Archive: 'Tourism and the Environment' by James. J. Parsons, 1973.
Background: Cabo Cope, one of the last untouched enclaves of Spain’s Mediterranean coastline, marks the beginning of 'Eroding Franco'.
This landscape serves as a threshold between past and present: an unaltered space resisting the legacy of unchecked development that reshaped Spain during Franco’s regime. From the 1960s economic boom to today, the drive for progress has favored mass tourism, altered ecosystems, and erased cultural connections to the land. Cabo Cope invites us to reflect on the scale of this transformation—a rare fragment of what the Mediterranean once was and a starting point for questioning the cost of relentless growth.
Calnegre, November 2019.
As the sun dips beyond the horizon, tourists gather to soak in the captivating spectacle of Benidorm. Once a humble fishing village, the city was radically transformed during Franco’s regime with a vision of establishing a coastal tourism hub. Decades later, it stands as Spain’s major epicenter for mass tourism and a project of urban megalomania.
However, a crucial environmental concern emerges beneath the allure of beaches and vibrant nightlife. According to the Spanish Forum of the Economy of Water, a typical tourist in Spain reportedly uses three to four times more water than a resident, approximating 300-400 liters per day. This highlights the significant environmental strain the burgeoning tourism industry imposes on Spain’s natural resources, raising important considerations for sustainable development.
Benidorm, June 2022.
A souvenir from Benidorm offers a tangible representation of the marine ecosystem. Since Francoism, the city's booming tourist industry has reshaped the landscape, compressing dunes into beaches and replacing natural coastlines with concrete. As recent studies have revealed, such urban developments have led to habitat loss and a decrease in biodiversity, challenging the survival of native marine life.
In the broader context of climate change, with rising sea levels and changing weather patterns forecasted to alter coastal landscapes, Benidorm's commitment to enhancing coastal resilience becomes crucial.
Benidorm, October 2022.
Reflecting on the historical transformation of Spain during the late 1960s and '70s, this collection of postcards captures the dawn of mass tourism and the ushering in of an era driven by technical governance and economic expansion. Time capsules to a moment when Spain was on the cusp of change, evolving from post-war isolation towards global exposure. Yet, beyond their sun-soaked facades lies the inception of an environmental trajectory that resonates profoundly with Spain's contemporary landscape challenges.
Spain, April 2024.
Tabernas, once the cinematic playground for spaghetti westerns, now hosts a unique theme park. The dusty lanes and weather-beaten structures that once acted as backdrops for dramatic duels and horse chases are now populated with visitors, each relishing their chance to step into a live-action western narrative.
In the mid-20th century, the regime actively promoted international film productions in Spain, particularly in the Tabernas Desert. This initiative aimed to attract foreign investment and enhance Spain's global image. The arid landscapes of Tabernas became iconic settings for numerous spaghetti westerns, including Sergio Leone's famed "Dollars Trilogy."
Beyond its entertainment value left, Tabernas holds a more profound, somewhat chilling relevance. Situated in the heart of the desert, it is a potential precursor for the country's environmental future. As Spain grapples with escalating desertification, Tabernas may offer an early glimpse of the landscape that could define the nation by 2100.
Tabernas, June 2021.
Archives: These maps from the early 1970s reveal a striking overlap: the rise of mass tourism and Spain's desertification processes. While coastal regions transformed into hubs for international visitors, the environmental toll became evident. Mass tourism, fueled by Franco's economic policies, intensified pressures on water resources and degraded landscapes and accelerated the spread of arid zones.
The juxtaposition of these trends highlights a pivotal realization—economic ambitions tied to tourism growth directly contributed to the ecological fragility of the land. These maps seem like early evidence of the complex relationship between environmental degradation and the relentless push for modernization.
Background: This is a close view of a barren hillside in Tabernas. Its dramatic gullies, rocky expanses, and sparse vegetation highlight the natural processes that have transformed this landscape over time, offering a direct view of the land’s challenges and resilience.
Tabernas, May 2019.
Swimming pools at tourist apartments in Torrevieja, a town in the southeast of the Iberian Peninsula, an area under water stress. Despite growing desertification and acute water scarcity, Spain presents the paradox of having one of the highest numbers of swimming pools per capita in the world—one for every 35 inhabitants.
This scenario goes beyond a mere ironic contrast; it is a direct confrontation with the intrinsic relationship between water management, tourism, and environmental conservation. The prevalence of pools, driven by the demands of mass tourism, signifies a disturbing imbalance amid an escalating water crisis. Here, tension arises between economic ambitions and environmental sustainability, where ample water—an essential resource—is lavishly allocated to widespread recreational use. While this meets the immediate needs of tourism, it inadvertently perpetuates the cycle of desertification, one of whose principal outcomes is increased water scarcity. It is a self-perpetuating cycle, where attempts to alleviate one problem unintentionally exacerbate another.
Torrevieja, July 2023.
Archive: 'Soil Erosion in Spain' by Hugh Hammond, 1960.
Background: The impact of "La Gota Fría": In the aftermath of torrential rains, the municipal pavilion in Benferri was blanketed in mud. This severe weather phenomenon, commonly striking numerous Mediterranean communities towards summer's end, left a trail of destruction in its wake.
When intense rainfall occurs, the soil's capacity to absorb water is overwhelmed, leading to runoff. This runoff carries topsoil, organic matter, and nutrients away, degrading the land's fertility and structure.
Benferri, September 2019.
Every evening, a regular football match happens in the Almanzora River. It’s a shared ritual for the young people. Their vitality contrasts the arid surroundings shaped by relentless climate shifts and human actions. Here, the Almanzora River stands as a shadow of its former self. Once a thriving waterway, it has been reduced to an almost dry riverbed by persistent droughts and local agricultural practices. In this environment of scarcity, the residents' everyday lives and leisure activities persist, creating a juxtaposition between human tales and environmental crises.
Cuevas del Almanzora, August 2020.
Fields of greenhouses ripple across the Southeast, creating the "Mar de Plástico" or "Sea of Plastic" in the province of Almería. Concealed behind the gates of Adra, these hectares of greenhouses mask an underlying reality of lands affected by waste pollution and chemical residues. The birth of this agro-industrial expanse dates back to the 1960s, during Franco’s period of autarky. Fast forward to nearly six decades later, this corner of Southern Spain has morphed into the largest conglomeration of greenhouses in the world. The relentless spread of these greenhouses has now claimed more than 30.000 hectares of Mediterranean nature.
Adra, July 2021.
Six dead pine seedlings gathered in September 2024, nearly a year after the repopulation efforts by the Junta of Castile and León following the devastating fire in the Sierra de la Paramera in August 2021.
The historical practice of planting pine monocultures in Spain dates back to the 1940s as part of a post-war economic recovery strategy. Large-scale reforestation projects featured species such as Pinus pinaster and Pinus sylvestris, particularly in regions like Castile and León. Although initially aimed at economic recovery, these monocultures have also contributed to increasing the risk of desertification over time.
Veteran forest rangers, who once helped to reforest these areas, now supervise the forests they once nurtured. Today, they oversee harvesting burnt timber and new attempts to replant pines. However, repeated efforts at pine planting, as seen in late 2023, frequently encounter the same issues. The fragile, dying seedlings highlight the ecosystem’s resistance to reintroducing monocultures, especially in regions already ravaged by fire.
The proximity of pines in these monocultures encourages the spread of fires due to their high flammability. This exacerbates the risks of wildfires and diminishes biodiversity, rendering ecosystems more fragile and less resilient to future disturbances.
Sierra de la Paramera, October 2024.
The whitewashing of a greenhouse in the “Sea of Plastic.” This process is crucial for controlling the temperature inside the greenhouse, as it reflects a portion of the solar radiation and protects crops from excessive heat. It is essential for maintaining efficiency and productivity within the world’s largest greenhouse complex.
The southeast relies heavily on a diverse workforce, with many migrant workers significantly contributing to Almería’s agro-food cluster. Their efforts sustain the area’s agricultural production and drive the region’s economic growth while raising environmental and social challenges.
Greenhouse whitewashing typically takes place in the second half of July each year. Workers in the “Sea of Plastic” often endure harsh conditions under the intense sun.
Vícar, July 2024.
In 1964, these photographs captured a landscape in transition: rudimentary tools, open horizons, and people shaping the land with their hands. Today, those memories hover over the same place, now veiled in layers of polyethylene—discarded, weathered, found here in Almería's "Mar de Plástico."
In the Southeast, the balance between humans and the earth has given way to industrial food production, erasing the connection between people and nature.
Satellite imagery reveals how this agro-industry has altered the terrain and created an artificial microclimate, with temperatures within the greenhouse clusters significantly higher than surrounding areas.
El Ejido, July 2024.
Archive: 'Irrigation and Internal Colonization in Spain' by John Naylon, 1967.
Background: A fence lines the edge of a greenhouse in the "Mar de Plástico," where endless rows of polytunnel greenhouses dominate the landscape, another road to the intensive agro-industry thriving in the region, the world’s largest greenhouse complex. this "sea of plastic" has not only altered the terrain but also created an artificial microclimate, with temperatures within the greenhouse clusters significantly higher than surrounding areas. This transformation exemplifies the delicate balance between feeding a global market and the long-term impacts on local ecosystems, water resources, and the soil itself.
Adra, November 2019.
The Church of Mediano stands as a ruin of Spain’s dam-building legacy. During the Franco era, an ambitious water policy led to a proliferation of these structures nationwide. This period saw tension between visions of how and for what purpose water should be used: to power the growing electrical demands of a modernizing Spain or to nourish fields and sustain agriculture?
Dams and reservoirs became symbols of progress and modernity, grandly inaugurated by the regime. Yet, behind these massive hydraulic structures lie stories of displacement, of submerged towns like Mediano, and lives forever altered. Spain’s water reservoirs, currently accounting for the most prominent dams in the European Union, are a testament to these complex narratives of progress, displacement, and ecological considerations.
In the photograph, the Church of Mediano, built in the XVI century and normally inundated, emerges entirely from the water. The village of Mediano was flooded in 1969, and now, particularly during times of drought, the church’s appearance prompts reflections on the balance between human ambition and nature’s resilience.
Mediano, August 2023.
“My mother is underwater,” the voice of Teresa, who was born in Argusino before moving to Bilbao, referring to the submerged cemetery. Standing by the edge of the pantano, former Argusino residents, a Castilian village submerged by the Reservoir of the Almendra, gather to remember their lost home. They are "Argusino Vive," an association dedicated to preserving the memory of Argusino de Sayago. Born between the 1930s and 1950s, these individuals represent the last generation to have lived in the village before it was submerged in 1967 due to Francoist policies.
These massive infrastructure projects often came at significant human and environmental costs. The decision to flood Argusino displaced its inhabitants, erasing their homes and heritage under the waters of the Reservoir of the Almendra. This story is mirrored in places like Mediano, highlighting a widespread practice that has affected over 500 villages across Spain.
"Argusino Vive," comprising natives, descendants, and friends of the lost village, strives to keep the spirit and history of their submerged place alive. Their collective efforts remind us of the resilience of those who, despite being uprooted, continue to honor their origins and fight for the recognition of their eroded past.
Argusino, July 2024.
After a rare rainfall, the Rambla de Albox, a tributary of the Almanzora River, briefly reclaims its role as a waterway in southeastern Spain, hosting transient pools that reflect the fleeting clouds above. For most of the year, however, its dry riverbed underscores the challenges of water scarcity that confront a region increasingly affected by drought and intensified urban development.
Albox, May 2024.
In these glass jars lies a small catalog of creatures torn from their natural habitat to be preserved in alcohol. The ladder snake, the common salamander, the Mediterranean tree frog, the Mediterranean pond turtle, the European pond turtle, and the Iberian midwife toad are remnants of ecosystems that gave way to roads, hotels, developments, and the expansion of a scarred land. Their habitats, dismantled to satisfy the drive for relentless growth, fade from a map that reinvents itself at the cost of erasing the shared life of the past. This row of species traces the mark of a sacrifice: the price of progress, which continues to write, unceasingly, the story of what we have lost.
Madrid, September 2024.
Mass tourism under the night sky in Costa de la Calma. Empty loungers surround a quiet pool, waiting for the next wave of tourists, even in October—Mallorca’s so-called low season, when daytime temperatures still hover around 25 degrees Celsius.
The island is another paradigm of Spain’s tourism industry—a transformation that began in the bright days of the milagro económico (1959-1973). Since then, year after year, waves of visitors have placed increasing pressure on Mallorca’s water reserves, pushing the island closer to drought and accelerating erosion. Also another way of desertification: one that leaves Mallorca’s towns and villages hollowed out, giving way to tourists and seasonal residents.
Costa de la Calma, October 2024.
In the stillness of an empty laboratory, the impact of the Covid-19 pandemic remained. This photo, taken in February 2021, captures Sener Aeroespacial, a leading Spanish aerospace research and engineering company. Their work focuses on the environmental impacts of human activity, particularly the advancing desertification in the Iberian Peninsula. In November 2020, a mistake caused a devastating trajectory deviation of a rocket carrying Spain’s SeoSat-Ingenio and France’s Taranis, resulting in the loss of a decade-long €200 million project to monitor European climate changes. Despite this setback, the company's dedication to sustainable practices remains steadfast.
Barcelona, February 2021.
Naseem, a resident of Albox for over a decade, and Imran, newly arrived from Islamabad, talk about the challenges of starting a new life far from their homeland. Behind them, a faded billboard announces a real estate project that was never built — a relic of the broken expectations left in the wake of Spain’s housing bubble. While Imran studies Spanish and tries to adapt to an unfamiliar environment, the surrounding landscape — vacant plots, unfinished structures, and modern ruins — reveals not only a stalled model of development, but also the gap between promise and reality in many rural and southeastern peripheries. In this scene, the meeting of migrant stories and abandoned landscapes outlines a human geography in transformation.
Albox, mayo de 2024.
Archive: The Crisis of Spanish Architecture (1939–1972) by Antonio Fernández Alba, 1972.
Fernández Alba warned, with prescient clarity, that the transformation of the territory did not arise from necessity or rational planning, but from economic interests and speculative dynamics. According to his analysis, urban development in Spain did not follow a cultural or technical logic, but rather the pressure of capital, which turned land into a commodity. Cities grew not as a reflection of collective will, but as the result of private decisions driven by profit. His critical reading of the urban landscape revealed how this logic of accumulation could distort not only the physical territory, but also the relationship between citizens and space.
Context: For over forty years, the Alcover quarry in Tarragona supplied limestone, combining industrial progress with the challenge of restoring the natural landscape of the Alt Camp region. Its materials contributed to civil engineering works, keeping alive a tradition that links nature with construction.
Alcover, May 2021.
In the mountains of Alcover, the detonation of dynamite marks the extraction of limestone for Spain’s construction industry. This quarry, located in the south of Catalonia, is one more example within a broader context where the high demand for resources often outweighs environmental considerations.
Despite efforts by some companies to reduce their environmental footprint, mining activity continues to leave visible scars on the landscape. This reality calls for a rethinking of how we approach construction—one guided by greater foresight and common sense, especially in a country where built structures are already abundant, yet many remain uninhabited. Choosing a more conscious model doesn’t mean giving up on development, but rather redirecting it toward approaches that value what already exists and protect what still endures.
Alcover, March 2021.
A line of tourist brochures unfolds the transformation of the Spanish coastline from the 1950s to the 1970s, from hundreds of thousands to tens of millions of foreign tourists. At the top is the Comunidad Valenciana; at the bottom is Catalonia. Coastlines caught in the frenetic rush of the Spain is different. What began as a monochrome Spain, rooted in its rural culture, gradually transformed into a hardened coast, a concrete landscape, and apartment hotels.
Amid the brochures, small relics of another era: photographic negatives, bus tickets, peseta coins, old light bulbs that can no longer handle today’s voltage (as if what was conceived then can’t bear today’s life), dried olive leaves and orange stamps evoking the Mediterranean landscape of Iberia.
Today, ten and a half million tourists a year in the Comunitat Valenciana. That’s 196% of its local population. The apartments fill up, the beaches are packed, and the sea feels smaller. In Catalonia, with its sixteen million visitors, it reaches 198% of its own residents. More tourists than locals, like a sea of foreign faces that overflows each year, covers the sand, and then retreats, leaving the coast quiet and hardened as if nothing happened.
And so, every summer, they return. But now, it’s not just for summer. The line between spring and autumn blurs yearly, and Spain remains the world’s resort. Coastal towns once quiet in the off-season fill with ‘permanent vacationers’—seasonal residents who buy homes, settle in, and turn temporary stays into something closer to permanence. The coastline stretches further each season, inching toward a landscape increasingly parched, a nation edging into desertification.
Barcelona, November 2024.
From chains to waterslides: What was once a Francoist concentration camp is now Aqualand, a water park where memories drown in oblivion.
This area of Torremolinos, transformed from a site of repression into a space of leisure, reflects a collective amnesia about Spain’s dark past and the shift towards mass tourism that emerged during the Spanish “economic miracle.”
In Málaga, a similar transformation occurred just 5.84 km northwest of Aqualand. The Málaga airport was merely a military base during the Spanish Civil War. Still, it began its transition into a civilian airport through the forced labor of prisoners from the Torremolinos concentration camp. Working under inhumane conditions, these individuals contributed to constructing a civilian passenger terminal starting in 1938. While initial works began during the war, the expansion was not completed until a decade later.
This development laid the groundwork for the airport’s modernization in the 1950s and 1960s, allowing it to welcome international tourists as part of Franco’s strategy to boost the economy and improve Spain’s global image. The expansion reflects the era’s focus on modernization, often achieved through harsh measures and forced labor. Today, Málaga Airport symbolizes the region’s transformation through tourism, much like the Torremolinos camp repurposed as a leisure center.
Photograph by Jordi Jon.
Cartographic interpretation by Pablo Uría.
Torremolinos, May 2024.
Archive: 'Tourism and the Environment' by James. J. Parsons, 1973.
Background: A cement block being tested under pressure, a key process that determines its strength and quality. Such testing is essential in the cement industry, setting the standards for the construction materials that shape our built environment.
Abanilla, September 2024.
The ancient holm oak in El Valle Almanzora, recognized as Andalusia's largest tree, has witnessed centuries of history but now faces a dire future due to the impacts of desertification. Since 2021, its grand stature has been artificially supported, employing bracing to counteract the accelerating impacts of climate change. Almería's rising temperatures and decreasing rainfall contribute to severe water stress, challenging the tree's survival while diseases and pests exploit its weakened defenses.
Valle del Almanzora, May 2024.
A reflection of the Christ of Monteagudo, initially erected in 1926 atop a historically Islamic castle, was commissioned by the Church during Primo de Rivera's dictatorship as a symbol of Christian supremacy and met its demise during the Spanish Civil War, torn down by Republican forces. The act was emblematic of the broader secular and anti-clerical sentiments that marked the Republican side, reflecting their opposition to the Church’s alignment with the Nationalists.
After the war, during Franco's time, seizing the symbolic and ideological power of the statue, ordered its reconstruction in 1951. A calculated assertion of his regime's commitment to re-establishing and centralizing Catholic values as a cornerstone of his authoritarian rule, intertwining the narrative of religious revival with the narrative of national recovery under Francoism. A sentinel etched against the sky, the silent narrative of the Southeast reveals itself—a portrait woven with threads of fervent belief and the former reality of nature's plight. And despite its contentious past, the Christ of Monteagudo remains a tourist attraction in the Southeast.
Monteagudo, April 2024.