All language subtitles for Mondo caneENG

"...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 an'.

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.

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.

Castellanetefs night

smells more like pomade
than like ripe crops.

And the young one's dream,

enraptured by the
sweet rhythm of tango.

Rodolfo Guglielmi

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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, on Manley Beach,

the Association celebrates,

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.

She cannot go back to sea.

Take the wrong direction.

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.

Of course with some ritual...

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.

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,
serving 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.

There is no other
city in the world,

that is so immersed
in them as a Chinese.

The Chinese only deal with them.

This is their revolution.

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.

PHOTOS ARE PROHIBITED

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 alt 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.

Capital of the wild night.

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,"

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

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

that the splendid Hawaiian girls

lay on their guests
with amazing generosity.

Filling them with
flowers from head to toe.

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.

Of course, ladies and gentlemen,
this is the first lesson.

You think it's too diflicult?

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

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.

Here our camera goes back in 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.