Batumi is a southwest Georgian port city that lies on the Black SeaCoast. With a population of approximately 120,000 and a long and rich history, Batumi is also the capital of the Georgian autonomous republic ofAdjara. The city was famous throughout the Soviet Era as a sea resort, and northerners relished a holiday to the southern countryside to take in the sun, wine, tea and lemon-scented air.

A SEPARATE EXISTENCE: A middle-aged man trundles scrap metal across the Gonio dumpsite, while cows pick through the highly toxic rubbish for edibles. Dumpsite work provides the only means of support for between 150 and 200 locals–very few of whom are actually homeless. (Photo: Rezo Getiashvili)

The 1990s, however, brought wars, a petty dictatorship and subsequent revolution. Batumi was forgotten as a tourist destination, and much of the local population, now facing economic hardship, moved elsewhere. Areas that formerly bustled with the tourist trade gave way to bare walls and burnt palm trees; home and property values plummeted to a fraction of their former worth.

The city appears to be staging a comeback, however. In the last couple of years, Batumi has reclaimed its status as a major port, resort and—because of its proximity to the Turkish border—important transit hub. Streets and beaches are regularly cleaned and cared for, and the old, true face of the city has re-emerged: Colchian cultural artefacts, eyecatching architecture, a main boulevard stretching for kilometres, delicious food and a wide range of entertainment possibilities—including a botanical garden and dolphin show. The natural appeal is also undeniable: an agreeable climate, enchanting landscapes, unique beaches, ancient forests, wetlands, flocks of migrating birds and subtropical fruits. And, of course, the tourists are once again part of the scenery.

Other small but significant improvements are that trees now have benches lying nearby, and that rubbish bins are now near those benches. But there’s actually something quite magical about these rubbish bins: Any solid item that gets put into one has a pretty good chance of finding its way back to you. Now, how does this happen?

First, the municipal sanitary cleaning service takes the bin contents to a dumpsite located between Batumi International Airport and the Tchorokhi River.What separates the dumpsite from the river is a concrete wall six metres in height. Moisture and water flow has long been eroding the wall’s foundation, and water that escapes the dumpsite pollutes the Tchorikhi, and the polluted river washes the deposited waste into the Black Sea before finally redistributing the waste along Batumi’s entire beach network.

From a nuisance to a pandemic
Pollution hits the beaches hardest during stormy weather. After a spell of high waves one can come across medical waste such as syringes, various medicine containers—even blood-transfusion equipment. Sights like these tend to dampen your spirits.
Until just this year, the aforementioned dumpsite had served as a repository for hazardous medical waste from 25 hospitals, in addition to variousmedical stations and pharmacies, so the waste that was finding its way to the beaches through the process  just described was much more than an eyesore: It became a full-blown health concern. Microorganisms responsible for various contagious diseases were thriving on those beaches polluted with biogenic and organic substances.

In 2006, the European Union supported “Institutional management of medical waste in Batumi and Qobuleti”—a project that ended this year, but which introduced a semblance of organisation to the accumulation, temporary storage, transportation and incineration of medical waste in the effected area. The special incinerator was purchased with project funds.
“When wastemanagement is not a priority in a country, when there is no law on waste management, no classification and data on waste, no master plan for waste management, and when most of the dumpsites are illegal, such a pilot project may even have a countrywide importance by creating positive precedence to be replicated,” said Nana Janashia, director of the Caucasus Environmental NGO Network (CENN).

On-the-job health risks
Medical waste has usually come into contact with human biological excreta; and every human being—even the most healthy one—is a carrier of infections. Doctors themselves can fall prey to these infections, but the chance of this happening depends largely on the practices established within a given healthcare system.

According to an ordinance of the Georgian Ministry of Healthcare, sharp medical instruments must be disinfected and disintegrated after use. Tragically, injuries do occur frequently during this process, resulting in medical personnel contracting various infections, and the institutional management project was developed to help address this problem as well.
One victim of this particular problem is Marina Kvatchadze, a doctor/therapist in Batumi who contracted Hepatitis C while practising professionally, and whose daughter contracted the same disease three years later. It is possible that the disease spread through the shared use of an epilator.

“I see no solution,” said a despairing Kvatchadze. “I feel guilty toward my daughter; as I am a doctor and failed to secure her, to protect her fromthe threat. Because of this disease, the life of a 26-year-old girl is ruined, and she is utterly desperate.”
Nestan Shervashidze, the epidemiologist participating in the project, also suffered a minor injury while disintegrating syringes. According to the health professional, used sharp instruments should be first placed in a disposable container without having to disintegrate and disinfect them. This, Shervashidze argues, would reduce the risk of doctors coming into contact with the used instruments.

In addition to protecting medical personnel, the new medical waste management system is more cost-efficient, as disposable containers are comparatively inexpensive. No disinfection procedure is required when a syringe is placed inside a container and later taken to the Gonio dumpsite facility for incineration.

Dirty work, and dangerous too
Batumi’s Gonio dumpsite sadly qualifies as an unofficially independent ‘city’ where about 150 to 200 people live and work. The dumpsite denizens spend their time picking through the waste and separating various metals, firewood, glass, plastic, household equipment and other items. They then sell these items in out-of-the-way, obscure locations. One could be easily led to think that all these people are actually volunteer, on-site waste separators.

Batumi residents call these people “BOMJs” (a Georgian acronym for “persons without a permanent place of residence”), while dumpsite employees refer to them as to “external persons.” Unlike regular BOMJs or homeless people,most of these people actually have both homes and families—but the dumpsite offers the onlymeans of supporting their dependents.
These are the people most at risk from medical waste. Sadly, they in turn carry the possibility of creating a widespread pandemic. And medical waste isn’t the only thing to worry about: Plastic and glass collected at the dumpsite is also harmful and toxic.

“You have to be very careful doing this kind of work. You can be injured by a syringe or some other sharp thing and contract a disease,” said Manana Khangiladze, who supports herself and three children by rummaging at the dumpsite. “Such a case once happened to me too, and I had to be disinfected. I try to be careful, but what can I do if life demands that I put my health at risk?”

Forty-year-old David Kakhadze comes from the village of Tcharnala of Khelvachauri Rayon (one of Adjara’s four districts. The village is seven kilometres away from the Gonio dumpsite. Kakhdze claims that medical wastes are brought out to the dumpsite two or three times a day and are landfilled by tractor.

“People are driven to this place by need,” Kakhadze said. “This is not a job, but like going to your own grave. Inhaling this air is death itself, but what can a village man do—having no land, no job and no opportunities? I’m a 40-year-old man, and I don’t care about my life—it has no meaning if I can’t give anything to my child. If the baby has nothing to eat, what do I needmy health for? Where can I take it, for what price can I sell it, and who will buy it?”

Nodar Kontselidze, a representative from the Department of Environment Protection and Natural Resources of Adjara, claims that the Batumi Municipality made the BOMJs an offer of employment with the city cleaning services, only to be turned down. But the dumpsite will soon be gone anyway. EU experts at work on a programme to manage solid household waste in Adjara see a solution in transporting waste accumulated at the Gonio dumpsite to a new landfill and processing it there. The new landfill arrangement will probably be in Chakvi, in which case the Gonio dumpsite will be closed.