Roma Lone

Battered into a fragile state by my endless duty to correct erratically placed prepositions, the hyper-realism of those who perpetually live in the present tense, and those who play the wondrous 'guess the subject of this sentence' game, I decided I needed a holiday. TEFLin' had worn down my patience and energy levels (How I dealt with this problem is the subject of an upcoming blog entry), so I chose a destination that guaranteed a slow pace, away from parties, and soaked deep in cultural exploration. The Eternal City seemed the ideal choice, but I was determined to evade the crowded tourist traps with their hurried absence of authenticity. In my quest to find the real Italy, I put a detailed plan in motion. Through the subtle and detailed employment of tanning beds, lotions, hair dye, and semi-permanent hair transplants, I succeeded in attaining a more Latin look. Matched with a silky-suave apparel I was able to penetrate the true Italian people and witness them in their natural habitat. They never suspected they were being contaminated by the presence of a tourist, and when the occasion called for it, I was able to convincingly utter some multi-purpose phrases. Careful use of hand gestures sold the lines if there was any doubt. To further support the illusion, and prevent the poisoning experience of awareness of a tourist in their midst, I solicited a young, and very beautiful, Italian woman to cuddle/dry-hump me on a park bench, often for hours at a time. The raw, chaffed condition of my crotch after hours of such activity perfectly complimented the calloused leather that had grown on my well-trodden feet. 

It took but a few touches to create my Italian disguise.

Every morning, I would wake up in my rented apartment and, like a true Italian, proclaim, "Non posso credere che Silvio Berlusconi è ancora in politica." This tradition began about two millennia ago, when Romans grumpily decried the usurpation of the Republic by the Caesars, and proclamations continued during the Middle Ages and Renaissance, as Romans gasped with incredulity at the power the Christian Church had amassed and retained. Morning realisations of the governance of megalomanic dictators were particularly common in the early to mid twentieth century, when Italians groaned at the supreme authority of Benito Mussolini. These traditions can be seen in a watered down form near tourist spots, where actors declare in poor English that they can't believe that they keep supporting shitty leaders. I detest such cheap gimmickry, and I was careful to learn about real Italian customs before setting off to the place where all roads lead. As the saying goes, when in Rome, don't you dare do anything the Romans wouldn't do. It is strictly prohibited to drink a cappuccino after noon or eat a thick-based pizza with a dense layer of toppings or chew pasta that wasn't cooked al dente. Heaven forbid you should ever do these things in your home country, let alone in Italy. Heaven forbid you should ever leave yourself vulnerable to accusations of being an uncouth, ignorant, provincial tourist who (Heaven bless us and save us!) does something he or she likes that causes no harm, but violates the sacred, immutable codes of local custom. If my pleas fail to persuade you, please think of your own well-being. Violating these prescriptions will almost certainly invite the unsolicited counsel of pretentious, 'well-travelled' people, who will inform you of your 'mistake'. You will then have to wince as they pronounce Parmesan and bruschetta 'correctly', in an affected Italian accent. In bad cases, the pretentiousness may ooze into French, where you may be asked to pronounce croissant several times, until you get it 'right'.

I never allowed any of the tourists I met in Italy know I was from an English-speaking culture. They assumed I was a native and saw me as a man who possessed an exotic culture, full of discerning and tradition-proven protocols. My apparel, my hand gestures, and my palette all oozed a formidable sophistication and class. Back home for over a week now, I long for the day I can further scaffold my precious cosmopolitan persona by travelling once again to the Italian peninsula. In the meantime, I have to survive on opportunities to regale people with long, nuanced travel stories, where I demonstrate my expertise of the distinctive and authentic hallmarks of European countries and regions, and implicitly laud myself with mocking stories of ignorant others. As my skin's golden hue fades, returning to it original marble pallor, I lay down a challenge to you fellow travellers: journey as authentically as I did. Will you demarcate yourself as a worldly sophisticate? Will you prove to be an international man, a Renaissance man, a man of taste? Or will you show yourself to be an ignorant, gormless potato man? I leave the choice with you.

Postscript: All this talk about sophisticated, Renaissance men has reminded me of Robert Bolt's A Man for All Seasons. In the  play, Thomas More expresses his disappointment with Richie Rich who had recently become chancellor of Wales:

"Don't you know it profits a man nothing to gain the whole world if he loses his soul in the process? But for Wales? You sold your soul for Wales?"

This is a particularly chilling and tragic line, when you consider how Wales isn't a real country.

THIS IS IMPORTANT: YOU MUST READ!!!!!!

It's not often I involve myself in political campaigns, but I have been recently moved to rally behind a cause I just cannot ignore. I saw this picture a few days ago and, even before I had read the description I knew I had to act. Behold what is clearly a man from western society telling the chief what to do, as he weeps helplessly.

When you see a crying Native American who looks like he is exotically far removed from Western society, you know you have to take action. The description confirmed what I intuitively knew; the chief is crying because not only are the Brazilian government making him leave his home, but they are also going to destroy the Amazon Rainforest. He is Chief Raoni, and he hails from the Great Bend of the Xingu River, upon which the Brazilian government want to construct a hydroelectric dam. He wept when President Dilma announced the beginning of the construction of the Belo Monte dam. Moved to support this man and his plight, I began to investigate the situation. Imagine my surprise, when I found a blog telling me that Raoni was crying not because of the decision to build a dam, but he was weeping for his relative, who he hadn't seen for a long time. This is what his people, the Kayapo, do when they meet a loved one after a long detachment. Raoni stated later, having seen the picture and the description, that it was a false depiction of him. He insisted that he didn’t cry because of the the Belo Monte dam, and he declared adamantly that "President Dilma will cry but I will not. I want to know who gave this picture and spread this false information... President Dilma will have to kill me in front of the Planalto Palace. Then you will be able to build the Belo Monte dam."

Sensing something else was afoot, I was unsatisfied with this explanation and continued my investigation on forums, social networks posts, and Youtube videos. I eventually found several more explanations, each more plausible and intriguing than the next. On a Facebook post, I read that authorities confiscated a rare Amazonian fruit which the Chief claimed cured cancer and was ten-thousand more times effective than chemotherapy. Citing research from lesser-known universities, the post explained that the citrus fruit's superiority derived from it being natural and not 'full of chemicals'. It then bemoaned that 'a big corporation' had backed the confiscation and were eager to suppress knowledge of its existence, as it would threaten its profit margins. Such is the magnitude of their power that they suppressed all the big international media outlets, as well as the universities that carried out the research. The explanation satisfied my worldview, but still something wasn't quite right.

After digging deeper, I found an illuminating Youtube video, which has since been removed. The video was titled 'WHAT THEY DONT WANT YOU TO KNOW ABOUT FLUORIDE' [sic], a montage about the apparent dangers of water fluoridation. Citing research and maps, the video linked water fluoridation to several types of cancer and other ailments. Chief Raoni appears halfway through the sixteen-minute video and is quoted as saying he protests "the poisoning of our water supply". The crying picture makes an appearance, and the Chief is quoted as lamenting the unwarranted chemical destruction of nature by governments.

In my search for a longer quotation, I discovered a blog which told me that the Chief was misrepresented in the fluoride video, and that the poison he was actually castigating was sugar. Citing a long list of ailments that excessive sugar causes, including cancer, the blog demands we forsake sugary drinks and processed foods, as well as anything with artificial sweetener. In place of these deadly toxins, it recommends we eat more organic fruit and vegetables (prescription without diagnosis seems to be the norm in 'natural' medicine). I found a link to a health food store attached, but no more mention of the Chief.

Unconvinced, I continued with my search, distracted only occasionally by the false promises of sexy thumbnails. I encountered tentative links to Chief Raoni in Occupy movement memes, anti-Tea Party websites, videos criticising Barack Obama, pro and anti-gun lobbyists, vegan enthusiast links, and a twenty-seven-minute infomercial for a grand theory of virtually every conspiracy for the past three-thousand years. I also found a long conversation on a marijuana forum, in which the Chief cried because of Brazil's drug problems which could be solved by legalising narcotics.

In a short yet compelling article, I read that the Amazonian Chief cried because he was overwhelmingly distraught with all the misinformation distributed about him. He was especially affected by the indecent overuse of the CAPS lock key in these posts."The lack of eloquence was just as dire as the lack of facts. People only need to shout their argument when it has no weight." In the end, like all great authority figures, Chief Raoni is what we need him to be. Our environmentalist, socialist, anti-colonial, naturalist, anti-globalisation, feminist, traditionalist hobbyhorses need a rider, an image to add ineffable weight to the indignant slap of our incorrigible worldview on social media. He has no voice because we have taken it away from him. That and the saucer he has in his mouth must make it difficult for him to speak.

The Chief with Sting, campaigning to resurrect his waylaid career.