Mallorcans are survivors. We must subsist 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 have to disguise ourselves. We are not a particularly carnivalesque town. We are not sensual in the dances when carnival comes, like the Brazilians. Nor do we have the delicacy and elegance of Venetian masks. We do what we can. This is another story. We dress up as tourists. We 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 crowd or hide altogether.
A few summers ago, the metamorphosis began: sunglasses, hats and, above all, a travel cart in hand as if we always had to go. There is nothing in the suitcase. It is an essential piece of equipment for walking down the street, if you need to take a taxi. Since taxis are a mess, they never stop when they identify that their potential passenger is Mallorcan. The goal is to get to and from the airport non-stop. Up and down doing the same route hundreds of times. Any journey within the city seems to them a waste of time and money. We transform into tourists and stop the taxis displaying our travel trolley as if it were a flag in the wind.
We have no other 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 pay attention to us. The fights with the taxi drivers, when we tell them where we are really going, is a very long story, which I prefer to spare you. They are not moments of great joy.
We also have to lie when tourists ask us, despite our attempts at disguise, which is the best cove, the whitest sand beach, the restaurant that serves good fish, or any address. We pretend to be clueless or ignorant, and remain silent as the dead. We don't give hints. Mallorca is busy, no need to give details. We are sometimes tempted to remember what we were taught at school: “What is an island? A piece of land surrounded by sea on all sides". In other words, a limited territory.
Since the existence of Google Maps everything has gone very wrong. We used to have secret corners, inaccessible places, spaces isolated from the tourist maelstrom. All this is over. The internet has also done us a favor. Now we have to make an appointment at the restaurants a week in advance, if we want to find a table. The shops we like, away from the most touristic 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 still lucky if they spend.
Much worse are the ones that litter, degrade the territory and, in addition, come with the wristband all included. Those who, when they stop at a bar, share a Coke among four, ask for lots of ice cubes, and sip non-stop, like sounding trumpets, during the two hours they occupy a table. What do you want me to tell you? It's no longer a question of costumes: we have the pirate soul. Maybe we are, since we understood that if there are no tourists, there is only misery.
