Disused Cooling Tower

Monceau, Charleroi, Belgium.

6 min readMar 26, 2014

There it was. Right there in front of me. Gigantic.

It glistened. It smelled. No, I’m not talking about

the cooling tower.

There is a poo. A human poo. It’s silently taunting me from the grimy walkway of this alien environment, carefully placed on the intersection of two walkways. Right where i want to put the leg of my tripod; the perfect spot to take my ‘hero’ image for this urban exploration adventure.
Why was I so surprised?

There’s irony in the lawlessness of abandoned places. There is a belief that by ignoring a rusted ‘Warning: No Entry’ sign, the guidelines of normal society don’t apply. People give themselves permission to destroy, graffiti, shout and swear — all without fear of retribution.

And with that, a desire, no; a need to deposit a gigantic pile of human excrement, right where I want to take a photo.

It smelled terrible.

Our journey began months earlier…

…through a person-who-knows-a-person-who-knows-a-person, one member of our group had managed to get guided access to the famed (and disused) Monceau Cooling Tower in Charleroi, Belgium. Not that supervisory access really mattered — someone had been there less than an hour before (judging by the excrement left behind). On our way in we spied another group of two, and later, five teenagers gingerly tip-toeing up the decrepit staircase to the solitary entrance. And that’s excluding the two proud locals who pulled up on the main road, shoving a business card in our face, extolling the virtues of their ‘city safari’ service.

Monceau Cooling Tower may not be a secret destination, but it’s one that offers a strikingly alien architecture with remarkably easy access. With demolition planned by 2015, there isn’t long to visit.

An hour south from Brussels, Charleroi doesn’t exactly shout its virtues to the world. A small city of population 200,000, it is located in the heart of a large coal reserve and the now dwindling coal and steel industry formed the backbone of the region. And that means lots of factories, lots of people, and lots of dogs.

An enthusiastic trio of canines announce our arrival (why are houses a mere stones throw from a heavy industry structure?) and we park next to the river, wave hello to a fisherman and wander back along the dusty road. The perimeter gives way eventually to a pile of rubble. Perhaps a dump truck has unloaded on the fence, crushing it down and creating an entrance.

A sign dangles uselessly nearby, warning trespassers of entering private property.

Inside the cooling tower, soaring geometric patterns swirl around endlessly up and up toward the sky. Walkways and drainage systems radiate out from a central drainage hole.

“It… kind of looks like a butt-hole, doesn’t it?”, remarks a fellow photographer, reminding me of the terrible mess left by one of the junctions.

Click-click.

Sounds feel distant and add to the eeriness of the monolithic structure. Standing far back against a wall, there’s a strange sensation of emptiness; the sound of air, outside, away, around, removed. Sharp clicks puncture the eerie stillness — camera shutters — reverberations skittering around the roofless structure.

Click-click.

Swathes of green accent the steely desaturated monotony of purpose-built industry. Algae clings and thrives on handrails, draining gutters, walkways, pipes and almost completely covers the central ‘butt-hole’ drainage pipe. A small fig, perhaps 40cm’s tall, has a steady foothold. Peering into the gutters reveal tiny seashells amongst the various slimes and detritus that has accumulated in the derelict ecosystem.

Click-click.

“It’s like we’re in the Death Star”, mumbles one of our group, echoing the sentiments of each of us.

This sci-fi chamber feels a world away. There isn’t anything ‘normal’ to hold on here; no signs, no machines, no windows. The only identifiable features here are a vague familiarity with walkways and building materials. Nothing is human scale. Any remaining handrails are decayed beyond use. The sky is far away. To place someone here who was unfamiliar with the world would be an exercise in torture.

Click-click.

Feet sink slowly into the silty, stagnant water as darkness encroaches my peripheral vision.

Access requires dexterity — climbing over and under barriers not designed for human intervention. Decaying planks of wood have fallen from above, and lay rotting in the confined bowels of this alien spaceship. The air is stale. Geometric surroundings force confusion.

I can’t go further. I’m woefully underprepared for this wretched quagmire.

Luckily, one of our team has the foresight to bring waders. Protected by waterproof boots, she braves the maddening environment and appears under us, sloshing away happily.

Monceau Cooling Tower is really just a single, large, foreign space.

As I sit (far away from the poo) and listen to the sound of camera shutters penetrating the distant, rushing sound of urbanisation, my mind wanders to a discarded flare nearby.

Night-time must bring endless photographic possibilities — hiding flashes in all sorts of interesting places. Candles must cast flickering, dancing shadows. A full moon could eerily tone the already steely structure. On a cloudless night, star trails could echo the sweeping concentric circles of the tower walls.

What would snow look like?

What would rain sound like?

A good adventure leaves one with more questions than answers, and the desire to see more. Monceau Cooling Tower indulges the imagination, and provides a theatric stage for the mind to wander. Luckily for our group, this was just the beginning of some incredible urban exploration visits in the south of Belgium.