Les Egoûts - The Sewers 

(Paris, France)

By Bibi Baxter

BACK FROM MY PASSAGE THROUGH THE SEWERS OF PARIS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the idea of paying a visit to the sewers in Paris first surfaced, I treated it with the contempt I felt it deserved. I am still not sure how I was talked into going....

We arrived in dribs and drabs at our meeting point, which happened to be Rheims Railway Station, gradually swelling in number until there were ten of us, a multi-national group drawn together by an uncontrollable urge to peep at the contents of the bowels of the inhabitants of Paris, giving a whole new perspective to the question: What did you have for breakfast?

An unusual quest, admittedly, so what were our reasons? Technical? Educational? Or just plain idle curiosity? Difficult to know really, so do not hold your breath waiting for a satisfactory explanation!

Beforehand, I had puzzled over what to wear when visiting such places; after all, it was situated in the centre of Paris, where the phrase " à la môde " originated. In retrospect, I wish I had thought of a rubber wet-suit, thigh-high boots and the following accessories: an umbrella, a fly-spray and an air-freshener! Be that as it may, I decided that morning to allow myself to be governed by the rules of practicality, i.e. I chose clothes which could be washed easily.

We lunched at Saint Michel's first!  We sat at tables in the street, amid the hustle and bustle. What an interesting, but sad area, with its underlying air of desperation from people scraping a living. Head-waiters touted their wares, all but dragging potential customers onto their premises and beggars patrolled the streets. One Asian woman sent her youngest son to collect coins at the tables, irrespective of whether diners were mid-mouthful, whilst his elder sister barely eight, struggled wearily to maintain a steady flow of traditional French tunes from an old accordion. The sounds were beautiful, adding yet more character to a fascinating area, yet the poor child derived no personal joy from what to her was just a never-ending task.

After our meal, we ambled and dawdled along the bank of the Seine; I suspect we were subconsciously delaying the moment when we would be faced with the real reason for our visit to the French capital. On our left, beautiful, ornate buildings stood majestically as if commanding us to appreciate their beauty. We resisted the temptation to abandon our intended destination and quickened our pace almost to a gallop. We passed ramshackle stalls selling delicious sugared-peanuts, books, postcards and rather dubious odds and ends which happened to catch the corner of my eye as we trotted by.

The journey was as exhilarating as if it were my last and indeed, I certainly felt a pang of regret and dread as I descended to the underworld beneath the heart of Paris, after spending my pennies at the entrance.

Large overhead-pipes dripped relentlessly onto our heads. I was informed that this was only condensation, but I had my doubts! Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Dodging the puddles, we followed the passage over open gratings, above rivers of muck which raged beneath us with a bellyaching roar! Methane gas could be seen bubbling ominously to the surface with motonous regularity.

One member of our party, obviously keen to pay a call, followed the abundant arrows which indicated "TOILETTES", but which only seemed to lead back to the open sewer. Perhaps that was it!

There were flies everywhere and inevitably spiders' webs to balance the equation. I was relieved to see that they were not bluebottles (blowflies), but a smaller, insignificant relative, which seemed to dither in the darkness, meandering among groups of its kith and kin which were hanging in the air rather aimlessly. (Even as I write this in my bedroom, I have just seen two of those particular flies and can only assume that they hitched a lift in my hair, as I have already washed everything else! Double-Yuk!)

Well, not only did we see what the Parisiennes had had for breakfast that day but their lunch was also thrown in for good measure, though obviously not something to be recommended as the stench was awful. Interestingly, the French members of our group seemed oblivious to the potency of their surroundings, but both of us English felt sufficiently overwhelmed by the pong to pinch our nostrils together firmly. The American, whose zany ambition it had been to organise such an outing, was obviously intent on studying and analysing our reactions, sadistically absorbing and mentally recording every grimace. To her delight, the bemused French contingent later commented disdainfully on ‘the delicate noses of the English’.

The tunnels vary in shape, there being six styles in all. Of particular interest is the one featured in the film ‘Les Miserables’; there it could be seen in full use, but no-one offered to carry me. An army of workers (approx. 5OO) beaver away, shovelling shit just beneath the most famous sights of Paris. As with the now dying tradition of Welsh Miners, the shit-shovellers regularly hand their jobs down from father to son, thus passing on their deft flicks of the wrist and sleights of hand. It was evident from the film, which we saw later, that they take great pride in their jobs, even to the point of posing for the cameras whilst mid-action.

According to our American organiser, Chicago has the largest sewer-processing plant in the world and Paris has the second, so the equipment currently in use is quite amazing, as it consists of a huge wheelbarrow-type contraption, with a very large two-pronged fork, a spacious open-top boat for four men and two huge wooden balls, the surface of which was reminiscent of parquet flooring – hardly hi-tech! Lack of space prevents me from going into full detail about the intricate subterranean navigational procedures which accompany this equipment; however, I feel sure your imagination will easily provide a graphic picture. Suffice to say that various rubberised boots were also featured, together with over-shoes - presumably to stop the workers from losing their footing and going under, as I did not see any snorkels.

A comprehensive exhibition gives a detailed history of current and former processes, complementing the guide's comprehensive explanations. Disappointingly, the working models in the museum area either did not work at all, or did not perform on cue. Souvenir hunters will be pleased to know that they are fully catered for; a stall is situated near the exit, piled high with umbrellas, pens and books all proudly bearing the wording: Les Egoûts.

To conclude the visit, there was a film and slide show - but simultaneously!  Unfortunately, the 'cinema' was little wider than a corridor, with several rows of seats, all situated just feet away from the huge cinemascope screen. In the centre of this screen, there was a moving picture, whereas on either side of it, there were changing stills. So, whilst trying not to go cross-eyed due to the unreasonable proximity, my eyes had to follow the movie in the middle section, yet still take in the stills regularly flashing up on both sides of it - a veritable optical juggling act which must have done my eyeballs no end of harm! To make matters worse, the projector supplying the incredibly blurred stills on my left, was either completely out of focus, or my eyesight was out of true!

When I emerged blinking, like a rat from the sewers, I breathed the biggest sigh of relief ever! Moreover, not only did I feel queasy, but I also felt totally unclean. The others nonchalantly entered a nearby cafe, but I could not accompany them. Instead, I sat on the wall alongside the Seine, willing the wind to blow away as much pong, cobwebs and creepy crawlies as it could manage; although grateful for its blustery efforts, it would have taken a hurricane to have satisfied me at that particular moment.

Eventually, feeling rather guilty at not sitting with the others, I went over to the cafe. They were not quite ready to leave, so there was enough time to pay a visit before going. Down, down I went to the basement to discover a lack of hygiene which made my stomach churn - it was the last straw!

An odd choice for an outing? Definitely, but a highly memorable one which is imprinted on my mind forever, ready to spring vividly to mind whenever I catch a glimpse of flies, wheelbarrows and wellies.

How fortunate we had eaten at Saint Michel's first!  Whoever had decided on the order of the day certainly knew what they were about!

© Bibi Baxter 2005