the Rosarno bicycles

Bicycles are all over the place.

They are next to me in the street, I pass them by, I face them coming on the opposite direction, I dodge them on the sidewalk and, as soon as I reach my destination, they are all around, as if they were waiting for me. Old bicycles frames, chains, tires, pedals, whole bikes going around: everywhere there is a sense of urgency to move on and beyond the garbage, the mud and the discomfort. Some of the people have been here for months, others have no way out, others must come back here regularly since their upon-arrival registration sits here. Most people have no place to stay,
and look for accommodation in dirty tents or a in warehouse. The questions that comes swiftly to my mind is: Where is all of this actually going?’. Some of them are reaching a temporary job place found just for the season, most of them are just going for a quick break, meeting somebody, making a call or for any other distraction from the empty time flow.

And yet, despite the time is, kind of, suspended, there is still a sense of fertility, productivity and dignity despite the distress. There is a butcher, a juice maker, a mobile phone repair corner, somebody fixing a tent and a church. The attempt to pursue any form of normality is constant.

What is this place? It is a true border, just `a few kilometers away from the rule of law, where the lust for life creates a complex mix with desperation. This suspended place is not far, it is actually next to our homes, workplaces and lives, in a – so called – civilised country that self-absolves itself behind big numbers and scarce means.