
ers 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, temper-
ature 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’ percep-
tions 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.
In the thoroughbred breeding industry, the nexus of political-economy and land-

scaping 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, cor-
rect 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 com-
bination 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.
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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 promo-
tion 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
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 rac-
ing 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 web-
site 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 phys-
ical 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 sand-
stone 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 addi-
tion 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 under-
stood. 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 cen-
turies 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

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 disas-
trous 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 improv-
idence “. . .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 com-
promised 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 environ-
mental 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; gov-
ernance 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 cre-
ating “another Nature” (Cicero, 1951). While growing mastery was occasionally
expressed in stewardship (Ray, 1759), it is perhaps noteworthy that Seneca associ-
ated advances in the arts, sciences, and applied technology with moral decline; with
the substitution of ingenuity for wisdom. Alarm regarding cumulative environmen-
tal 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 imme-
diate 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 dry-
lands, 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 envi-
ronmental 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, complexi-
ties of land tenure, economic constraints, and other considerations, is large-scale
restoration possible? A growing number of projects indicate that it is. For exam-
ple: “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
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 rehabili-
tated 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 insti-
tute 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 suc-
cessfully 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 improve-
ments have been documented in the Sacramento River corridor. Riparian forests
once covered 324,000 ha (800,000 acres) along the Sacramento River. Only approx-
imately 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.
74.3 Range of Benefit

The proposed project has the potential to heal millennia of inadvertent environmen-
tal 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 car-
bonic 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 increas-
ingly 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 poten-
tial 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 fre-
quency 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 envi-
ronmental 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 environ-
mental 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 dise-
quilibria is basic to project design and implementation (Pearce, 2004). Additional
attention would be devoted to increasing public awareness of the nature and conse-
quences of environmental change, as well as assistance in integrating environmental
stewardship into school curricula as appropriate.
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 biolog-
ical 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 manage-
ment, 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 dis-
tribution, 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 assess-
ments 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 pur-
sue 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 commu-
nities, 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 initia-
tives 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 com-
ponents. Information regarding successful grassroots initiatives might be drawn
from groups with broad and varied experience, such as the Society for Ecological
Restoration International. Supplemental labor might be provided by groups rang-

ing from organized gap-year students to military establishments. In instances in
which project demands exceed available equipment for implementation, range-
improvement 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 ecol-
ogy, 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 organi-
zations, 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 orga-
nizations 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 pro-
gram 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 orga-
nizations, 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 organiza-
tions; 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 dry-
lands of the world; and crops adapted to aridity, such as Australian channel millet,
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 mag-
nitudes 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, environmen-
tal security, and what it means to be human (Wilson, 2001). The urgency is apparent;
the choice is ours.
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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 conver-
sion 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 plan-
tations (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

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 produc-
tivity (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 estab-
lishing 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 com-
pany’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 forest-
based 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 planta-
tion 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 ques-
tionable 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 character-
ized 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 con-
sists 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 plan-
tations (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 posi-
tive 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 pro-
vided 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 obtain-
ing job opportunities in the plantations. In both case study villages, the wealthy
households shared the best job opportunities amongst themselves because they had
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 vegeta-
tion 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 con-
firmed 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% for-
est 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 euca-
lyptus 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 plant-
ings 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 planta-
tions. 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 landown-
ers. 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 vil-
lagers 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
25 were classified as poor farmers, 23 as middle-class farmers, and 14 as well-

to-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 impor-
tant 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 eucalyp-
tus 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 vol-
leyball. 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 Schools Co-operatives
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.
Firewood Mostly for personal Small amounts can be Specified amounts
consumption. collected free of annually available
charge by the families free to members, can
of students. also be sold.
Medicinal leaves Commonly used as Can be collected after Available for all
medicine for flu. permission is granted. members, for others
by permission.
Grazing Often used as a grazing Not allowed. Members use old
area for part of the woodlots for cattle
year. and goats.
Other benefits 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.
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 indi-
cated 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.
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 savan-
nah, 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, unsustain-
able 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 pop-
ulations 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 defor-
estation 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 produc-
tivity 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 plant-
ing 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 compen-
sated 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 regen-
eration 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 incorpo-
rated 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 sys-
tem. 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 rehabilita-
tion of degraded forest lands through local community collaboration at 2001. It
aimed at collaborative forest rehabilitation through the promotion of tree planta-
tion 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 farm-
ers. 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)
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
Number of tree
Site, forest type Number of trees/hectare species/hectare
Begoro, natural forest 230 34

Dormaa, natural forest 277 18
Begoro, forest garden 277 20
Dormaa, forest garden 211 14
Begoro, degraded forest 81 21
Dormaa, degraded forest 141 18
Modified from the unpublished manuscript of Damnyag (2009).
According to him there are generally more timber trees and species in the natu-
ral 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 diver-
sity 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 vil-
lagers’ 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 plan-
tations 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 wood-
lots have provided important basic needs that complement other products obtainable
from the remaining natural miombo woodland. However, although woodlots pro-
vided 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 rein-
troduction 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 commu-
nities. 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 dif-
ferent 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.
75
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
Impacts on Modified taungya system in Ghana Eucalyptus woodlots in Zimbabwe Industrial forest plantations in Indonesia
Cash Provide crops and tree seedlings + Minor impacts, important for some + Important cash earnings from job +++
for selling owners opportunities and royalties
Products for own use Crops at the beginning, NWFP ++ Provide building material, poles +++ None 0
later and firewood for owners
Employment Offer jobs at establishment and + Minor impacts, although some + The most important employer in ++
Huge Yields of Green Belts?
harvest time extra labour is needed at the plantation scheme area

establishment
Land-use Access to land seen as the most +++ Normally established in private – Reduce agricultural areas, but --/+
important benefit fields or gardens, might reduce using grasslands may increase
communal grazing areas productivity
Risks Risk of wild fire incursion in tree – Minor risks as trees are used 0 Potentially high risks if changes in --
plantation in dry semi deciduous locally and woodlot the company’s policy occur
zones management is done by the
owners themselves
Infrastructure Donor funded schemes may + None 0 Forest plantation scheme develops ++
develop feeder roads and bridges infrastructure, e.g., roads and
bridges
Environment Tree gardens increase species + Bigger woodlots seen as “green + Reforesting grasslands might have +
diversity belt” positive effects on species
diversity
Security Reclaiming degraded lands seen as + Seen also as investments for future + Land-use model and incentives +
benefit and expected share from and as grazing areas for cattle might also increase incomes and
sale of trees rice yields
+++ highly positive, ++ positive, + some positive impacts, 0 no impact, – some negative impacts, -- negative, --- highly negative
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 tim-
ber 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.
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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 struc-
tures 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 driv-
ing 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 deter-
mine 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 con-
struction 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

1370 M. Schmitt-Harsh et al.
land development and forest-cover loss. With few exceptions, once a natural land-
scape 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 fertil-
ity 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 understand-
ing of the social and environmental dynamics associated with forest-cover change
trajectories. Many anthropomorphic land-cover changes are the result of two dis-
tinct 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, environmen-
tal, 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 land-
use/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 out-
comes 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 prescrip-
tions, 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 mak-
ers, 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 opportuni-
ties 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 mid-
western 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 trans-
formation 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
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 con-
sequences of rapid tree destruction maintaining that the destruction would surely
increase with population and without protection from the federal or state govern-
ments (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, agricul-
tural 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 for-
est cover in the early 1900s of 18% (Kellog, 1909), but because contemporary data
are more reliable, considerable reforestation in the 20th century has been docu-
mented, 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 great-
est 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 surpris-
ingly, the expansion of lumbering preceded calls for the careful husbanding of forest
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
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 federal-
state-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 land-
acquisition 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 part-
time 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 unem-
ployed through nature conservation projects was not uniquely Franklin Roosevelt’s,
although he had actively advocated and implemented such as a New York state legis-
lator 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
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 dis-
cussed 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, manage-
able, 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 educa-
tion 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
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, con-
struction 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 engi-
neering 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 fed-
eral 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).
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 pro-
grams 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 bene-
fits 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 conser-
vation 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 agri-
culture or pasture purposes (Dangerfield, Newman, Moorhead, & Thompson, 1995).
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 produc-
tive 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 commod-
ity prices higher in the 1970s. Farmers responded by planting marginal cropland
and expanding production into pasture and rangelands. As the value of U.S. cur-
rency 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 succes-
sor 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 mid-
1990s. 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 thou-
sand 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
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.
76.4 Land-Use Legacies and Future Implications

The process of westward expansion and the absence of legislation to protect for-
est 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 produc-
tion 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 pro-
duction, 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 expan-
sion. 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 pri-
vate 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 cen-
tury. 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; how-
ever, 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 large-
scale 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 man-
agement (Evans & Kelley, 2004). For example, conversion of non-forested land
to forest has been observed in recent decades on marginally productive farmland,
pasture, and rangeland and the remainder holds the greatest potential for contin-
ued 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 sup-
ply 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.
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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 meth-
ods (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 gen-
eral 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

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 ero-
sion 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 specifi-
cally, 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 infiltra-
tion 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 per-
meable 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
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 agricul-
tural 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 differ-
ent 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 experi-
ments 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 docu-
mented. 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 cen-
tury. 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)
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 exper-
imentation 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 con-
tour 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 compat-
ible 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 cur-
tail 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 tribu-
taries 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 imple-
mented 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)
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 infiltra-
tion 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 esti-
mated 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 agri-
cultural engineers with widespread regional experimentation. Additionally, greatly
enhanced productivity allowed US agriculture to use only the better soils allow-
ing 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 habi-
tat 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.
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 implica-
tions 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 sedimenta-
tion 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 mobil-
ity 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 net-
works 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 flood-
ing 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 val-
leys 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

1396 P.J. Hugill
attempts to control the Nile. They failed frequently. The collapse of a privately con-
structed 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 trans-
portation 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 construc-
tion 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 pres-
sure 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 automo-
biles 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 caus-
ing 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 net-
work 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 tex-
ture, which so strongly affect capillarity, have never been adequately considered ”
(James, 1918: 32). However, the survival of a short length of very substantial con-
crete 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 town-
ship 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 engi-
neering 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 founda-
tion 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 founda-
tion 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 fail-
ure 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
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 estab-
lished 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 diffi-
cult, 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 teach-
ing” (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 investi-
gations 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 connec-
tion 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 under-
ground 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: down-
town 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 construc-
tion 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 con-
sultant 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 set-
tling 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 experi-
mentation began in the 1870s with steam dredges to raise much more substantial
levees in the Sacramento delta region, always a major region for agricultural tech-
nological 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, uned-
ucated 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 con-
tract 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 innova-
tion; 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 com-
panies, 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 eas-
ier. 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 indis-
pensable 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 irriga-
tion 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,
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 indus-
trial 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 com-
pacted 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 sev-
enteen 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 con-
centration 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 recep-
tion 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 fur-
ther $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 else-
where in the country favored reservoir construction via damming (Arnold, 1988:
72). Third was the need for huge amounts of earth-moving machinery, which had
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 mechan-
ics, 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 empir-
ical 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 transfor-
mation 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 machin-
ery, 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 ana-
lyze soil structure under runways that had to support heavy bombers (Turhollow,
1992: 210). The most obvious direct achievement of this third period was his con-
sultation 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.
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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 pre-
sented 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 megaengi-
neering 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 objec-
tive 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

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 consti-
tutes 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, land-
scaping 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 anal-
ysis 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 subtropi-
cal 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 construc-
tion: 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 self-
powered, 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 con-
struction 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 out-
side the coast of Dubai shaped as the world. It was constructed 2003–2008, 24 h a
day, seven days a week. Each island can be bought for prices from $US 10–45 mil-
lion 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 break-
water. 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 mil-
lion 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, apart-
ments, 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 bless-
ing 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), agricul-
tural 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).
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 publica-
tions 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 deserti-
fication 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 posi-
tive 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 environmen-
tal 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 deple-
tion, 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 under-
standing. 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 pre-
viously 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
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 envi-
ronmental 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 con-
flict between economic growth and ecological interests that characterized this early
environmental movement has been reconciled within ecological modernization dis-
course 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 environmental-
ism, 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 con-
cerns 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 creat-
ing 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 success-
fully hides the conflicts between consumption and ecological concerns. It makes
us believe that energy- and resource efficiency is sufficient enough, without ques-
tioning the total use of resources, energy or the consumerist lifestyle in total. So can
the ecological modernization and megaengineering projects solve the environmental
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 main-
tain 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 actu-
ally 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 mar-
ket. 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 con-
cluded 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 econ-
omy 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 differ-
ence. 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 envi-
ronmental impact assessments, but without addressing the non-sustainable lifestyle
promoted in this development. The economy of the post-oil era in the UAE some-
how 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
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 vulnera-
ble 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 dol-
lar 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 consid-
ered 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 business-
as-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.
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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 ‘transcen-
dence’ (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

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 anti-
dote 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 med-
ical geographers such as Chris Philo (1987, 1995, 2004) and Hester Parr (2007);
Parr, Philo, and Burns (2003) who examine the geographical and physical charac-
teristics 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 rea-
sons 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 deliri-
ums 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 vegeta-
tion 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, veg-
etable 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 typ-
ical asylum site found was distinguished by rural location, expansive grounds, farm
areas, ornamental gardens, airing yards and an emphasis on a ‘picturesque’ aes-
thetic. 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 impor-
tance 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 indi-
cate the predominantly, pastoral character of the new colony but can also indicate
other influences. Primarily, the location reflects the tone of recommendations in the
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 empha-
sized 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, clus-
tered 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 health-
ful 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 encour-
agement 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.
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 rela-
tion 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 indica-

tive 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 land-
form 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 identifi-
cation of desirable topography was again, not the flat, monotonous country of Henry
Lawson stories but rather that of the English ‘picturesque.’ As with Australian land-
scape 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 fea-
ture 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).
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 asy-
lum (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 garde-
nesque ‘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
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.
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 asy-
lums. 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 increas-
ing 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 keep-
ing 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 offi-
cially 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.
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 sig-
nificance and their deliberate alteration (Tufnell 2006). To date, few artists have
attempted geographically large-scale Sea Art and yet such a revolutionary, but obvi-
ously 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

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 peo-
ple’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 atmo-
sphere 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 popula-
tion 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 imper-
meable 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 under-
water (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 facil-
ity 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 ero-
sion 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 construc-
tion/emplacement/installation site because of marine and aerial (seasonal winds)
pressures acting directly on the GSTB. There are differences in seawater eleva-
tions 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 installa-
tion experience with heavy wire nets, floatation systems and their seabed moorings
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 fisher-
men 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
y T
h
p
Fig. 81.1 Scheme of the

textile barrage (side view)
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:
d2 y (z) pL
=− (81.1)
dz2 TH
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 2 h 2
dy 1 dy p2 L2 h3
H= 1+ dz ≈ 1+ dz = h + (81.2)
dz 2 dz 6TH2
0 0
Accordingly we find:
pLh H−h
TH = √ , ε = (81.3)
6ε h
The mean tension in the barrage will thus be
h h
1 TH TH 1 dy 2 H
T=
dz ≈ 1+ dz =TH (81.4)
h dy(z)
cos dz h 2 dz h
0 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 suffi-
ciently 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.
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 hydro-
graphies 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.
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).
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, reser-
voirs, 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 inappli-
cable 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

1452 D. Manders
between Memphis, Tennessee, and Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and significantly low-
ered 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, remark-
able 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 cut-
offs 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 investi-
gate 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 mat-
ter, 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 engi-
neers 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 nav-
igation. 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 effec-
tive 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 con-
sider 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 con-
sideration 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 mod-
erate 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 enlarge-
ment 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 down-
stream 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 ques-
tion 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 pre-
cluded 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 recom-
mendations for cutoff and channel rectification programs. For example, Gardner
Williams, a consulting engineer for the MRC, in 1930 tried to demonstrate the
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 chan-
nel directly from Cairo to Atchafalaya Bay, in essence abandoning the Mississippi
River channel for a human-made one (Williams, 1930). A more modest plan pro-
posed 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 revet-
ments 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 non-
engineering 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 labora-
tory 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 dif-
ferent 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 detri-
mental effects due to the cut-off,” directly contradicting earlier theories based on the
Humphreys and Abbot report (Vogel, 1931). Gerard Matthes and others involved
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 cut-
offs 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 show-
ing 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 flamboy-
ant 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 cut-

off 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 rights-
of-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 tem-
porarily 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 sta-
ble 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 con-
sidered 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 expendi-
tures 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)
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 simi-
lar 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 dredg-
ing, 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 navi-
gation 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 reduc-
tion 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 cor-
rection 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 pro-
gram 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 adjust-
ment 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 revet-
ment then in use that this plan became possible. At the same time, further modeling
and geological investigations greatly improved knowledge of the meandering pro-
cess. 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 envi-
ronmental considerations have rendered such a program practically impossible to
implement today. For example, many scientists or engineers have proposed relocat-
ing 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
Fig. 82.3 Cutoff Locations from Arkansas to Louisiana. (Adapted from Ferguson, 1935)
1462 D. Manders
Table 82.1 Mississippi river cutoffs in 1946
Name Date opened Location (Mi. AHP) Net shortening (Mi.)
Yucatan December 1929 404 9.6

Diamond January 8, 1933 420 12.0
Glasscock March 26, 1933 342 10.8
Giles May 25, 1933 364 11.1
Leland July 8, 1933 532 9.8
Worthington December 25, 1933 507 4.3
Marshall March 12, 1934 444 4.2
Willow April 8, 1934 458 7.7
Tarpley April 21, 1935 535 8.6
Ashbrook November 19, 1935 542 11.4
Rodney February 29, 1936 385 5.8
Sarah March 23, 1936 498 5.3
Caulk May 13, 1937 569 15.2
Jackson April 26, 1941 624 8.7
Sunflower February 16, 1942 622 10.4
Hardin March 18, 1942 676 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
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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).
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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.
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.
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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 mega-
works, 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 engi-
neering 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

1466 G.J. Borger et al.
83.2 Geoarchaeological Setting

In the western part of the country, which is the most densely populated and econom-
ically 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 intro-
duction 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 consider-
ably 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 south-
ern 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 neighbor-
ing 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 Ardennen-
massif; 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
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).
The transition from an agricultural to an industrial society during the 19th century
accelerated human interference with geological processes. In addition, the impor-
tance 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 cen-
tury 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 short-
ened 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 shal-
low 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 dis-
charge 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 expen-
sive 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 accept-
able. 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 consid-
ered 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,
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 investi-
gate 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
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 out-
going 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 18 200 1927–1930

Afsluitdijk 32 – 1927–1932
Noordoostpolder 55 480 1936–1942
Eastern Flevoland 90 540 1950–1956
Southern Flevoland 70 430 1959–1967
Houtribdike 28 – 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)
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 dis-
charge 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 neighbor-
ing 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 flood-
ing 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 glob-
alizing, 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
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.
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 stretch-
ing 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 evac-
uated 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 pold-
ers, 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)
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 gov-
ernment 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, alter-
native 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
The expedition of the Delta project is considered as part of a single chain of

innovations according to technical criterions: each stage or separate hydraulic-
engineering 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 outgo-
ing 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 farm-
ing 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 construc-
tion process. Because the bottom of the inlet was too weak, the sandy top layer
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 foun-
dation 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.
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 engi-
neering 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 infrastruc-
ture 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 eco-
logical 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.
83.5 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 reduc-
ing 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 reclama-
tion 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 build-
ing 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 incom-
patible 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 signif-
icantly 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
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 engi-
neers 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 morphol-
ogy, 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 geol-
ogy 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.
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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).
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isostatic subsidence and the radial viscosity structure of the mantle of northwest Europe
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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 flood-
ing frequency and gradual sea level rise, changed the shape of the coastline
R. Hoeksema (B)
Engineering Department, Calvin College, Grand Rapids, MI 49546, USA

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 oxi-
dized resulting in significant land subsidence. As the land subsided, marshes and
lakes formed in the lowest areas. With time, these lakes grew ever larger threaten-
ing 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 widen-
ing 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, devel-
opments prior to the 20th century would lay the important groundwork for more
recent activities. Specifically, land reclamation by pumping dry previously sub-
merged 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

coast – 1250 A.D.

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

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 wind-
mill could drain lakes smaller than 600 ha (1480 acre). Larger lakes required many
more (Meijer, 1996). Finally, drainage ditches, dug inside the drained lake, con-
veyed 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 cen-
tury. 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
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 cylin-
der 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 con-
structed 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).
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 sponta-
neously. 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 prob-
lems 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
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 recre-
ation. 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 sig-
nals 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 exceed-
ing 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 lev-
els. 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 exclu-
sion 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
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 pur-
posely 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 vol-
ume 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
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 includ-
ing 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 bar-
rier 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 con-
crete 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 rect-
angular 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 build-
ing 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.
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 south-
west 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 com-
mission 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 recommenda-
tions 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 con-
struction 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.
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 avail-
ability was around 2,128 m3 (554,761 gallons) per year, more than double the
internationally recognized threshold at which a country would be considered water-
scarce (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 geo-
graphic 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

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 ris-
ing 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, reser-
voir 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 com-
pared 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 sim-
ilar 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 engi-
neers 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 exper-
tise, 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 him-
self 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 horizon-
tals, three verticals” (siheng sanzong) arrangement to address water shortages in the
North China Plain (Chinawater, 2007). Initial plans called for the project to be com-
pleted 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 sec-
tions to be connected into one contiguous waterway. Yellow River floods, warfare,
and imperial neglect left portions of the canal damaged and non-navigable at var-
ious 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

Fig. 85.3 Artist’s rendering of parallel tunnels crossing underneath the Yellow river. Similar tun-
nels 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 down-
hill 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 advan-
tages 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 eco-
logical disruption resulting from constructing the channel are far greater. According
to Beijing Huaxinjie Investment Consulting Company, a construction and engineer-
ing 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
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 diver-
sion 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 diver-
sion 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 rail-
road 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 struc-
tures 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 con-
struction 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, plan-
ners 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 diame-
ter, 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 aug-
mentation 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 com-
plicated 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, poten-
tially posing unwarranted risks in terms of species loss and challenges to human
livelihoods, sites of cultural importance, and traditions. Second, redirected water

would have to flow uphill at points over the eastern Himalayas, requiring large-
scale 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 head-
waters 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, primar-
ily 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 down-
stream 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 vol-
umes 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 peri-
ods (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 pollu-
tion 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 suc-
cess 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 (min-
imum 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, concentra-
tions 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 trans-
portation 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 traf-
fic 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 con-
cerns particular to the eastern route, and serving as the motivation for a pollution
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 signifi-
cant 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, con-
structing 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 resi-
dents 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 reser-
voir 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 tril-
lion 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 eutrophica-
tion 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 environmen-
tal 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 bil-
lion 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 signif-
icant, 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 headwa-
ters 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 ter-
rain 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
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 envi-
ronment 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 likeli-
hood 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 enter-
prises, and changes in legal institutions resulting in many ambiguities and areas
of overlapping jurisdiction (Magee, 2006, 2007). As James Nickum (2006), a long-
time 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 insti-
tutions.” 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 auton-
omy from the Ministry, and from provincial and sub-provincial subordinates of the
MWR. In addition, even though the Water Law of China delegates some enforce-
ment 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 min-
istries 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 gen-
eration, 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 under-
taken 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) (South-
to-North Water Diversion Project, China, n.d.). Foreign company participation is
apparently limited to highly specialized tasks such as long-distance precision tun-
neling 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 coordi-
nation. 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 impli-
cations 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 translit-
eration.
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.
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Chapter 86
The Siberian Water Transfer Scheme
Philip Micklin
86.1 Introduction
The 20th century was the era of megaengineering. Humans not only had unwaver-
ing 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 charac-
ter 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 fun-
damental 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

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 dur-
ing 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 dis-
cussed 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 indef-
initely 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 dur-
ing 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 mil-
lion 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 with-
drawals. Although not the primary goal, which was expansion of irrigation in the
Aral Sea Basin, water transfers from Siberian rivers would have aided in amelio-
rating 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 nat-
ural route of transfer across the low Turgay Gate dividing Western Siberia from
Kazakhstan and Central Asia. This simplified the engineering and lowered the esti-
mated 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 negotia-
tions 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 seri-
ously 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 conver-
sion 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 contin-
ued 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
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 recommenda-
tion 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 construc-
tion 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 crit-
icisms 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 trans-
fers 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
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 offi-
cial 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 imple-
mentation 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 pro-
gram 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 envi-
ronmental 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 prob-
ability 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 sub-
stantive issues raised about Siberian diversions did not reach even a broad scientific
audience, let alone the general public.
In 1982 a major public challenge was raised to the Siberian project. The influen-
tial 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, includ-
ing 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 scien-
tist 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 reap-
praisal, 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 present-
ing, 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 mes-
sage 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 oppo-
nent 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 argu-
ment 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.
Critics charged that the water management agencies responsible for the design
and environmental evaluation of the water transfers to make them look more favor-
able, 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 stud-
ies (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 fore-
cast 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 seri-
ous 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 con-
cerns 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 evalu-
ating 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 manage-
ment 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 socioe-
conomic 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 dec-
larations 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
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 par-
tial 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 excep-
tion. 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 man-
agement 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, com-
pensation 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 pro-
moted in Central Asian water management and governmental circles during the
1990s and into the new millennium. While promoting the need for improved irri-
gation 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 irriga-
tion 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 socioe-
conomic disaster, including destroying fisheries and upsetting the local climate. The
former deputy director of the Institute of Geography, a scientist who is very knowl-
edgeable 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
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 short-
age 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 practically-
speaking 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 macro-
projects 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, there-
fore, 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 ecosystem-
state and region’s economy, and this initiative will promote effective and peaceful
regional trade relationships as well as strong and persistent commercially inte-
grated 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 pre-
served as speedy infrastructure modernization occurs. Also the inevitable affective
R.B. Cathcart (B)

Geographos, Burbank, CA, 91506, USA

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 pro-
posal, 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 emplace-
ments: (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 superhigh-
ways 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 sur-
face 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 tem-
porarily 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 signif-
icantly 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 drasti-
cally. 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) confi-
dently 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 water-
power 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 power-
houses 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, indus-
trialization, 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 indis-
putably commenced on 20 October 1962. Since the 20th century military conflict
of geopolitical power rivals, both ecosystem-states have mainly indulged in diplo-
matic 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 head-
waters 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 cur-
rent, 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 instal-
lation. 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 pro-
posal 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 rel-
evant 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 low-
rise 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 head-
gate. It is commonly alleged that a 21st century atmospheric global warming will
cause enhanced Himalayan glacier melting and, thereby, increase the runoff transit-
ing the lowlands south of the Tibet Plateau (Barnett, Adams, & Lettnmaier, 2005).
The pressure tunnel must be soundly designed, dug and defended by a strong imper-
meable 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 per-
sons 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 fore-
casted 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
(7349 ft) long Farakka Barrage (24◦ 49 N by 87◦ 56 E) on the Ganges River a signifi-
cantly 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 sus-
pects 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 macro-
project 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 interna-
tional flood control and urban-rural freshwater regulatory system rather than a basic
seaport depth-maintenance device (Messerli & Hofer, 2006). It may become nec-
essary 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 uncontro-
vertibly 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 pro-
vide 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 unload-
ing 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 per-
son 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 irri-
gation 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 sin-
gle 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 eco-
nomically 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 agricul-
ture 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 over-
lapping 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 land-
bound 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 economi-
cally 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 terra-
mechanics 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 exceed-
ing 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
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 freshwa-
ter derived from the Himalayas, running through densely human-populated regions
such as India and Bangladesh, is likely to harbor harmful bacteria and other organ-
isms 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 macro-
problem. 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 nitro-
gen 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 freshwa-
ter 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 cur-
rently 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 nation-
ecosystems 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 tech-
nologies, using either bromine or chlorine, have been recently introduced commer-
cially 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 fresh-
water supply necklace for the coastal India population. The FSNS is cheaper than
competing inter-basin freshwater transfers and pioneering in the on-going “global-
ization 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
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Ballabh, V. (2008) Governance of water: Institutional alternatives and political economy. New
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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 fac-
tors: (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 hydro-
logical 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

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 land-
scape, 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 post-
1950 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 tech-
nological 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 inde-
pendent 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 fresh-
water 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 tribu-
tary, 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, overcom-
ing 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, there-
fore, 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 abu-
sive 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 ben-
eficially channeled into the currently diminished Aral Sea(s) to help reclaim that
anthropogenic wasteland (Risley, 2006). On 18 February 1911 a very strong earth-
quake 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 harm-
ful 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).
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 cli-
mate 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 Sea-
Caspian 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”.
88.3 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 m-
diameter 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 sur-
face 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 assump-
tions, 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 Macro-
engineering 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
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, depend-
ing 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 restora-
tion 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 environ-
mental 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 Organization-
observed international treaty-codified unity of the affected region’s participating
geopolitical and Macro-engineering decision-makers.
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dependent processes. International Journal of Environment and Waste Management, to be
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T. Tvendt & E. Jakobsson, E. (Eds.), A history of water: Water control and river biographies
(pp. 3–34). UK: I.B. Taurus.
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322–335.
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Geochemistry, 15, 223–236.
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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 fresh-
water 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 pan-
evaporation 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 chan-
nels, 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

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 max-
imum 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 con-
versation 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 deep-
est 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 con-
stantly 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
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, artifi-
cial 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 calcula-
tions. 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 pro-
posed 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
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:
pD
δ= (89.1)
2σ
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 dis-
crete 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:
4Qsw
wsw = (89.2)
π D2duct
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:
Lduct w2sw
H = λ (89.5)
Dduct 2 g
where λ is the linear pressure loss coefficient given by:
⎧
⎪ 1
⎨ √ for Re < 105
4 100Re
λ= (89.6)
⎪
⎩ 0.0032 + 0.211 for Re > 105
Re0.237
where the Reynolds number is defined by
wsw Dduct
Re = (89.7)
νsw
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.
Table 89.1 Parameters for Port Augusta to Lake Eyre Pipeline
Hydraulic Ppump
Diameter wsw Qsw head Total Number of p Ppump /Station
Number (m) (m/s) (m3 /s) (m) (MWe) stations (atm) (MWe)
1 3 2 14 270 53 9 3 5.8
2 3 4 28 830 313 28 3 11.2
3 6 2 56 156 120 15 1 8.0
4 6 4 113 411 620 41 1 15.1
5 9 2 127 120 204 12 1 17.0
6 9 4 254 282 956 28 1 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 photo-
voltaic 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 litera-
ture 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
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 8.03 8.25 7.42 6.86

Feb 6.98 7.90 6.97 6.53
Mar 5.66 6.97 6.00 5.81
Apr 4.95 5.00 4.81 5.33
May 2.71 4.18 3.53 4.39
Jun 2.29 3.78 3.08 4.00
July 2.43 3.75 3.36 4.28
Aug 3.32 4.18 4.14 4.86
Sep 4.61 5.52 5.28 6.06
Oct 5.57 7.10 6.36 6.50
Nov 6.97 7.85 7.08 7.03
Dec 7.69 8.14 7.50 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
pipe is Dduct Lduct = 3.2 · 106 m2 , it means that the PV system may even be fit-
ted 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 sheet-
ing, 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 assem-
bled together with clips and tethered to the seabed. Rainwater accumulating atop the
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 cov-
ers 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 shore-
line. 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.
89.4 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 exten-
sive 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 exten-
sive 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 expen-
sive 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 obvi-
ous 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).
Table 89.3 Cost estimations
Component Cost/Unit Units Total MUSD Totals
Fabric Duct D = 9 m 900 USD/m 360,000 m 324 One complete

pumping unit for
1 km3 /year:
1611 MUSD
Installation 400 USD/m 360,000 m 144
Pumps 800 USD/KW 204,000 kW 163
PV Plant 4800 USD/KW 204,000 kW 980
Lidding 60% 1.0 USD/m2 6000 km2 6000 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 macroengi-
neering 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).
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 aver-

age 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 prod-
ucts 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.
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 reason-
able limits. Also, a solution exists to extract freshwater from the Earth-atmosphere
(Bolonkin, 2007). This freshwater might be used to decrease the seawater importa-
tion 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 freshwa-
ter 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 infre-
quent 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 macro-
project 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, unpre-
dictable rainfalls produce regions that support a high diversity and abundance of
wildlife (Stafford Smith, & Morton, 1990). This macroproject could, no doubt, dis-
turb 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.
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 regional-
rural” 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 popula-
tion 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 solu-
tion 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 aes-
thetics 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 pres-
ence 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 graz-
ing 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, mak-
ing 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 macropro-
ject. 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.
89.7 Conclusions
The present work proposes a macroengineering project, aimed at stimulating eco-
nomic 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 agri-
culture 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 demon-
strated 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 buoy-
ant white hollow plastic balls). The exact composition and desired optical properties
(reflectance) of this cap remain to be seen. Suppressing evaporation of the freshwa-
ter/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.
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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 consid-
erable 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 moun-
tain 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

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 mil-
lion 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 with-
stand 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).
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 gener-
ate 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 consump-
tion by 31 million tons per year, potentially cutting the emission of greenhouse gases
by 100 million tons (Carbonplanet, 2006). In addition, burning coal discharges mil-
lions 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, cou-
pled 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 year-
round 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
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 sug-
gested 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 peo-
ple 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 encour-
aged 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.
90.7.2 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 possi-
ble, 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 dis-
appearing 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 chemi-
cal 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 human-
made 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.
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 combi-
nation 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, cou-
pled 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 revo-
lution 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 over-
come. 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.
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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 sur-
vey 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 fac-
tories 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 popu-
lation” 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 prob-
lems 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

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 sec-
tions 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 dis-
placed. 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 reser-
voir 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 construc-
tion 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 “mov-
ing out people, keeping a stable society, and helping migrants to become wealthy
gradually.” The process of TGP resettlement runs concurrently with the dam con-
struction stages (Table 91.1). By the end of December 2007, the number of people
91
Table 91.1 Numbers of people actually displaced in the TGP by the end of 2005
Urban resettlement Rural resettlement Total
Water level of the outside the of which: resettled in

Dam construction stages reservoir (m) in cities in townships inside the county county distant provinces
Stage I: 1993–1997 <90 16, 616 7, 746 9, 904 2, 777 257 37, 043
Stage II: 1998–June 2006 90–135 222, 526 47, 107 58, 292 46, 368 25, 029 374, 293
Demographic Impacts of the Three Gorges Dam
Stage III-1: July 2003–May 2006 135–156 230, 348 71, 559 72, 847 95, 630 66, 642 470, 384
Stage III-2: June 2006–2009 156–175 129, 783 21, 797 39, 524 40, 359 32, 009 231, 463
Total 599, 273 148, 209 180, 567 185, 134 123, 937 1, 113, 183
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
1585
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 reset-
tlement.” Near resettlement, which means moving people uphill to nearby local
communities within their original county, has been a fundamental approach in set-
tling 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, socioe-
conomic 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 set-
tled 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 commu-
nities (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 gov-
ernments 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 town-
ship’ (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 resettle-
ment 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 volun-
tarily displaced their families and resettled in 27 provinces nationwide (including
Chongqing) by the end of 2004. The majority (18,074 persons) of them were reset-
tled 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 pre-
movement 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 tech-
nical support in the host communities to help the relocatees restore production;
no non-agricultural job opportunities in most of the resettlement locations; diffi-
culties 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 resettle-
ment (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 clos-
ing 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
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 reser-
voir 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 reser-
voir 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 availabil-
ity 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 sedimenta-
tion 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 accom-
modate 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,
Distribution of migrants
in the following provinces
Anhui
Fujian
Guangdong
Hubei
Hunan
JIangsu
N JIangxi
Shandong
Shanghai
Sichuan
Migrants sending counties within Chongqing reservoir area Zhejiang
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 reset-
tled 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.
Table 91.2 Distribution of migrants displaced via GODR schemes (2000–2006)
Out of Chongqing reservoir section Within Chongqing reservoir section
Number of Number of
Origin Destination migrants Destination migrants
county/district provinces displaced county/city displaced
Yunyang Shanghai 5,509 Jiangjin 5,852

Jiangsu 9,258 Tongliang 5,386
Jiangxi 5,022 Liangping 2,569
Hubei 2,558 Dianjiang 3,172
Total 22,347 16,979
Kaixian Sichuan 10,602 Hechuan 4,728
Shandong 5,380
Anhui 2,783
Hunan 1,378
Total 20,143 4,728
Fengjie Zhejiang 7,002 Dianjiang 3,107
Fujian 5,538 Yongchuan 3,054
Hubei 1,617
Jiangxi 3,195
Total 17,352 6,161
Wushan Anhui 5,311 Liangping 3,038
Guangdong 7,005 Tongliang 2,560
Hubei 1,529
Total 13,845 5,598
Zhongxian Shandong 4,715 Hechuan 2,963
Hunan 5,051 Jiangjin 1,109
Hubei 1,586
Total 11,352 4,072
Wanzhou Shanghai 2,010 Bishan 3,269
Jiangsu 1,125
Fujian 1,523
Jiangxi 416
Hunan 1,037
Guangdong 2,002
Total 8,113
Fuling Zhejiang 1,419
Total 1,419 3,269
Fengdu Zhejiang 707 Jiangjin 1,223
Total 707 1,223
Wuxi Tongliang 161
Total 161
Total 11 Provinces 95,278 7 Counties/Cities 42,191
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
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 631 5, 820 2, 818 1, 333 10, 602

Jiangsu 810 4, 312 2, 157 3, 104 10, 383
Shandong 611 4, 090 2, 348 3, 046 10, 095
Zhejiang 620 4, 488 1, 894 2, 126 9, 128
Guangdong 60 3, 617 2, 782 2, 002 9, 007
Jiangxi 817 3, 467 738 3, 611 8, 633
Anhui 625 3, 560 821 3, 088 8, 094
Shanghai 640 3, 007 1, 862 2, 010 7, 519
Hunan 703 3, 065 1, 283 2, 415 7, 466
Hubei 674 5, 363 1, 253 0 7, 290
Fujian 584 3, 065 1, 889 1, 523 7, 061
Total 7, 321 4, 3854 19, 845 24, 258 95, 278
Source: Data provided by the Chongqing Resettlement Bureau, as requested. Data as of 30 June
2006
24,000
2003-04
21,000 2002
2001
18,000 2000
Displaced Persons
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 2003-
August 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.
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 require-
ments, 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, transporta-
tion 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 send-
ing 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 con-
ditions of resettlement locations on behalf of the government and migrants of
the sending county. After several rounds of negotiation, the resettlement loca-
tions 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 peo-
ple with the township government in the receiving regions. The authorities in the
sending and receiving counties will sign agreements on transferring the residence
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. House-
building 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 sea-
son 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 vil-
lage 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.
Table 91.4 Per capita farmland and area of newly built housing of migrants resettled in 11
provinces
11 provinces receiving TGP Average farmland in Farmland allocated Housing

migrants each province (mu) to migrants (mu) area (m2 )
Hunan 0.9 2.0 34.2

Jiangxi 1.0 1.8 27.9
Jiangsu 1.0 1.7 32.6
Hubei 1.2 1.5 55.7
Shandong 1.3 1.3 27.7
Anhui 1.4 1.3 19.6
Zhejiang 0.7 1.2 34.5
Shanghai 0.3 1.2 38.7
Fujian 0.6 0.9 24.1
Guangdong 0.6 0.8 19.8
Sichuan 1.6 0.7 44.1
Total 1.1 1.3 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 reset-
tled 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 reset-
tlement 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 dif-
ferent 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
difficult for those who ran businesses before the displacement to initiate new busi-
nesses 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 rea-
sons 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 peo-
ple 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 20-
year 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
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 doc-
ument 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 com-
munities. 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 abil-
ity, 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 interven-
tion in bringing closure to a rural-urban divide and in providing training modules
and financial support to facilitate income generating initiatives.
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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 sig-
nificantly 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 elec-
tric 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, espe-
cially 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

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, irri-
gation, 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, civi-
lizing 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, caus-
ing 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 exten-
sive 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, construc-
tion, 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 measure-
ment 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
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 coun-
tries 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 financ-
ing 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 by-
product 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
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 hydroelec-
tric 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 feasi-
bility 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 inter-
national 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 disin-
terested 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 lend-
ing 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 person-
nel would move freely in the area of the dam regardless of their national origin.
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 coun-
tries 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 con-
nected 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
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 Cash – Brazil 8, 258, 500 67.7

funds
Suppliers Credit – 840, 400 6.9
Brazil
Cash – International 2, 490, 500 20.4
Suppliers Credit – 614, 500 5.0
International
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 4, 108, 656 54

In US$ 2, 838, 194 37
In Other Foreign 181, 241 2
Currency
Adjustments∗ 451, 839 6
By Guarantora Guaranteed by 6, 345, 852 89

Brazilian
Government
Guaranteed by 70, 593 1
Eletrobrás
Other Forms 711, 646 10
By Lendera,b Eletrobrás 3, 473, 439 49

Banks in Brazil 1, 162, 240 16
Banks outside Brazil 2, 492, 412 35
∗ Foreign exchange and other adjustments on all loans
a Excludes 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
debt. By 1983 Itaipú’s projected cost had grown to $14.2 billion and EBI had con-
tracted 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 govern-
ment 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
Table 92.3 Debt of Itaipú Binacional (EOY 2006)
Creditor Amount in US$000 % of Total Debt
Eletrobras 19, 633, 631 97.11

BIBSa 2, 667 0.01
DMLPb 541, 785 2.68
FIBRAc 38, 943 0.19
Total 20,217,026
a BIBS:Brazil Investment Bonds
b Banco do Brasil obligation resulting from restructuring of foreign debt
c FIBRA: Fundaçao Itaipú BR de Previdencia e Assistencia
Source: Itaipú Binacional, Relatorio (2006)
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 gener-
ated 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 state-
owned electric company in Paraguay, and Eletrobrás, the state-owned electric
company in Brazil, were thus EBI’s major shareholders and also its major cus-
tomers. 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 com-
ponents: “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
Table 92.4 Price of electric

power Year Average Price in US$ per MWh
2002 29.85
2003 23.84
2004 24.47
2005 28.98
2006 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 opera-
tional 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
Percent Percent of Gross FDI

Concept Amount in US$000,000 (Avg./Avg.GDP)a for the periodb
BR PY BR PY BR PY
Royalties 2, 773.6 2, 482.1 − − − −

Energy cession − 1, 007.6 0 0.7 0 57.2
Dividends 186.5 164.6 − − − −
Administrative & 209.6 196.7 − − − −
Supervisory
Total returns 3, 169.7 3, 851 0.026 2.8 1.4 218.6
Total purchases of 38, 428.2 1, 668.4 0.315 1.2 − −
Energy
Net income from Itaipú (35, 258.5) 2, 182.6 0.289 1.6 (15.8) 123.9
a ECLAC: GDP average in 1985–2005 period: in dollars of 2000
b ECLAC: Balanza de Pagos: Inversión Directa en la economía declarante para 1985–2005
Source: Itaipú Binacional, Relatorio Annual (2007)
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, div-
idends 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 pay-
ments 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 pos-
sessed 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 begin-
ning 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 popu-
late the area. On the Paraguayan side, a national program operated by the Instituto
de Bienestar Rural (IBR) resettled families from the more densely populated cen-
tral 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
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 depart-
ment (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 sec-
ond 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 vir-
tually 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 bor-
der 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 aver-
aged 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
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 evi-
dence that the response of the domestic manufacturing sector has been constrained by
limitations in the managerial capacity of the private sector. The existing investment incen-
tive 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 reluc-
tant 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 organi-
zations 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,
formed by Brazilian and Paraguayan firms respectively. Electromechanical compo-

nents 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)
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 govern-
ment 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%, dis-
tributed among the Ministry of the Environment, Ministry of Mines and Energy, and
the National Scientific and Technological Development Fund. From the share allot-
ted 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 reser-
voirs 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 govern-
ments (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 plan-
ning are identified by the WCD as vital to mitigate the potentially negative impact
on people and the environment. The political context of Itaipú, however, was any-
thing 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 nego-
tiated 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 popula-
tions 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 man-
agement 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 roy-
alties 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 expendi-
tures undertaken by EBI and from the activities of foundations set up in each country
that are funded by the binational entity.
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 poten-
tial 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 resources-
both 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 pop-
ulations 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 contempo-
raneous compilation of documents, on the Paraguayan side, related to the formation of the
binational entity Itaipú.
2. Ferraz, a former Minister of Transportation and senior executive of the Brazilian power com-
pany, 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, RE1-
04-009.
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 decision-
making. 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

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 lev-
els 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, “monetiza-
tion,” and the imposition of taxation led to both the intensification and extensifica-
tion 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 dras-
tically 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 cot-
ton) 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, espe-
cially 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 coun-
try 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 impor-
tantly, 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 mega-
dams 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 pop-
ulation 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, water-
shed management, flood and pollution control, fisheries and navigation. This agency
was conceived following the popular debate of the late 1970 s that river basin man-
agement 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 agricul-
ture 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 strat-
egy 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
as a medium of regional planning and resource allocation, as well as for achiev-

ing 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 agri-
cultural 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 peri-
ods. 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 Large scale dams for irrigation, of which some
(RBDAs) have a function of water supply and
mini-hydropower
Ministries of Agriculture and Natural Medium and Small scaled dams for irrigation
Resources (MANR)
States Water Agencies (SWAs) Small scale dams for municipal water supply,
of which some have irrigation functions
National Electric Power Authority (NEPA) Large scale Dams for large scale hydropower
generation
National Electricity Supply Company Small-scale dams for mini-hydropower
(NESCO)
Agricultural Development Agencies (ADPs) Medium and Small scale Dams for
multipurpose rural water development
Source: JICA (1995)

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 exacer-
bating 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 struc-
ture and present less permeability. However, most seemingly lack adequate safety
instrumentation.
The dams were planned and constructed mainly with fill type from the view-
point 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 sec-
ond, 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
Table 93.2 Features of selected mega dams in Nigeria
Reservoir Active Reservoir

inflow capacity Area Year
River basin Dam (MCM) (MCM) (Km2 ) Objective completed
Sokoto-Rima Bakalori 760 403 80 Irri/HP 1982

Goronyo 660 933 200 Irri/WS 1984
Jibia 260 121 26 Irri/WS 1990
Zobe 240 170 45 Irri/WS 1983
Kubli 160 62 9.4 Irri 1992
Bubo 41 25.1 11.5 Irri
Mairuwa 24 5.3 1.6 Irri/WS
Hadejia- Bagauda 490 22.14 27. Irri 1970
Jama’are
Tiga 830 1968 178 Irri/WS/HP 1975
Challawa 420 900 100 Irri/WS 1992
Tomas 59 56.6 15 Irri 1976
Magaga 24 17.2 3.7 Irri/WS 1980
KafinChiri 35 24.6 8.4 Irri/WS 1977
KafinZaki 1060 2500 235 UC -
Gari 120 203 33.2 Irri/WS 1980
Watari 505 104.55 19.6 Irri/WS 1980
Jakara 56 54.5 16.6 Irri 1976
GuzuGuzu 22 21.5 6.4 Irri/WS 1979
RiminGado 509 65.0 5.0 Irri/WS 1980
TudunWada 18 16.6 3.5 Irri 1977
Galala 46 20 1.1 Irri
Alau 164 106 50 Irri/WS 1992
Niger Kontagora 270 200 39 Irri ?
Kainji 11, 500 HP 1968
Shiroro 6050 HP 1989
Jebba 1000 HP 1983
Kagara 40 38 5.8 WS UC
Omi 260 220 25.7 Irri UC
Zaria 450 29.8 8.0 WS 1974
Kangimi 1800 59.3 6.6 Irri/WS 1975
Tagwai 33 26.5 5.5 Irri
Iku 42 36.2 4.3 WS
Suleja 42 48.5 7.4 WS ?
Usuma 260 100 8.0 WS 1984
TungarKawo 34 21 4.0 Irri/WS
Upper Benue Liberty 33 15 1.1 WS
Balanga 86 63 11 Irri 1987
Y. Gowon 30 24 5.0 WS
Dadin Kowa 3100 1770 300 Irri/HP 1988
Gubi 45 35 5.9 Irri/WS
Waya 29 17 4.5 Irri/WS
Kiri 4480 325 110 Irri 1982
Langtang 31 3.5 0.6 WS
Tenti 22 9.8 4 HP
Cham 20 6.5 1.8 Irri
1624 A.I. Tanko
Reservoir Active Reservoir

inflow capacity Area Year
River basin Dam (MCM) (MCM) (Km2 ) Objective completed
Lower Benue Pankshin 42 2.8 0.5 WS

Doma 21 30 2.2 Irri/WS
Ogun-Oshun Ikare Gorge 1020 565 53 Irri/WS/HP UC
Oyan 2250 254 40 Irri/WS/HP 1983
Asejire 1860 30.5 5.3 WS
Erinle 360 75 16.4 WS 1989
Awon 88 8.4 2.0 WS
Eleyele 17 5.5 1.6 WS
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 condi-
tions 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 inter-
vention 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 over-
land 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 valley-
side 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.
Works on the socioeconomic focused trends in land distribution, income distribu-

tion (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 spec-
ulators, 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 eco-

logical 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 ground-
water 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, cow-
peas 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 den-
sity 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 manage-
ment 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; conse-
quently 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, gov-
ernment 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
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 commit-
tees of different water users formed. Moreover, a basin wide stakeholder forum has
been formed and with discussions on water allocations and water sharing arrange-
ments 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 princi-
ples 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 bet-
ter 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 gen-
erally 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 ren-
dered 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 (H-
JKYB). 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 Hadejia-
Jama’are Basin could be replicated. Second, it is relevant to re-emphasize that
considering both the ecological and socioeconomic problems caused by the coun-
try’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 com-
peting uses of water resources within any particular basin. The approach, although
generally accepted since the Third World Water Forum (Kyoto, 2003), is not popu-
lar in most African countries. The approach could ensure wise water management
and provide an effective way to improve quality of life. However, for success-
ful 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, main-
tenance 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 initia-
tives” (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
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 subsi-
dizing 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 imple-
menting 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 diffi-
culties 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.
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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 infrastruc-
ture 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 geopolit-
ical 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

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 develop-
ment, 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, govern-
ments 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 mem-
ber 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 earn-
ings 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
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 devel-
opment 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 trib-
utaries 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 invest-
ments 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, restettle-
ment 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)
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 develop-
ment 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 impor-
tant 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 “mem-
orandum 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
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 mega-
projects. 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 run-
of-river type structures to operate through a greater period of the year at higher
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 fos-
sil 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 con-
struction 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 devel-
opment of this transboundary river in profound ways. Four main periods mark the
past half century in terms of geopolitical relations and influences.
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)
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 representa-
tives 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 promot-
ing capitalist economic growth in the four riparian countries during the Cold War
years. The United States’ interests were particularly firmly asserted by the assign-
ment 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 essen-
tially 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 gener-
ate foreign exchange, and hydropower operates primarily as a means of valorizing
rivers through commodification of water resources (Bakker, 1999). Lao planners
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 analo-
gous 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 man-
agement responsibility lay with a Council of Ministers of the four member countries
(Mekong River Commission, 2005). The fledgling MRC stated its vision: “an eco-
nomically 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 establish-

ment 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, dam-
building 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).
94.3.4 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 play-
ers 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 invest-
ment, 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 govern-
ment 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 megapro-
jects 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 reduc-
ing 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.
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 “tem-
ples 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 experi-
ence 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 employ-
ment 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 politi-
cal 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 capa-
ble 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 agree-
ments 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 prosper-
ity 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
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 soci-
ety 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 asso-
ciated 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 pro-
ductivity 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 conse-
quences. 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 eth-
nic 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 compensa-
tion whatsoever (Hirsch, 1996a), and most other projects have seen disputes over
the adequacy of compensation and mitigation schemes.
Fig. 94.5 Dam protest in Bangkok
Within the Mekong region, civil society groups in Thailand have led the move-
ment 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 pro-
posals 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 Theun-
Hinboun at the village level which never reached mainstream media (Hirsch, 2001).
The process of regionalization has encouraged international players to take a more

active role. The campaign against the Theun-Hinboun project included the participa-
tion 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 sev-
eral 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 devastat-
ing environmental and livelihood impacts by the International Rivers Network, a
counter-study by ADB, and ultimately an expensive and only very partially effec-
tive 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 interna-
tional 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 mobiliz-
ing private finance and providing specialized financial services such as sovereign
risk guarantees. So long as the banks remain involved, they – and the inter-
national lobby groups who have seen the banks’ dependence on finance from
their own governments as points of leverage – exert some influence over envi-
ronmental and social safeguards. Increasingly, however, resorting to fully private
funding and the rise of China as a source of investment in large dams has side-
lined 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 feasi-
ble 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 com-
pensatory 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.
There are two key concluding observations from this discussion. First, megapro-
ject 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 pres-
sures 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 inter-
ruption 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 pol-
itics 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.
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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 extrac-
tion 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 con-
form 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 pro-
duce 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 construc-
tion, markets for electricity produced, and long distance electricity transmission.
Only at the end of the 1st decade of the 21st century did environmental considera-
tion 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

1652 K.B. Showers
mega dam? How do designs for Grand Inga compare with other hydroelectric gen-
eration 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, eco-
nomic 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 pro-
vide 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 con-
tinent after Australia. Because African environments are dominated by rainfall
regimes ranging from sub-humid to hyper-arid, most drainage systems are inter-
nal, 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 sec-
ond 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 contain-
ing 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 mid-
dle 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 engi-
neers, 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 coun-
tries 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 pro-
claimed, 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)
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 appli-
cations 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 trans-
mission 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 genera-
tion (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 hydroelec-
tric 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 tropi-
cal 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 con-
struction 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 sur-

veyors, 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 sug-
gest 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 colo-
nial 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 dis-
cussion 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 large-
scale 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 con-
tinent 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 con-
taining 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 estab-
lishment 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
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 min-
eral exploitation, industrial development and urban growth created demand. The
British Gold Coast Colony government considered a proposal in 1924 to con-
struct 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 hydro-
électrique 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 geograph-
ical 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 miner-
als, 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)
mid
Regionb 1920s 1930s 1940s 1950s 1960s 1970s 1980s 1990s 2000s
North 1 4 1 8 6 5 3 2 1
West 2 1 1 2 8 5 14 0 0
East and Central 2 1 1 15 6 17 7 2 0
Southern 0 0 0 0 0 2 4 0 0
Totals 5 6 3 25 20 29 28 4 1
a Continentalnations only
b Inthis 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)
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 com-
plete, 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
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
Height Reservoir capacity

Category m∗ m3
Small <10 Not part of definition

Medium 10–<15 Not part of definition
Large 15–<150 Not part of definition
Large 5–15 and >3 million∗∗
Major >150 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
Year Storage
Dam name closed Country River m ft (million m3 )
Bine El Ouidane 1953 Morocco El Abid 133 436 1, 484

Kariba 1959 Northern/Southern Zambezi 128 420 188, 000
Rhodesia
Akosombo 1965 Ghana Volta 134 440 147, 960
(main)
Moulay Youssef 1969 Morocco Tessaout 100 328 197
High Aswan 1970 Egypt Nile 111 364 162, 000
Cabora Bassa 1974 Mozambique Zambezi 171 561 39, 000
Shiroro 1984 Nigeria Kaduna/Dinya 125 410 7
Turkwel 1991 Kenya Turkwel 155 509 1, 645
Hassan 1◦ 1986 Morocco Lakhdar 145 476 273
Kiambere 1987 Kenya Tana 112 368 585
Sidi Said 2003 Morocco Moulouya 124 407 400
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 hydro-
electric 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 dic-
tionary definition of mega, but is too large to be useful. Dams are listed by year of
Table 95.4 Chronology of African mega hydroelectric dam reservoir capacity (85 dams)
Date dam closed/commissioned for each category of reservoir sizea
10–100× 100×–1,000× 100×–ICOLD

ICOLD large ICOLD large large – <major ≥ICOLD major
30 million 300 million 3,000 million
m3 –<300 m3 –<3,000 m3 –<25,000 ≥25,000 million
Region million m3 million m3 million m3 m3
North 1935, 1954, 1954, 1953, 1967, 1972, 1933, 1996 1970 Egypt,
1954, 1955, 1963, 1973, 1979, 1979, Nile R., 162,000
1969, 1969, 1981, 1981, 2003
1986, 1990
West 1964, 1964, 1966, 1959, 1971, 1974, 1968, 1972, 1980, 1965, Ghana
1969, 1979, 1983, 1982, 1984, 1988 1983, 1984, 1987, Volta R., 148,000
n.d. 1988
East and 1924, 1954, 1954, 1925, 1964, 1960, 1937, 1966, 1978, 1959, N&S
Rhodesia
Central 1974, 1975, 1980, 1966, 1971, 1973, 1980 Zambezi R., 94,000
1988 1974, 1980, 1987,
1991, n.d.
Southern 1983, 1985, n.d., 1959, 1976, 1988, none 1974, Mozambique
n.d., n.d. n.d., n.d., n.d., Zambezi R., 39,000
n.d., n.d., n.d.,
n.d., n.d., n.d.
a 106million 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 reser-
voirs 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 defini-
tion 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 consid-
ered, 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 mil-
lion m3 (35,314 million ft3 ). Twenty-one were multi-purpose dams with electricity
1662 K.B. Showers
Table 95.5 Dam

classification by reservoir Category km2 at USL∗
surface area
Minor 0.010–0.999
Small 1.0–9.99
Medium 10.0–99.9
Large 100–999
Major ≥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 1970 (6,500 km2 ,/2510 mi2 ,

Egypt, High Aswan Dam, Nile River)
Total 1 Total 1
West 1959,1980,1982,1984, 1965 (8,482 km2 /3275 mi2
1984,1987,1988,1988 Ghana, Akosombo Dam, Volta River)
1972 (1,780 km2 /687 mi2
Côte d’Ivoire, Kossou, Bandama
River)
Total 8 Total 2
East and 1925,1937,1960,1964, 1959 (5,100 km2 /1969 mi2
Central N/S Rhodesia, Kariba Dam, Zambezi
River)
1966 (2,330 km2 /900 mi2
1973,1974,1980 Sudan Roseires Dam, Blue Nile River)
Total 7 Total 2
Southern 1959,1976 1974 (2,660 km2 /1027 mi2
Mozambique Cabora Bassa Dam,
Zambezi R.)
Total 2 Total 1
Totals 18 6
∗ 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 reser-
voirs, ranging from the 1,260 km2 (486.5 mi2 ) surface area of Nigeria’s Kainji
Table 95.7 Summary: Number of African mega dams by classification system∗
Surface area3 ≥
Dam wall height1 > 150 Capacity > 30 million 1,000 km2 at USL
Region m m3 (# of dams) (dam names)
North 0 22 High Aswan

West 0 21 Kossou
Akosombo
East & Turkwel 23 Kariba
Central Roseires
Southern Cahora Bassa 16 Cahora Bassa
1 ICOLD official definition; (> 492 ft)
2 Using 10 × ICOLD definition; > 1,059 million ft3
3 Bernascek 1984 (FAO) category; (≥ 386 mi2 )
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 nor-
mative 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 pub-
lished 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 con-
text, 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 enor-
mous hydropower potential from the unique geomorphic narrowing of its channel
as it descends from an undulating continental plateau. Because the Congo’s equa-
torial 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 – des-
ignations 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 commis-
sioning 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 clo-
sure/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
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 hydro-
electric 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 superim-
posed 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 equiv-
alent 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 Mini Small Medium Large

<1 MW 1–4.9 MW 5–19 MW 20–49 MW >50 MW
1911 Tunisia 1925 Zambia 1951 Congo Rep. 1954 Guinea 1930 DRC
(Bou Salem) (Mulungushi) (Djoué) (Grandes Chutes) (Mwadingusha)
1910s Angola 1929 Nigeria 1954 Angola 1955 DRC
(Katumbela) (Tenti) (Mabubas) (Zongo)
1910s Kenya 1941 Ethiopia 1954 Rwanda 1954 Uganda
(Tana River) (Abu Samuel) (Mukungwa) (Owen’s Falls∗ )
1926 Egypt 1955 DRC 1959 N&S
Rhodesia
(El-Faiyum (Tshopo) (Kariba)
Oasis)
1950 DRC 1958 Zambia
(Bia) (Mita Hills)
1953 DRC
(Delcommune)
1956 DRC
(La Marinel)
1958
DRC/Rwanda
(Ruzizi I)
Source: Literature review

∗ Currently Nalubaale Falls
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 transcontinen-
tal 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 trans-
mission 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 (for-
merly 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.
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 “pan-
African 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 con-
structing 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 Israel
Morocco Palestine Iraq
Jordan
Algeria
Western Libya Egypt Arab Mashreq
Sahara
Mauritania
Mali Niger
Senegal Eritrea
The Chad
Gambia Burkina Sudan
Faso Djibouti
Guinea
Bissau Nigeria Somalia
Guinea Cote Central Ethiopia
Sierra D'Ivoire African
Leone Cameroon Republic
Liberia Ghana Benin
Togo Uganda
Gabon Kenya
Equitorial
Guinea Rwanda
Democratic Burundi
Republic of the Congo Republic
Cabinda of the Tanzania
Congo
Angola
Zambia Malawi
Proposed Electric Corridor
Zimbabwe
Madagascar
Botswana 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 engi-
neering. 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
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 invest-
ment 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 discus-
sions 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 intercon-
nections 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 com-
pleted 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 produc-
tion. 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 Hydro-
electric Facility. Energy Information Administration, Department of Energy, USA. http://www.
eia.doe.gov/emeu/cabs/inga.html)
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 chang-
ing existing industrial societies’ domestic or corporate energy consumption patterns
made large sources of non-carbon dioxide emitting hydroelectricity appear attrac-
tive. 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 represen-
tatives 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 infras-
tructure 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 environ-
mental 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 dis-
placed 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 calcula-
tions 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. caus-
ing “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 environ-
ment 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 engi-
neering, 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
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 Luanda-
São 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 long-
hypothesized “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 sig-
nify 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 lev-
els of dissolved organic carbon (DOC), carbonic acid (H2 CO3 ) and silicon dioxide
(SiO2 ) which are important for phytoplankton growth. In addition to these conven-
tionally 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 large-
scale 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 trans-
porting 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 simulta-
neously. 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.
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 log-
ics, 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 reser-
voirs. 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 envi-
ronment 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 “environmen-
tal services” – and protecting them. Once again, the environment was reduced to a
checklist.
The hollowness of the list approach is frighteningly evident when larger-than-
mega 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 (water-
shed), 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 link-
ages 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 anal-
ysis. 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.
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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 under-
stood, 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

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 govern-
ments 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 megapro-
jects 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 rec-
ognize 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 con-
sider 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 out-
break 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 sta-
tioned 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 sup-
port the Louisiana Maneuvers in the southeastern U.S. in preparation for the land
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 landhold-
ings) 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,
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 instal-
lations 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 mil-
itary 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 long-
range weapons systems and missiles, and to provide increased mobility for armored
vehicles and massed formations of troops. During this era significant develop-
ments occurred with respect to Air Force and Naval bases to support the arsenal
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 involve-
ment in the military’s land acquisition process. Military land transactions were
generally handled through administrative actions linked to national security con-
cerns. 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,
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 race-
track 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 sev-
eral 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 pas-
sage 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 environ-
mental 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
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 secu-
rity 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 con-
ducting prompt and sustained operations in all types of terrain and operating
environments, across the entire spectrum of conflict. Intensive and realistic field
training and testing, under conditions that replicate the variety of physical land-
scapes 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, represent-
ing 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” ini-
tiative 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 mem-
bers) 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 popu-
lation increases are also causing a surge in local housing markets and economies.
Concurrently, these installations are building large-scale renewable energy facili-
ties (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 installa-
tion 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 major-
ity of the infrastructure to support maintenance, logistics and command and control
of the military units.
There are more than one hundred major (50,000 acres or larger) Army installa-
tions 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 con-
tiguous 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 vehi-
cle 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 partic-
ular 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 cli-
mate and vegetation characteristics across continents, which also exhibit similar
landforms, soil, flora, fauna, and ecological succession. Thus, it enables geograph-
ical 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 short-
falls 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 exer-
cise 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.
Table 96.1 Analogs of Army installations and world-wide operational areas
Ecoregion (Bailey’s
Conflict-operational area classification) Army installation analogs
Iraq, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Tropical/Subtropical Desert Fort Irwin, CA

Afghanistan Fort Bliss, TX
Yuma Proving Ground, AZ
White Sands Missile Range,
NM
Fort Huachuca, AZ
Iran, Somalia Tropical/Subtropical Steppe Fort Hood, TX
Fort Sill, OK
Korea Hot Continental Fort Campbell, KY
Fort Knox, KY
Fort Drum, NY
Fort Leonard Wood, MO
Haiti Savanna, Rainforest None
Panama, Nicaragua Savanna, Rainforest None
Rwanda Savanna, Rainforest None
Philippines, Indonesia Savanna, Rainforest None
Bosnia, Kosovo Mediterranean None
Fig. 96.8 Ecoregional distribution of Army lands in the U.S.

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 opera-
tional 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
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
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 canton-
ment 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 multi-
billion 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 func-
tions 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 pri-
mary 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 habi-
tats 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 counter-
intuitive 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 desig-
nated “sacrifice areas” represent only a small fragment of the overall military land
inventory.
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 bud-
ding 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 sup-
port 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 orga-
nization (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 inven-
torying 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 overar-
ching concept for managing its installations, including both the cantonment and
training areas. Most notable, have been significant initiatives within the canton-
ment to incorporate sustainable design into construction of buildings, including
LEED (Leadership in Environmental Engineering Design) standards. Additionally,
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 secu-
rity 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 com-
munities, 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 mili-
tary 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 differ-
ent approaches such as alignments, easements, buffer zones, and zoning regulations.
For example, the Army Compatible Use Buffer (ACUB) program, allows the mili-
tary 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
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 concep-
tualized 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 inex-
tricably 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 com-
munities requires new ways of looking at the military installation in the context
of local and regional space, communities and ecosystems. Solutions to these prob-
lems 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 facili-
ties. 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 uncer-
tain. 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.
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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 impli-
cations, 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 com-
bination 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 mainte-
nance, immigration and citizenship are considered matters of national security and
L. Martin (B)

1702 L. Martin
are surveilled through databanking and profiling technologies far from any terri-
torial borders. For example, security studies scholars have pointed out how the
“social sorting” function of borders now operates through databanking technolo-
gies, 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 oper-
ate 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 com-
plex 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 environmen-
tal 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 deperson-
alize 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 address-
ing 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, floodlight-
ing, patrolling, guard towers, and video surveillance to slow border crossers and
channel them into heavily surveilled and patrolled areas (Hostelge, 2008). The con-
struction 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 gov-
ernment’s proficiency (or, to critics, lack thereof) at securing the American public
from harm (Andreas, 2000). For Newman (2006), the reproduction of symbolic bor-
ders between groups of people and material practices of border policing are best
captured as interdependent bordering processes. The manipulation of the physi-
cal 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 prac-
tices 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 mega-
engineering project, this chapter shows how the construction of walls along the
U.S.-Mexico border not only transforms of the physical landscape but also natu-
ralizes the U.S. federal government’s power to create both territorial and political
exclusions.
This chapter reviews the localized impacts barrier construction at the Mexico-
U.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 ecolog-
ical grounds. The second section analyzes the legislative and policy changes that
mobilized state resources for border enforcement. The third section describes mate-
rials 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 chap-
ter 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 fenc-
ing 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 mil-
lion 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 accompa-
nied the new boundary well into the 20th century. Using both legal and illegal
coercive strategies, Anglo-Americans divested Mexican-Americans of their land-
holdings, 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
Oregon
Minn. Wisconsin
Idaho South Dakota
Wyoming
Iowa
Nevada Nebraska
Illinois
Utah
Colorado
California Kansas Missouri
PACIFIC Arizona Oklahoma

New Arkansas
OCEAN Mexico
Miss.
Texas
Republic of Texas 1836-45 Louisiana
annexed by U.S. 1845
Gu
Disputed area:
claimed by Texas 1836-45
lf o
claimed by U.S. 1845-48 M E X I C O G ulf

fC
a
Mexican cessation, 1848 of

l i fo
0 250
rni
M ex i c o
a
Gadsden Purchase, 1853 miles
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 short-
ages. In combination with Jim Crow laws that prevented Mexicans from buying
property in white-dominated towns, this “revolving door” immigration policy pre-
vented 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 inti-
mately 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 territo-
rial emphasis on the criminality of border crossers policy and their implicit threat
to white America. The current combination of militaristic surveillance and polic-
ing 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 agree-
ments between Departments of Defense, Justice, and the Treasury, IRCA’s border
policy quietly undermined posse comitatus, the statute limiting the role of the mil-
itary 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, effec-
tively 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 home-
land 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 expe-
ditious construction” of security barriers (Pub. L. 109–13; Nuñez-Neto & Kim,
2008: 7). Second, the Secure Fence Act amended IIRIRA and mandated the con-
struction 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,
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 bor-
der 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, estab-
lished 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 bor-
der’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 border-
crossers 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 visual-
ity 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 ter-
ritorial 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 bor-

der 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 technolo-
gies. 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 JTF-
6 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 bor-
der 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 inte-
grated, 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 Hold-
the-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 bor-
der 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 recom-
mended 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 construc-
tion 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, how-
ever, USBP and its armed service counterparts had constructed a total of 73 mi
Nevada Utah Colorado

Kansas
California Yuma
El Centro
San Oklahoma
Diego Arizona New
San Diego Mexico
X XXXXXX X XX XXX Tucson
X
Tijuana XX
XX
XX
XX
El Paso
XX
XX
Tucson Marfa
XX
XX
X XNogales
XX
XX Douglas
XXXXXX X X El Paso
X XXXX XX X
XXXX
XX
X
Nogales
Aqua Ciudad Texas
Prieta Juárez
Marfa Del
Tucson Border patrol sector name Rio
Border patrol sector boundary Del
Rio Laredo
XX
XXXXXXXXXX Existing barrier Ciudad
XX X
Acuña
X
XXXXXXXXXX Proposed barrier
Rio
X Laredo
Grande
XX XX
Nuevo Valley
X
Laredo
0 250 XXX
X XX Brownsville
XX X X
X
miles
X
Matamoros
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 5 4 3 4 5 5 4.7 4 N/A 3.5 N/A

Department of
Defense
Funded through 198 427
Secure Border
Initiative
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 inte-
rior 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 pre-
9/11 border policy discourses and enforcement practices, SBI did signal three major
changes to border enforcement. First, the initiative began unprecedented coopera-
tion 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 oth-
erwise 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 recon-
figuration of relationship between domestic law, homeland security priorities, and
U.S. territory, leaving large areas of the United States without recourse to the pro-
tections traditionally offered by judicial and legislative oversight of the executive
branch.
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 Yuma
El Centro
San Oklahoma
Diego Arizona New
Mexico
Tucson
REAL ID El Paso
Act REAL ID
Marfa
Act
REAL ID
Texas
Act Del
Tucson Border patrol sector name Rio
Border patrol sector boundary Laredo
XXXXXXXXXX Existing barrier
XXXXXXXXXX Proposed barrier
Rio
Grande
Valley
0 250
REAL ID
miles 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 $3-
5 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; Nuñez-
Neto & 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.
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 pro-
posed 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 cho-
sen 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 hurricane-
prone 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 hur-
ricane 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 fenc-
ing 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, level-
ing 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 evi-
dence 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
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 sur-
rounding 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, con-
struction 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 par-
ticular 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 condi-
tions 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 founda-
tions. 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)
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 appre-
hensions 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 deter-
ring 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
1998 1999 2000 2001 2002 2003 2004 2005
Reported Deaths 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; Rubio-
Goldsmith 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 crit-
ical 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 gov-
ernment 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 prop-
erty 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 discon-
tinuous 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 the-
ory, 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” sup-
posedly 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, home-
land security practices may create the conditions of insecurity they are engineered
to prevent (Bialasiewicz et al., 2007).
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 bor-
derlands, 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 enforce-
ment 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 poli-
cies without consideration of its social, economic, political, or geomorphological
particularity. It is the scalar disjuncture, therefore, between “national” policy dis-
courses and mega-engineering strategies that marginalizes the political claims of
borderlands residents. Thus, analyzing the legal, political, and ecological ramifica-
tions 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 contradic-
tory appropriation of land from lower income property owners, on the one hand,
and the expanded use of private contractors for border infrastructure and tech-
nology 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 construc-
tion 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 rela-
tionships 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 con-
text of the REAL ID act. In particular, the effects of fencing and increased human
traffic on endangered species demands further study. The environmental-legal geog-
raphy 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 demon-
strates 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, there-
fore, 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 col-
lective, international campaigns. As the OAS’ evaluation of the wall’s human rights
implications demonstrates, local contestation often “jumps scales” to an interna-
tional 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, construc-
tion 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.
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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

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 obliga-
tions, 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 univer-
sal 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 popu-
lations 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 1725
Table 98.1 Number of

unauthorized boat arrivals Year Number of arrivals
1997–1998 157
1998–1999 926
1999–2000 4, 175
2000–2001 4, 137
2001–2002 3, 649
2002–2003 0
2003–2004 82
2004–2005 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 asy-
lum 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 coun-
tries 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 cen-
ters, 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 industri-
alized 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 seek-
ers 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 investi-
gates ways in which Australia ignores responsibilities of protection to people who
arrive by boat seeking refuge. Strong border protection policies deny refuge to asy-
lum 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 asy-
lum 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 discrimi-
nated 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 pres-
ence, 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 authori-
sation, 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 arriv-
ing 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 govern-
ment 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
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 deten-
tion 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’ treat-
ment 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 ille-
gally landing people in Australia”. Men, women and children fleeing persecution
and war in Afghanistan and Iraq were pushed back or held indefinitely as prison-
ers 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 mod-
els 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 isolat-
ing, 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, remem-
bers 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 per-
sons 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 inter-
national 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 non-
refoulement 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
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 spon-
sored by an Australian citizen, permanent resident or by an organization based in
Australia. In 1991 a Special Assistance Category was created to help those flee-
ing 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 pro-
tection as refugees. These asylum seekers, the only refugees Australia is obliged
by international law to provide protection, are accused of having no documenta-
tion, 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 pro-
tection visa offered to an “onshore” asylum seeker creating a two-tiered system.
Australia was criticized for creating categories of refugees with different entitle-
ments causing confusion, labeling “offshore” refugees as deserving of help with full
rights while “onshore” refugees were treated as “queue jumpers,” criminals deserv-
ing 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 den-
igrate 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
Special Special Temporary

Offshore humanitarian assistance Onshore humanitarian
Year refugee program category refugee concern Total
1993/1994 4,300 2, 500 5, 800 1, 890 14, 490

1994/1995 3,990 3, 680 5, 500 1, 480 14, 470
1995/1996 4,640 3, 500 6, 900 1, 200 16, 250
1996/1997 3,330 2, 580 3, 700 2, 250 11, 900
1997/1998 4,010 4, 640 1, 820 1, 590 12, 060
1998/1999 3,990 5, 350 1, 190 1, 830 11, 360
1999/2000 3,802 3, 051 649 2, 458 9, 960
2000/2001 3,987 3, 116 879 5, 577 164 13, 733
2001/2002 4,160 4, 258 40 3, 885 6 12, 349
2002/2003 4,376 7, 280 866 3 12, 525
2003/2004 4,134 8, 297∗ 788 2 13, 851
2004/2005 5,511 6, 755∗∗ 895 17 13, 178
2005/2006 6,022 6, 836 1, 272 14 14, 144
2006/2007 6,003 5, 275 1, 701 38 13, 017
2007/2008 6,004 5, 026 84 13, 014
∗ Includes1,900 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 flee-
ing 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 geo-
graphic 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
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 authori-
ties 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 immi-
gration 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 coun-
try (“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 pos-
sible 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 seek-
ers 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
98.5 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 terri-
tory. 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 ter-
ritory. 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 govern-
ment 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 inde-
pendent 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 pro-
tect 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 carry-
ing 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.
98
The Engineering of Detentional Landscapes
1735
Fig. 98.2 ÜNHCR map of “Australia’s Excision Zone” (Source: UNHCR, 2003)
1736 N. Hudson-Rodd
Table 98.3 Expenditure on offshore asylum seeker management on Nauru and Manus Island to
end May 2002
Nauru $Million Manus island $Million
Departmental Costs 2.5 1.5

Escorting/Guarding 0.9 0.1
IOM 31.3 19.0
UNHCR 0.7 0
Other 0.2 0
Total 35.6 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
Actual expenditure
Budget $Million $Million
Nauru 70.0 48.4

Manus 42.5 29.4
Christmas Island 36.6 20.5
Cocos Island 7.6 5.6
Regional Cooperation 0.5 5.9
∗ DIMIA costs 2.0 1.1
Total 159.2 110.9
∗ 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
Table 98.5 Detainees on Nauru and Manus island 2001–2007
Returned Resettled Resettled

Nationality voluntarily refugees non-refugees Total
Afghan 420 329 36 786∗

Bangladeshi 4 3 7
Iranian 16 3 1 20
Iraqi 24 623 37 684
Pakistani 6 2 1 9
Palestinian 21 21
Sri Lankan 4 2 6
Stateless 4 4
Turkish 8 2 10
TOTAL 482 986 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 over-
crowded, 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 commit-
ting 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 524 90 614

Afghanistan 133 569 702
Other Nationality 44 19 63
Otherwise Finalized 35
Awaiting Outcome 81
Total 701 678 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 pro-
tection 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 jungle-
clad 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 capac-
ity 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 under-
standing 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 dig-
nity of human life. Glen Murcutt, distinguished Sydney based architect, citing the
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 main-
land 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 oper-
ations is minimal and accountability for the treatment of people detained is limited.
The asylum seekers have no independent access to legal, social, medical, commu-
nity 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 tun-
nels ($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 cam-
eras 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 deten-
tion 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 chil-
dren, 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 resem-
bling 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 cen-
tre of NSW, Victorian Foundation for Survivors of Torture, Immigration Advice
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 proce-

dures 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
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 seek-
ers, 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 estab-
lishment 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 explic-
itly 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 sur-
rounding 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 preemp-
tively 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 seek-
ers 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 indef-
initely 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),
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 manda-
tory, 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 seek-
ers. 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 poten-
tially 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 deter-
rence policy includes: extensive border patrol by Defense, Customs and other law
enforcement agencies; excised architecture of offshore islands; non-statutory pro-
cessing 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 techno-
engineered 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 crim-
inals 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 gov-
ernments 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 manda-
tory 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 arbi-
trary detention in Article 9 (1) of the International Covenant on Civil and Political
Rights. The United Nations Committee Against Torture (29 April 2008) raised con-
cerns 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 terri-
tory 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.
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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 sub-
tle, 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 inten-
sive 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 pro-
duction 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

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 fortress-
like 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, gov-
ernments, 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 engineer-
ing/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 par-
ent 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 mak-
ing, 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
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 real-
ity” (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 lead-
ers. 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
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 pro-
posed 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 vehi-
cles 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 finan-
cial 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 con-
struction or improvement of the necessary infrastructure seemed to be in place when
the deed transfer stalled (Lester, 1993b).
99.2.4 Engineering One Groundbreaking

The seemingly straightfoward deed transfer was complicated, legally and economi-
cally. 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 pres-
ence 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 mutually-
agreed 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 succes-
ful 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.
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 sug-
gested 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 maximum-
security 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” pro-
cess (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 sug-
gestion drew upon a successful precedent; Big Stone Gap had used the same method
to finance its city hall. Amidst promises of a $70 million facility, 425 jobs, $13 mil-
lion 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 popu-
lar 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 remov-
able 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 dras-
tically 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 semi-
nars 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: carpen-
ters, masons and cement finishers, electricians, plumbers and pipefitters, sheet metal
workers and welders (Lester, 1996b). Although so much of the prisons’ construc-
tion 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 pre-
dominately local. In fact, maximum local participation was written into the mission
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 reten-
tion 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 projec-
tions 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 facil-
ities, are at the center of a complicated migratory network. Prisoners most often
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 power-
ful 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.
A Washington Post report suggests that the 900 prisoners confined on Wallens
Ridge in 2001 were from Virginia, Wyoming, and New Mexico. Later reports con-
firm 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 con-
ditions 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 photo-
graph’s center
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, not-
ing 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, execu-
tive 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 appeal-
ing 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
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)?
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Timberg, C. (2001). Connecticut pulls prisoners from Wallens Ridge. The Washington Post, July
25, B01.
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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
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 reprocess-
ing 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 repro-
cessing 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 mar-
itime 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

1766 L. Bocéno
Fig. 100.1 Location of Le

Havre nuclear reprocessing ENGLAND
plant. (Cartography by Dick London
Gilbreath)
Portsmouth
l
nne
Cha
E nglish
Cherbourg
La Hague
Caen Paris
Rennes
FRANCE
0 150 km
0 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 supple-
mental 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 penin-
sula 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 installa-
tion 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 high-
est 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 construc-
tion 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 manage-
ment: 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 affect-
ing 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 tradi-
tional 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 mod-
ernized 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 build-
ing 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
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 impor-
tant 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 environ-
ment. 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 influen-
tial 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 indus-
try 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” des-
ignated 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 deci-
sion, 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 facil-
ities 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 man-
agerial 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 pro-
tected 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 indi-
vidual 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
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 envi-
ronment 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 inde-
pendence 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 mili-
tary 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 dis-
cussions, 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 infor-
mation 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.
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 res-
idents 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; lob-
sters 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 represen-
tative 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 repre-
sentatives 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 metropoli-
tan 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 ten-
page 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 prox-
imity to the reprocessing plants, the number of cases of leukemia was higher than
expected. The third article succinctly described the industrial activities of the repro-
cessing 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 author-
ity 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 signif-
icant 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 emo-
tion 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 mobi-
lized 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 com-
bines 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 con-
struction of local realities of life weighed against various phases of socialization
such as the internalization and interpretation of events. These conditions make it
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 exam-
ple, 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 leg-
endary 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 ele-
ments 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 with-
out 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 repro-
cessing 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 con-
straints 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.
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 exclu-
sion 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 indus-
try 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 rou-
tine 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 pro-
fessional and nonprofessional exposure to asbestos. In excluding the physical and
social environment of its own organizational system, the nuclear industrial appara-
tus 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 self-
taught COGEMA executive, father of two, defends the nuclear industry against “the
political attacks against a controlled technology”, and supports nuclear energy out-
side 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 occu-
pational 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.”
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 intan-
gible nuclear risks, that only safety measures and personal protections are made
visible. The costs of the pathology are therefore built into the salary20 (the maxi-
mum acceptable amount of exposure is specified in collective labor agreements) but
only in terms of immediate and demonstrable health risks, not in terms of consecu-
tive 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 one-
self, 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 clas-
sic 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 transgres-
sions, 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 cer-
tainty 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 deteri-
orization 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 share-
holders. 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,
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 radioac-
tive 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 pen-
sioners 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 begin-
ners 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 his-
tory 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 con-
tingency 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 objec-
tive 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
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 dan-
ger 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 atten-
tion 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 mag-
netic 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 fore-
shadow, 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 activ-
ities. 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 pro-
duction 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 inte-
gration 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 histor-
ically 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 con-
fident French authorities, certainly relying on the history of the nuclear facilities
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 megastruc-
ture 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 Total-
Final-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 packag-
ing 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 L. Bocéno
of medicine and a university professor working in Besançon. See the bibliography for
references.
9. Later Frederic Joliot-Curie would oppose French projects for an atomic bomb.
10. The Permanent members of the Security Council of the UN eventually all officially developed
their own nuclear weapons.
11. The positions and advertisements came from the EDF, COGEMA, etc.
12. 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.
13. 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.
14. 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.
15. 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.
16. The elected assembly of the department.
17. This refers to the interviews that we carried out from 1994 to 1996. This period corre-
sponds to the timeframe during which questionnaires about J.-F. Viel’s studies were admini-
stered.
18. As a rough guide, we provide several indications that puts the classical appreciation of dis-
tance 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.
19. 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.
20. 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.
21. 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.
22. 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 encour-
aged to hide their experience in order not to harm their progeny, who risked, accused by
rumors, to give birth to abnormal children.
23. EDF, ANDRA and COGEMA contribute, for example, financially and in natura to vari-
ous 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.
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 transcon-
tinental railroads and highways, new capital cities, and gigantic river diversion
and coastal reclamation schemes. Another map category would include benefi-
cial 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)


1790 S.D. Brunn
problems. I discuss recent research by social and health scientists on resident pop-
ulations. The nearly five decades of silence about reporting health problems was
broken with the emergence of grassroots organizations in early 1989. I also exam-
ine 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 stu-
dents 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 informa-
tion” about what happened, including preferring not to display negative images. To
answer these and related questions I relied on published data about events, schol-
arly 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 popu-
lated centers (Fig. 101.2). A North American environmental analog would be the
Fig. 101.2 Physical landscape adjacent to and in the Polygon

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 rail-
road 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 incorpo-
rated into Kurchatov. Kurchatov appeared on maps for the first time in the 1990s
(Skholnik, 2002; Werner & Purvis-Roberts, 2007; Wikipedia, 2009). The govern-
ment 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 per-
mitted 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 con-
struct 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 engi-
neers 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.
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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)
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 com-
plex. 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 dis-
tances 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 warn-
ings 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)
Fig. 101.6 Medical college in Semipalatinsk
How the Soviet authorities handled the health impacts of those affected fur-
ther 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 prob-
lems were surfacing, but they were criticized, marginalized, or silenced by military
and government authorities; or had their views outweighed by compromising sci-
entists who believed the testing ensured the safety of the Soviet Union in the Cold
War. According to Balmukhanov, Raissova, and Balmukhanov (2002) some scien-
tists were forced to falsify reports of those affected by atmospheric and subsurface
testing. Many records were returned to Moscow or destroyed (Werner & Purvis-
Roberts, 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 sig-
nificant doses of radiation (Rehabilitating . . ., 2000–2001; Skholnik, 2002). This
figure includes those living in northeastern Kazakhstan and adjacent Russia, includ-
ing 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 resi-
dents 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
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 harm-
ful 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 move-

ment 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 con-
cern. 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) vis-
ited 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 vil-
lagers, 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
health problems. Perceptions of risks to technological disasters, whether nuclear,

chemical, or biological, are valuable to scientists and public officials seeking to mea-
sure 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 percep-
tion 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 physi-
cians 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 vil-
lagers 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 physi-
cians expressed more knowledge about the subject. Fifth, the higher perception of
risk among villagers was reflected in their view that any exposure would cause ill-
ness. 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 radia-
tion” 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 sci-
entists, 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 profes-
sionals 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 impor-
tance 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 govern-
ment 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
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 under-
stand 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 remem-
ber 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 wed-
ding 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, med-
ical, 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 newspa-
per 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 explo-
sions 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.
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 sto-
ries: “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 environ-
mental 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
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.
101.10.2 Museums Displays: Denials and Memorials

I also wanted to learn what local museums conveyed about the Polygon and its his-
tory. 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 muse-
ums 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 sev-
eral 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 his-
tory 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 con-
torted 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 care-
fully 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 abnormali-
ties. 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 tele-
phones 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.
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 dis-
playing 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 regret-
table. Other Polygon paintings showed farmers and herders watching mushroom
clouds and people with gnarly hands and distorted feet. Some had a religious con-
tent, 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 pre-
sented 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 test-
ing 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 environ-
ment. 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 over-
sees nuclear issues worldwide. Kazakhstan still had 1216 nuclear warheads (more
than in China, France, and United Kingdom combined) and also 600 kg of ura-
nium 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
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 sensi-
tive 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 med-
ical 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 compensa-
tions 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 south-
ern 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)
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 mate-
rial (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 con-
sumed 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 peace-
ful 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 similari-
ties 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 rati-
fied 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 trans-
lating 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, fac-
ulty, 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
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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 vege-
tation, 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, mili-
tary 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 condition-
ing 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

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 coun-
try (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 per-
centage 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 retire-
ment 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 communi-
ties 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 com-
munities 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 facili-
ties 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 pur-
pose. 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 land-
scapes 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 concen-
tration 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
Table 102.1 Florida retirement communities
Community Location Ethnicity/group
Ave Maria Collier Catholic

Century Village Boca Raton (Palm Beach) Jewish
Century Village Deerfield Beach (Broward) Jewish and French
Century Village Pembroke Pines (Broward) Jewish and Hispanic
Century Village West Palm Beach (Palm Beach) Jewish
Clermont Lake Athletes
Fedhaven Polk Federal Workers
Gibsonton ⎫ Hillsborough Carnival Workers
Greater Sun City ⎬ None
King’s Point Tampa (Hillsborough)
Sun City Center ⎭
Hawaiian Gardens Lauderdale Lakes (Broward) Jewish
Hollybrook Pembroke Pines (Broward) Jewish
King’s Point Tamarac (Broward) Jewish
King’s Point Delray Beach (Palm Beach) Jewish
Lake Worth/Lantana Palm Beach Finnish and Italian
Lehigh Acres Lee None
Moosehaven Jacksonville (Duval) Loyal Order of the Moose
Nalcrest Polk Postal Workers
Palm Greens Delray Beach (Palm Beach) Jewish
Palm Harbor Pinellas Italian
Palm-Aire Pompano Beach (Broward) Jewish
Palms of Monasato Manatee Gay
Penney Farms Clay Missionaries and Pastors
Salhaven Palm Beach Upholsterer’s Union
Slovak Gardens Orange Slovak
Spring Hill Hernando Italian
Sun Valley Palm Beach Teamster’s Union
Sunrise Lakes Sunrise (Broward) Jewish
The Villages Sumter, Lake, and Marion None
Counties
Villages of Oriole Delray Beach (Palm Beach) Jewish
Winter Park Orange German
Wynmoor Village Coconut Creek (Broward) 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 I-
75 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.
Fig. 102.4 Housing in Century Village, Pembroke Pines
But the layout of the development has more to do with the geographical ori-
gin of the residents. When Century Village West Palm Beach opened in the late
1960s, most of its first-generation American residents migrated from the more-
densely 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 res-
idents 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 syn-
agogues, 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 med-
ical 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)
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 devel-
oped. 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 individually-
owned 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
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 com-
munities 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 resi-
dents 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 pop-
ulation 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 spe-
cific 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 promo-
tions 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 fur-
ther 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).
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 mod-
ern 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) shar-
ing 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 spe-
cific 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 feel-
ing 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 commu-
nity. 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 pop-
ulation. 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 adver-
tising 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
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 residen-
tial 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 Miami-
Dade 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 devel-
opment 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 signif-
icant 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 com-
munities. 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 Miami-
Dade 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 per-
sons 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
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 origi-
nal 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 asso-
ciation. 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 some-
what 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 com-
munity 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 com-
munity) 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 aver-
age 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
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-of-
mouth, 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 per-
sons 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,
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 com-
munity 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 wel-
coming 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 eth-
nic 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 target-
ing 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 facili-
ties. 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 retire-
ment 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, sur-
rounded 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 plan-
ning 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 say-
ing: “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 rea-
son 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.
102.3.2.6 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 270-
unit 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 commu-
nity 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 les-
bians 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 634-
acre (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 fed-
eral 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 large-
scale 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 pro-
grams 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, partic-
ularly from New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Massachusetts, and Illinois.
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 settle-
ment 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 mar-
keting 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 differ-
ent 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 migra-
tion 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 retire-
ment 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 eth-
nic 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 resi-
dents 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 facil-
ities (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 retire-
ment 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.
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 full-
year 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 mean-
ing 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 real-
ized, 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 emergency-
friendly 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, orig-
inally published in 1962, identified eight million elderly living in poverty. But
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 addi-
tion, 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 ben-
efits 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 mil-
lions 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 invest-
ment 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 stimu-
lated, 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 depart-
ment 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 large-
scale, 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 por-
tions at lower prices, and, particularly around the Century Villages and other such
developments, restaurants cater to their “New York Jewish” clientele with kosher-
style 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
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 sur-
vived 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 fill-
ing 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 bal-
lot 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 num-
bers, 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 pro-
posal 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 some-
thing that would change Pembroke Pines in numerous ways. The mayor proposed
single-member districts to ensure that all neighborhoods would be equally repre-
sented (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 elec-
tion, 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, conser-
vative 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 old-
est 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
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.
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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, sub-
urbanization 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

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 behav-
ior 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 lim-
ited, 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 eco-
nomic 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 else-
where, 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

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Impacts of Mega Engineering

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Engineering Earth

© Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2011

Cover Design: Adam White

Printed on acid-free paper

Springer is part of Springer Science+Business Media (www.springer.com)

This volume is an outgrowth of an international and interdisciplinary conference that

of those interested primarily in economic, environmental, cultural, or engineering

Lexington, Kentucky Stanley D. Brunn

Part II GIS, ICTs and K-Economies

9 The Internet in Three Finnish Cities: Accessing

Part III Agriculture, Fishing and Mining Projects

22 When Boom Goes Bust: Ruins, Crisis and Security

Part IV Energy and Industrial Projects

Part V Transportation Projects

33 The Transamazon Highway: Past, Present, Future . . . . . . . . 569

Part VII Megafacilities, Designs and Architecture

57 Astana, Kazakhstan: Megadream, Megacity, Megadestiny? . . . 1001

Part VIII Tourism, Recreation and Amenity Landscapes

70 Engineering Paradise: Marketing the Dominican

Part IX Reconstructing and Restoring Nature

Part X River Diversion and Coastal Reclamation Projects

91 Demographic Impacts of the Three Gorges Dam . . . . . . . . . 1583

94 Ebbs and Flows: Megaproject Politics on the Mekong . . . . . . 1633

Part XII Military, Security, and Risk Landscapes

Part XIII Socially Engineered Landscapes

106 A Double-Edged Sword: Social Control in Appalachian

Part XIV Political Organization of Space

118 Traces of Power: Europe’s Impact on the Political

Part XV Earth and Planetary Engineering

Glenn Albrecht School of Sustainability; Institute of Sustainability

Leonard Berry Florida Center for Environmental Studies, Florida Atlantic

Filipe Calvão Department of Anthropology, University of Chicago, Chicago, IL

Ronnie Donaldson Department of Geography and Environmental Studies,

Paul Gravila Department of Physics, West University of Timisoara, Timisoara,

Michael T. Hughes College of Design, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY

Kuntala Lahiri-Dutt Research School of Pacific and Asian Affairs, Australian

Casey Ryan Mather College of Design, University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY

William C. Rowe Department of Geography and Anthropology, Louisiana State

Robert Walker Department of Geography, Michigan State University, East

1.1 Mapping the impacts of megaengineering projects . . . . . . . . 5

6.2 Percentage of the Population in Selected Countries

13.2 Total milk production in India, 1950–2010 (in million

17.9 Structural outline of sulfur oxidizing in bacterial mat field

25.7 Bord na Móna housing development under construction,

29.1 GM’s answer to the Japanese – GoogleEarth image

36.2 Transportation infrastructure of Mongolia . . . . . . . . . . . . . 632

absorption of solar radiation and thaw of underlying

40.7 Portion of the Rose F. Kennedy Greenway through

43.3 The four main embankment configurations of blocks used

47.2 Expatriate workforce population as a percentage of total

growth at the airport, a second runway was built on newly

54.1 Burj Dubai dwarfing surrounding buildings, May 2007 . . . . . . 956

outdoor messages. In the lower right is the commonly

61.4 Eastern section of college place, Charlotte, North Carolina . . . . 1081

66.8 Tools of the modern course builder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1171

68.4 “Wilderness” image for tourist consumption in South

72.5 Manchester farm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1306

76.3 Enrollment in the conservation reserve program in 1997