Indian
environmentalists have filed a petition to block the Exxon Valdez from entering
Alang, India, a graveyard for once-mighty ships.
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Workers dismantle a
vessel in Alang, India. The shipbreaking yards in the city have taken apart
more than 5,900 ships since they started in 1983. (Ajit Solanki, Associated
Press / March 13, 2006)
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ALANG, India — For
the ship formerly known as the Exxon Valdez, even sailing quietly into the
sunset is proving difficult.
Now called the
Oriental Nicety, it's floating off India in a kind of high-seas limbo as a
court decides whether the vessel that dumped 11 million gallons of crude oil
into Alaska's unspoiled Prince William Sound in 1989 can be hacked apart in
this forlorn graveyard for once-mighty ships.
Local
environmentalists have petitioned the High Court here in the western state of
Gujarat to block its entry pending an onboard inspection for toxic chemicals,
including mercury, arsenic and asbestos.
Environmentalists
acknowledge it's probably no more toxic than so many other ships recycled at
Alang, a city whose coastline was once edged with forest and is now lined with
about 175 ramshackle yards pulling vessels apart. But they say the standoff
focuses attention on India's lax environmental, labor and safety standards
governing the billion-dollar ship-breaking industry.
"The ex-Exxon
Valdez is a test case for the robustness of India's regulatory framework,"
activist Gopal Krishna of ToxicsWatch Alliance wrote in a court filing.
In an industry that
benefits from cheap labor, "they want to drop the problem on the poor
people of India," said Jim Puckett, Seattle-based head of the Basel Action
Network activist group.
Dharamveer Sharma,
45, landed here from Bihar state. As he cut apart flammable oil cylinders with
oxyacetylene torches at a yard, he said he lives in constant fear.
"But I need
the money," he said. "One day I'll quit and go back home and the
memories of this place will haunt me."
The scene on
Alang's 6-mile-long beach seems the stuff of nightmares. Because of a 38-foot
tidal variation, vessels meeting their end can sail straight onto its sand, no
need for expensive docks. About 35,000 migrant workers, human vultures of a
sort, then hack at carcasses that soon resemble half-eaten whales.
Moving inland, yard
upon yard is filled with items from aircraft carriers, cruise ships and other
floating cities, including 1970s-era Pac-Man game consoles, dinner plates,
sofas, lockers and half-used soy sauce bottles.
What's not easily
sold off is chopped up for scrap metal in this world of Victorian squalor. In a
lot beside an asbestos treatment center, a worker sat in the dirt bashing at
ship instruments, toxic smoke from burning transistors curling around him,
surrounded by piles of wire and glass.
The Oriental
Nicety's most recent owner, Alang-based scrap company Priya Blue, says it is
confident of a favorable ruling soon on the ship's fate. If not, or if the
legal limbo drags on too long, it may divert the ship to Bangladesh or
Pakistan. Both neighboring countries have similar laws against importing toxic
material, although ships are often brought in illegally.
"We'll fight
it if we learn it's happening," said Muhammad Ali Shahin, an activist with
the Bangladeshi environmental group Platform on Shipbreaking.
A partner at Priya
Blue stood up for the infamous vessel. "We are 110% sure the ship is
safe," Sanjay P. Mehta said. An injured person who heals is considered
healthy, he said. "It's the same with the Exxon Valdez. The spill happened
a long time back. It's not hazardous."
A 2006 study
commissioned by India's Supreme Court found 16% of ships broken apart here had
asbestos traces. "I can't say we haven't had [tuberculosis] or deaths,
just not an epidemic," said B.N. Singh, a ship safety officer and union
official, who says at least the fibers remain wet in the surf. "Whether
workers survive or die in their village, no one knows."
Alang's yards have
had a record year, scrapping more than 400 ships in 2011-12, an end-of-life
business that often flourishes when the economy slumps.
"We're the
undertakers," said Yogesh Rehani, managing director of Maryland's Global
Marketing Systems, which sends dead ships to Alang.
Rehani bid for the
Oriental Nicety not knowing its history but lost out to Priya Blue, which
reportedly paid $16 million — a loss that was a lucky break for Global
Marketing, given the legal standoff.
The yards at Alang,
the world's largest ship-breaking operation, have broken apart more than 5,900
ships since they started in 1983 by handling Soviet navy vessels. At any given
time, more than 100 ships are waiting offshore or are beached in various stages
of disassembly.
The yards work
through worldwide agents that buy dying ships and sail them to Alang, where
they're stripped of everything, their hulls then cut apart with welding torches
and sold off — a process sometimes called "razor-blading," from the
days when shavers made use of the recycled metal.
A yard might pay
$1.5 million for a 5,000-ton ship and take in $2.25 million selling the bits
three months later. India gets 8% of its steel from recycled ships; its jugaad
culture of reusing almost everything wrings out more profit than in other
countries.
With each ship
arrival, workers perform a puja, or blessing, splitting a coconut for the
deities, especially elephant god Ganesha, said to protect those facing
dangerous tasks.
Two years ago, six
people were killed when an oil cylinder caught fire. It was "like they
were burned alive in a tandoori oven," said Arvind Kumar Tripathi, a
safety officer at Alang's Nagarsheth Ship Breakers.
Since 1983, 372
people have died, according to the Gujarat Maritime Board, although labor and
human rights groups say it's closer to 50 a year.
"They treat us
like dogs and throw us away like dogs," Singh said.
Families of dead
workers receive $15,000. But a greater disincentive for companies is a five-day
shutdown for yards where a worker dies. "The $15,000 is loose
change," Tripathi said. "But getting shut means heavy losses."
The mostly
illiterate workers receive little training, and even when given masks and
goggles, they often don't use them. Most live in shanties a few hundred yards
from the shore without running water or toilets, and earn $2 to $7 a day. The
dilapidated local hospital has no doctor. Those badly injured must travel long
distances for expensive private care.
The state
government, wary of bad publicity, treats the Alang coastline like a heavily
guarded secret installation, with journalists, environmentalists and labor
charities particularly unwelcome.
"This entire
area is filled with government spies," said a driver. Nearby, a man walked
by wearing a black "Greenpeace, stay out of our waters!" T-shirt.
Although most of
those ripping the ships apart have little romance of the sea, crews dropping
anchor for the last time bemoan their vessels' deaths.
"It makes you
a bit sad," said Filipino crewman Leo Gosos, one of 18 crew members
delivering a 31-year-old vessel to Alang. "But at least we're going home.
I can finally see my sons."
Source:
Los Angeles Times. By Mark Magnier. 4 June 2012
http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/world/la-fg-india-exxon-valdez-20120605,0,5736158.story
