Turning off the Lights

The Rio Tejo is the longest river in Portugal. But its beginning is in theAlbarracin Mountains in Spain. From there it flows over a thousand kilometers ever downward through Portugal and then into the sea. Before it finally empties into the ocean it passes its last view, the capital of easternmost country ofEurope. It passes under the gaze of Castelo São George atop the mountain that rises from the Alfama. It passes past Rossio, the plaza built after the devastating earthquake of 1755. It passes under the Bridge 25 de Abril, twin sister to the BayBridge in California. But before all of that it meandered past a thousand lazy towns and villages.

One such town was Baixa de Banheira situated on the southern bank of the river in what is known as the Ribatejo. It is a small place leisurely, like the flow of Portuguese life. There is a train station with blue and white tiles, called azuljeiros, adorning the walls. The hand painted tiles depicted scenes from the country’s glorious past of exploration and conquest. There is also a waiting room, a ticket booth and restroom. The platform usually stands vacant, except for the time just before and just after, the train thunders in and then thunders out.

The tracks extend in both directions. Two twin paths of rusted iron snaking across rough hewn timbers. The tracks running to the north will eventually take the noisy train to the noisy capital. Winding off to the south the train will pass through more quiet dusty towns, through the ancient cork forests, and the golden seas of wheat fields. Finally it arrives at the southern coast where the beaches are some of the best in the world.

One view from that train just past the station in Baixa de Banheira caught my attention out of the blur of mingled colors. At the convergence of an inconsequential tributary and the Tejo itself the tracks make a lazy curving turn. At the turn I saw the flash of an image.

The first visible part of it was the tall red brick chimney. It rose some 20 meters into the sky. My eyes followed it down to where it connected to a gray factory roof. The roof rested on steel rafters, ribs of an industrial carcass. The ribs were connected to red brick walls that were reinforced by steel. It was an old building and showed its age. Not that its age was sufficient to justify its condition. There are many buildings in Portugal in much better condition whose age far exceeds that of the factory. The dilapidated structure fell into disrepair as a result of neglect.

The roof was no longer a shield from the elements. Sunlight and rain could find its way in through the gaping holes that had opened up in random parts. The walls, while solid in some areas, had crumbled in others. One whole side was nearly completely open to the elements. The wind could find its way in and bring in countless layers of dust and grime. There were rusted out remains of what once were powerful machines. The floor, once busy with workers’ feet, was now covered in trash and rubbish of varying aspect.

I pictured myself standing in the center of what used to be great. I imagined the smell of the river carried on the wind through the open walls, dancing with the smell of dust, rust and mildew. Far off in the distance there would be the sounds of tractors in the fields. An occasional seagull would give a cry. How different it was from the day of the factory’s full operating glory.

Back then the sounds would have been of the clanking whirring of machinery clicking away in full fury of output. There would have been the sound of voices shouting instructions over the roar of the metal beasts. There would have been the smell of machine oil and burning coal, maybe leather or wood shavings and sap. Back then it would have been alive. I tried to image the process. I wondered about the story from beginning to end.

Many years ago there was a piece of land. It was near a river and populated with long grass. It had once been a field but hadn’t been used for that function for some years. Little did it know that it would soon house something important. Men came and visited the place. They were men eyes that could see. Not only what was, but what could be. They were those who could see how things were made, the things that came together and how. They had a plan and they moved forward to turn their vision into reality. Men and machine came to occupy the land. The plot was cleared and the grass removed. A foundation was laid. From the concrete footings walls rose and then a chimney. A roof was added carving a piece of outside and taming it, moving it inside, housing it. The space captured was not to remain empty long.

The new factory was filled with guts. Machines arrived in large wooded crates. They were taken into the factory and assembled. Form was being filled with substance.

People from the town came to work the factory. The train came with materials. All the inputs needed to create, to manufacture. Then with a jolt it became alive, like Frankenstein’s monster who, after the long work of assembly, was finally brought to animation. Smoke issued from the chimney and goods from the loading docks. The vision of the men with seeing eyes had turned to reality.

Nothing changed quickly. Routine was established and the work went forward. But change did happen slowly, not in the factory but in the times. The factory wasn’t keeping up with the trends and with technology. Other factories were built that were more efficient and produced more and cheaper. There was the opportunity to keep up, to change with the times. But the opportunity wasn’t taken. That also became the pattern. Avoid change and modification. Avoid improvement and upgrading. The factory fell behind.

Neglect followed avoidance and the facility and its machines—no longer new and shining—fell into disrepair. The roof began to leak and window glass was broken. Again there was the chance to fix things. It wasn’t too late to catch up and compete; it was only harder now because of procrastination. But still nothing was done.

Finally the time came when the factory was limping along and the cost of operation could not be sustained by its output. The workers were let go and the inflow of materials from the trains stopped. One day the manager turned off the lights for the last time. There was no sound from the machines only the silence of emptiness. The lights would turn on again but not on a factory, they would turn on to illuminate the remains of a factory. They would give light to the body of a carcass in a butcher’s house that was being dismembered and taken apart piece by piece, each going to where it could be used. The remains that could not be used would be left to rot.

Now the factory was forever beyond the possibility of reclaiming, it was too late to ever be anything but a ruin.

Sitting in my seat on the train, long past the old factory the one image that persisted in my mind was the foreman turning off the lights for the last time. There was certain finality to the action. No doubt that it was done with a tinge of remorse. It must have been a depressing moment. I thought that perhaps the idea of turning off the lights may be very common.

Our dreams may be just like the factory; they start as the vision of what can be and then from the ground rises something beautiful. But we fail to give them the attention they require and demand. At some point we find ourselves turning off the lights for the last time and abandoning what should have carried us into the future.

How sad to feel the pain of switching off the lights. I would rather keep the lights on in my dreams.