Christina Karafiat and her daughter Lisa, 15, pull up outside the Turkish Cultural Center in Traiskirchen, to join about 25 other Caritas volunteers. They will be spending the next three hours sorting through donations that later in the day will be given to the thousands of refugees who are holed up in Austria's intake center, awaiting processing.

Just around the corner, Melanie Scherzer, 30, a social worker from Vienna, 30 kilometers (19 miles) away, has chosen not to work with an organized charity and instead simply hands out fruit, orange juice, some tents and sleeping bags.

"It's an absolute shame that in a wealthy country our politicians can't organize it better," said Karafiat, who has driven down from Vienna for the second time to help out.

All were responding to relentless reports in Austria of what Amnesty International called inhumane and degrading conditions at the Traiskirchen center, where 3,000 people live in facilities designed for 1,200. People fleeing war in Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria are living with stinking, backed-up toilets, minimal meals and showers that have to be shared by men and women alike, sometimes at the same time. Some residents, including families with babies, must sleep outside - even in thunderstorms - in tents that have been donated by volunteers, not the government.

While politicians point fingers over the poor conditions for refugees, Austria's citizens are filling the void.

All mean well, yet the actions of many individual citizens at times create more problems than solutions. For the last two weeks, the roads around the Traiskirchen center have been clogged with do-gooders passing out donations that often are too worn to wear, not needed or not even appropriate clothing or food for the mostly Muslim refugee population. At the end of each day, these donations wind up in the town incinerator.

"They come ceaselessly," says a policeman, who could not give his name because he is not authorized to speak with the press. He watches as a black Suzuki pulls up Otto-Glöckel-Straße and about 20 refugees surround it, grabbing the bags as a surprised man pulls them out of the back of his hatchback. "They block traffic, but you can't stop it."

Management failure?

Back at the Caritas tent in the Turkish Cultural Center, coordinator Astrid Resatz holds up a black shoe with a worn sole and shredded lace as she begins orientation for the helpers, who, like the Karafiats, are mostly women aged between 25 and 45. A handful of young refugees, stand nearby, acting as translators, security guards and heavy lifters.

"Even an asylum seeker has no need for worn out things," Resatz says of the shoe. The donation bags appear to be filled with many worn-out stuffed animals, ripped trousers and single shoes.

A bright pink truck from the Neos, a new political party, pulls up with more donations, but smiles disappear when Resatz says she can't take the bags full of boots, a cute pink t-shirt and short skirts. Refugees "don't wear the same styles as we do," she tries to break it gently. "They are looking for leggings and long tunics."

She readily accepts the diapers and toiletries. Although the five new pup tents are needed desperately, Caritas isn't allowed to hand them out. So the Neos, led by party chief Matthias Strolz, head a few hundred meters up the road to the intake center to give away the tents themselves.

But they are not the only ones with that idea. A stream of cars is also disgorging donations. For the last two weeks or so, one policeman said, private citizens have taken matters in their own hands.

Before the Suzuki can pull out, a white van parks up ahead of it and a group of refugees run to meet it. At one car, there's a shrill roar of the crowd as a box breaks when too many people try to pull it out of the trunk. Bananas spill onto the sidewalk and split open. Perhaps five people nab the fruit that remains intact and leave the rest to rot.

"This [the condition of the camp] is intentional; that's the only conclusion you can possibly reach," Strolz said. "This is a failure of management."

Donations land in the trash

Meanwhile, a family of four rummages through a bag of clothing. They find packets of gummy bears and a giant stuffed doll but no clothes that fit. They leave the bag of clothes on the sidewalk and walk to another car.

Someone handed Ibrahim Hamdoni, 73, from Aleppo, an old Nokia mobile phone in a Ziplock bag. "I need Arabic characters. I need Internet on it," he said. He needs it, he says, to call his son, who has made it to Germany.

Down the street, a box filled with worn men's dress shoes remains under a tree. Nearby is a pile of broken toys: puzzle pieces, some plastic parts that look like they once were part of a track. Not far away is a black toy car with its wheels missing. Two men get into a fight; it's hard to say why. Their buddies quickly break it up.

While refugees eagerly snapped up the tents and sleeping bags brought by social worker Scherzer, none were lining up for the sparkling mineral water, a drink unknown to most of the asylum seekers. "We didn't know," she said. "There's just no communication."

Donating is good, said Anton Lojowski, a Traiskirchen city councilor, as he watched cars and trucks pull into Otto-Glöckel-Straße. But it is only sensible when it is coordinated, he added. Since the volunteer onslaught began, the city of Traiskirchen fills on average two large containers per week with unwanted donations.

'This is not Austria'

The Caritas volunteers have brought their sorted donations to a trailer near the intake center entrance. Christina Karafiat helps unload the bags to tables lining the sidewalk. On this day, Caritas provided only for women and children. They will bring items for men on another day. Lisa Karafiat places individual bottles of still water on one table.

Another Caritas volunteer hands out numbered orange tickets to a growing horde of women. As the crowd grows, the women in the back start to push those in the front. One young, thin woman in a pink headscarf loses her balance and pitches forward. A woman with graying hair at the temple tries to use the diversion to get into the mini supply store the Caritas volunteers have crafted.

Promptly at 4 p.m., she lets in the first five ticket holders. The other asylum seekers begin to jostle forward again. An empty baby stroller gets passed over the women's heads. Then the baby. Its mother brings the toddler over to try on shoes.

Across the street, a neighbor inches forward slowly with her walker to the gate of her house. The grass is neatly mowed, flowers trimmed and the long walk leading to the front door swept clean. She stares at the box of men's shoes that lies on the other side of the fence.

She doesn't want to give her name, but she said that in the 30 years she has lived across from the intake center she has never had problems - until now. "People just drive up and dump their old stuff here," she said, her eyes filled with tears. "Every day I have to pay someone to clean it up."

Mohammed, 18, one of the Caritas volunteers happens by and sees the woman crying. He asks why. Immediately he scoops up the box and disposes it in a container near the intake center entrance. He promises to come back and clean up the rest.

Mohammed is a happy young man, in spite of living in a center described by Amnesty as degrading. "The intake center is not Austria," he said. "These nice people; they are Austria. And I'm lucky to be here."

Do you want to share an opinion? Add your comments here below. The thread will stay open for 24 hours.