microplastic diaspora

“Why don’t we hire a tractor?” asks one. “But what do you say?”, replies the other, “we are not creating a diaspora.” “But who said this is for the diaspora?” writes chat founder Aliona. “I just want to make this site a little better, no matter the strength.” They are talking in the Russian Telegram chat section in Porto. “I didn’t leave Russia to meet only Russians,” continues Sveta, “I want to meet new people.”

Namely, she left Russia because she and her husband received constant threats from the police after they were arrested “for walking with flowers in Moscow” as a sign of protest against the war. They sold everything and went to Turkey with their two children. And from there, encouraged by their friend Aliona, they arrived in Porto.

Walking along the coast, they started collecting plastic and it dawned on them to come up with Garbagefree Porto, an original Instagram account where they invite people to clean the city’s beaches. Since January, they have been concentrated in Cabedelo do Douro, whose monumental dunes act as a curtain between the Atlantic Ocean, the river and Vilanova de Gaia.

On Sundays at noon, silhouettes scattered on the sand can be seen from afar. Some backpacks mark the meeting place, joined by regular visitors and observers. Individually, in pairs or smaller groups, some with children. Everything is as natural as the environment. In the first weekends, they removed large drifts carried by currents and wind. Up close, the wild beauty of the beach succumbs to trash. Candy wrappers, corks, yogurts, bottles are buried in the sand and decompose among algae, feathers and sticks.

The task is obsessive, it sharpens the sense to see what is dirty, but also to regenerate what is clean. The man begins to follow his own trail, wanders away from the others like a disoriented penguin, then returns with the treasure. Suddenly several hours have passed, her lips are cut from the sun and saltpetre. The search on that vast beach, between the currents and the wind of an unknown city, becomes an exercise in introspection. Disturbed by everything he does not control, everyone is looking for something, a place, an address, a word. Unwittingly, these Sisyphus assume cosmic responsibility in the task of separating wet paper from sand.

Silhouettes spread and contract on the beach like bacteria from an overpowering organism that requires them to dominate the unruly. A slow walk, a meticulous finger-picking exercise, shy conversations… Everything is like a process of external and internal purification, therapeutic research. The silhouettes return to their backpacks, drink tea and cakes, someone has brought a bathing suit. He speaks Russian fluently, but it is not his only language. Retirees with professional instruments greet in English. They are from Oregon. “So you’ve been here for a few months…”. The Russians also agree, very young. Everyone loves Portugal, its kindness. “Unbelievable,” they continue, “one can no longer live in peace in the USA, Oregon is divided and cowboys They want to attack us. You can no longer be a homosexual, a feminist, or an environmentalist… You can’t imagine that. Although not very expressive, the looks of the Russians are stunned. Sounds like something. The gay couple says that, well, Russia doesn’t offer much freedom right now. And the Americans seem to have remembered something. Everyone laughs and continues their (another) lost cause, plastics.

Tribute to Ukraine

Last Friday, the gathering place was already the center of Porto. A diaspora seems to be forming. In a march with a pronounced Ukrainian nationalist undertone, those Russians feel shame, sadness. Lots of tears and hugs with Ukrainian acquaintances. “At least we know how to pick up the trash left on the floor,” Anna jokes with Dovlatov humor.

Refugees in the square chant “obliged, Portugal» which perhaps better than anything else brings out the positive from this war year: the sincere and generous hospitality of a country that knows how to receive by giving everything. Seen in this way, collecting plastic is also a way of approach, of giving thanks.