James West is a producer for the Climate Desk. He wrote Beijing Blur (Penguin 2008), an intimate yet far-reaching account of modernizing China’s underground youth scene. After completing a masters in journalism at New York University in 2007, James returned to Australia where he worked as the executive producer of the national affairs program Hack. He has produced a variety of Australian television and radio programs, including the debate show Insight on SBS TV.
Since Hurricane Sandy, the historic Belle Harbor Yacht Club in the Rockaways—one of New York City's hardest-hit neighborhoods—has become an indispensable hub for supplies, volunteers, and a much-needed round of drinks. Three weeks after the storm, the oft-maligned Long Island Power Authority still hasn't re-connected this building, not to mention its neighbors, back to the grid, leaving locals to face the prospect of a cold, dark Thanksgiving.
But outside, the sun is shining, and a trio of local solar power companies have seen an opportunity to bridge the gap left open by the electric utility. The yacht club, among several area buildings, is now plugged into a portable solar power generator, which frees volunteers from the endless gas lines that plague those dependent on traditional generators and leaves them ready to dish out hot plates of turkey and stuffing to the beleaguered community.
ON A CLOUDY spring morning, Ethan Ritter sat behind the wheel of a dump truck, lost in the maze of oil rigs northeast of Williston, North Dakota. Ritter, then 21, was hauling a load of gravel for his brother, who was doing road construction. He made a full stop at the tracks; there were no boom gates, only a crossing sign. His CB radio was off and all was quiet. Ritter looked both ways, then eased on the gas and headed into the crossing.
Next thing he knew, a Burlington Northern Santa Fe engine was shoving his truck down the track sideways at more than 40 miles an hour. "It was crazier than any roller coaster you can find, I'll tell you that!" he recalls. "All I know is I got hit by the train. And that I was still kicking."
In the past four years the intersection—the only access point to a handful of oil wells—has seen four train-truck accidents, one of them fatal. Nationwide, collisions of trains and motor vehicles have dropped by 32 percent since 2006, but in North Dakota they're up 67 percent.
Fracking relies on trucks. In its lifetime, a single well requires some 1,500 trips by semis, tankers, and pickups—oil out; water, sand, and chemicals in. This is especially true in places like the Bakken Shale, where pipelines are scarce. On Williston's crumbling roads, mud-caked semis jostle for space like massive bumper cars. Rush-hour backups can stretch for miles.
Oil rigs like this one pepper the landscape outside Williston, North Dakota. James West/Climate Desk
As the East Coast licks its wounds from Superstorm Sandy, many in New York and New Jersey are still without power, wondering how on earth it got this bad. Ken Burns, the great innovator of the American documentary, thinks this the perfect time to seek some wisdom from generations past.
His new film, The Dust Bowl, tells the story of the the worst man-made ecological disaster in US history. For it, Burns and and his team tracked down the last remaining survivors of the catastrophic dust storms of the 1930s and matched their intimate stories (most were children at the time) with lush archival footage.
When I caught up with Burns in New York City, he drew comparisons between what happened then and what is happening now—and how we can prevent future Dust Bowls and Sandys.
The Dust Bowl airs November 18 and 19 on PBS.
(A side note: As if interviewing one of my filmmaking heroes at the studios of another intimidatingly cool mega-personality (Stephen Colbert) wasn't nerve-racking enough, running out of AA batteries before the interview was simply mortifying. Way embarrassing. Thank you Colbert Nation for your emergency supplies, and for rescuing what credibility I had left.)
Oceanside High School in Oceanside, Long Island, has long played host to national elections. But this morning, it opened its doors to a whole new raft of voters: Those whose original polling places nearby had been disabled by Hurricane Sandy.
Even as intersections remained without traffic lights, and piles of water-destroyed household furnishings lined the streets, many in the steady stream of voters here made it clear that weighing in on our next president was still a priority. They were also adamant that in this traditionally Republican-leaning neighborhood, President Obama's efforts to address the storm wouldn't be enough to pull votes away from Mitt Romney.
Closer to the water's edge, where ocean debris still litters sidewalks and many remain without food or heat, the polling station seemed a lot further off. "I've been living in the cold," Kathleen Basler says. "There is no way, shape, or form that I could even get to a voting booth."
Hurricane Sandy took away a lot of things: power, homes, even lives. For residents of Moonachie, New Jersey, a small town just across the Hudson River from New York City, the storm took a stab at their basic right to vote. After severe flooding here, much of the town remains without power, which led local election officials to decide over the weekend to close all the polling places and redirect residents to consolidated locations nearby.
It's the same story all across the state: Some 300 polling places shut down or moved, according to the governor's office, creating a logistical nightmare for election planners and a headache for voters (for what it's worth, Gov. Chris Christie announced plans to allow votes to be emailed or faxed in). And while New Jersey, a solidly blue state, has never seen less than 70 percent turnout for a presidential election, residents here say until the lights come back on, casting a vote is the last thing on their minds.
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