Original subtitles

MONDO CANE

"...to neglect your respectable engagements"

and to be here with us, remembering and celebrating

one of the many children that this generous land

gave to the world of culture and art.

"Rodolfo Guglielmi, a son of this land..."

We are at Castellaneta, in the province of Taranto,

where Mister Semeraro,

vice minister of the cultural affairs,

is commemorating the honorable citizen Rodolfo Guglielmi,

son of the late Giovanni and Gabriella Barbi,

born here on May 6, 1895,

who died in America on August 15, 1926.

"...But his persistence,"

his energetic nature, prevailed and captured

the attention of those who worked in the movie industry

then starting to come to life.

...his path was not spread with roses,

but there were thorns, and many of them.

The Latin actors were given the most hateful roles:

the hoodlum, the bad guy,

"the man to be eliminated."

At Castellaneta, the community consists of a few families,

all related.

A lot of the Guglielmi blood flows among this crowd

that counts dozens of close and far relatives

of the great late actor.

Among them we can easily find some legitimate resemblance

with the fateful Rodolfo who smothered with love

the women of half the world.

"And I'm now glad to stress the opinion"

expressed on Valentino during his trip to Italy...“

For 30 years,

the young men of Castellaneta have been waiting

for the movie industry to discover among them

the heir of the great Deceased.

Finally, tonight the lights go on.

The cameras start humming.

Many anxious eyes look into the lenses.

Yes, in this little rural town of the Apulia,

where the land is not generous,

the opportunities offered by the movie industry seem more

appealing than those offered by the agricultural reform.

Castellaneta's night smells more like pomade

than like ripe crops.

And the young one's dream,

enraptured by the sweet rhythm of tango.

"...of the other communities."

But, alas, in Rossano Brazzi,

Rodolfo Valentino has found his heir a long time ago.

It's for him today to perpetuate in America

the Valentinian myth of the Italian lover.

That sort of Mr. Love-muscle that for thirty years

thirty thousand American women expect to be an Italian.

Poor Brazzi! Look what happened to him

when he went to a big department store

to take shirt measurements for advertising purposes.

But if American women are for real,

these women are not joking.

Do you know what they want from their suntanned Rossano Brazzi?

Well, all we can tell you is they don't want his autograph.

East of New Guinea, lies the Trobriand archipelago.

And this is Kiriwina, the biggest island,

surrounded by dreamlike beaches and probably

the most beautiful coral ocean in the world.

Here, the sun shines eternally, the land is generous,

and nobody works.

Consequently, the general mood leans toward having a good time.

These women, attractive and carefree about love,

have been practicing for centuries on these beaches,

one sport that, here too, is very popular:

hunting the male.

This sport made them so famous in the world

that today there isn't one respectable anthropologist

who doesn't refer to this archipelago

as one of the few places in the world

where women still practice polygamy.

As you can see, even in Kiriwina,

the rules of the game remain unchanged.

The male, once captured, is democratically assigned

to the healthy and thrifty love appetite of the community.

With maybe the only difference that here, it's not a custom

to tear up his shirt.

And the male?

Not a problem. Here, like elsewhere, the male is smart

and knows how to stay away from danger.

Unfortunately, the male of the Trobriand, when in fear,

keeps making the mistake of climbing on something

where, sooner or later, he will be caught

and forced to nest, one way or the other.

As you may have noticed, hunting the male is a sport

that has many analogies all over the world.

Maybe these women practice the hunt more like a sport,

so to speak, in the open air and bare-chested.

But this is the only difference.

After all, in the Riviera, a region famous for games,

male hunting is practiced in the open air and bare-chested,

if not literally so.

This woman's child has been killed.

Now she must nurse a small pig whose mother died.

This is how the law of the Cimbus goes,

in the heart of New Guinea.

There's still a place on this earth

where there is no difference between the life of child

and that of a pig.

Under an immense sky, on high mountains

that seemed to raise the land to the sources of light,

men live surrounded by darkness.

The land, still waiting to know the secrets of plow and seeds,

is not generous.

It's the Kingdom of Hunger.

Many of these men have eaten human flesh,

which used to be their ancestors' usual food.

The tribe has come down to the village

where a general celebration is about to start.

Which, according to a tradition imposed by poverty,

only happens once every 5 years.

A violent celebration during which, for 3 days and 3 nights,

they will gulp down meat until they burst out.

Soon, hundreds of pigs, the only wealth they gathered

through many years of starvation,

will be killed and devoured in a few hours.

Then, back to the long fasting.

It'll take five more terrible years

before the survivors will come back to celebrate

three days of feasting, wearing bird of paradise feathers.

The cooking of the pigs

is probably more brutal than their execution.

Here, cooking a pig means, more or less

burn it here and there.

The dead animals still have their guts full of bowels.

But the natives don't believe in such formalities.

Hunger can't wait for the big moment

when the tribal chiefs announce that finally,

after 5 years of waiting, the meal is ready.

Someone thought about the children,

and gave up eating the bladders.

Maybe playing soccer is also an instinct

as ancient as hunger.

Here too, the chiefs are allowed to eat

as much as they want.

As long as they do it without looking hungry,

as they are an example of good eating manners.

Along with the tribal chiefs,

the dogs enjoy a special treatment too.

It's maybe some sort of gentle feeling,

something unexpected among so much cruelty,

so, we'd be happy for having discovered it.

Or maybe, these are just the dogs of the chiefs.

Then we wouldn't have discovered anything new.

But the country where compassion for dogs

goes beyond the limits of human imagination is America.

We are in the canine cemetery of Pasadena,

in the outskirts of Los Angeles.

The same that inspired Evelyn Waugh's famous book.

It's one of those windy and sunless days

when the sky of California turns to the color of despair.

Here, the memory of the deceased, all of them,

is so happy, and this place is yet so pathetic,

that we could shed a tear or two over the small graves

of these venerable creatures.

Over their dead ancestors, these dogs behave in a way

that only to human standards is irreverent.

Conversely, only to canine eyes

could the intense human behavior appear inexplicable.

At Taipei, in the Formosa island,

dogs receive a different kind of attention.

They are selected, raised with extreme care,

made fat, and they get cooked following old and complex

recipes, for the joy of a large public of gourmets.

Such restaurants, where the customers can directly choose

from the cage, the most appetizing pet,

are extraordinarily popular all over China.

In these areas, people are very fond of Dachshunds, Poodles,

Boxers, Great Dane cubs,

but, usually they have a preference for the Chow-chow,

those very cute dogs also appreciated

for their intelligence and their faithfulness.

In Rome, when Easter is approaching,

hundreds and hundreds of chicks are immersed

in a colored bath and locked up to dry in a 50 degree oven.

They are selected, tested and multicolored guaranteed,

and they are ready to be locked up in the Easter eggs.

It is unfortunately estimated that out of every 100 chicks

that undergo this treatment, about 70 end up being

victims of some unpleasant accident.

In Strasbourg, known as the capital of foie gras,

over half a million geese

undergo every year this kind of treatment.

Their liver, in order to swell and get fatter

and reach the right weight, needs high nutrition.

So every day, the specialized staff stuffs them

albeit with the help of a little force,

such a big amount of food that even the greediest goose,

without supervision, would be unable to digest in one week.

Up until two years ago,

to prevent the geese from losing too many calories,

they used to nail their feet to a plank.

But now, thanks to these very small cages,

most of all, thanks to the funnels,

we can obtain the same amount of foie gras

with a more humane and civil treatment.

In Japan, about 500 miles from Tokyo,

there is the most sophisticated cattle farm of the world.

Eight hours a day these experienced masseurs

take care of the bulls in order to soften their flesh.

Plus, every bull receives six liters of beer a day

in order to expedite their fattening process.

The beer is given to the animals directly from the bottles

to prevent the liquid from losing its dilating power.

All the steaks coming from these bulls

end up in three or four specialized restaurants

in Tokyo and New York.

They cost approximately 7000 liras a kilo.

Here, where drinking beer is unknown,

they resort to the use of tapioca,

a starch that has more or less the same fattening qualities

as potatoes.

We are at Tabar, the largest island

of the Bismarck Archipelago,

where, by tradition, the most beautiful women of the tribe

are locked up in strong cages

similar to those we've seen in Strasbourg to fatten geese

and they get filled with tapioca

until they reach at least 120 kilos.

Then, they will be offered as wives

to the village's dictator, Utame Alunda,

famous all over the islands for his physical power

and his odd personality.

The fattening process goes from 3 to 6 months,

meanwhile, Utame Alunda didn't remain idle.

These are some of his most recent children,

that he loves to show to the foreigners in this dance,

as a proof of his virility.

This is his last spouse:

eight children and one hundred thirty kilos.

This is his favorite wife.

Ten children and 150 kilos.

And this is the great chief Alunda:

27 children and 34 kilos.

The American woman, instead, if she wants to be a lucky lover,

needs to lose weight.

We are in Los Angeles, in one of the many Vic Tanny gyms,

the famous health gym specializing in

feminine reshaping.

Here, hundreds of American women come to spend most of

their recurrent widowhood in order to eliminate

the weight gained during their last marriage

and to reconcile with the law of gravity,

while waiting for the next inevitable wedding.

Due to the constant flow and financial weight of its patrons,

the Vic Tanny is a heavy and prosperous industry.

A must stop in the American's long trip around marriage.

The next train to the next honeymoon leaves from here.

A train that whistles, pants, puffs, sweats, blows,

and then brakes and stops here again.

In Hong Kong, where it's harder to get fat,

about two million hungry Chinese crowd these local markets

where, for about 100 liras a kilo,

you can chose at will,

crocodiles, toads, snakes, turtles, lizards, et cetera.

Prices, in spite of the great range of choice,

are generally considered excessive.

In New York, instead, for big spenders,

there is the Colony, one of the most expensive

and sophisticated restaurants in the world.

While the average American, in order to survive,

must settle for the usual steak,

here, the rich Americans can fully enjoy all this bonanza.

Fried ants, stuffed roaches, butterfly eggs,

battered worms, rattlesnakes, muskrats, et cetera.

Most of the Colony's patrons

are internationally famous gourmets, politicians,

diplomats, tycoons, church leaders,

aristocrats, et cetera, et cetera.

Here, a light breakfast costs about $20.00,

about 12,000 liras.

But, considering the exceptional rarity and taste of the food,

the price is usually thought to be fair.

To open a store like this in Singapore,

where snake is the national dish, is always a hassle.

Malaysian customers are very picky and before they decide

what to buy, they always choose meticulously.

In order to really be edible, snakes must have innumerable

prerogatives: weight, length, color, age, skin conditions,

a particular season for each race, et cetera, et cetera.

The Malaysians, who know them all,

once they choose their snakes,

don't lose track of them for a moment.

It is estimated that, out of 100 sold snakes,

at least 50 are discarded as totally inedible

and are regularly shipped

to the American and European gourmets.

There is a little village in the Abbruzzi where the snakes

are part of an ancient and gentle tradition.

At Cucullo, on Saint Dominick's Day, the statue of the saint

is carried through the procession.

And the believers follow it

with their hands full of these harmless creatures.

In ancient times, as the legend goes,

the valleys of this region were infested with vipers

which the saint, with the power of his love,

made harmless by depriving them of their poison.

Beyond its pagan aspect and its unusual folklore,

the ceremony reveals an ancient and deep

act of faith toward goodness.

The name of the village is Nocera Tirinese,

in the region of Calabria.

The day is a Good Friday,

and the police are trying

in vain to implement the priest's request.

He's been trying for a few years to convince

the believers to give up the ritual, the “battienti”.

The “battienti” perpetuated through the centuries

a tradition whose origins are obscure.

On every Good Friday, they flagellate their legs

using wooden disks full of fragments of glass

and run to spread their blood on the streets

where, in a few hours, the procession,

with a crucifix, will pass by.

Nocera Tirinese is a small, hidden village in Calabria.

It's their way to exalt Christ's flagellation.

These girls, all between 16 and 20 years old,

who parade in the streets of Sydney,

belong to the Life Savers Girl Association,

that is, the girls who rescue the people

who are about to drown in the Pacific Ocean.

So now the Australians have two Armies:

The famous Salvation Army, whose goal has been,

for a long time, the rescuing of the souls

and this one, more recently established,

whose goal is the rescuing of the body.

But, to avoid unpleasant misunderstandings,

the two armies have been given different uniforms.

Today, the Association celebrates, on Manley Beach,

the decade of its formation with a big display.

Of course, under the circumstances,

the rescues are imaginary, therefore, any reference

to real drowned people is purely coincidental.

But the most interesting phase of the rescuing

is undoubtedly the CPR,

a treatment judged as very beneficial by all those

who have received it.

On these beaches, the physical importance of the life savers

speaks for itself.

The ocean is tricky and the young Australians

are getting more and more reckless each day.

For 4 days, this long stream of small white flakes

has been leading us toward our next adventure.

They are migrating butterflies,

killed by the radioactivity of these waters.

We are in the Pacific Ocean,

a few miles from the Bikini atoll.

Ten years ago, after the explosion

of the last American H-bomb,

a few types of birds which used to stay

in their underground nests only during the brooding,

learned that, if they wanted to survive,

they must no longer come out.

Such an instinct, caused by a long forgotten event,

was transmitted to the following generations.

And now these birds, rather than coming out of their holes,

let themselves be captured.

But this is just one sign of the dramatic alteration

of the fauna in this archipelago.

Everywhere,

the animals seem to mistrust their natural habitat.

Even some fish, like this particular specimen,

which can usually live out of the water

only for a very short time,

not only have learned to leave the polluted

and radioactive ocean for many hours a day,

but they even migrated to the top of the trees.

Thousand of eggs that will never hatch

cover the surface of the atolls.

They are the eggs of sea gulls and other birds.

Sterile eggs that died before they were even laid.

This sea bird went out looking for food,

but every night, it still comes back

to sit on them.

The atom killed the seed of life in the eggs.

Atomic contamination, even more tragically,

destroyed the sense of orientation in the sea turtle.

Tired and lost, rather than toward the sea,

the animal walks into the inner land,

where it will be killed by heat and fatigue.

Some eggs of the barret hatched in this island

and the chicks watch the turtle's agony in amazement.

The turtle, like in a mirage, believes it's back in the sea.

Hundreds of turtles die every day

in this hot desert of sand.

The barrets nest inside the big skeletons.

The little ones look for some meat among the bones.

The natives of the Malay islands bury their dead

in this immense underwater cemetery.

Their religion teaches that the sea washes the bodies

and frees them from sin.

Only during the day are these waters empty and still.

At night, the sharks rush in to perpetrate

their devastating action.

They only leave the bones, which the friends

and families of the dead arrange, with macabre pity,

among the bizarre coral branches.

In these waters, the sharks of the Malay coast learned

how to feed on human flesh

and become man eaters.

Catching man eaters is the only resource in Raiputh,

a village on the Malay coast.

Fishermen who were disabled by the sharks' bites

pile up in the sun dried fins on the beach.

They will sell them to rich Chinese communities,

where they are thought to have a strong aphrodisiac power.

Every day in Raiputh, a fisherman doesn't come back,

or returns in this condition.

But the village is poor and the Chinese pay well for their vice.

So the sacrifice goes on.

The only alternative to despair and pain is revenge.

Today there has been another victim.

In these waters, a 12-year-old boy

has been devoured by a shark.

Today the fishermen of Raiputh give up their prey.

They give it back to the sea

with a poisoned sea-urchin stuck in its throat.

It will suffer at least for one week before it will die.

In the Roman cemetery of the Capuchins,

death has been assigned a decorative task.

A few centuries ago, maybe the monks wanted

to give this place a sense of immortality.

In spite of its gruesome results, this work shows

a certain sense of beauty, which is always motivated by love.

Love that survives death, death that survives love.

MARIO AND INES

Still in Rome, on the Tiberina island,

the “Red Sacks“ brotherhood keeps carrying out its mission.

The “Red Sacks“ brotherhood started around the 1600's

upon the initiative of some Romans who,

during the plague, wanted to bury the abandoned bodies

of the poor and the unknown.

Nowadays, after so many centuries,

the “Red Sacks“ still look after their mortal remains,

the sole but eloquent evidence of the old compassion.

Protecting the bones from the ravages of the time

is the task of some local families who gather here

once a week on Fridays to work and to pray.

Just like these Germans from Hamburg,

let's drown the memory of so many cemeteries in the beer.

Instead of focusing on the cult of death,

in this happy German beer-house on Repabahm Strasse,

our attention goes now to the cult of life.

Life as happiness for being alive,

freedom of spirit, agility, physical health,

sociability, peacefulness, oblivion.

But most of all,

complete absence of any memory or thought of death.

Who said, “Drink beer and you'll live to be 100“?

But the Japanese in Tokyo, after a very busy night,

come straight in here to get back in shape.

This is a Tokyo Onsen,

a real service station to wash and lube

those Japanese who got drunk on the previous night.

The perfect functioning of the company depends on

some hundred girls in shorts and bras,

so that the patrons, besides so many tortures,

can at least comfortably enjoy the landscape.

According to a gentle Japanese custom,

the patrons must be naked.

We covered him according to a gentle custom of ours.

Japan is maybe the cleanest country in the world.

The rituals of bathing and massage

are as old as its civilization.

In Tokyo, a city with 10 million people,

6 million women tend every day to 4 million men,

pampering, flattering, sewing and rubbing them,

in order to make their lives more pleasant,

according to an old, admirable tradition.

So, Japanese men,

with every inch of their bodies taken care of,

without the smallest personal effort,

can taste the heavenly relaxation

that their god will only grant them

in the afterlife.

Chinese men too, give themselves up

to the hands of a woman on the day of their last makeup.

They entrust to her seductive arts

their uncertain fate to come.

Buddha is a wayward god, very impressionable,

and when he opens the gates of the flowering garden,

he cares more for the looks than for the virtues of the dead.

This is the funeral of a rich Chinese

in a temple of the city of Macao.

Friends are bringing food to his altar,

so he can nourish himself during his long trip.

Then they bow before the mourning family.

In a corner, a woman burns his money,

which, only this way, will be able to follow him

and preserve for him, in heaven, what to every

Chinese is the utmost good of this life and the other:

wealth.

The heirs attend in tears the sad ceremony.

Not only here in Singapore, but in all Malaysia,

the Chinese represent over a third of the population.

Never tired to figure out a thousand ways of making money,

they are nonetheless famous for their physical laziness.

They don't swim, run, jump, or play soccer.

As the Chinese don't waste their money,

likewise, they don't waste their energies,

which they prefer to use around the table

or in bed.

Between snacks, the Chinese find the time to fill

their houses with children, legitimate and illegitimate.

This guarantees a big bunch of birthdays to celebrate

with abundant meals.

The Chinese celebrate everything by eating:

Religious and national holidays, business,

a competitor's failure,

an averted danger, births,

and even death.

Here we're not allowed to photograph.

We had to force the situation to show you

Singapore's “home of the dead“.

All the terminally ill end up dwelling here,

in this tragic hotel for the dying.

The Chinese homes, full with children,

have no place for them.

Down the streets, their relatives,

relaxed and confident, wait for their funeral.

If you don't die soon, sing the Chinese,

your good dinner gets cold.

If they see us eating, say the Chinese,

they'll get hungry too.

Death is still late and the Chinese urge the gods

with a dance.

To the cars, the house of the dead is America.

California kills three of them every 2 hours.

They get dumped in these cemeteries,

but their remains will not be eternal.

Compressed to save space,

thousands of Fords, Chevrolets, Chryslers, Oldsmobiles,

Cadillacs, Lincolns, Buicks, no longer need any repair.

But they're not yet at the end of their destiny.

Soon they will be shipped to the great European car factories,

where the modern mechanical reincarnation

will bring them back to life as cars,

with a new, more humble label: “economy vehicle“.

Correction: not all of them will come back as cars.

In Paris, in one of the most respectable modern art stores,

we recognized the remains of an old Ford,

whose name was changed into a charming

“Esprit de la Carrosserie“, “Spirit of Chassis“.

The price: half a million francs.

The Czech painter Yves Klein is ready.

Music gave him the thrill.

These models, covering themselves with paint,

are the human brushes that soon Klein will use

to turn his creative fever into art.

You may have guessed, by now,

that Klein's favorite color is blue.

Moreover, blue is his only form, his only color.

Blue like his pictures that sell like hot cakes in Paris.

Blue like the event that our camera is approaching,

which most venerable critics consider as the utmost

Klein masterpiece, whose dominant color,

as any connoisseur may guess, happens to be blue.

Dripping with blue, the human brushes

leave their prints on the canvas,

while Klein guides them from afar,

with the energy of his creative genius.

The work, that we had the privilege to catch

in all the phases of its creation,

is on sale for only 4 million francs.

In search of tropical, impressive views,

and the picturesque aspects of primitive life,

three thousand American tourists arrive in Honolulu.

Yearning for romantic experiences and eager

to face unexpected adventures,

they will follow the program

of the “Hawaiian Travels Organization“ that,

for only $4,000, taxes included,

organized for them 10 days of a “very exciting holiday, “

as it is advertised in the brochure,

a vacation across a “tropical dance and paradise of love.“

The paradise of love and dance.

The first page of the Hawaiian Travels'

long and detailed program says that

the landing ceremony will take place in a charming

Hawaiian atmosphere and according to

the romantic customs of this love island.

Therefore the company's management invites

the gentle ladies not to be jealous of the innocent

attention that the splendid Hawaiian girls

will direct to their husbands.

Soon after, the company's photographer,

provides the tourists with their arrival souvenirs,

which includes, according to the program,

smiles and flowers leis that the splendid

Hawaiian girls lay on their guests

with amazing generosity.

The speaker is now informing the tourist

about the main customs of this tropical paradise.

He says:

"Ladies and gentlemen, fate has been generous with you"

by giving you the privilege

to visit this island before it was too late.

The beautiful women who are giving you

this charming performance are the last specimen

of a race that is disappearing.

It's a pity you can't savor

a bit of their very sweet language.“

They sing:

"Welcome, welcome, strong and handsome white man."

Welcome, welcome, seductive and beautiful white woman.

You will teach me the secret of your elegance wherefore

you can seduce your men.

I will teach you the secret of my dance wherefore

I seduce mine.

Come, come to learn the Hula.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the Hula.

You think it's too difficult?

Of course, ladies and gentlemen,

but nothing is impossible as Abraham Lincoln used to say.

Look at that dancer. She's the best in the island.

But, ladies and gentlemen, when she was a child,

she was struck by polio and do you know what

had the power to free her poor crippled limbs?

The Hula, ladies and gentlemen.

"The Hula and her willpower."

They listened, clapped, had fun and got moved,

exactly as it was written in the program.

And now that the program prescribes a Hula lesson,

they go to learn Hula, nice and diligent.

This candid generation of once hard workers now

believe in the Hula, in theirs and other people's happiness,

while they enjoy a little murdering rest,

with their first symptoms of arthritis.

They still believe in this tropical paradise

that they have destroyed and where the only real,

genuine native dance we can still attend, is this one.

After six hours of cold steel training,

Sergeant Rhuba Narcktitle is being made up as a woman.

The situation is pretty embarrassing,

for a fierce warrior who, only a few years ago,

during the war against the Malaysian communists,

decapitated 36 partisans.

But today is a national holiday

and the tradition wants him to celebrate it with a dance

in a woman's costume.

The fierce Gurkhas live in the mountains of Nepal.

For one and half century, they have been mercenaries

under the English empire.

According to the tradition, their celebration must be

attended by all English officers,

their commander-in-chief included.

Seeing them in this circumstance and dressed like women,

nobody would believe they are the fiercest

and most faithful soldiers in the world.

Still, during the last war, when they were captured

by the Japanese, 300 of them preferred to be decapitated

rather than betray their promise of loyalty

to her British Majesty.

Today is the anniversary of that memorable day

and the Gurkhas celebrate it with great solemnity.

This time too, the bull's head has fallen with one strike.

The honor of the battalion is saved.

The spirit of the fallen Singapore soldiers is at peace.

The English officers watch with satisfaction.

The English colonel encircles the heads

of the champions with a white strap,

a symbol of strength, fidelity and bravery.

About a month later, in Portugal, a few bulls

take their revenge goring and killing 4 people,

and injuring 18.

We are at Vila Franca de Xira, where the people

happily celebrate the traditional “Forcada”.

Later on, in the arena,

the nobles too give a proof of their courage.

On these mountains of the Garoka region in New Guinea,

lies the border between history and prehistory.

Here we found the last cave man, still armed with a club.

He doesn't even know metal, he lives in the unreachable

caves of the mountain with his women and children,

he's as wild and suspicious as a beast.

We don't know how he'd react if he spotted

our camera pointed at him.

Rather than by a camera, these images seem to be

caught by a huge telescope pointed into time.

They could be the shadow, the photographic memory

of the stone age.

This day, this moment, goes back 4 or 5 thousand years.

Nothing particular is happening.

Now as in the past, life goes on under the eternal

guide of their instinct for work, leisure, children,

food, human contact and an orderly social life.

50 miles north of there, a Catholic mission marks

the extreme outpost of civilization.

Five missionaries have been killed in recent years

before the sound of a bell could awake,

through these old valleys, the instinct of faith.

Here, after hundreds of centuries spent in the dark,

men discover, for the first time, that there's a doubt,

a question they cannot answer,

sense of anguish, unknown so far,

which is not hunger or thirst or physical pain,

but that hurts, nonetheless, like a wound.

It's the anguish that follows men from the beginning

to the end of world.

But they still don't know it.

Only yesterday they discovered the world

and themselves and today they need to believe,

to hope that they'll be better in a better world.

But one fine day,

the aboriginal comes down from the mountains and,

as he approaches the coast,

his experience runs across hundred of centuries

in a few days.

Here, at the gates of Port Moresby airport,

where the aboriginal ends his journey through the time

and where he cannot find a reason to all the things

he learned, but saw too quickly,

the “Cargo Cult“ has burgeoned inside of him,

that is, the cult of these cargo airplanes.

Along the great oceanic course between

Hong Kong and Australia, flown every day by tens

of cargo airplanes that stop here in Moresby,

the Cargo Cult has a temple almost everywhere.

Here is one,

with the altar built at an altitude of 3,000 meters.

The small airplane is at one end of the track.

On the other end, the control tower.

The native of the Rozo and Mekeo tribes

wait for some airplane, attracted by their bamboo decoy,

to land on this track.

To them, airplanes come from heaven,

sent by their ancestors, but the white men,

those cunning thieves, take charge of them

and lure them in the big Port Moresby trap.

Build your airport too, says the Cargo Cult doctrine,

and wait with faith.

Sooner or later your ancestors will find out

the treachery and will lead the airplanes to your track.

Then you'll be rich and happy.

They wait motionless, scanning the sky.

There is no other world beyond these mountains,

so the big birds that fly up there can only come from heaven.

In heaven, there are only their dead

and only their dead could build them.

The spirits of the dead do not know the whites,

so all those wonderful things carried by the airplanes

are sent to them by their dead ancestors.

They destroyed their villages, they abandoned their jobs,

but here they are,

still waiting with faith at the gates of heaven.