Upon first sight, there is little to be desired. Chunks of concrete protrude from the dirt-caked pathways and the greenery is little more than weeds and scratchy bushes. It’s either too cold and windy or too hot and humid. In the shadow of the Golden Gate Fields horse track, the often-visited Albany Landfill takes a hilly hike to find. The dog-walkers that frequent the spot usually stay close to the parking lot and enjoy the small beach adjacent to it. Those who make it past the gravel path and the grown-out wooden bridge know something different; they know about the painted murals along the thick ocean water, they know the eight-feet tall sculptures made from washed-in materials, they know the mysterious structures and the surreal peaceful atmosphere.

It’s been decades since this East Bay landfill was actually used as a landfill. The Bulb, the bulging tip of the man-made peninsula, was used for dumping various forms of scrap metal and concrete collected from near-by docks and freeways. Its transformation began in the late 1980s after the Albany district was re-mapped.

Squatters and homeless around the East Bay began to migrate there after the art collective Sniff began brightening up the place—doing graffiti, making sculptures and creating a skate pool. Much of their artwork has remained intact, like the rock sculptures and some of the paintings facing the inner-north side of the Bulb.

In fact, over thirty people lived on the Bulb at one time. The landfill serves as a refuge from the cold sidewalks and danger of crowded cities; a place where someone with nothing doesn’t have to endure the wash of stares from passersby, sleeping where people walk, or the constant badgering from police officers.
The landfill is almost a no-man’s land, a place in limbo where no zoning laws, red-tape, or other bureaucratic bullshit exists, and that aspect has been tapped by its current residents. But the area’s liberty is in jeopardy, as Albany city officials seem destined to annex the Bulb from those who call it home.

Aside from the landfill’s landmark skate bowl, which attracts young local skaters for its low-key location, much has been built between the shrubbery and along the Bulb’s coastline. Right of the high-road entrance is the Albany Landfill Public Library, a small building resembling a shack packed with books and with inspiring writing covering the hapless windows. On the opposite side of the Bulb is Mark Mattonen’s castle.

Made from an assortment of materials, the two-story structure faces the Golden Gate Bridge and is done in a pack-of-cards motif with large carved cloves, hearts, diamonds and spades.

“The castle is the riddle, ‘when is a spade like a pack of cards?’ Because the heart is the human, and the diamond represents the soul, and the spade is used to plow the earth which brings the clover, and that brings on the golden age of prosperity where man no longer needs to plow the earth for his survival,” Mattonen explains.

Mattonen has been living on the Albany landfill for fifteen years now, and his castle took him about six years to complete. During his time there he has seen many people come and go. Those who come to the Bulb usually come for the same reasons—they’re exhausted or have been pushed out of the hustle of city streets, and the landfill is one of the few safe places homeless have in the East Bay. Those who leave the Bulb have a few different reasons: they have been forced to leave like many were in November of last year by bulldozers in the night, they left on their own accord with plans of re-entering society, and others passed away.

“I can’t imagine leaving,” said Amber Lynn Whitson, who has lived on the Bulb with her boyfriend Phillip Lewis for a little over a year.

Whitson moved to the landfill from Berkeley’s famed People’s Park. After the Berkeley Police Department began cracking down on illegal activity in the park, Whitson felt it was time vacate to avoid any possible future conflicts. She also grew tired and fearful of police who she says were constantly harassing her and her friends.

Life on the landfill is like an extended camping trip. Most of its residents sleep in tents like a weekend at the river with the folks. Tarps are tied to trees to keep the elements at bay; hot plates and makeshift fire-pits are used to cook and stay warm. With no electricity or running water, trips to the nearest town stores are necessary, which means a bike becomes essential. And while the outdoorsy survival aesthetic comes to mind, the majority of residents spend their time hanging out, doing nothing, and enjoying the view.

While not everyone is the best of friends on the Bulb, residents coexist in a neighborly community. Food, water, and cigarettes are shared and those with skills are often asked to help with random things like fixing lanterns and changing bike tires, or simply holding a tarp up so another can tie it around a branch. Time is usually killed by reading books, listening to the radio, and talking with friends.

“We’ll be doing what we’re doing today,” says Sandy, while laying around reading a book. He’s a mainstay at the landfill who was nicknamed “The Hermit” after his isolated lifestyle.

With his scraggly beard and curly salt-and-pepper hair, Sandy is a natural fit for the landfill. Aside from his rugged looks, he’s a craftsman, collecting and repairing numerous items for use. He doesn’t sleep in a tent, and his home is a self-made bunker complete with a worktable, a window with a view of the San Francisco skyline, and even a fully operational hot tub Sandy built himself. Outside the square-shaped abode, teddy bears and trinkets dangle from tree branches. A large plush Homer Simpson rests near the entrance of Sandy’s area welcoming visitors. It’s a more attractive establishment than most renters could wish for. He spends most of his time looking after his long-time friend Sarah Teague who lives in camp nearby with her boyfriend, the mean-looking yet thoughtful Animal, and their dog, Rowdy. After Animal was sent to prison four months ago for parole violations, Sandy dropped everything to take care of Teague.

“Sara just falls apart when Animal isn’t around...I understand. It’s like nothing matters and you get hella depressed and you don’t want to do anything—fucking nothing,” says Whiston.

Unfortunately for Sandy, his homely creation was set ablaze two weeks ago. A young stranger, who had been squatting in Sandy’s place while he took care of Teague in her camp, started a fire within the bunker.
“Me and Phil were hanging around listening to the Warriors game when Phil was like “I’mma check that out” cause there was a huge pillar of smoke coming from over there and suddenly they were getting water trying put the damn thing out,” said Whiston.

Sandy had taken his bike to the nearest grocery store to buy ice cream for Teague and remained oblivious of his situation until his return. Knowing the fire department would never come, it was up to the residents of the Bulb to save themselves. For all their hard work, little was saved.

What’s left now is charcoal and blackened stone. What was once a personification of the Albany Landfill’s peculiarity—reusing materials to make something new where there once was nothing—now looks like a place of dissolution. The teddy bears’ fur is now darkly burnt and Homer is nothing more than blue and yellow fiberglass caramelized on the tree bark.

It is difficult to describe the feeling of losing years of sweat-inducing labor, but the surprise fire is poignant. The homeless witness something few are willing to believe and that is the fragility of life. Like bulldozers waking you in the night, at any moment everything can change.

“Maybe they’ll come today, maybe tomorrow, if not the next day. Who knows anymore, but yeah they’re coming,” says Mattonen.

Over the time that the homeless have been existing on the Landfill, there has been little complaint by the samaritans who visit the water-front. It’s a wonder as to why Albany city officials are so resentful toward their occupancy. Aside from last November’s clear-out, which not only displaced dozens of homeless but also destroyed their camps as well. Park rangers are often called to widen the paths or clear brush and other trivial tasks—measures that seem little more than an excuse to descend upon the Bulb to use machines with loud motors and chastises, chainsaws, lawn mowers, and weed whackers—anything to make things as inhospitable as they can.

“We were living on the other side here and the way our camp was, you could only get in and out a certain way. And then one day these guys came and started chopping things up, and they left the mulch in front of our entrance. It was so much we couldn’t get out. They don’t give a shit. It took Sandy the whole day in the hot sun to clear it out,” says Teague.

Rumors are aplenty and Albany city officials are vague when talking about future plans for the site. Many foresee a welcoming but sterile park by the water, under the control and supervision of the city. As much of a convenience as that would be, you can’t just renovate over people.