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Rating: << When I realized it, I took a train to go anywhere else, far from those who stayed to live crawling or perhaps to fight... >> Antonio Sapio, The Platypus
The sun lights up the road at the exit of Afragola. Buildings upon buildings gutted and left half-finished for decades. This is what you can see if you turn your head and look out of the window. And those? They look like clouds, but they are not clouds. No, they are hundreds of seagulls diving down on the heaps of trash in a compliant landfill. It stinks, it stinks a lot, but not always. When the big shots come to inspect the tragedy they initiated, the life they've forced and tied us to, they spray some deodorant as if it is our life that stinks. Then the giant can of giant deodorant, as usual, is left by the side of some suburban street... this is how "Biùtiful Cauntri" begins, a documentary on the handling of toxic waste in the Neapolitan outskirts.
The sheep, with dirty teeth, in this life, graze two meters from the trash in Acerra and in this life they die like us, polluted by dioxins from who knows what. Soon they will all be culled. Parameters 100,000 times above the norm are airborne in the air of Acerra, which is air no more. In this Chernobyl they wanted to build, factories explode and no one knows anything. Farmers drop the hoe and leave their tomatoes to chance and flee with a toxic cloud chasing them for twenty kilometers. That's how it goes, and there's nothing we can do about it.
Bertolaso and some people enter the landfill in Villaricca. Compliant landfill for the institutions... Bertolaso, people are suffering. Children are dying of cancer... Am I responsible for this? ...they enter. Bertolaso and his compliant landfill smile, but the landfill is not compliant, and people riot, shout... Where is the leachate capture?... Look Bertolaso, there's a lake of leachate two hundred square meters large... You are taking everything from us... Bertolaso starts to speed up, he flees, and I have a couple of tears that I can't hold back.
I saw three and a half million square meters of eco-bales stored since 2004 (40.960878, 14.072122). It looks like a Maya city made of trash, the sublime.
This is my land, it feels strange to say it because it horrifies me to confine myself to something, but this is my land, and on my land, everyone does as they please, and everyone talks without even knowing what to think. This is my land, exploited and whipped by anyone and anytime, and this is your landfill. Yours, of the institutions (may the Devil take them), of the northern entrepreneurs with their shiny teeth, of the mobsters, where you put the things you no longer need.
No Future squawked Johnny Rotten in a London besieged by the garbage collectors' strike. No Future is what I see looking out of the car without choosing what to live or die for. Like machines, they repeat that Naples today is clean, but the only thing you've cleaned is your conscience, and now you can close your eyes and sleep if you can, if the thought that some clandestine person enters your damn house with the damn big screen to rob you of your silverware and sodomize your daughters leaves you alone for a moment, at least at night.
Dis is a Biùtiful Cauntri!
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