Wednesday, May 23, 2018

In the month of January we took advantage of the deal that western society claimed to offer us: the resources to escape from it. We arrived at the end of the world with working camera equipment and rented a hostel fifty metres from the beach. A breathtaking lack of economic horizons. Yet though the exchange rate was in our favour our project did not start out as hoped. There was supposed to be a learning experience. There was supposed to be a cross-cultural romance. There was supposed to be a critical reflection on the implications of global tourism. But when we looked at the footage we had recorded all we found was a record of the effects of a slow disease. Torpor, lethargy, glazing of the eyes, browning of the shoulders and the bridge of the nose. Psychological symptoms included boredom, euphoria, apocalyptic daydreams, the desire to throw oneself into the sea. An unrelenting pastel haze. It became obvious that we had been seeking recovery from western society in some sort of fall-out zone. We began to suspect that we ourselves were contaminating agents. Our effect on the local population was unclear. Even at this realisation we found ourselves unable to panic. We’d thought we were carefree: it turned out we had contracted a pathological inability to care.

Text by Megan Marsh