We Mallorcans are survivors. We must survive with wit, skill and pirate attitude. If we don't learn to move quickly, we have little chance of survival.
We have no other choice: we must disguise ourselves. We are not a particularly carnival people. We are not sensual in the dances when carnival arrives, like the Brazilians. Nor do we have the delicacy and elegance of the Venetian masks. We do what we can. It is another story. We dress up as tourists. We have learned that only if you look like a tourist can you save yourself from the high season, which has already started and will last until October. We must blend in with the invading mob or hide completely.
A few summers ago, the metamorphosis began: sunglasses, hats and, above all, a travel trolley in hand as if we always had to leave. In the suitcase, there is nothing. It is a prop element, essential to go down the street, if you need to take a taxi. As the taxis are a mess, they never stop when they identify that their potential passenger is a Mallorcan. Your goal is to go to and from the airport endlessly. Up and down doing the same route hundreds of times. Any tour in the city seems to them a waste of time and money. We transform ourselves into tourists and hail taxis, displaying our travel trolley like a flag in the wind.
We have no choice: we have to lie. When we call a taxi and the operator asks us what our destination is, we must say in a firm voice that we are going to the airport. It's the only way to get them to listen to us. The fights with the taxi drivers, when we tell them where we are really going, are a very long story, which I prefer to spare them. They are not moments of great joy.
We must also lie when tourists ask us, despite our attempts at disguises, which is the best cove, the whitest sand beach, the restaurant where they serve good fish, or any address. We pretend to be clueless or ignorant, and we remain silent as if dead. We do not give clues. Mallorca is busy, it is not necessary to give details. Sometimes we are tempted to remember what we were taught in school: “What is an island? A piece of land surrounded by sea on all sides. That is, a limited territory.
Since Google Maps has existed, everything has gone very wrong. Before we had secret corners, inaccessible places, isolated spaces from the tourist whirlwind. This is all over. The Internet has also screwed us. Now we must make an appointment in restaurants a week before, if we want to find a table. The stores that we like, far from the most touristy places, are no longer ours, but have been invaded by those crazy people from the north, who have fallen in love with an island. And luckily if they spend.
Those that dirty, degrade the territory and, in addition, come with the all-inclusive bracelet are much worse. Those who, when they stop at a bar, share a Coke between four, ask for lots of ice cubes, and sip non-stop, like sonorous trumpets, for the two hours they occupy a table. What can I say? It is no longer a question of costumes: we have the pirate soul. Perhaps we are since we understood that if there are no tourists, there is only misery.
