Why is the Ulcinj Saltworks (Ir)relevant?
The Ulcinj Saltworks is one of those tangled messes no one really wants to deal with. That’s probably the whole point with resources of immeasurable value—turn it into a bureaucratic knot that people won’t fight over too much, and then privatize it for next to nothing.
Covering around 14.5 square kilometers of saltwater basins, the Saltworks is one of the largest on the Mediterranean. During the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, research began with the goal of building the saltworks. In the 1920s, the construction of basins began, and the first salt harvest took place in 1935 (a total of 6,000 tons). After World War II, the saltworks was renamed “Bajo Sekulić.” We asked one of the workers we met there if he knew what it was called before. He shrugged and said, “It was always called Bajo Sekulić.”
However, the history of the saltworks actually begins at the end of the 19th century—specifically in 1885, when a canal was dug to connect what was then a swampy area (Zoganj Swamp) to the sea. Some say the saltworks was born from a miscalculation by Queen Milena (because the swamp was lower than sea level), who wanted to turn the swampy land behind the Velika Plaža (Long Beach) into fertile soil. Instead of draining the marsh, they ended up flooding it with seawater. Others say it was intentional—to flood the swamp with salty water and eliminate the malaria-carrying mosquitoes. Either way, the canal was named Port Milena.
In the long history of Ulcinj’s oldest company, salt wasn’t harvested only twice: during the war in 1943 and in 1964 due to heavy, prolonged rainfall. But the saltworks isn’t only important for its economic potential. This area is the most important bird habitat on the eastern Adriatic coast. The factory’s operation helped create a unique ecosystem. The last salt harvest in 2013 led to the collapse of local flora and fauna and raised serious concerns about the saltworks’ survival. An initiative to declare the area a protected zone began in 2011. The process officially started in 2015, only for the Constitutional Court—while apparently in its right mind—to declare the decision unconstitutional the following year. After news broke that the government was planning to build hotels on 70 hectares of the area, the German ambassador diplomatically questioned Montenegro’s EU accession path. German environmentalist Martin Schneider-Jacoby made a huge contribution to the effort of preserving the saltworks. So far, over 240 species of birds have been recorded here—about 50% of the total bird species in Europe. I was especially curious about where and how my namesakes, the flamingos, live.
Besides the birds, the flora of the area is also impressive. From glassworts growing in salt-cracked soil to spring orchids and a lone fig tree by the roadside. There’s a bit of symbolism in that, too.
Now, the mess. The privatization process began in 2001. In 2005, the company went into bankruptcy, and in 2013, it was officially shut down. We asked a worker what happened to a site with so much potential. He started grumbling and muttered, “Hope Spajić doesn’t hear me.” He seemed a bit confused when I told him Spajić was still in high school at the time, but quickly dismissed the thought. Scattered across the floor and tables of the former administration building—piles of bureaucratic paperwork, a photo of Tito on the wall, a single tire, and some office furniture. Clearly, they took only what mattered to them. In 2021, the saltworks was supposedly returned to state ownership—turns out, it wasn’t. Who owes what to whom and who’s responsible is not actually that hard to follow anymore. But we’ve got bigger problems.
An old abandoned factory like something out of Chernobyl, two decaying benches, birds whose patience with us is wearing thin, and a gate that says “Entry €2.50.” And yet, the economy hasn’t completely died.