Gallery

Though not strictly a galley I have chosen to look at the French Catacombs underneath the city of Paris. The underground tunnels have become a place for graffiti artists, drug dealers, underground cinema groups, thrill seekers and the odd 'crazies'. Because actual access to the main parts (and more interesting parts) is illegal many of the regulars or 'cataphiles' have their secret entrances spread out among the city to avoid police interference. This may also create problems for me trying to archive such a thing because information may be hard to find.


The catacombs were built underneath the city around 1786 using existing chalk caves and mines and used as graves due to the the rapid overflowing of the cemeteries above ground. Many of those living next to these above ground graveyards were suffering from many diseases as a result of their exposure. It is thought around seven million remains were removed and taken to the catacombs underneath the city of Paris. Since then the catacombs have been entered by many (graffiti has been found dating back to the eighteen century) including the French Resistance of the Second World War.

A very interesting account of someone who has been deep into the catacombs. There is also alot of other interesting accounts of trips to other such sites. The article is by Murray Battle.

Link: http://www.infiltration.org/catacomb.htm

An Extract:

'An unguided public tour of the Parisian catacombs. The imagery is great - walls of stacked bones and skulls in arty, symmetric patterns. It's also a good contrast to the real catacombs, as I later learn. Most non-French tourists, however, have no idea what's going on here.

There are a lot of good foreboding signs -- my favorite:

"Crazy that you are, why, /Do you promise yourself to live
A long time, you who cannot / count on a single day."

When we emerge in an alley blocks away from where we started, it's hot, blindingly bright and I feel just a tad dirty and mischievous. A taste of things to come?

I'm here in Paris to find out why people go underground. Seems like a totally irrational thing to do. I mean, we all end up there -- six feet under. Why rush the process?

Emmanuel Gabily is taking me underground. My wife thinks he looks like a young Yves Montand. I think he's dangerous, well potentially dangerous to me at least. We've met over the Internet and are now sitting face to face at a web bar in an industrial district of Paris. Emmanuel is worried about my rubber boots. He doesn't think they're high enough. That's not a good sign. I don't want to drown.

Emmanuel is not alone. His cohort in crime Benito (Benjamin Nitot) apologizes for the limp handshake. A motorcycle accident. He's hoping he'll get some feeling back into his right hand real soon now. And he's excited because, like Emmanuel, he thrives on initiating neophytes. Seems he's conned a young couple who parked next to them to forgo the cinema tonight.

As we thunder along in Emmanuel's sagging Peugeot the Paris cityscape disappears behind us. We are heading into la Banlieue. Emmanuel has a few caves he wants to show us. The first one is made of chalk. I don't have a great feeling about this.

The Chalk Caves
We're joined by three more male cataphiles whose English is as bad as my French. As the pros switch into their coveralls and miner's helmets in the suburban parking lot, I wonder where the police are.

I wait til the last moment before strapping on my Mountain Co-op spelo headlamp. I tell them it's my geeklight. They nod politely and for the rest of the evening I occasionally hear them discussing it with great seriousness. The entranceway is a blocked off fissure of rock in the distant woods. Fortunately there's a ladder - it's a 20-foot drop. I am immediately struck by the beauty of it all. The vaulted ceilings are breathtaking. We can walk five abreast. No claustrophobia here. These are more caverns than tunnels. I could get to like this.

Emmanuel suddenly lets out a scream - something he is prone to do quite erratically while underground. There is no echo. The chalk walls absorb everything. The others join in with hoots and hollers as we trudge along.

Our host leads us through the maze of turns and dead ends never needing a map. It seems gridlike but I could never find my way back. Now and then he directs his lamp at points of danger - sudden fissures, bottomless pits - no guide rails here. There is abandoned machinery clearly decades old. And signs of previous visitation - plastic water bottles, cookie tins, discarded batteries.

The movie goers are just proclaiming their good fortune when we arrive at a dead end. A rickety ladder leads upwards along the crumbling wall to a rabbit hole in the ceiling and, Emmanuel promises, an upper level. We squeeze through one at a time. We of the aboveground follow the roads, wait at the stoplights, and live in one plane. But down here ... well, it's three-dimensional. There's above and below and further below and ... as far as you can go.

But now I see the reason for coming here. Not far away there's a balcony - an open view of the line of tunnels below. And it's a place to make camp. We sit back and rest. Slowly, without instruction, everyone turns off his or her lamp or flashlight and it goes dark - totally black. And silent. Not a sound. No dripping. Nothing. N-O-T-H-I-N-G!! I have never experienced anything like it. You don't have to close your eyes. You don't have to tune anything out. One man's tomb is another man's refuge. I don't know how long we stay like that.

Finally Emmanuel asks me to turn on my flashlight so he can fire up his lamp. He grabs his knapsack and heads off. The others start a fire with liquid propane and open tins of chili and canard confit. We converse quietly, in French and English.

Below Emmanuel is planting and lighting a candle at each tunnel intersection. There are easily twenty disappearing away in a line as far as the eye can see. Another magical moment. I think of Robert Smithston. Earthworks - 30 years later - this time under the earth.

When Emmanuel returns I feel stupid even asking. Why do you do it? "To wash my brain," he ventures, followed by a self-depreciating laugh. I think he knows the English is a bit off. "It's another world, but it's our world. There is a culture. No one can touch us here." He pulls out a flyer, hands it to me. He's planning his birthday underground. Friends, music, champagne. I can't think of a better place.

The Limestone Quarry
Miles later we hop a fence and walk down into an underground limestone quarry. Someone was growing mushrooms and storing potatoes here. They've all shrunken into an organic mess. And there's an abandoned Citr en truck. The boys have stripped mementos and built a clubhouse in the far corner. It's named after the truck license number. There are steps, a dais, seats even a table made from one of the abandoned giant circular saw blades. Someone else has carved sculptures in the wall. We're all tired. It must be five or six in the morning. Time for more cooking, hash and the last of the wine.

We barrel through the deserted Paris streets, as dawn breaks onto the city skyline. Benito snores in the back seat immune to the irritating technobeat. At least it keeps Emmanuel awake. He casually mentions a German WWII bunker under a high school near the Luxembourg Gardens. I want to know how soon we can go.

Into the Tunnels
Friday night I take the Metro the farthest south to Port D'Orl ans then walk, a bit lost. It's off my map. Emmanuel and two new pals are waiting for me at a dark suburban street corner. Kinda looks like that shot out of the Exorcist. Hmmm.

Stephane, mid-30s, and Jean Baptiste, mid-20s, are eager to practice their English and politely check me out. Yes I'm ready to book off eight or nine hours. Yes I can keep up. All of a sudden the previous night looks like a test for something ... big, something serious. Those were caves. These are tunnels. There's a difference.

And, once again, the ritual. Changing into boots and coveralls on the dark side street. A local walks past with his dog, ignores us. But three younger guys lock a bike to a pole and nod. They head off into a small vacant lot. We follow minutes later.

Amidst the garbage Emmanuel pulls a junked foam chair from a brick wall and there it is -- our entrance. Our rabbit hole. This time cut out of rough cement. The others lead the way. It's tight -- real tight -- a bit of a twist, then a fall ... into darkness. I hit solid ground and move out of the way. I don't hurt myself, or anyone else. A good start.

To the left there's a bricked-in room, a kind of way station. The three younger guys emerge, not surprised to see us. Emmanuel quizzes them. No they don't have a map. They're not going far. Then they head out. Hash dealers, he informs me as we enter the room. They'd better not go too far. They'll get lost. Our waiting room is an odd shade of ... pink. Stephane is the culprit. He got a discount on some end of line paint. He smiles and takes great pains to assure me he isn't a graffiti artist. In fact he whitewashed one of the aboveground walls. Someone had betrayed the tunnel entrance. The few left, like this one, are hidden in the suburbs. They quietly finish their cigarettes in silence. Then it's time to leave.

The Perils
It's a march, a forced march. We have a long way to go. We're following the railway above. To our right on the tunnel wall there are metal supports holding cables. One slip or miscalculation and you get impaled in the right side. And these guys really move.

It doesn't take long for me to see the real problem. You have to keep up with the person in front of you. The afterglow of his light illuminates your way. And in our next tunnel the ceiling is irregular and much lower. We're crouching, walking ape-like. I try and keep in my predecessor's footsteps, almost like walking in snow. 'Cause we're hitting water - about two feet deep. And I don't want to break an ankle. So it's feet splayed at the far edges of the tunnel floor. I'm trying to regulate my breathing and not fall in. This is a lot harder than I'd imagined.

Once we're out of water the ceiling drops considerably then I realize my first faux pas. Jean Baptiste is shorter than I am. So when he ducks, I should duck more. But I learn this the hard way and I let Emmanuel pass so I can take up the rear. I don't want him to see me rubbing the bump on the top of my head. A good 20 minutes in, it all becomes an incredible maze. There are a lot of tunnels, a lot of choices. If I separate or lag, I'll never, never find my way back. I could be left wandering around down here forever. Fortunately my guides know where they're going. I just have to keep up.

But it's hard. 'Cause there's so much to see and they're into stopping for the strangest things. Like pointing out and commenting on the most arcane architectural detail. As with any band of esthetes it pays to tune in and follow the conversation. The cornerstones with the street names and dates intrigue me. They're beautiful and vary wildly from 1777 to 1890. But my guides are into the varied tunnel construction. And they point out graffiti from revolutionary times -- 1789 and 1968. This is too weird! And this is certainly not New York City. There are no homeless here. It's too much of a trek and the police have sealed all entrances inside the city. Algerian terrorism is their latest fear. No, this is a time warp -- unlike anything I've ever seen before. At every corner I expect to run into... well, there's no one else down here right?

I hear something -- music? I ask the others to stop. Silence. They doubt me. I double back a few steps to a dark tunnel entrance angling off from our direction. Now they too can hear it, music, getting closer. Emmanuel pushes past me lets out his infamous screech!

We listen. No reply. But there's a light approaching and distant voices. Emmanuel looks at me. "Is it English?" Before I can reply he curses "Tourists." And sure enough, eight boisterous, Gen-Xers arrive -- four guys, four gals. Their smiling bandannaed leader extinguishes the technopop and greets us in broken English.

"Have you seen the police?" Nope. "They're chased us at La Plage." Emmanuel seems dubious. These neophytes are proud they've come all the way from Germany. Emmanuel points to me, and counters "Well, he's from Canada." The leader calls Emmanuel "brother." He doesn't like that and he remains pretty cool to them. They sense it and confidently head off. I've peeked at their leader's map. It's old and limited. Emmanuel spits it out again: "Tourists!" He makes sure they are not following us.

Often side tunnels are blocked off. Sometimes it's the police; sometimes it's development. The pattern of blocks in this one reminds me of "Man in an Iron Mask." But Jean Baptiste is more blas -- "probably a parking garage."

As we walk Emmanuel has this odd habit of reaching up and touching holes and little grottos which have been cut above head height in some of the older tunnels. I guess there were once candles or religious statues kept there but personally I'd keep my hands to myself. I can't think of the French word for "mousetrap." Finally he stops and brings down a folded piece of paper. It's a pretty zany tract about extreme spelo/cataphiles. I don't pretend to understand. But it's a couple of years old, faded and damp. Emmanuel saves it for his stash at home. He has hundreds of drawings, statements, fanzines left by fellow travelers. He leaves his birthday invitation in its stead.

My watch is safely hidden in my pocket protecting it from underground scuffs but I really have no interest in knowing the time. We're going back in time but not in any logical order. Jean Baptiste points out a mini bas relief of a castle cut into the side of the limestone wall. He doesn't remember it from previous visits but he isn't sure. There are hundreds of kilometers of tunnels here. We're in an underground museum but the displays are out of chronology, 1850, 1777, 1941, and now I spy some fluorescent graffiti - last year, last week, and yesterday?

After a long stretch Stephane points out a hole in the tunnel wall. "Bunker -- later." I'm glad I've lost weight -- it's a male 34" waist maximum.'

By Murray Battle

http://www.infiltration.org/