AS THE road rises out of Kolontar, it passes a row of sturdy new houses, their white walls freshly painted and red-tiled roofs barely touched by the elements.
Their occupants say no one wants to live down in the valley any more, not since a tide of toxic sludge raced through it on October 4th last year, destroying these people’s homes and claiming the lives of some of their relatives in Hungary’s most devastating industrial accident.
Ten people were killed and about 150 injured when a dam containing waste at a nearby alumina works collapsed, sending one million cubic metres of ochre filth surging across surrounding fields and through the heart of Kolontar and two neighbouring settlements.
A huge clean-up and reconstruction effort in and around Kolontar cost cash-strapped Hungary more than €100 million, and it has been praised for preventing major pollution of the nearby Danube river and removing some 75,000 truckloads of contaminated earth from the region.
A year after the disaster, more than 300 families that lost their homes have been rehoused, fresh soil has replaced the sea of red sludge, and during many months of government control the alumina plant was fitted with new technology that leaves a dry residue rather than caustic mud.
But even officials admit that the long-term impact of the accident cannot be predicted. The land may not be fit for farming for generations, and no one wants to go fishing in the region’s network of streams, lakes and rivers, where levels of metals and other toxins are well above normal.
There is also deep public anger at the refusal of the alumina firm’s managers to accept responsibility for the disaster, and fears that poverty, lack of hope and the desire to escape the legacy of the sludge spill will drive people away, condemning this blighted part of Hungary to a slow death.
Those hit worst by the red wave say the hardest task is living with what it left behind and took away. “We were having lunch and my husband got up to make coffee. The electricity went off and he heard something like an explosion in the distance. Then, a few moments later, the mud hit,” recalls Erzsebet Juhasz (30), standing by the gate of her new house.
“It came with incredible speed and force, tearing out the doors and windows. It ripped my little daughter, Angyalka, out of my arms, and the mud was so slippery that I also lost hold of my other daughter, Dorika,” says Juhasz, her eyes filling with tears.
“Only the tips of Dorika’s fingers were visible above the red mud, but I managed to grab her and throw her onto a mattress that was floating by.
“She is nearly four years old now. She is alright, although her eyes were damaged by the mud. But Angyalka was lost. She was only 14 months.”
Like most people in this area, Juhasz has relatives who work at the alumina plant or have jobs elsewhere that are tied to it. Many Kolontar residents, therefore, were torn after the accident between wanting to see the factory closed and accepting that it was vital to the local economy.
“I didn’t feel hate or anger after the disaster,” she says. “But now, when I see the managers trying to deny responsibility, I get really angry. People lost their lives, and it was their stuff that did this so they are responsible.”
Members of the plant’s management face prosecution and the firm has been fined about €500 million, but analysts and local people alike do not believe the full amount will ever be paid.
Opposition groups say the current and previous governments also have questions to answer, regarding how the alumina factory received its safety permits and why Hungary did not classify this type of caustic red sludge as hazardous waste.
“In general, the government did a good job cleaning up the toxic material that spilled all over the region,” says Greenpeace campaigner Balazs Tomori.
“But there is no guarantee that a next Kolontar, another toxic waste spill won’t happen again. The ex-Socialist bloc is full of deposits, legal and illegal.”