In this extract from his collection of personal essays, HEDLEY TWIDLE explores the haunting allure of the highway.
The raised carriageways of the N1/N2 bisect and cauterize all the longitudinal avenues that once led down to the water’s edge. The Foreshore is a place where the most overbearing, least self-doubting elements of twentieth-century modernism were combined with racial capitalism; today the result is acres of wind-tormented car park. It is an example too of the necrotic or infectious quality of tarmac. Building more space for traffic simply begets more traffic: the ‘induced demand’ theory of road usage. And if you have raised carriageways for cars in the middle of a city, the only option for the space below them becomes more cars; it is too noisy to do much else, hence more car parks. At the same time, there is something intriguing about these uncertain, unincorporated zones. This is an area where city planners have not managed to solve the errors of city planners before them, where the utopian visions of modernist and ‘rational’ city planning are so entirely undercut, broken off mid-argument, like the other four bridge stubs concealed hereabouts.
Looking back at proud, colour-saturated postcards of newly built British highways from the 1950s, Moran writes about how sad and strange they now seem: ‘Ford Populars and Triumph Heralds with the shiny newness of die-cast models, dotted around those impossibly empty motorways.’ These weirdly haunting images, he goes on, are a reminder that highways ‘are beginning to acquire a cultural history, but of a rather unsettling kind that evades the secure meanings of the heritage industry or the easy consolations of nostalgia’. A highway operates too fast for contemplation and affection; you normally experience it only when moving, never from a still point. But it still carries an elusive kind of pastness.
It may no longer be celebrated, but as a physical artifact the modern highway remains powerfully photogenic: its geometrically curved masses of light and shade; the powerful splay of an overpass as it hits the top of the frame. I went around clipping bits out of this urban fabric with a phone camera while Sean looked for members of Sea Power, a community of Tanzanian migrants who watch the port, trying to stow away on container ships, and who have covered the crash barriers and concrete retaining walls with (as he put it) ‘wistful sea-drunk slogans’: SEA NEVER DRY, ESCAPE FROM CAPE, TODAY AFRICA TOMORROW YUROPE. He told me the advice given to him by one of the community’s most well-travelled stowaways: that you must take a piece of metal with you, so that when your water runs out, you can begin tapping on the side of the ship, and be discovered. If you forget the piece of metal, you will likely die in the hold.
Before meeting the stowaway community, Sean writes, he viewed the docks and ocean beyond as a kind of oil painting, a changeable canvas of light and water. But now, after years of speaking to Sea Power, he saw only ‘bent palisade struts, tunnels, portals, hatches – not flaws just in a postcard perfect view but rents in a great system of human controls. And I see the human nobodies crawling through them, or lying curled up in dark spaces.’
Firepool: Experiences in an abnormal world is published by Kwela Books. Read our review here.