THE WOMEN OF THE WORLD
TO BELI NDA LEE, WHO THROUGHOUT THIS LONG JOURNEY
ACCOMPANI ED AND HELPED US WITH LOVE.
Rome.
A grand military parade on the Via dell'Impero.
Thousands of young men, the nation's finest
proudly line up to present this superb spectacle to officials
and to the public jamming the grandstands.
Disciplined, fearless, impassioned
hearts swelling with noble ideals
nothing in the world could distract them today.
Well, maybe one thing.
But just one.
Israel, August 5, 1 962.
Thousands of female recruits, the nation's finest
line up before the regiment commander, a female general.
She observes a sample of the very best on a harsh assault course.
At 2:00 p.m., they lay down their arms for a half-hour break
leaving them no worse for wear, or for underwear.
At 3:00 p.m. sharp
arms are inspected by Sergeant Major Corinne Rosenthal.
Her completely feminine love of cleanliness means
just one grain of dust in a gun barrel could ruin her entire day.
Isn't a girl's greatest virtue
to keep a submachine gun polished and ready to fire?
Meanwhile, at a remote outpost
the more seasoned soldiers guard the borders of the Promised Land.
It could cost them their lives at age 20, this privilege of being present
from the dawning of this immense, impassioned, eternal biblical theater
to the final act of the drama
lived by their restless people for the past 30 centuries.
But for the recruits, the off-duty call sounds at 5:00 p.m.
Here they are
the fearsome females of the Israeli army
heirs of the ancient Amazon warriors who, to better guide their weapons
had a breast amputated.
At least that's what some foreign observer said
one equipped with scant powers of observation.
Look for yourselves.
Does it really look like the tough life in the field
military discipline, familiarity with arms
has diminished any of their primitive, delicious and refreshing femininity?
Retired Colonel Rudyard Hopkins, formerly of Scotland
is supreme commander of the army of Iua.
This is another female army, because Iua is an island of women only.
The army is an obligatory stop for all physically fit girls between 1 3 and 1 8
whom Colonel Hopkins trains
with tireless daily-- and nightly-- maneuvers
for the purpose of feeding the new conscripts of tomorrow.
As you may have guessed, this army is made up of his 84 wives
who've provided him with 52 children.
Colonel Hopkins is proud of his soldiers and speaks constantly of their virtues.
Unfortunately, it's not possible to understand a single word
because he's as mute as a stone.
But to make up for it, he's as deaf as a doornail
though he moves his lips with the calm confidence of someone
who ran out of hearing aid batteries ages ago.
As far as we can tell, his troops are in fine shape.
Things always go smoothly, unless a recruit under inspection
is found unfit for service due to thoracic insufficiency.
Colonel Hopkins is a good Scotsman
as demonstrated by the rich variety of his clothing.
And he's a good colonel, as demonstrated by his ease
in mobilizing his troops at the moment of our departure.
These are the convicts of Stius
an island without women in the Gulf of Carpentaria.
They've caught one of those marine monsters
which today's biologists call a dugong
formerly known as a Siren
the mysterious creature sung of by Homer
half fish and half beautiful woman
the love and death of ancient sailors.
The convicts stare in silence at her slow agony
awaiting nightfall to taste of her flesh in a ritual of love
as tragic and ancient as the world itself.
It's April 1 2, 1 962.
On Stius, island without women
the myth of the Sirens continues.
July 1 4.
Paris celebrates the fall of the Bastille
elegantly recalling the historic end
of a frighteningly myopic century
the triumph of Voltairian Enlightenment and the advent of freedom.
On a day like this, people elsewhere would be kissing their flag
but the French kiss their women.
In the tragedy, misery and splendor of the history of France
we always sense the physical presence of women as the stimulating force
behind that pinch of anarchy that today urges the unwitting citizen
to kiss his woman right in the middle of a mass of policemen.
In Paris, a public kiss on July 1 4
transcends all romantic and physical limits
and takes on the proportions of a provocative gesture
directed at the public or at servitude and conformity.
But it is a sterile gesture to which the public does not react
filled as it is with its skeptical civility.
"The day I kissed my wife in public'', Moliere wrote,
"I felt like I was kissing the Statue of Liberty on the lips.''
This is the statue of Guidarello Guidarelli
a handsome young hero who fought and died for Cesare Borgia.
Today, in the museum of Ravenna
the irresistible Guidarello still exudes sex appeal
from every one of his marble pores.
So much so that every year, on the anniversary of his death
women line up to kiss him tenderly on the lips.
From a cultural and romantic perspective
this is a refined and tender gesture
but from the scientific point of view
it's a tendency common to all erotically underdeveloped countries.
Her name is Erika Sommer.
She's 40 years old, Swedish
and the only woman in the world authorized to celebrate the Mass.
Since the distant times of vestal virgins and priestesses
history gives us no other example besides hers.
She is the official priest of a Stockholm parish
where the faithful rush in great number to receive communion from her hands.
From the hands of a woman
imbued with a physical and spiritual understanding
a mystical affinity.
And what other sort of affinity induces these girls
to dance with each other at a famous Parisian nightspot?
What feeling is this
that distances them from the company of men
while impelling them to imitate men to such pathetic result
and mask their melancholy tenderness with irony?
But where these women can at least point
to a literary source for their proclivities
men have only the weight of ridicule.
For all the effort they make to deny women
the fair sex is present among them more than ever.
Trying to deny women makes their presence more pronounced than ever
whether among hermits, celibates, eunuchs
and especially this group.
As you can see, Europeans hold no monopoly
on the spectacle we just witnessed.
Here in Papua New Guinea, among the Ibitoe tribe
what we euphemistically call "special friendships''
are extremely common among all the men of the village.
Doing their coiffures, putting on makeup, plucking unwanted hairs--
it's all a great effort, which, although satisfying, takes nearly the entire day.
So the heavy work of keeping the village going falls to the women
who don't need to waste time in front of the mirror
since no one even looks in their direction.
As you see, this type of weakness is common in both hemispheres
and it wouldn't be so bad if it weren't the women who pay the price.
These oppressed working women cannot even resort to a strike
for it would leave these gentlemen perfectly indifferent.
FULL NUDITY PROHI BITED
But there's another village
only 1 2,000 miles away, on the Cote d'Azur
where men may seem unenthusiastic before the great bounty of God.
But the women?
They'll say it's to get a great tan
and avoid the ugly double white strip
left by the bikini at the end of summer.
Which is not a sign of good prospects for the winter.
Chinese women, on the other hand, don't think that way.
Their idea of beauty is skin white as milk
and transparent as porcelain.
So they enter the water dressed in a thin suit
closed up to the neck, complete with socks, gloves and parasol.
The Chinese woman is afraid of tanning because, or so they say here
in the sun her skin doesn't tan but turns yellow as a lemon.
So every winter-- because here they go swimming in winter--
she takes every precaution to maintain in her most intimate anatomy
the fragile delicateness of fine china.
Which is a sign of good prospects for the summer.
In New Guinea, the ideal of beauty for the black women of Lambu
is white skin
obtained by smearing their bodies with a special type of mud.
The custom is of recent origin
coinciding with the arrival of the first missionary nuns
the " White Sisters of Charity''
My name is Maria Angelica de Montal.
I am 22 years old
and for the last 1 6 months
I have been living in this cloister in New Guinea in the peace of the Lord.
We maintain the rule of silence
and the only voice heard is that of our prayers
to our Divine Bridegroom.
I am happy in my cell
which is comfortable and clean
and even has a little window high up
through which I see the sun and the sky that's always blue.
On Thursday, when I may speak with our Mother Superior
she tells me that outside there are many big yellow flowers.
I pray every day for those good people
who bring us food
so that we may live in the glory of our bridegroom,Jesus Christ.
Today in Orgosolo, a paramilitary policeman died in a clash with bandits.
He was a young man of 20, born and raised here in the village.
Perhaps the bandits set their sights on him for that very reason
since even today, in their eyes
a Sardinian on the side of the law is a traitor.
They brought his body to the cemetery on Thursday morning
but on Tuesday and Wednesday it stayed at the home of his mother.
On Wednesday evening, the " mourning women'' came.
The best come up from Oriena da Fonni and Orzulei for special deaths.
At midnight their wails can be heard down to the last house in the village.
At 4:00 a.m., the women from Orzulei turn the job over to those from Oriena.
They have to return to their village for a job at the house of Domenico Piddu
whose wife died the evening before.
Our next stop is those shores where delight and smiles reign
that sweetest of islands, Tahiti
the last paradise on Earth.
Here the angels are women as delicate as butterflies aloft in the spring
among perfumed trumpet flowers
flitting about from dawn to dusk.
But luckily, even in Tahiti
the new generations are bursting with energy.
We're at the public school in Papeete, the island's capital
during the three daily hours of dance lessons
compared to two meager hours
to cover French, math, history and geography.
Tahiti is constantly dancing
and even after school they dance away their free time
to the incessant and frenetic rhythm of the tamure.
They dance during working hours as well, because on Tahiti
dancing, aside from being instinct, diversion and passion, is also work.
In fact, by 6:00 a.m., in hotel gardens
the girls decorating the tables with flowers are already dancing.
Dancing prepares their bodies to perform for tourists.
To better offer its all to the tourist industry
this industrious island is constrained, for its very survival
to keep each one of its " natural resources'' moving from dawn to dusk.
But today, Tahiti, which has passed from small-scale work to mass production
can count on the advantages of exportation.
Here is the lovely Vaea, recently exported to Europe in films
seen here taking lessons from her mother.
Here is the charming Lorraine
also recently acquired by the European market.
And the beautiful Kula
whose imminent exportation to Italy makes us hope
that this island will join our Common Market.
Also flourishing is the importation of sailors from the United States.
Every evening, this training ship from San Francisco
unloads its cargo of 300 cadets on the docks of Papeete.
From a business perspective
that represents a sure 300 spectators for the day's final tamure performance.
Leis, kisses, smiles and door-to-door pickup and delivery
are all included in the price of admission.
For a young cadet in the US Navy, the tamure isn't just a dance.
It's an education.
It's the discovery of a new world, of new emotions
and, above all, of a new feminine fauna
he never learned about in school.
This is where they come from
like the blossoms of this perennially flowering island.
White, yellow, red, blond, brunette
flowers planted by no one knows who
belonging to everyone and to no one.
They are children of the dance, that benign muse
that gives them their daily bread.
And here, everyone accepts them like a blessing.
Their care is entrusted to the old women of the island.
Their mothers are dancing on the beach or at the port
where another tour boat has arrived.
The young mothers ofTahiti don't raise their own children.
They'll bring up other women's children in their turn
when they, too, are too old to dance in public
and a solitary beach will remind them of the sweet years of their youth.
Here we are at Cannes during the annual film festival.
Nowhere else is a woman so engaged
in the dramatic, pathetic, useless and unyielding battle with time.
She races toward a future already attained
or toward an unattainable past.
At 1 8, she feels too distant from Lolita
and too close to the threshold of her 40's.
She's restless, like Cossinette
not knowing whether to act like a mature man or an old woman.
So she heads toward an unknown future
leaving behind a past without regrets
which may well reflect the part of her most worth remembering.
She wants to be in movies
because movies seem the quickest path to her destination
though she doesn't yet know what that is.
She only knows that for movies, you don't need to know anything in particular--
which gives her substantial courage--
and that you need to be ready to do anything--
which gives her loads of security for the future.
She believes in the myth of the overnight sensation
in dinner with the producer
and in all that is easy, pleasant and, above all, quick.
She wants to be discovered, noticed, admired, helped, launched.
All in 2 4 hours.
Launched, yes. But where?
She also believes in scandal.
So she shows up at the Palais des Festivals in a bikini
certain she'll be made an actress by the next day.
And the next day she's in bed with a cold.
In Los Angeles, Eva Barrett, 20, aspiring actress
has been waiting 1 8 months to at least be called as an extra.
To make ends meet, she sells newspapers on Hollywood Boulevard.
Ivy Page, Gloria Still
and sisters Rosy and Martha Crystal
pump gas at an all-night station.
They're paid on commission.
Four aspiring stars from Louisiana
and two ex-models from New York
have been waiting two years for their big break
while serving burgers and fries until 5:00 a.m. at a drive-in.
They earn an average of $2 a night
plus 1 5% in tips.
The rent for their sequined uniform is five cents an hour.
Jamie Spring, 1 8, from Minnesota.
Eight times a night, she dons this casual evening ensemble
designed to help American women fall asleep easily
complete with sleep mask, headphones for listening to lullabies
and a timer.
Barbara Green, 23, from California
is in charge of erotic accessories for less peaceful nights.
Immense beds, fiery-red blankets
and masks inscribed with sayings
that can be changed according to various contingencies, such as
Others head for the photo studios at the big magazines.
This is Milton Green
perhaps the most famous photographer in the world
who's attempting, by anatomic selection, to assemble the ideal American woman.
A hundred women a day come to this studio
leaving a nose, a neck, an arm, a foot
and going home with the rest that no one wants.
That's the law of film:
chop up 1 00 women to create just one.
In Japan, they get straight to the point.
The model undresses completely and lets the photographers choose the best part.
The photographers are tourists ready to pay dearly for an obscene photo.
And theJapanese, a society of nudists and thus less sensitive to obscenity
capitalize on their weakness in good conscience.
On the streets ofTokyo, immense film and theater posters
which in our cities would generate huge protests and new laws
are barely noticed by crowds of women and children.
Sex is not even a mystery at school.
On the contrary, the first three years of middle school
include two mandatory hours per week of sex education
in which the teacher shares with the students
the secrets of physical love, gestation and birth.
Boys and girls in mixed classes learn to locate the source of life
without the doubts of adolescence or the shadow of guilt.
And they learn the most suitable and moral means
to carry out one of the most urgent academic programs of theJapanese empire:
birth control.
With these surprising results.
These are the children of 20,000 ex-US soldiers
who found their soul mates here in Japan.
They dress in European style and speak English.
One surviving tradition is to bring them to drink
from the famous Fountain of Health, where on the eve of battle
the ancient samurai came to find courage, ecstasy and strength.
But since the American samurai acquires courage and strength
from a different source, Japan tries to keep up.
This is a cocktail lesson for bartending students.
There's also a school in western manners
teaching the correct use of the fork.
And a weight-loss gym
for the logical consequences.
In the department stores ofTokyo
girls pay more and more attention
to mannequins dressed in European style.
Tastes change.
It takes just one look at the newest dolls to understand
the longings of the modern Madame Butterfly.
A bust likeJayne Mansfield
and eyes like Gina Lollobrigida.
Transforming almond eyes into round eyes
is done by a surgeon wielding a scalpel with exactly the opposite technique
of that used by his Western colleagues
to transform round eyes into almond eyes for European and American women.
Dr. Ashiri, a popular ophthalmologist
with a prosperous clinic in Ginza
carries out 1 0 to 20 operations a week
and achieves this incomparable result.
To enlarge the breasts, the surgeon uses
the most elementary laws of hydraulics.
The liquid generally used is oil of paraffin
injected in varying amounts, from 1 0 to 1 5cc per breast
depending on the safe limits of pressure.
The results are not final
because, with time, the breasts deflate
and must be brought back to the clinic to be pumped up again.
The paraffin treatment is harmless
though it's not recommended for women who are nursing.
Nine tons of synthetic rubber
for a total of 7,000 pieces per day.
And still this fake breast factory in Los Angeles
has only 50% of the market.
How disheartening!
The continued use of synthetic rubber
in a world desperately seeking to defend itself against adulteration.
This is just too much!
This poor father is trying to nurse his child with a coconut.
His wife wants nothing to do with it.
She's afraid of ruining her breasts
preferring to smoke and gossip with her girlfriends.
We're in a Sakai village in northern Malaysia
where polyandry is practiced
that ancient and rather rare custom
whereby the wife lives it up
while her seven or eight husbands slave away from sunup to sundown.
But the Sakai woman still hasn't found
someone to stand in for her when it comes to childbirth.
When the time comes, she has to do that alone.
But even in this there's little cause for joy for the poor husbands.
Gathered in the next room
they must pretend to assist the likely father
who thrashes about, complaining of atrocious labor pains.
MI NORS PROHI BITED Much has been written about this street
but up till now no one has ever managed
to smuggle a movie camera past this steel gate
to document its squalor.
We had to hide the cameraman in a laundry truck
to get live images
of the famous " window girls'' of Hamburg.
And this is what the street looks like
on a Sunday afternoon
when farmers and villagers come to town
to enjoy the curious spectacle of the " window girls''
with their wives and girlfriends.
This is the view
of a student dormitory in Stockholm at 1 0:00 p.m.
This immense, modern building has more than 200 small apartments
with one of the largest and most active communities of Swedish students.
Our observation post proved perfect for a very careful study
of the controversial coed life
lived in open promiscuity
in these fine lodgings furnished with every modern comfort
except window shades.
Finally, and invariably at midnight
the curtain falls on the long workday.
It's Saturday morning.
On the outskirts of Stockholm, the highways swarm with coeds
seeking a ride to the beach, the lakes, or the mountains
after a long week of studies.
But since all the world's a village, some are left on foot. All the better!
Even in Sweden, hitchhiking can be dangerous.
You never know how they drive.
In Italy, especially in the south
there are no exceptions to the law of premarital chastity
and once the marriage is celebrated
it's consummated on the spot.
Otherwise
"Angelica, who, as her name says, lived like an angel on Earth
but, suspected of disgrace, she became an angel in heaven.''
"Pure as a saint, faithful as a warrior
killed and wept over all because of a mistake.''
"Here lies Maria Grazia, whose loving innocence
others believed was tainted with sin.''
After burying an entire generation of husbands in this pleasant cemetery
the Sporting Lidova Association
plays bocce every morning on the green fields of Little Road
on the outskirts of Sydney.
This widows' group is made up
of 3 5 women of fine Australian heritage
whose late husbands excelled at playing bocce
considered the national pastime in Sydney.
Properly dressed in their mourning clothes
which can be either black or white, depending upon the weather and season
these pleasant sportswomen never lose the cheerful serenity
that accompanies in even the most painful memories
these gentle, simple creatures
when, with these morning games
they celebrate the daily rite of paying homage to their deceased husbands.
Meanwhile, along the endless beaches of California
young American couples also celebrate before the fiery ocean
their daily rite in homage to their love.
It is the rite of heavy petting, of motorized flirting
hurried, restless, impetuous
the desperate yearning for a love barely glimpsed and already vanished
swift and elusive as a sunset.
A tree restaurant. Capacity: two.
Recommended for those who wish to spend a romantic night
wrapped in the tropical forest's mysterious silence.
An irresistible attraction for American couples on their honeymoon in Honolulu.
There are hundreds of reservations
and any couple who gets their turn
before their first child is born is lucky.
Delicious food, atmosphere, champagne
and as the brochure says:
"a romantic night wrapped in the tropical forest's mysterious silence.''
But the brochure didn't mention this.
They climbed the tree trustingly
toward their innocent and romantic dream.
It's the first disappointment of their marriage.
They're not skeptical enough to laugh it off
or cynical enough to dump soup on the heads of the crowd.
The first clouds have drifted over their honeymoon.
The divorce is final, the bags are packed
and now they're leaving Las Vegas, having stayed here the five weeks
required to obtain legal residency in the state of Nevada.
The Twin Lakes Lodge is a real ranch right out of a western
run by gallant cowboys
who do their best to help their female clients forget
the real reason for their forced vacation.
The children, waiting for Mommy to get rid of Daddy, play by themselves.
Time is never wasted here.
There's always a smiling cowboy
to teach you how to put on a holster and handle a six-shooter
without increasing the bill by one penny.
Other cowboys organize rodeos
and teach the ladies how to use a lasso to rope a calf--
after having taught both the horse and the calf
how to behave in a lady's presence.
Meanwhile, the children continue to play on their own.
At sunset, an innocent ride two by two at the desert's edge
brings the tiring day to a close.
But for those women having trouble sleeping
there's always more to learn.
In the hotel saloon, the bartender's brother, dressed as a cowboy
teaches them how to drink whiskey likeJessieJames.
Lessons continue well past midnight
but this time they're not included in the bill.
Get married for just $1 5!
Price includes minister, flowers, and parking.
How can you resist the urge to get married and have kids?
Las Vegas isn't a city.
It's a light bulb that goes out at dawn.
Even the $1 5 chapels have disappeared.
No chance of getting married now.
At this hour in Las Vegas, you can only get divorced.
At 8:00 a.m., the couples line up, and the first goes in.
They're only together now out of legal considerations.
When they leave here, they'll take two different streets
forever.
Someone is crying.
Some drunken husbands beat their wives
or just insulted the judge.
This is the Las Vegas divorce court
its glass facade as transparent
as the mood and character
the nature and indifference
and pain of those waiting their turn.
Only age-old traditions manage to keep the family together now.
Only the natural state of submission of woman to man
can save the institution of matrimony.
Observe this eloquentJapanese scene.
The women dive for pearls eight hours a day
while the men, seated in the boat, sip tea.
The women don't breathe. The men don't complain.
But while the women tremble with cold and fatigue
the man handles the housecleaning all by himself.
In Magasho, 200 miles south ofTokyo
the scene is even more spectacular.
Hundreds of women return to shore each morning
having been out to sea since dawn
gathering seaweed from the bottom of the ocean.
Around noon, the men come to wait for them on the beach.
As is easy to note, this is only a polite gesture.
They don't lift a finger or bat an eye
while the poor girls, half dead from exhaustion, fill the baskets.
It's a type of seaweed highly prized in Japan
belonging to a rare species of hemigosoli
used to prepare aizzai, a type of baking powder for fritters.
Market price, about 7 5 cents a pound.
But the women who brave sharks to gather it
get 1 1 cents of that.
The rest goes to the men
as compensation for their energetic and determined participation in the work.
Her name is Elizabeth Rudel Smith.
She's 40 years old and married with five children.
She arrives at 8:00 a.m. and signs the dollar bills in the Washington mint
to supplement her husband's pay.
She's the treasurer of the United States.
This warehouse alone holds $1 billion.
Mrs. Smith carries out the morning inspection
assisted by the director general.
The US government is a healthy patriarchal family
where the men make all decisions, large and small
but it's the woman who holds the purse strings.
Mrs.Johnson, 42
married, no children.
Each morning she decides how many million dollars
the Fifth Avenue bank where she is president can spend.
Only she can open this safe.
Only she can close it with a nod
while the cashier has to use brute force.
Her office is on the 54th floor.
The board of directors is meeting today.
The board members are all men
but even so, they've proven their ability and reliability.
A satisfied Mrs.Johnson has promised them a year-end bonus.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the globe
a different board of directors is meeting.
We're in Singapore, and the Chinese streetwalkers union
is celebrating excellent annual revenues.
The president hands out ribbons
to those employees with the highest productivity on the night shift.
The president may be a man, but his popularity is unquestionable.
His term of office will be renewed by unanimous acclamation.
The women's police corps in Hong Kong assigned to control prostitution
begins its frantic day in the Kowloon barracks.
In the maze of alleys
where tens of thousands of Chinese live in deepest misery
the Hong Kong policewomen are assigned to suppress
the vice offered in this city in frequent and brazen display.
Half a million Chinese live on boats in Hong Kong.
Each of these little sampans, just 1 4 feet long
is home to families of six, eight, ten people
with an average of 1 6 inches of space per person.
At four million residents and growing
squeezed between the sea and the border of Communist China
the city overflows into the bay.
Twenty thousand sampans are the only fragile salvation
for this huge human shipwreck.
A different Hong Kong floats on the still waters of the bay at night
with all its fascination and misery.
The men and children having mysteriously disappeared
the sampans are transformed into dens of prostitution.
We came here one evening on the policewomen's motorboat.
The old ladies pretended nothing was wrong and didn't move
while the youngest girls dove in the water.
The policewomen fished out three of them.
Two were only 1 5
and were crying and trembling with cold.
They had just launched their careers the night before.
At 1 4 Sago Lane
the policewomen discovered a house of ill repute.
They brought the madam to the station
along with eight girls between 1 4 and 1 8.
There were also these two little girls, ages 8 and 1 0.
They answered every question the same: "I don't know.''
"What's your father's name?'' "I don't know.''
"And your mother?'' "I don't know.''
"Where do you live?''
"I don't know.''
The girls make no denials.
They already display, in a sense, a certain professional dignity.
One of them said, "Can't you see I'm pretty?
What do you want a pretty 1 5-year-old Chinese girl to do in Hong Kong?''
Every year, as soon as the rainy season is over
Sister Luisa and Sister Maria cross the 300 miles
of the Ngorongoro Reserve by jeep.
The old jeep is held together by a miracle.
The two nuns call it " Providence.''
But after three years, old Providence can still do 30 and doesn't act up.
Can you imagine being here at night with Providence broken down?
But here, on the muddy shores of Lake Magadi
where Providence could get stuck
the trip has to continue on foot.
The shy Masai tribe waits on the other shore
the border of their territory, which they never leave.
The Masai bear no love for the white man
who always chased them off the best land.
They don't trust him.
The Masai have many enemies:
poverty, ignorance, fear and disease.
They have only two friends: Sister Luisa and Sister Maria
who arrive every year to baptize and cure them
coming from far away on the wings-- or wheels-- of Providence.
These ladies come from far away, too.
They're the white missionaries of style who bring the word of the gods
the fashion gods, that is, to the heart of Africa.
After centuries of colonialism, modern Western democracies
are dealing with the urgent problem of emancipating African peoples
by bringing staples to the poorest and most backward villages.
She can scream as much as she likes, but no one will come.
This is a village in Borneo, 1 5 days by canoe from the coast.
In Borneo, the more tattooed a woman is, the more beautiful she is.
The more she screams when young, the more success she'll have later
with the men of the tribe who only like women with defaced skin
a condition our women would never accept.
In Europe today, the complete destruction of the skin
represents the most modern and radical plastic surgery on a woman's face.
Skin damaged by excessive makeup
or marred by some annoying little pimple
is no longer a reason for unhappiness.
Just go to a special clinic, and for the good of your face
have yourself flayed with an abrasive paste
that strips away the old skin and bares the living flesh.
The treatment is extremely painful and lasts up to six weeks.
After that, the enormous abrasion heals and new skin begins to form.
The result is astonishing, at least in 80% of cases.
Aside from the trifling 20% of faces rendered useless
by complications such as infections
the treatment is clearly recommended for all women
who ought to change the skin of their faces
at least once a year, preferably in the spring.
In Africa, beauty cream for the skin is produced by the camel.
From time immemorial, Bedouin women have turned to this cure-all
to nourish faces suffering from overexposure to the desert sun.
We can even trace it back to the Koran.
It seems that the camel, as a producer of beauty cream, is very generous.
They never run out of it in the villages.
After spreading it abundantly on their faces
the Bedouin women let it dry in the sun
to be more beautiful when their men return home.
And here are some crazy celibates
the Maori bachelors of New Zealand.
Their national anthem against marriage goes more or less
"Hey, woman
get lost!
I'll never do it!
I won't marry you. Never!
Hey, woman
get lost!''
There's the happy fellow now!
Not only is he married like all his buddies
but, wonder of wonders
his wife is having a baby after only five months of marriage.
They tied him up and left him alone in the middle of the sea
as soon as her labor pains began.
The hours go by, the tide comes in
but he knows no one will come to save him
before the baby is born, and she knows it too.
In her agony to get it over with quickly, to overcome the physical pain
she pushes desperately, causing a quick and happy delivery.
The love child is born in love.
This sea has never killed anyone.
In Switzerland, hundreds of expectant mothers come from all over the world
to these clinics that promise fast and, above all, pain-free deliveries.
The courses in modern gymnasiums bring together groups of 20-30 women
who prepare to give birth painlessly under the tutelage of an instructor
who is unmarried but nevertheless a great expert.
Inhale... exhale.
Course tuition, travel, a minimum of two months' lodging
and delivery in a room with bath, flowers and a TV
costs over $3,000
which is nothing, considering the advantage of being able to deliver
without so much as a peep.
"Unto the woman he said
I will greatly multiply your pain in childbirth.'''
MI LITARYZONE. ABSOLUTELY NO ENTRY.
Once again they've ignored the posted warnings.
We follow them with a powerful telephoto lens
while they run to collect shrapnel between artillery blasts.
They are the women of Mareb, a remote Bedouin village
on the border between Algeria and Morocco.
They hide behind sand dunes to escape the notice
of sentinels who survey the firing range.
Their technique is to run in as soon as the guns open fire.
With the smoke and dust of the explosions
it's unlikely anyone will see them and chase them away.
They risk their lives for a few pounds of metal
which the dealer from Mekhera will buy for a few coins.
Mareb is one of the poorest villages on the border.
Ten years of war have carried off all the men.
Only a few elderly remain
and lots of children.
The prickly pears are few and rotten
but the children know there's only grain for couscous twice a week
when their mothers go to the target zone to await what descends from the heavens.
VANDEPUTS NOT GUI LTY
Suzanne Vandeput, a young Belgian mother
gave birth to a daughter without arms and killed her. THE RIGHT TO KI LL
The court of appeals in Liege acquitted her of infanticide.
Public opinion throughout the world seemed to welcome the verdict.
Avenue of the Lilies, in Liege.
We knocked on Suzanne Vandeput's door.
Her father opened the door but wouldn't let us in.
We waited with a telephoto lens
to capture any moment of the everyday life of this woman
the focus of the most extraordinary and unpredictable event of the century.
Here she is, leaving the house to join her husband, who's waiting in the garage.
It's a Sunday afternoon.
They're going to see their favorite soccer team at St. George.
She doesn't know we're watching her, trying to find some sign on her face
some shadow that will reveal her true feelings.
What does her presence at the game mean, just a few days after the tragedy?
Interest in her team, or a desperate attempt to forget?
In court, she said she couldn't allow a little girl without arms
to grow up to be an unhappy woman
and that if she had the chance, she'd kill her again.
Has her maternal instinct been appeased?
Is her conscience at peace?
It was a great game.
Her team won.
Why isn't she smiling?
In Germany today, there are 7,800 little victims of thalidomide
all born with deformed arms like Suzanne Vandeput's daughter.
But their mothers chose life.
At 7 1 Kieler Strasse, in Eckernforde, Germany
Annette Kind lives with her two-year-old daughter.
Little Ilke is an extraordinarily beautiful and intelligent baby.
Aside from her little arms, she's perfectly healthy and happy
and has a formidable appetite.
At 1 5 Hardenberg Strasse in Frondenberg
Wilma Wittdorf spends her free hours away from work
with her 2 1 /2-year-old son.
Peter, too, is a happy and healthy baby
who, without ever fussing, intelligently follows the game
with which his mama tries to train his poor little arms as best she can.
At 2 Schlesische Strasse, in Iserlohn
Gertrude Stark lives with her little 1 8-month-old Magdalena.
As healthy, pretty and intelligent as almost all these little victims
she is particularly sensitive and affectionate.
At 54 Aubstrasse, in Menden
Karl and Linde Schulte-Hillen adore their littleJan.
His father says, "my son's arms will never develop
but his heart, intelligence and spirit will.''
Who knows if one day these won't prove even greater assets for him?
She bore a son in pain
sheltered him in a manger, raised him in misery
accompanied him in anguish and watched him die on the cross.
To her, the mother who knows what it means to suffer
for a child tortured in the flesh
800 mothers at Lourdes come every day to ask for aid in their misfortune.
They come from every corner of the globe
to beg for the miracle of healing for their unhappy offspring.
The long years of alternating between hope and darkest despair
have caused them to lose faith
in the science that cannot heal the flesh of their flesh
their suffering and martyred flesh.
They've sacrificed their youth
and spent their last dollar for their children.
Almost all of them are poor
and many have had to sell possessions
to come here to ask Our Lady of Lourdes for help.
There is no Christian submission in their expression
only the mute, worldly desperation of a mother
defending the life of her child with all her might
asking of heaven what earth denies her.
There is no humility in their prayers
just the insistence of one asking for that to which she has a right.
They are neither angels nor saints.
They're just mothers
who, in their worldly pride, ask for salvation for their children
from that purest of mothers who, seeing her son die
asked not for his salvation but said with humility
"Lord, Thy will be done.''
They pray
but in their prayers they ask nothing for themselves.
They only beg for health for their little ones.
THE END