It is said that to travel is to learn. Now that one can travel from Bologna airport to Caracas in 15 hours (including the layover), how knowledgeable can I become? The unknown traveller who sets foot in the Venezuelan capital in this English film from 1918 was probably motivated by the same belief. Nevertheless, as soon as the house lights have gone down, we are confronted by an intertitle that offers no room for dissent: Caracas is a lethargic city with an ignorant population. Watching travel films provides an opportunity for two different types of investigation: into the part of the world to which the explorer has travelled and into the part of the world from which he came. Distinguishing between the two is arguably the hardest task, but forcing oneself to do so is the only way to discover anything of value. Unless, that is, you are happy to look at postcard pretty shots which whisk us off on a merry tour of scenic views, close ups of the various “racial types”, the pouring of coffee, and the inevitable marketplace.
By 1918, Venezuela had been an independent state for over a century. Antigua, on the other hand, was colonised by the British in 1632 (the source for this fact is Wikipedia, that other great aeroplane of modern knowledge) and when this film was made, they showed no sign of wanting to leave. The logical consequence of this is that (the occasional disagreeable hurricane notwithstanding), the island is presented as a chocolate box of delights, with clean and ample streets, flourishing sugar plantations, tasty loaves of bread, and a lively and well-fortified port. Not to mention the usual “racial types”.
In the late 1920s, Somalia was an Italian colony. The steamship Crispi, captained by Mario Lagorio, regularly travelled between Naples and Mogadishu. However, in the still-mysterious film we are screening, we never reach the destination promised by the title; the navigators are not too blame, rather it is the fault of some unknown misfortune which has deprived us of one of the reels. Motivated by our healthy desire for knowledge, we cross the Suez Canal to arrive in various seaside locations, with the odd incursion inland, catching glimpses of various plantations, tanneries, silkworm farms and everyday life. In Merca we also see a place where they cultivate smallpox vaccines in cattle and test them on “Italian chickens” (racial profiling?) Our journey ends with Istunka, a violent duel with clubs between two villages from opposite sides of a river. We might be tempted to call it a local sport, but that would constitute proof of our inability to fully comprehend it.

Andrea Meneghelli