A hoax but it does paint an interesting picture of atmosphere inside the catacombs, if you can put up with the voice over.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GakTtXQGuo0&feature=related
Monday 5 May 2008
Publication
An example of an Infiltration article.
The Buffalo Central Terminal
by Ninjalicious and Liz
Buffalo, New York, is a lucky city. True, the weather is terrible, crime is high, the economy is dead and the suburbs are usually on fire, but Buffalo still has a lot going for it.
The city's main attraction is a tall, dark tower that bursts forth from otherwise flat land in the middle of a residential subdivision and soars 20 storeys up into the air. The looming, monolithic tower and the vast, art deco train station to which it is attached were constructed in 1929 and served the New York Central railway, the Penn-Central railway and later Amtrak until being abandoned in 1979. In its heyday, the giant Buffalo Central Terminal was a focal point of the industrial and social life of one of the largest cities in the United States, where the marble floors were kept glistening and immaculate and people dressed in their Sunday best. Today, the relic sits abandoned and empty, largely neglected by all but some local friends of the station and a few appreciative explorers. It remains quite possibly the most beautiful building in the world.
To read more go here:
http://www.infiltration.org/abandoned-bct.html
I cannot recommend this site enough, just have a little look round.
The Buffalo Central Terminal
by Ninjalicious and Liz
Buffalo, New York, is a lucky city. True, the weather is terrible, crime is high, the economy is dead and the suburbs are usually on fire, but Buffalo still has a lot going for it.
The city's main attraction is a tall, dark tower that bursts forth from otherwise flat land in the middle of a residential subdivision and soars 20 storeys up into the air. The looming, monolithic tower and the vast, art deco train station to which it is attached were constructed in 1929 and served the New York Central railway, the Penn-Central railway and later Amtrak until being abandoned in 1979. In its heyday, the giant Buffalo Central Terminal was a focal point of the industrial and social life of one of the largest cities in the United States, where the marble floors were kept glistening and immaculate and people dressed in their Sunday best. Today, the relic sits abandoned and empty, largely neglected by all but some local friends of the station and a few appreciative explorers. It remains quite possibly the most beautiful building in the world.
To read more go here:
http://www.infiltration.org/abandoned-bct.html
I cannot recommend this site enough, just have a little look round.
Gallery
The Catacombs have many entrances of varying kinds throughout Paris, but for the official Catacombs tour, the entrance is a small green building on Place Denfert-Rochereau. There, a five euro entrance fee allows you to descend a tightly-wound steel staircase sixty feet down into the yellowish-cream-colored stone. It's a color that's already familiar as the color of Paris.
An account of a visit to the small tourist area of the catacombs, rest here:
http://asecular.com/ran/0201/020129.htm
An account of a visit to the small tourist area of the catacombs, rest here:
http://asecular.com/ran/0201/020129.htm
Gallery
I am trying to find a novel based in the future set in the catacombs called Bad Voltage, but at the moment the search isn't going well. I'm not even sure if there is an English translation. The novel is by Jonathan Littell who has also written Les Bienveillantes ('"The Kindly Ones'") which also sounds interesting and is soon to be translated into English.
Info on his latest novel:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/6125742.stm
Info on his latest novel:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/6125742.stm
Gallery
No popcorn, then?
Can underground cinema survive when you can find anything on the web? Andrea Hubert takes a subterranean journey
Friday December 7, 2007
The Guardian
In 2004, police found the remnants of an underground cinema in the Paris catacombs. It had been used by a group called Perforating Mexicans, who hijacked public spaces for art. They left behind a note, which asked its finders: "Don't try to find us." Underground, when truly underground, goes deep. Checking Perforated Mexicans' film schedule, I expected to find snuff, graphic porn, or at the very least cock-fighting, but discovered instead a cinephile's dream: the Japanese animation Ghost in the Shell, Coppola's Rumble Fish, and David Lynch's Eraserhead. In other words, this underground experience was less about the actual films shown, and more the radicalism of illegal cinema itself.
Rest of Article:
http://arts.guardian.co.uk/filmandmusic/story/0,,2223064,00.html
Gallery
"You guys have no idea what's down there."
In a secret Paris cavern, the real underground cinema
• Jon Henley in Paris
• The Guardian,
• Wednesday September 8 2004
Them bones, them bones: Les Catacombes, part of the miles of tunnels underlying Paris. Photo: AP
Police in Paris have discovered a fully equipped cinema-cum-restaurant in a large and previously uncharted cavern underneath the capital's chic 16th arrondissement.
Officers admit they are at a loss to know who built or used one of Paris's most intriguing recent discoveries.
"We have no idea whatsoever," a police spokesman said.
"There were two swastikas painted on the ceiling, but also celtic crosses and several stars of David, so we don't think it's extremists. Some sect or secret society, maybe. There are any number of possibilities."
Members of the force's sports squad, responsible - among other tasks - for policing the 170 miles of tunnels, caves, galleries and catacombs that underlie large parts of Paris, stumbled on the complex while on a training exercise beneath the Palais de Chaillot, across the Seine from the Eiffel Tower.
After entering the network through a drain next to the Trocadero, the officers came across a tarpaulin marked: Building site, No access.
Behind that, a tunnel held a desk and a closed-circuit TV camera set to automatically record images of anyone passing. The mechanism also triggered a tape of dogs barking, "clearly designed to frighten people off," the spokesman said.
Further along, the tunnel opened into a vast 400 sq metre cave some 18m underground, "like an underground amphitheatre, with terraces cut into the rock and chairs".
There the police found a full-sized cinema screen, projection equipment, and tapes of a wide variety of films, including 1950s film noir classics and more recent thrillers. None of the films were banned or even offensive, the spokesman said.
A smaller cave next door had been turned into an informal restaurant and bar. "There were bottles of whisky and other spirits behind a bar, tables and chairs, a pressure-cooker for making couscous," the spokesman said.
"The whole thing ran off a professionally installed electricity system and there were at least three phone lines down there."
Three days later, when the police returned accompanied by experts from the French electricity board to see where the power was coming from, the phone and electricity lines had been cut and a note was lying in the middle of the floor: "Do not," it said, "try to find us."
The miles of tunnels and catacombs underlying Paris are essentially former quarries, dating from Roman times, from which much of the stone was dug to build the city.
Today, visitors can take guided tours around a tightly restricted section, Les Catacombes, where the remains of up to six million Parisians were transferred from overcrowded cemeteries in the late 1700s.
But since 1955, for security reasons, it has been an offence to "penetrate into or circulate within" the rest of the network.
There exist, however, several secretive bands of so-called cataphiles, who gain access to the tunnels mainly after dark, through drains and ventilation shafts, and hold what in the popular imagination have become drunken orgies but are, by all accounts, innocent underground picnics.
The recent discovery of three newly enlarged tunnels underneath the capital's high-security La Santé prison was put down to the activities of one such group, and another, iden tifying itself as the Perforating Mexicans, last night told French radio the subterranean cinema was its work.
Patrick Alk, a photographer who has published a book on the urban underground exploration movement and claims to be close to the group, told RTL radio the cavern's discovery was "a shame, but not the end of the world". There were "a dozen more where that one came from," he said.
"You guys have no idea what's down there."
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2004/sep/08/filmnews.france
In a secret Paris cavern, the real underground cinema
• Jon Henley in Paris
• The Guardian,
• Wednesday September 8 2004
Them bones, them bones: Les Catacombes, part of the miles of tunnels underlying Paris. Photo: AP
Police in Paris have discovered a fully equipped cinema-cum-restaurant in a large and previously uncharted cavern underneath the capital's chic 16th arrondissement.
Officers admit they are at a loss to know who built or used one of Paris's most intriguing recent discoveries.
"We have no idea whatsoever," a police spokesman said.
"There were two swastikas painted on the ceiling, but also celtic crosses and several stars of David, so we don't think it's extremists. Some sect or secret society, maybe. There are any number of possibilities."
Members of the force's sports squad, responsible - among other tasks - for policing the 170 miles of tunnels, caves, galleries and catacombs that underlie large parts of Paris, stumbled on the complex while on a training exercise beneath the Palais de Chaillot, across the Seine from the Eiffel Tower.
After entering the network through a drain next to the Trocadero, the officers came across a tarpaulin marked: Building site, No access.
Behind that, a tunnel held a desk and a closed-circuit TV camera set to automatically record images of anyone passing. The mechanism also triggered a tape of dogs barking, "clearly designed to frighten people off," the spokesman said.
Further along, the tunnel opened into a vast 400 sq metre cave some 18m underground, "like an underground amphitheatre, with terraces cut into the rock and chairs".
There the police found a full-sized cinema screen, projection equipment, and tapes of a wide variety of films, including 1950s film noir classics and more recent thrillers. None of the films were banned or even offensive, the spokesman said.
A smaller cave next door had been turned into an informal restaurant and bar. "There were bottles of whisky and other spirits behind a bar, tables and chairs, a pressure-cooker for making couscous," the spokesman said.
"The whole thing ran off a professionally installed electricity system and there were at least three phone lines down there."
Three days later, when the police returned accompanied by experts from the French electricity board to see where the power was coming from, the phone and electricity lines had been cut and a note was lying in the middle of the floor: "Do not," it said, "try to find us."
The miles of tunnels and catacombs underlying Paris are essentially former quarries, dating from Roman times, from which much of the stone was dug to build the city.
Today, visitors can take guided tours around a tightly restricted section, Les Catacombes, where the remains of up to six million Parisians were transferred from overcrowded cemeteries in the late 1700s.
But since 1955, for security reasons, it has been an offence to "penetrate into or circulate within" the rest of the network.
There exist, however, several secretive bands of so-called cataphiles, who gain access to the tunnels mainly after dark, through drains and ventilation shafts, and hold what in the popular imagination have become drunken orgies but are, by all accounts, innocent underground picnics.
The recent discovery of three newly enlarged tunnels underneath the capital's high-security La Santé prison was put down to the activities of one such group, and another, iden tifying itself as the Perforating Mexicans, last night told French radio the subterranean cinema was its work.
Patrick Alk, a photographer who has published a book on the urban underground exploration movement and claims to be close to the group, told RTL radio the cavern's discovery was "a shame, but not the end of the world". There were "a dozen more where that one came from," he said.
"You guys have no idea what's down there."
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2004/sep/08/filmnews.france
Publication
A little note from the creator of the Zine explaining his ethics to urban exploration.
No Disclaimer
by Ninjalicious
On many urban exploration websites you'll see a disclaimer to the effect of "this site is for entertainment purposes only, trespassing is bad, do not try this at home." It's tempting for me to throw one of those disclaimers on this site too, just to be on the safe side, but I can't quite bring myself to do it.
I don't think there is anything wrong with urban exploration, at least not the type described here and on 95 percent of the other sites on the Internet, and I can't pretend I do. Genuine urban explorers never vandalize, steal or damage anything — we don't even litter. We're in it for the thrill of discovery and a few nice pictures, and probably have more respect for and appreciation of our cities' hidden spaces than most of the people who think we're naughty. We don't harm the places we explore. We love the places we explore.
While it's true that some aspects of the hobby happen to be illegal, it's important not to confuse the words "illegal" and "immoral". Laws against trespassing are like laws against being out after curfew: people get into trouble not for actually doing anything harmful, but simply because the powers that be are worried that they might.
Nor is exploration illegal simply because it's dangerous. The liability-conscious may disagree, but in my opinion, the hobby is no less of a personally assessed risk than smoking, driving or even riding a bike.
I find it sad that most people go through life oblivious to the countless — free — wonders around them. Too many of us think the only things worth looking at in our cities and towns are those safe and sanitized attractions that require an admission fee. It's no wonder people feel unfulfilled as they shuffle through the maze of velvet ropes on their way out through the gift shop.
Urban explorers strive to actually earn their experiences, by making discoveries that allow them to get in on the secret workings of cities and structures, and to appreciate fantastic, obscure spaces that might otherwise go completely neglected.
When you step away from the TV and think about it, humans are naturally curious creatures. We can't help but want to see the world around us; we're designed to explore and to play, and these instincts haven't disappeared just because most of us now live in large cities where parking lots have replaced common areas, malls have replaced city squares and the only public spaces that remain are a few grudgingly conceded parkettes.
This isn't the way things should be, of course, since cities should be for citizens, but urban explorers aren't generally fighters. We don't seek to smash the state, just to ignore its advice on a subject it doesn't really know much about. When we see a sign that says "Danger: Do Not Enter", we understand that this is simply a shorthand way of saying "Leaving Protected Zone: Demonstrate Personal Accountability Beyond This Point".
Urban exploration is free, fun and hurts no one. It's a thrilling, mind-expanding hobby that encourages our natural instincts to explore and play in our own environment. It encourages people to create their own adventures, like when they were kids, instead of buying the pre-packaged kind. And it nurtures a sense of wonder in the everyday spaces we inhabit or pass by that few local history books could ever hope to recreate. I've had some of the best moments of my life while exploring, and I can't recommend the hobby enough.
So, no disclaimer. Not for your entertainment only. Please do try this at home.
No Disclaimer
by Ninjalicious
On many urban exploration websites you'll see a disclaimer to the effect of "this site is for entertainment purposes only, trespassing is bad, do not try this at home." It's tempting for me to throw one of those disclaimers on this site too, just to be on the safe side, but I can't quite bring myself to do it.
I don't think there is anything wrong with urban exploration, at least not the type described here and on 95 percent of the other sites on the Internet, and I can't pretend I do. Genuine urban explorers never vandalize, steal or damage anything — we don't even litter. We're in it for the thrill of discovery and a few nice pictures, and probably have more respect for and appreciation of our cities' hidden spaces than most of the people who think we're naughty. We don't harm the places we explore. We love the places we explore.
While it's true that some aspects of the hobby happen to be illegal, it's important not to confuse the words "illegal" and "immoral". Laws against trespassing are like laws against being out after curfew: people get into trouble not for actually doing anything harmful, but simply because the powers that be are worried that they might.
Nor is exploration illegal simply because it's dangerous. The liability-conscious may disagree, but in my opinion, the hobby is no less of a personally assessed risk than smoking, driving or even riding a bike.
I find it sad that most people go through life oblivious to the countless — free — wonders around them. Too many of us think the only things worth looking at in our cities and towns are those safe and sanitized attractions that require an admission fee. It's no wonder people feel unfulfilled as they shuffle through the maze of velvet ropes on their way out through the gift shop.
Urban explorers strive to actually earn their experiences, by making discoveries that allow them to get in on the secret workings of cities and structures, and to appreciate fantastic, obscure spaces that might otherwise go completely neglected.
When you step away from the TV and think about it, humans are naturally curious creatures. We can't help but want to see the world around us; we're designed to explore and to play, and these instincts haven't disappeared just because most of us now live in large cities where parking lots have replaced common areas, malls have replaced city squares and the only public spaces that remain are a few grudgingly conceded parkettes.
This isn't the way things should be, of course, since cities should be for citizens, but urban explorers aren't generally fighters. We don't seek to smash the state, just to ignore its advice on a subject it doesn't really know much about. When we see a sign that says "Danger: Do Not Enter", we understand that this is simply a shorthand way of saying "Leaving Protected Zone: Demonstrate Personal Accountability Beyond This Point".
Urban exploration is free, fun and hurts no one. It's a thrilling, mind-expanding hobby that encourages our natural instincts to explore and play in our own environment. It encourages people to create their own adventures, like when they were kids, instead of buying the pre-packaged kind. And it nurtures a sense of wonder in the everyday spaces we inhabit or pass by that few local history books could ever hope to recreate. I've had some of the best moments of my life while exploring, and I can't recommend the hobby enough.
So, no disclaimer. Not for your entertainment only. Please do try this at home.
Publication
Infiltration is an online Zine that (you can also by it in black and white print) about urban exploration in areas that are not intended for public uses. This ranges from abandoned buildings such as mental institutions and warehouses to the catacombs in Paris.
Here is a time line made by the publication of those the creators of the Zine consider were before them.
http://www.infiltration.org/history-timeline.html
Short Extract:
1861 Writing in the Brooklyn Standard, poet Walt Whitman describes his visit to Brooklyn's recently abandoned Atlantic Avenue Tunnel, which in 1844 had been built as the first subway tunnel in the world.
1904 One week after the opening of the subway system, New Yorker Leidschmudel Dreispul is killed by an oncoming train while exploring the new tunnels. The Interborough Rapid Transit company responds by erecting "no trespassing" signs throughout the system.
1916 Harry H. Gardiner, "The Human Fly", climbs 12 floors and 211 feet up the side of Detroit's Majestic Building, thereby becoming the first builderer in recorded history.
1921 In perhaps the first organized group expedition to an abandoned building, Dadaists including Andre Breton, Paul Eluard, Francis Picabia and Tristan Tzara organize a trip to the deserted and little-known church of St. Julien le Pauvre in Paris. In promoting the event, the Dadaists promise to remedy "the incompetence of suspect guides and cicerones", offering instead a series of visits to selected sites, "particularly those which really have no reason for existing".
http://www.infiltration.org/
Here is a time line made by the publication of those the creators of the Zine consider were before them.
http://www.infiltration.org/history-timeline.html
Short Extract:
1861 Writing in the Brooklyn Standard, poet Walt Whitman describes his visit to Brooklyn's recently abandoned Atlantic Avenue Tunnel, which in 1844 had been built as the first subway tunnel in the world.
1904 One week after the opening of the subway system, New Yorker Leidschmudel Dreispul is killed by an oncoming train while exploring the new tunnels. The Interborough Rapid Transit company responds by erecting "no trespassing" signs throughout the system.
1916 Harry H. Gardiner, "The Human Fly", climbs 12 floors and 211 feet up the side of Detroit's Majestic Building, thereby becoming the first builderer in recorded history.
1921 In perhaps the first organized group expedition to an abandoned building, Dadaists including Andre Breton, Paul Eluard, Francis Picabia and Tristan Tzara organize a trip to the deserted and little-known church of St. Julien le Pauvre in Paris. In promoting the event, the Dadaists promise to remedy "the incompetence of suspect guides and cicerones", offering instead a series of visits to selected sites, "particularly those which really have no reason for existing".
http://www.infiltration.org/
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/
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/
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