Can They Blame Ya, Albania?
As Albania gears up to join the E.U., toxic
troubles get in the way
By Colin Woodard
13 Apr 2005
It's easy enough to find the dump in Tirana, the fast-growing
capital of Albania: just follow the trail of noxious smoke.
For
11 years, this city of 700,000 has been dumping its waste in a
suburban field five miles southwest of the center, forming
great hills of rotting food, plastics, batteries, appliances,
medical waste, and construction materials. Fires smolder
throughout the dump, and more are set all the time by the 20
families who live here, eking out a precarious living by
collecting metals and other valuables left in the ashes. The
resultant clouds of smoke -- laden with dioxins and heavy
metals -- drift over the surrounding neighborhoods, where many
parents no longer allow their children to play outside.
One of the poorest countries in Europe, Albania is confronting
an environmental crisis that goes well beyond the capital's
garbage woes. While many of its Eastern European neighbors
spent the past decade and a half rebuilding from communism,
this beleaguered nation staggered from one social upheaval to
the next. Now that the dust has settled, Albanian
environmental experts are taking stock of the situation and
trying to get the attention of foreign donors, whose support
will be essential for getting anything done. And getting
things done is a requirement; as the country works to join the
European Union, it must meet a set of strict environmental
standards.
Narin Panariti, legislative and policy director at the
Albanian Ministry of the Environment, says the staff there is
busy identifying legal and regulatory changes that need to be
made to conform with European Union law, a project the office
hopes to have completed by the end of the year. "It's an
enormous list of things to do, more than in any other sector
except agriculture," she notes. "It will take us years,
probably more than a decade, to perform all the changes."
A Long, Unwinding Road
Long
after the collapse of communism, Albania's 3.5 million people
still don't have a single wastewater treatment plant,
toxic-waste disposal facility, or sanitary landfill. The
country is littered with abandoned communist-era industrial
enterprises that are now home to families of squatters and
their livestock, even though the soil, water, and building
surfaces are poisoned with contaminants. Peasants are cutting
down forests to heat their homes, while construction companies
haphazardly mine gravel from riverbeds, disrupting aquatic
life and furthering an already critical nationwide erosion
problem.
The entire industrial sector collapsed shortly after Albania
emerged from communism in the early 1990s, triggering an
exodus of 300,000 people to Italy and Greece. Hundreds of
thousands more streamed into urban areas from impoverished
mountain regions, building homes in city parks, suburban
fields, coastal beaches, and the newly abandoned factories. In
1997, the country descended into anarchy following the
collapse of fraudulent pyramid investment schemes; by the time
order was restored months later, 1,500 were dead, and hundreds
of public buildings had been destroyed. Shortly thereafter,
nearly half a million Albanian-speaking refugees poured into
the country, fleeing the war in neighboring Kosovo.
"The environment has not been, and could not have been, a
priority for the government," says Dhimiter Haxhimihali, a
chemist at the University of Tirana and coauthor of several
studies on the country's environmental conditions. Even now,
when environmental problems have reached a crisis point,
public officials are often unwilling or unable to respond.
"There are so many social and economic problems in this
country, and the state budget does not have the resources to
deal with them," Haxhimihali says.
Take the situation at the old Porto Romano chemical factory on
the outskirts of Durres, Albania's second-largest city and
primary shipping port. Five years ago, delegates from the U.N.
Environment Program visited the abandoned pesticide plant and
realized they had stumbled upon one of the most contaminated
spots in the Balkans. Hundreds of tons of dangerous chemicals
had been left in unlocked storage sheds, and others had been
dumped in a wetland near the site, which is now in the midst
of a residential neighborhood. Area soils contained residues
of the pesticide lindane at concentrations of 1,290 to 3,140
milligrams per kilogram of soil; in the Netherlands,
authorities intervene when lindane residues reach just 2 mg
per kilo. The delegation also found chromium residues, and, in
one sample, a level of chlorobenzene 4,000 times higher than
E.U. standards.
But
what really horrified the UNEP team was that thousands of
people were living within the contaminated zone, most of them
new arrivals from the impoverished north. They had built homes
out of materials scavenged from the plant's buildings, set
their cows and sheep out to graze amongst the toxins, even let
their children use the factory as a playground. Several
families were actually living inside the plant buildings. UNEP
called for the plant to be sealed off from the surrounding
neighborhood and for an emergency evacuation of the people in
the area. The plant, along with four other "hotspots," posed
"immediate risks to human health and the environment" and
required "urgent remedial action," UNEP warned in a prominent
report.
Two years later, this reporter visited the site, and nothing
had changed. The factory had no fence around it, no signs
warding off the children happily playing in the dirt or the
owners of the milk cows chomping away on the scraggly
vegetation. Mounds of fluorescent yellow waste could be seen
scattered alongside the road, in alleyways, and in what
appeared to be a schoolyard. Asked about the situation, the
mayor of Durres, Miri Hoti, said he lacked the funds to erect
a fence and, in any case, was upset that the squatters were
making it difficult to sell the plant to private investors. A
similar scenario had unfolded at a shuttered PVC plant in the
southern city of Vlora.
Now, three years later, the plants have been fenced off, but
cleanup work has yet to begin. "The projects depend on the
financial capabilities of the ministry, which are quite low
since these are incredibly expensive interventions," says
Panariti, noting that the World Bank and the U.N. have funded
feasibility studies at the sites. "Without foreign help, there
is little we can do."
Life in the Slow Lane
Even as they're mired in problems of the past, state and local
officials are having difficulty keeping ahead of new affronts.
Poorly planned construction projects have marred some of
Albania's most popular beaches and seaside retreats, while new
suburban buildings are often not even connected to sewer
lines. "Politicians here are very uneasy about complying with
land-use strategies or enforcing building laws, because they
don't want to offend people and lose their votes," says Arian
Gace, an Albanian official at the local office of the U.N.'s
Global Environment Facility.
Then
there's the question of air pollution. Under communism,
private automobile ownership was illegal; today, upwards of
300,000 vehicles choke the capital's streets, driving
rush-hour dust and small-particle pollution levels to 10 times
the World Health Organization safety limit. "Most cars are
secondhand and use a very bad quality of diesel," notes
Mihallaq Qirjo, director of the Albania office of the Regional
Environmental Center for Central and Eastern Europe. "Albania
has exchanged the industrial pollution of the past for the
automotive pollution of the present."
"There is a serious lack of leaders with long-term thinking,"
says Gace. "A lot of people just want to get rich, trash the
country, and get out. The biggest guarantee I see for
environmental improvement is the political pressure exerted by
the E.U. to improve enforcement." The E.U.'s requirement that
all applicants meet approved guidelines -- which address
issues ranging from noise pollution to sustainable development
to eco-labeling -- might mean the country has to come up with
hundreds of millions of dollars to build wastewater-treatment
plants and landfills, eliminate leaded fuel, and prevent
building in wetlands and other threatened habitats. Gace notes
that anything that betters Albania's prospects for membership
is extremely popular with voters. However, it's not always
popular with politicians, who he says tend to have business
interests of their own.
"The
present politicians do not have a genuine interest in going in
the fast lane toward Europe, because if you are going there
you must comply with a lot of regulations that are going to
lower your profit margins," he says. Progress, Gace predicts,
will likely remain slow.
Even good leadership only goes so far. Edi Rama, the popular
and effective mayor of Tirana, has won awards from World Mayor
and the U.N. for fighting poverty and corruption. He has
knocked down hundreds of shops, discos, and restaurants that
had been illegally constructed in the city's parks, and gotten
trash collected and centralized, instead of burning in heaps
scattered throughout the city. But Tirana has tripled its size
since 1992, creating new problems faster than the municipal
government can solve them.
Rama, a former painter, says solving the problems requires
coordinated action between his office, parliament, and a
variety of government agencies. "Unfortunately," he says,
"getting institutions to work with one another [in this
country] is the hardest work you can imagine."