Sixteen Tons, Part III
A tour through Georgia, by way of its filthiest bits
Several years ago I toured Georgia, visiting its various coal-fired power plants. It was ostensibly a look at the state’s reliance on coal but for me it was just as much a tour of the state I’ve now lived in for seventeen years. Sadly for you folks, I haven’t laid down an installment in this series since last August. That’s too long! We’ve got four coal plants to cover this go ‘round, and if you’d like to go back and refresh your memory on the others, you can read about Plants Hammond and Branch here, and Plant Scherer here.
Before we dive in, a quick bit of news on Patrick Mendy, African College Student. Patrick is wrestling with a difficult issue—he’s taking his exams this week, which is good news, but he’s been told he has to leave his apartment by the end of the month, which is terrible news. At the moment he’s been unable to find alternate lodging and is being pressured by his Granny to move back to Kerr Amadou, which is tantamount to relocating to the moon. He and I are both struggling to find another place, and for once I won’t ask you to chip in unless you happen to own an apartment near Gambia College. He’s still writing, however, and you can still support him by becoming a paid subscriber to his blog ($5 a month). If you haven’t yet seen it, you absolutely must check out his piece on the Brikama market, complete with wonderful photos. It’s a window on another world.
The Comedy Team of Wansley and Yates
Chattahoochee Bend State Park is a roughly triangular patch of land with its apex tucked into a little loop of the Chattahoochee River. It lies about an hour southwest of Atlanta and not far from Newnan. It’s a smallish park, pretty flat, with the usual camping facilities and hiking trails, plus the river, of course, for kayaking and canoeing. What really sets Chattahoochee Bend apart though, is that it’s bracketed upon either end by coal-fired power plants—Yates to the east and Wansley to the west.
I drove down to the park around the middle of October with my family. We stopped in Newnan to pick up food for a picnic. Newnan has a lovely square with an old courthouse, thriving shops, and the obligatory Confederate soldier statue. We saw none of these things. We entered the town on a nameless six-lane highway lined with globs of indistinguishable sprawl and marked, for reasons we could never discern, with a brown sign reading “Historic Newton.” The only thing in sight that could possibly be described as “historic” was the dirt in the median. With cartoon question marks hovering over our heads we procured a bucket of historic fried chicken from KFC and drove on to Yates.
The plant itself is unremarkable. I’ve seen quite a few of these now, and they are all pretty much the same—just like the sprawl that they implicitly finance. A ponderous metal building festooned with rambling pipes like Moby Dick with ropes and harpoons; a set of package type cooling towers looking somewhat like a carton of eggs; a rail yard with a flock of hopper cars; a paddock of spindly gray transformers; a prodigious coal pit; a towering chimney like the valve of a balloon poking out of the deflating Earth; and the ubiquitous, ominous ash pond.
The land around the plant however, is breathtaking in its beauty. It was a warm autumn day—the leaves had not yet begun to change, so the countryside was still verdant and the trees cast dappled shadows as we sped over the rolling hills. Periodically a cozy house would appear. It was easy to forget, with the tranquil early afternoon sun pouring through the windshield, that the cool wind on my face was teeming with toxic particles.
At length we arrived at Chattahoochee Bend. We stopped at the ranger station to get a parking pass. I wonder about these places. The folks running the register wear brown park service uniforms, but they often don’t seem well equipped to do much besides ring up purchases. I got to talking to this particular cashier/ranger about the two plants, and he assured me that there isn’t much coming out of the stacks besides steam. “My daddy worked for a coal plant,” he told me.
I pushed a bit further, “Don’t you worry about pollution here in the park?”
“They don’t produce that much pollution,” he said. “The main pollution source around here is runoff from Atlanta.”
Let’s unpack that sentiment, shall we? First of all, I don’t doubt that Atlanta casts a large pollution shadow. It’s a big city with a lot of people, and we all gotta hit the head now and again, am I right? Wansley and Yates, however, most certainly do produce a lot of pollution. Here are a couple of facts: Yates pumps out seven and a half million tons of carbon dioxide and seventy-five thousand tons of sulfur-dioxide a year, to say nothing of its output of nitrous-oxide and mercury. Yates is doing a hell of a lot of damage, and it’s a relatively small fish. Wansley adds another thirteen million tons of CO2, as well as another ninety-six thousand tons of sulfur-dioxide. Between the two of them, that’s about five million cars’ worth of CO2. Assuming every man, woman, and child in Atlanta owns and drives a car every day, Wansley and Yates are like a second Atlanta straddling the Chattahoochee Bend State Park. Take that, ranger man!
And then there are the ash ponds.
You will no doubt have heard, dear reader, of clean coal technology. By and large, the term is a product of marketers, though like any good lie, it’s predicated on a grain of truth. Scrubbers are the primary grain in this case. Scrubbers have been around since as early as the 1930s, though their use really took off in the wake of the Clean Air Act in 1970. They most commonly take the form of liquid sprays which pull some of the sulfur dioxide and other toxins from the plant exhaust. They sure sound good, don’t they? Scrubbers! They conjure up visions of rosy cheeked little children queuing before a matron for an inspection of faces and hands before dinner.
Of course, scrubbers don’t cause pollutants to magically vanish from existence. Just like a filled-up vacuum bag, every now and again you have to take all that filth, chock full of ghastly toxins like mercury and arsenic, and dump it somewhere. Along with the 120 million tons of ash produced by U.S plants each year, most of it gets poured into holding ponds. The marketing department will tell you the stuff gets recycled; again, this is partly true — about 30% sees new life as gypsum drywall and construction filler. The rest, though goes into ponds and landfill.
Wansley’s ash pond has earned it the ninth spot in the list of the one hundred largest coal ash polluters in the country. And like most ash ponds in the state, Wansley’s is very old, unlined, and within a few hundred feet of a river. If all this seems terribly illegal, you’re in for a surprise. As Georgia Power puts it, they adhere to the letter of the law when it comes to coal ash disposal. They can say this because there is no law. There is no federal regulation of coal ash. There is no state regulation of coal ash. Even in the wake of the massive coal ash spill in Kingston, Tennessee in 2009, the best the government could do was to shrug. Right here in Georgia there have been three spills, and it’s only a matter of time before the next one.
So we sat at picnic tables a few feet from the Chattahoochee River and ate our probably-toxic chicken while breathing definitely-toxic air and watching the possibly-toxic water roll past. Towering high over the trees just a short distance beyond the picnic area was Wansley’s chimney, just what you want to see in a state park. But again, it’s what you don’t see that can hurt you.
Contrasts
Savannah is a veritable firehose of beauty. Should you put your mouth around the nozzle of Savannah, you might get one gulp before your cheeks puff up like Louis Armstrong and a torrent of beauty jets out of your nostrils. It’s a fairly small town — fourth in the state, which doesn’t say much; there’s a major drop-off after Atlanta. In spite of its size though, it would take ages to thoroughly digest the place. I think I could probably spend a week in Forsyth Park alone—just sitting on a bench doing nothing at all. A complete survey of the city’s famous squares—22 of them—would easily be the work of a month, and that’s not counting the time you’d want to spend leaning against a post watching the world go by. Listen: I would like to look, individually, and for a quarter hour apiece, at every single Spanish moss-draped tree in Savannah. Maybe then I’d have a sliver of an idea of what this city is capable of tucked away in my mind, though even as I sit here on a park bench writing these words, the appearance of the sun from behind a cloud reveals a completely different mood. A church bell rings. It’s a brand now moment in a kaleidoscope of beauty. I can’t understand the people I’ve seen, racing past with their eyes fixed forward, heads locked and empty looks on their faces. Can they possibly be inured to all of this concentrated loveliness?
Sadly, they probably must. I know they are inured to the smell. Savannah inhabitants have told me this. It’s a bit hard to believe, because when the wind is right—or wrong—it is not just one of the most visually sumptuous cities in the United States, but also one of the most mephitic, on account of the paper mills that line the Savannah River. I’ll admit, while the scent has never become inolfactive to me, it does develop a sort of endearing quality after a while—an intrinsic component in the city’s unique character. I’ve visited Savannah four times in my life, and the foul odor triggers not just a crimp of the nose but a great many blissful memories the moment it creeps into the car’s ventilation system. Is that a good thing? Well, I don’t know, but it damn well is a Savannah thing.
I came to Savannah by myself this time, which is probably the worst way to come to Savannah, though it does afford a lot more opportunity to simply reflect. It’s harder to start conversations with people without coming off like a weirdo. But on the good side of the ledger I can stop and read every historical marker I pass. In a sense, then, this was a trip to meet and talk to the statues; to the commanding figures of Kasmir Pulaski and General Oglethorpe—the human foundations of both the city and the state (and to no small degree, the country).
Savannah, like a lot of southern cities, is a study in contrasts. As the oldest city in Georgia, Savannah has a storied history, lit by the lives of a good many statesmen and (in particular) soldiers. Savannah factored strongly in both the American Revolution as well as the Civil War. In that regard, it is a bastion of tradition, and it has a wealth of classic architecture—to say nothing of all that statuary—to drive that point home. On the other hand, it also has the Savannah College of Art and Design, with the result that, as you stand there admiring the statue of John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, it’s not at all unusual to get run down by a kid on a fixie sporting a giant green mohawk.
There are powerful economic contrasts as well. It doesn’t take long to stray from the sultry, laid-back city center, and when you do, you’ll see one of two things: the industrial might that powers Savannah or the intense misery it engenders for those who are neither wealthy nor talented enough to enjoy its fruits. The Port of Savannah is the fourth largest in the U.S., and the sight it presents to a traveler crossing the Savannah River is awesome in the original sense of the word. Stretching out to great distance along the river is a landscape of concrete and metal—hulking aluminum tanks, corrugated steel buildings with towering gray chimneys, writhing masses of pipes rearing up to terminate in strange shapes like onions and trumpets. The stench is overpowering—an acrid, noxious chemical odor that lodges in the back of the throat as a persistent itch. My eyes began watering after only a few minutes.
Locked in a tight embrace with the port is a vast expanse of blight. Commerce, such as there is, is dominated by Big Lots, Rent-a-Centers, title loan shops, and liquor stores. There’s a sort of grim humor at work, inadvertently I think—in one spot a dirt road trailer park loomed up with a sign reading “Main Street Manor.” Across the highway: huge faceless tan warehouses belonging to the Georgia Port Authority. There are no palm trees here; no Spanish moss. Should you chance to look up from the concentrated ugliness of the street level, you’re more likely to see a billboard advertising Oxycontin treatment clinics than a leaf or branch.
Is this where they stock the people that run the port? The people that perform all the physical labor that makes the Port of Savannah the cash cow that supports all that stunning scenery? I don’t know, but there can be no question that there are people there, and that they suffer.
The best thing you can say about Plant Kraft, perched on the bank of the Savannah River on the northern end of this open prison, is that it probably isn’t the worst offender in the area.
In the late afternoon I left Savannah and headed for Albany, a four hour drive if you’re avoiding the freeway, which I was. The freeway is an information-free zone—a kind of limbo between departure and destination, and I wanted to know the score. Unfortunately, the score is increasingly the same off the freeway as on. I spent the night at a Scottish Inn in Tifton, about an hour short of Albany. My plan was to find a bar where I could get a bite to eat and a beer and perhaps a bit of conversation. The reality was that the only bar in the vicinity was in an empty and gloomy-looking Ruby Tuesday. For blocks in every direction there was nothing but fast-food, gas stations, and car dealerships. After a half hour of flailing about in frustration, I settled for a chicken sandwich from Wendy’s and a bottle of Coke from a gas station. So much for local color.
The next morning brought new hope. I rose early, intending to drive on to Albany, find some little cafe downtown, and have a lovely breakfast. But this was not to be. Driving around southern Georgia is like hanging around a terminal cancer ward. Just like in the nuclear fears of my youth, Albany has concentric circles imposed upon it, though not of fire but decay. I passed through the outer ring—more generic metastasized franchise bric-a-brac—with mild irritation. There was miles of it. Crossing the Flint River, I arrived downtown, which looked like a disused film set. The old buildings that comprise the city core are still intact, beautiful even, but they are mostly empty, or filled with odd businesses—consignment clothing, antiques, wig shops—that could no more serve as development cornerstones than they could take on the Walton family. It was a Tuesday morning, but not a soul walked the streets, and only a handful of forlorn cars were parked in the area.
Albany is suffering from a couple different ailments; primarily depopulation following white flight. The white population of Dougherty county has declined by more than a quarter in the last decade. The overall population has declined slightly, but the median income has dropped by a staggering 43 percent over the same period. Albany has a long history of race issues, dating back to a failed desegregation campaign in 1961 and 1962. It set the stage for Birmingham and Selma, but I wonder if it didn’t also cripple the city long-term.
I parked near the welcome center—an old bridge house built by former slave and celebrated Georgia bridge builder Horace King, now desperately gussied up with bunting and Christmas lights—and walked around a bit. It was apparent that Albany has been trying, but the attempts seem to have been futile. Aside from the breathless enthusiasm of the tourist center, it becomes rapidly clear that the city is making a concerted bet on the arts. Every lamppost is adorned with a banner advertising some upcoming gallery show or play or symphonic concert. The truth is, Albany seems to be doing everything right, but unfortunately for the denizens of this little city, the race is definitely not to the swift.
Most of the time I spent in Albany I spent at the Art Park on Pine Street—the city’s most radical attempt to stem the tide of decay. The Art Park is a big, hollow building with no roof or upper floors. It was probably once a department store or a druggist or something of that sort. The building was purchased by the city, gutted, and then left to the ministrations of whatever artists choose to do with it, whenever they choose. Walking through the glass front door you’re presented with a wide open concrete floor with brick walls completely covered in graffiti. Some of it is quite lovely. Artists travel from all over to paint there—the city will even pay to put them up while they work.
I walked through this novel phantasmagoria slowly, taking in the tags, the cartoons, the comic-book characters, the portraits. There’s something very encouraging about the way the graffiti-covered walls encourage the juxtaposition of the unskilled beginner with the gallery-ready professional. It’s a democratization of art. In Albany it seems to be achieving its desired effect—kids have something worthwhile to do, it gives the citizens original art with real value, and graffiti is limited, mostly, to this one locale.
At first I thought the place was deserted, but on the far side I ran into a homeless man who identified himself as Ted. He was waiting to hear about a possible job in the afternoon. He was a lifelong resident of Albany, and he related a good story of the racial animus of the city and how debilitating it has been to commerce there; moreover, how the economic malaise has spawned other problems—prostitution, drugs, gang violence. It’s one thing to know this stuff intellectually. It’s another to talk to someone who has seen it first hand. He told me of another thing he’d seen first hand, some fifty years ago, when he was child. Pointing toward the Flint River Bridge, he told me how he’d watched Martin Luther King attempting to lead a large group of civil rights activists across. The police met them and prevented any further progress.
“The thing I noticed,” he told me, “was that everyone seemed very upset that day.” I’m inclined to think that King wouldn’t be much happier about things today.
What does any of this have to do with Plant Mitchell, which lies on a country road a dozen or so miles outside of town? It’s really no different than any other of the plants I’ve visited. I guess the answer I’d give is that Georgia Power isn’t really helping matters. They aren’t responsible for Albany being the murder capital of the United States in 1988, but they haven’t exactly been a loud and insistent voice for change either.
Perhaps that’s an unfair expectation. Georgia Power is a publicly-held company; Intrinsically beholden to its stockholders—leading another march across that bridge for any purpose other than raising its price would probably open it up to a raft of lawsuits. If ever there was an indication of the inherent amorality of capital, here it is—even as the community they call home plunges into gloom, it is in the best interest of the corporations in the region to do nothing, or simply leave.
In 2008 Georgia Power proposed converting Mitchell into a biomass plant. In 2014 they decided instead to simply retire the facility. By May of 2015 the air in Albany will be clear, but the cupboards will be a bit more bare. That bad choice strikes again.
