All language subtitles for Abandoned.Engineering.S13E01.Episode.1.1080p.UKTV.WEB-DL.AAC2.0.H.264-FFG_track3_[eng]

A rusting ship anchored
off the English coast,

bearing the scars of an
armed attack.

They were in international waters,
and that was supposed

to keep them safe.

And they were safe until
the raiders arrived.

A Lebanese high rise of glitz
and glamour consumed

by hate and fear.

The militias are going to have to go
floor by floor, room by room,

chucking grenades, firing blindly
until nobody is shooting back.

A Japanese curiosity caught
in a web of corruption.

He was a very high-flying
businessman with a lot

of big plans and a tendency to cut
corners ethically in his businesses.

And a strange structure at the heart
of a Florida suburb that began

as a dream and turned
into a nightmare.

It's one of the top murder
capitals of South Florida.

We are waking this city back up.

Decaying relics...

...ruins of lost worlds...

...sights haunted by the past...

...their secrets waiting
to be revealed.

On England's south-east coast,
anchored in the Blackwater estuary,

is an illicit piece of
pop culture history.

At first glance, this seems like
a perfectly ordinary sight.

A ship moored in a waterway
that leads out to the sea.

But look again.

There's something here
that doesn't quite add up.

It has this strange mast sort of
sprouting out from its centre.

What can it be used for?

Looking below deck, inside is
everything you would expect

to find on an average ship.

With its wood panelling and
brass instruments, the bridge feels

like something from another era.

Other elements come as a little
bit of a surprise.

They really seem out of place here.

We find these strange machines,
scattered microphones,

record players, album covers.

This is unmistakeably
a broadcast studio.

What were they broadcasting and
why was it so important to hide it?

Over the years, vessels like this
were crewed by buccaneers

hellbent on liberating the masses -

not from their money,
but from musical monotony.

There was a kind of joyful anarchy
that took place on this ship,

and the authorities decided
to put this to an end.

I came out here in 1984
when I was in my 20s.

The ship had only been at sea
for about a year and a half or so,

having been refitted in Spain.

So it glistened in the sunlight
and freshly painted,

it looked absolutely splendid and
I was very excited to step on board.

Nigel Harris lived and worked on
this former North Atlantic

fishing trawler for five years.

When he first boarded the vessel,
the ship already had a storied past.

In 1976, she broke the world's
record for biggest earnings

from a single catch,
sailing into port with 200 tons

of cod in the hold.

But trawlers like this were
becoming redundant, and in 1981

she was towed to a breaker's yard
in Scotland,

where she'd be stripped out
for parts.

Still in good condition, the ship
was spotted by a new buyer

and put back to sea.

But these were no fishermen.

Nigel worked for an organisation
that operated on

the wrong side of the law.

The authorities were keeping an eye
on us all the time,

and getting boats
to bring our diesel out

and finding skippers who would do it
over and over again

became more and more difficult.

But when it worked, I must say,
it did work well.

This is the Ross Revenge.

In the 1980s, it was the latest
in a long line

of offshore pirate radio stations.

MUSIC

The concept began as a cunning
antidote to the British

establishment's uptight attitude
to 1960s popular music.

So we like to think of the 1960s as
a great moment of change in music.

We talk about the British
revolution, the Beatles,

the Rolling Stones, and of course,
in the Americas

we have Motown music.

At that time, the BBC, the British
Broadcasting Corporation,

were the only ones with a licence
to broadcast on the radio.

But the rock and roll revolution
sweeping the United States

had no place on British airwaves.

The BBC considered it to be immoral,
favouring a bland diet

of news and light entertainment.

They would only play pop music
for a few hours at the weekend.

All of these era-defining artists
were releasing albums that people

just weren't able to listen to on
traditional, conventional radio.

We must remember that
Radio 1 did not exist,

so there was this massively
underserved market.

So this was a business opportunity.

The government refused to license
independent broadcasters.

But Irish music promoter
Ronan O'Reilly

was determined to find a way
to break the BBC monopoly.

Whilst the government could shut
down anyone broadcasting illegally

on land, once you were in
international waters,

you were beyond their power.

O'Reilly raised £250,000
to launch his passion project.

His new station soon began operating
three miles off the British coast.

MUSIC

# Caroline,
the sound of the nation... ♪

When Radio Caroline first
started broadcasting in 1964,

they were at the forefront of
the pirate radio revolution.

Suddenly, music fans could
tune in and hear new artists

whenever they wanted.

♪ Caroline! ♪

By 1965, around 15 million Brits
were tuning in to offshore

pirate radio on a daily basis.

The BBC didn't like it and neither
did the British government.

Over the following decades,
the authorities and the pirates

played a game of cat and mouse,
with the government passing new laws

to shut them down and the pirates
finding new ways to keep

the music playing.

In 1980, Radio Caroline's
latest ship, the Mi Amigo,

sank during a violent storm.

The team needed a new boat.

Enter the Ross Revenge.

Official broadcasts of the new
Radio Caroline began at noon

on August 20th, 1983.

This studio you see now is the main
on air original studio

on the Ross Revenge.

This is the mixer we used and still
works as far as I know.

Microphone faders
here for turntables.

It was a great place to be,
lots of fun out here.

I used to play a lot of Steely Dan
and Fleetwood Mac.

Electric Light Orchestra
has always been a favourite.

Ross Revenge didn't just house
Radio Caroline, but also

other radio stations.

Well, the Dutch service operating
from Studio 2 next door

here on the Ross Revenge was
in my day called Radio Monique,

and they were based in Holland.

All secret again, all under
the cover of darkness, so to speak.

But Radio Caroline was treading
a fine line, and the British

and Dutch governments' patience
was running out.

Over time, things did get
more complicated.

The authorities became more wary
of boats getting out here,

so the time between our supply
boats would get longer

and longer and longer as things
became more difficult.

Throughout the summer of 1989,
Radio Caroline kept on broadcasting

despite increasing harassment
from the authorities.

On August 18th, a ship chartered
by the UK government pulled up

alongside the Ross Revenge,
asking to come aboard

and discuss the ship's future.

When the crew rejected their
demands, it returned to port.

The next day, when Nigel
was hosting his morning show,

all hell broke loose.

I was on the air in here
and it was a misty morning,

and I looked through that porthole
out to the stern of the ship

and through the mist,
this great big Dutch tug appeared.

It came alongside,
slammed alongside.

Faced with a 30 strong armed
boarding party, the small crew

were in no position to stop them.

There were two or three of us in
here and they came in,

manhandled us out of the studios,
closed the door on us,

and then started to pull wires out
of the back of the mixer.

I just don't understand
how this can be happening.

It's a strange feeling
in your stomach that

is this the end?
It can't be.

At 1:08 pm, the Ross Revenge
was silenced and Radio Caroline

had gone off the airwaves.

While the pirate crew was rounded
up and interrogated,

the authorities went to work.

Studio equipment, records and tapes
were all boxed up and confiscated.

They even cut the aerial
cables from the tower.

They knew that they couldn't remove
the massive transmitters held

below decks, so they simply
took sledgehammers

to the delicate electronics.

When the raiders had finally gone,
Nigel was left

to assess the damage.

We saw beer bottles lying around
everywhere, so it was almost

like they come out here on a bit
of a jolly, bit of drinking,

a bit of smashing, and then
they all went home.

The pirate DJs didn't give up.

They scavenged replacement parts
and quickly got back on air.

We had so much help
from listeners as well.

They donated food, they
donated records.

But the writing was on the wall.

In November 1990, the ship was
forced to stop broadcasting

due to a lack of fuel
and essential supplies.

It was left anchored in the
English Channel to await its fate.

In 1991, the Ross Revenge lost its
moorings and began to drift

onto a sandbank, and when the ship
was eventually towed

into port, its 27-year
broadcast history came to an end.

Pirate radio, although illegal,
is credited with paving the way

for popular music to be given
a voice in the United Kingdom.

The Ross Revenge is part
of that legacy.

Today, the Ross Revenge is open to
the public for visits,

but keeping a ship of this size in
good condition is no easy feat.

Well, there's still a lot of work
to be done on the Ross Revenge.

It can't sit on the water forever.

Unless this work is done,
its future is uncertain.

In the Lebanese capital of Beirut,

modern buildings conceal
the reminders of a city divided.

You have all these gleaming
high rises and fancy

shops and restaurants.

But in the middle of all,
this is one tall building

that is an absolute wreck.

This does not look like normal
wear and tear.

And you go inside, it's...

...there's no clues
as to what it was.

Everything's been stripped out.

In the beginning, this was
a beacon of progress

and the height of extravagance
in a modern city.

It became a ferocious symbol
of struggle.

So how did it fall from that place
to this destroyed shell

of its former self?

Haunting clues are revealed
etched into the crumbling walls.

It's almost like you can see some
kind of clash of civilisations

playing out in the graffiti.

There's some in Arabic,
but then you also

see Christian crosses.

This is a building that had gone
from a beautiful Middle Eastern

destination into the very epitome
of hell on earth.

Marwan Ayoubi first came here
in 1976 when he was 17 years old.

When it was built two years earlier,
it was the talk of the town.

But Marwan didn't
check in as a guest.

He was here for a very
different purpose.

This is the Holiday Inn Hotel,

once the pinnacle of sophistication
at the heart of a destination city,

different from the one we see today.

In the 1970s,

Beirut is

a Western-looking,

French-speaking city,

and people from around the world

are happy to fly to Beirut

to enjoy the Mediterranean climate.

It's a place of openness and
a kind of pride in their ability,

which was unusual in the Middle East
at any time,

to coexist with so many different
cultures -

Christians, Jews, Muslims.

In this booming
cosmopolitan metropolis,

impressive new hotels sprung up
in the downtown port district,

including this one in 1974.

The Holiday Inn was
a very ambitious hotel chain,

and they would open
these kind of flagship hotels

in important cities around the world
to advertise the brand.

It's the tallest hotel in the city.

It has got a revolving restaurant
on the roof,

which is possibly

the most 1970s thing ever.

It opened in a time when
the future for Beirut and Lebanon

seemed very bright.

But below the surface,
tension was building

between the country's
Muslim and Christian populations.

So, while wealthy tourists
and other visitors were partying,

the politics in Lebanon
were changing radically.

These sectarian rivalries
had been growing

for over two decades.

Like many of the countries
in the Middle East,

the borders of Lebanon were
more or less imposed on it

by European powers.

The French established the current
borders after World War I.

When Lebanon was given
its independence in 1943,

power is distributed among
the various religious groups -

you know, the Maronite Christians,
the Muslims and the Druze.

It makes no-one happy.

It's just a matter
of how long it's going to take

for Lebanon to fall apart.

After the founding of Israel
in 1948,

Palestinians were forcibly
removed from their homes.

In the years that followed,
the refugee crisis only intensified,

and by 1968, 400,000 people

had sought shelter in Lebanon.

But that introduced a new
radicalism into Lebanese politics.

And you start to see the emergence
of these sectarian militias

to defend Maronite interests or
Shia interests or Sunni interests

or Druze interests.

All of these different
religious and cultural groups

that had coexisted peacefully,

suddenly they were
at each other's throats.

A year after the Holiday Inn opens,

the civil war kicks off.

The city's hotel district
quickly became the epicentre

of the violence.

Beirut is kind of bifurcated
into a Christian East Beirut

and a Muslim West Beirut,

separated by something called
the Green Line.

And the Holiday Inn and the other,
you know, fancy hotels in Beirut,

just happened to be situated
along what is now the Green Line.

In any military encounter,
you want to control the high ground.

This is how the Union Army
won the Battle of Gettysburg

in the Civil War.

And in Beirut, these tall hotels,
they were the high ground.

The Holiday Inn was
the tallest of them all

in what would become
known as the Battle of the Hotels.

GUNFIRE

And in the early years of the civil
war, the Phalange militia,

the Maronite Christians,
they control the Holiday Inn,

while the neighbouring Phoenicia
Hotel and other structures

are controlled by the Lebanese
National Movement militias.

In March of 1976,
a coalition of Muslim forces

launched an attack against
the heavily guarded Holiday Inn.

Marwan Ayoubi led a small unit
into the high-stakes fight.

Muslim militias,
they penetrate the hotel,

they get control of the lobby
and the lower floors

and they start to celebrate,
"We've taken the hotel."

It seemed like a victory.
What they didn't fully appreciate

was that there were still dozens
of Christian militia fighters

on the floors above them.

The result was just total chaos.

For three days and three nights,

bitter fighting raged across
the 26 floors of the Holiday Inn.

Over 40 men were killed
and hundreds severely injured

before the Muslim militia
emerged victorious.

All the world sees the violence
in Beirut

on their television screens
every night.

Everyone sees
once-great hotels

dissolve
into a welter of explosions.

The conflict continued to ravage
the country for the next 14 years.

During that time, warring factions
periodically occupied the hotel.

Any trace of its former grandeur
was obliterated by the struggle.

And the civil war really
isn't resolved

until the Taif Accord in 1989,

when, you know, the various groups
are all coaxed

into this peace arrangement -

basically, giving certain portfolios
of government

to the different groups.

Those who fought in the war had
to reconcile the many years

spent fighting against
their fellow countrymen.

Over the years, the Port
of Beirut has been revitalised,

while the Holiday Inn has sat
untouched, caught in a legal limbo.

The ownership is split between
a group of Lebanese investors

who want to refurbish it

and a Kuwaiti shareholder who wants
to tear it down and start over.

For now, it stands there
as this somewhat horrifying symbol

of just how far off the rails
a modern society can go.

In the hills west of Niigata, Japan,

stands a place
that defies rational explanation.

The first thing your eye is drawn to
is this huge sea of solar panels.

But right on their edge,
there's a very unexpected structure.

You see an enormous
Russian-style cathedral,

complete with the onion-type domes
and crosses on top of each one.

What's it doing here
in the middle of rural Japan?

For two countries that were
sworn enemies for many years,

something doesn't add up,

yet whoever ordered its construction
clearly invested heavily.

With the twisted remains
of the stained-glass windows

and the gold paint, you can still
get a sense of its faded grandeur.

If you look straight up,
who's staring back at you?

Jesus.

But a fire-damaged complex
next to the church

suggests faith alone
was not enough to save this place.

It seems there was some kind
of cross-cultural tribute

intended here,

but one that obviously didn't work
out that well in the end.

Unchecked ambition and corruption is
what brought this dream to an end.

Sasaguchi Yuji is the caretaker
of this site today.

When he came here in the 1990s,
it was as a paying guest.

This is the Russian Village.

It began as an expression
of friendship

between two former rivals.

Traditionally, relations
between Japan and Russia

were not good,

but towards the end of the
20th century, something happened

that established a certain bond
between the people.

In 1964, a severe earthquake
hit Niigata.

The ground liquefied,

collapsing bridges and buildings,

even buckling train tracks.

In the wake of the destruction,

help came from the most unlikely
of places.

The earthquake killed about
three dozen people,

destroyed thousands of homes.
It was a real crisis.

And then a month later,
in the port,

a huge shipment of wood
for construction, for rebuilding,

arrived from two small cities
in Russia

that had heard about the disaster.

It was a gesture that would allow
those who had lost their homes

to rebuild.

The people of Niigata
never forgot that kindness.

Mr Ryutaro Omori
was one of those people.

Ryutaro Omori was
a local businessman

who rose through the ranks
to become the president

of the Niigata Central Bank.

The Japanese economy was booming,

and the Japanese people had a lot of
money and they wanted to spend it.

They wanted to travel.

It led to a boom in
building theme parks around Japan.

And Omori had an idea
for not just one theme park,

but a whole chain of them,

so he started
with his Russian Village.

With Niigata's connection to Russia,

and the landscape of pine trees
and snowy mountains,

it must have felt like
the obvious place to build it.

It had reportedly cost $150 million
to develop.

On the 1st September 1993,

Russian Village
opened to great fanfare.

So, while people were
at the Russian Village,

they could eat at a Russian
restaurant serving Russian food.

There was a little museum.
There was even an aquarium

that had a certain species of seal
that lives in the Siberian Arctic.

There used to be areas
filled with souvenir shops,

a variety of fast-food stands,

places where they would
demonstrate Russian folk crafts.

In later years, the park even opened
a bizarre exhibition

of fake life-sized taxidermy
woolly mammoths!

The star attraction was the park's
most faithful offering.

The church was closely based
on an actual Russian church

called the Cathedral
of the Nativity.

It's about 100 miles outside
of Moscow.

They went to great lengths to
make it as authentic as possible,

even hiring a Russian painter

to create the murals decorating
the ceilings and pillars.

There would have been
rows and rows of pews

facing a raised stage
at the front of the church,

where there would have been
a pipe organ

and all kinds of Orthodox
iconography hanging from the walls.

I mean, if you were looking
for somewhere a bit different,

somewhere quite grand
to get married,

where better than here?

Fortunately for the bride and groom,
they had plenty of facilities

next door for the reception.

The Mura Hotel had 20 rooms,

including luxurious suites
on the top floor,

perhaps where the newlyweds
spent their wedding night.

Although little remains today,

from the size of the spaces,

you get a real sense of just
how grand it would have been.

But in 1994,

only months after Omori's
bizarre venture first opened,

cracks began to show.

So once you looked at the church,
had a Russian meal, seen a show,

you were ready to go home.

With its poor attendance,
the numbers just weren't adding up

for the Russian Village.

Somehow, the park managed to keep
going for the next seven years,

and in 2001 damning allegations
came to light

revealing what was going on
behind closed doors.

The visionary behind the park

and the head of the bank
that financed it, Ryutaro Omori,

had criminal charges
filed against him.

His bank reported a deficit
of 168.7 billion yen.

That's about $1.3 billion today.

Omori made a lot of loans
that were somewhat dubious,

and one of the shakiest was
to his own Russian Village.

Even when he knew that the finances
were not that strong,

he pushed through another loan
for the project,

and that one
really got him in trouble.

Omori was forced to resign
as head of the bank.

While he was awaiting trial,

a group of Russian financiers tried
to help save the park.

Their investment was
too little, too late.

Whilst his park was shutting down,

in 2003, Omori was sentenced
to three years in prison.

Just two years later, he died.

In 2004, a short-lived attempt

to reopen the park ended in failure.

Many of the buildings were
then demolished

and vandals destroyed what remained.

The future for this area seems to be
in the solar energy being generated

in this massive solar farm right
next door to the Russian Village.

The hopes that people might
someday travel to this compound

were really dashed many years ago.

In Miami Dade County, Florida,

are relics of a storybook fantasy
brought to life.

This looks like a typical
Miami suburb,

but then you notice that the streets
have some pretty unexpected names.

You have Baghdad Avenue, Sharazad
Boulevard and Sinbad Avenue.

In the middle of town is what looks
like a crumbling palace,

which, much like the street names,

appears wildly out of place
in Florida.

It's got these pink domes, towering
minarets, castle-like battlements

and a walled courtyard.

It seems to be a mix
of various eastern influences.

There's something a bit
fantastical about it all.

Exteriors don't really match
the interiors.

They're offices, they're spaces
that would be used

for everyday activities.

They're not elaborate,
like the outside of the building.

This construction is just one piece
of a much bigger puzzle.

These structures aren't as big
or impressive,

but their coordinated style suggests
there was once a wider vision

for this place.

For a time, this was a fantasy
that you could buy into,

but the dream would be
very tragically short-lived.

This city is one of very few
in the entire country

of the United States that was built

on a storybook, quite literally,

so it's inspiring
through and through.

Alex Van Mecl began digging
into the extraordinary history

of this region when he bought his
first home here in September 2021.

It was very exciting

and was the beginning
of a very long journey

to uncover a lot about the city
that has, in some instances,

never been seen or told before.

This curious structure
was to be the beating heart

of a grand vision to transform
this once-unpopulated area

into a thriving city.

The driving force behind it

was American Renaissance man
Glenn H Curtiss.

Curtiss was a pioneer
of American aviation

and one
of the nation's wealthiest men.

He had helped develop the first
aircraft carrier for the US Navy

and built the first seaplane.

While Curtiss was on holiday
in Florida,

he recognised the money-making
potential of this area.

In the years after
the First World War,

Florida experienced a land boom.

The number of skilled workers
in the country was rising,

and they were benefiting from
higher wages and paid vacations.

Suddenly, people had the resources
to travel and to buy vacation homes.

Everybody had cars,
everyone had a Model T.

They wanted to be in the sun,
and there was no better place

to go than Florida.

Curtiss and his partners bought
17,000 acres of land,

and Curtiss entered a new business -
real estate development.

But he also wants to create
really unique, special communities,

not just your run-of-the-mill
tract homes

that normally dotted the landscape.

Fortunately, there was a new craze
that was sweeping the nation

and it would inspire
his next project, Opa-locka.

Opa-locka was to be something
entirely unique,

never before attempted
in the United States.

It was a big gamble, based
on architecture and literature

from the Islamic world.

In 1925,
the architect Bernhardt Muller

read the collection
of Middle Eastern folktales

known as
The Thousand And One Nights.

He was so inspired that he
relived it in his dreams that night.

He soon came up with a vision
of a city

built around the theme
and design of those stories.

And in Curtiss, Muller
had a partner with the resources

to make it happen.

An advertisement that was placed
in the Miami Herald in 1926

began with the words
"one thousand and one reasons".

It encouraged investors
to get in on the ground floor

of a never-to-be-repeated
opportunity.

This administration building
was intended to be an icon

of the city's success.

The construction of this building
began in early 1926.

It took approximately
seven months to construct.

At that time, they estimated
the cost at $150,000.

Its primary focus -
to sell the idea and dream

of what it was to become
an Opa-lockan.

This was to be a completely
self-sufficient community

with its own airport, golf course,

pools, parks, country club, zoo -

all the things that make life fun.

Muller personally approved
each and every design.

He specified all the paint colours
and finishings to be used,

and even suggested landscaping
around the buildings.

In less than a year, over 30 homes
were built and residents moved in,

while the rest of the city's
construction was still under way.

Curtiss's ambitious risk
appeared to be paying off.

But before the city could be
completed, Mother Nature interfered.

In 1926, a massive hurricane
swept through the Miami area,

and although it didn't really affect
Opa-locka,

it affected Florida as a whole and
sent it into this economic tailspin.

Florida's reputation
as heaven on earth

was shattered in the wake
of the destruction.

Suddenly, both investors
and new residents

became harder and harder to find.

But railways had helped
other planned communities

in Florida prosper,

and Curtiss was certain
a new train line coming in 1927

would keep his vision alive.

He also had one last trick
up his sleeve.

When the first train arrived
on January 8th, 1927,

the city decided to put on a show.

On board was the governor
of the state,

the president of the railway
and a host of other dignitaries.

They were greeted by something
straight out of the movies -

a representative of the company,
dressed as the Grand Vizier

of the Empire of Opa-locka,

charged on horseback
out of the administration building.

He was flanked by others dressed
as Arabian horsemen

who were racing out
to meet the Iron Horse.

Homeowners from all across the city
joined in the celebrations.

Nobody wanted to see
Opa-locka crash and burn.

Most of the town had costumes

that had been rented
from New York theatres,

and the whole community put on
a show for visitors.

Essentially, they got together
to commemorate the new beginning

of what was to become

this flourishing and very
extraordinarily designed community.

The event was a big success,

and newspapers gave it plenty
of coverage,

all of which provided
great advertising for the city.

These days, that type
of naked cultural appropriation

would definitely be frowned upon,

though there are certainly
outrageous stunts

pulled by real estate developers
on a daily basis.

The so-called Arabian fantasy may
have captured people's attention,

but it failed to get them
to open their wallets.

The future of Curtiss's $1.5 million
investment was uncertain.

Less than two years later,

the aspiring city was dealt
another devastating blow.

In the wake of
the Wall Street crash,

things really weren't looking good
for Opa-locka.

Curtiss pulled out all the stops
to try and salvage his dream

and save his city's
struggling residents.

He helped pay
for people's landscaping,

he started paying
people's mortgages.

I think he had every reason
to believe that Opa-locka

still could become as great,
as thriving as a Coral Gables

or Miami Beach,
or even Palm Beach at that time.

Curtiss was convinced the
development could continue expanding

after the economy recovered.

Fate disagreed.

On the 23rd of July 1930,

the aviation pioneer died suddenly
after an attack of appendicitis.

The driving force behind Opa-locka
evaporated with him.

It is my school of thought

that Curtiss would very much
have stuck his vision through,

and it still would have been
the fully built environment

that he dreamed of it becoming
had he not passed away.

In the years that followed,
the suburb declined

beyond all recognition
and its crime rate soared.

By 2009, the one-time centrepiece
of Opa-locka

had been left to fall into ruin.

John H Taylor Jr was elected mayor
of Opa-locka in 2022.

The city he grew up in
was very different

from the one originally envisioned.

I'm 34 years old
and Opa-locka is all that I know.

During the early '70s,

'80s, '90s, early 2000s,

they called us one of the top
murder capitals of South Florida.

What was once an area that was
drug-infested, crime-ridden

is not the same Opa-locka
that you see today.

Our crime is down 30%.

I wanted the community where
my daughter and my family can grow,

live, play and be safe in.

Today, Mayor Taylor hopes to finish
what Glenn H Curtiss started.

We want it to be
a cultural arts centre.

We want birthday parties here.

We want you to make memories here.

And by 2026, you won't be able
to recognise Opa-locka.

We are waking this city back up.

Subtitles by Red Bee Media