Electrabel Power Plant
Charleroi, Belgium
“You are very curious people!”, Benoit proclaimed in his heavy Belgian accent. But his eyes betrayed his underlying observation: “These people are crazy.”
Wilted metallic entrails lie in the baking sun. The omnipresent cooling tower sits idly by. Vitals have been pulled from a gaping, open wound in the side of the power plant. Through this unprotected opening we enter; the fallen body of a beast.
Mechanical intestines twist and turn around bloated, variegated stomachs, constricting in a visual cacophony of demented purpose. Sinewy pipes give way to shattered dials while filtered beams of afternoon sun illuminate glowing, floating dust particles which refuse to settle in the cavernous emptiness.
Life support systems have been switched off. There is no breath.
This is a shell of an entity euthanised years ago. One sound is that of an irregular breeze, too little, too late, quietly dusting the forgotten passages.
The second is the sound of the police.
The gate had given us away.
Given the value of the equipment still inside the power plant (and the vast amount of scrap metal), the local police moonlight as additional security around certain sites targeted for demolition. In our haste to enter, we had left the rusted gate ever-so-slightly open.
This was enough to spark their interest.
Clue two was my jacket and camera bag left near an entrance of the power plant, tucked behind a nondescript junction box. With enough camera equipment to purchase a modest family car laying there, the police had the safe assumption that there was probably someone inside.
A dizzying gridlock of walkways honeycomb endlessly skyward,
obscuring any trace of ceiling — and end — to the power plant innards.
It is impossible to make out where one piece of machinery ends and another begins.
This is a viral infection. Growths infect bulbous organs; the cancerous addition of pipes, dials, turbines, switches, valves, rails and bolts slowly suffocate splayed veins. Oil congeals uselessly in puddles.
Beyond the bowels we are traversing the rib cage of walkways and turn a corner to discover the heart and lungs of the power plant. At least ten stories high, a spectacular, vast open space houses Power Generator A. Next door, separated by a thin dividing wall is the mirroring image of this cavernous space — Power Generator B. In silent dust they lie, awaiting dismantlement, a burial, a dignified ending to years of unrelenting servitude.
My own empty stomach twists, hunger breaking me out of my introverted thoughts.
Time moves on.
We were about five stories high, on a rusted metallic walkway when we were discovered.
It was no big deal in the end, but the looks I received from our exploring group now confirmed Benoit’s un-said initial thoughts — this man is definitely crazy.
Luckily our off-peak visit was permissable. Not that it was any less comforting from the foreign words echoing off the power plants walls.
Back at the entrance, my keffiyeh was placed thoughtfully on top of the opened Billingham bag — presumably to protect the lens from the dust in lieu of figuring out how to close the multi-flap bag.
It’s a relief to realise that our encounter was with honest policemen. A few weeks after this trip, I found myself in Bulgaria with the similar thought of stashing my gear while wandering around. Probably not a good idea.
Higher and higher we explore, through the spiralling trachea of our now familiar beast, searching for the brain of the power plant.
Our euphoric goal couldn’t be more disappointing.
Shattered glass litters the decimated control room. The hollowed out skull has been stripped of all valuables. Stillness now endures where neurons and electrons once danced. It’s unclear which switch, button or lever is responsible for the final, euthanising action which lay the power plant to rest.
This is a far away place — high up, amongst the detritus, having climbed through this strangely physical structure. The surroundings of so much desolation over the course of hours leaves an impact on the mind.
Dehydration settles in.
It’s peaceful, quiet, but in a dry, deathly sort of way.
There is an enduring fascination with death, for us, a species who barely seem to understand life.
Perhaps we are a little “crazy”, exploring this lifeless structure, recording our appreciation through words and images.
Stories need to be told. Without a record of the past, we lose context of who we are. We forget our mistakes and what we learned.
We become stagnant.
We lose our identity.
Electrabel Power Plant is a veritable museum of plaques — intricate lettering adorns decrepit machinery. This level of artistry has all but disappeared in the vast majority of functional machinery today.
The heavily stylised steampunk genre is perhaps a commiserative nod toward the final era of artisanship, a nod to the glory days when industrialisation celebrated the best of the creative and scientific worlds.
Perhaps in recording the skeletal remains of buildings of previous eras, we can understand what they held up.
The curious can envision the muscle tissue, the circulatory, digestive and central nervous systems. They can peek into the brain. The imaginative ones can even look out through the eyes.
Through understanding the context of our world, we can understand who we are.
And where we are going.
In the name of preserving this piece of history, here are a few more photos from Electrabel Power Plant:
For more Urban Exploration related adventures:
Read all about the nearby Monceau Cooling Tower.
Find out about Buzludzha, in Bulgaria.
Visit peterfranc.com for many more images.
