T A B L E_T A L K Is it hubris to go where the tourists don't? Discuss travels off the beaten path in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk ___________________ Check out barnesannoble.com's fabulous selection of travel book bargains! ___________________ R E C E N T L Y This week in travel Wanderlust's selective guide to travel-related news from across the globe (01/22/99) Can this planet be saved? By Don George Mark Hertsgaard discusses his new book about the human toll of global environmental devastation (01/21/99) "Earth Odyssey" By Mark Hertsgaard Excerpt: A visit to Bangkok reveals the economic temptations and environmental troubles of the Technological Age (01/21/99) Sex and fate in Macau By Rolf Potts Inspired by a sidewalk fortuneteller, a traveler tries his luck at an erotic cabaret in this soon-to-be-transferred Portuguese colony (01/20/99) Teaching the cannibals to dance: Part Two By Craig Nelson A mock battle culminates in a transcultural two-step -- and an unexpected gift (01/19/99) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		A PASSION FOR PELAGO | PAGE 1, 2 - - - - - - - - - - Two days later we were Pelago-bound. I'd spent the previous night with Fio and Renato's friends Saverio and Susanna, crashing on a mattress on the floor of their living room with their three geriatric cats, two dogs and one belligerent turtle. Now I was crammed in the back seat of their Fiat with a baby on my lap and twin 4-year-old girls on either side of me. The baby was not enjoying the twisting ride through the dazzling green hills outside Florence, and he howled for a solid hour before spitting up in my hair. One of the 4-year-olds then began to cry, and Saverio pulled the car over to the side of the road. He yanked the little girl out of the car and hurried her behind a bush. "Stupid man!" Susanna fumed. "I tell him again and again to take them to the bathroom before we leave, but he never listens." She spun around in her seat and looked me directly in the eye. "Don't marry," she said fiercely. "Be happy." Our arrival in Pelago was a letdown. The tiny brown village tucked against the hillside seemed almost deserted. The streets were empty, the air serene. Only a plastic booth reading "Biglietti" and a barricade set up on one of the cobbled streets indicated that anything out of the ordinary would be happening there that day. This did not look like a place to lose yourself. We sat down at the one outdoor cafe to drink soda and eat gelato. "I told him we left too early," Susanna muttered to me, while Saverio fed the baby from a bottle. "Stupid man." About half an hour later a bus pulled into town, slowing to a halt right in front of where we sat with our sodas. A dim roar came from inside the bus, and when the driver pulled open the doors a cacophony of sound spilled out: screeching, hooting and chanting of "Pelago! Pelago! Pelago!" accompanied by the ecstatic beating of drums. A split second later the bodies followed, and about 50 pierced, tattooed and dreadlocked young people practically fell out of the bus. Almost immediately more buses and cars began pouring in. Within an hour the town was unrecognizable, completely overrun. Tents went up in the fields outside town. Indian, African and Guatemalan clothing was spread out for sale along the sides of the streets. Locals shuttered their windows and locked their doors. The festival-goers were a varied collection of scruffy Italian youth, many wearing flowing India cotton garments, some with dyed hair and sleeveless heavy metal T-shirts, all of them mellowed by pot and wine, looking for music, natural food, wild dancing and a good time. It was something of a mélange of styles, the earthy and the techno -- a kind of Rainbow Gathering meets Burning Man meets rave. Pelago. When all the members of Bandao had arrived, we met for a rehearsal on the golden hillside. Practicing our rhythms in the fading light, I was giddy with the warm air, the wild dance, the feeling of inclusion. I had the distinct sense of being in the right place at the right time. When we finished the song, Basilio draped a languid arm across my shoulders, leaned his lanky body into mine and breathed a heavy contact high into my face. "Three days party!" he shouted, rolling the r's with gusto. Stages were set up throughout the narrow, winding streets of the town, but the music itself was decidedly secondary to the scene. Mediocre rock groups with drum machines and African drumming ensembles made up of dreadlocked Italian youth blended in the air with solo acoustic guitarists singing '60s songs in English with heavy Italian accents and the occasional accordion player. A group of judges would pick the five best groups to play again in a concert at the closing of the festival, three days later -- Bandao was hopeful of winning. "Then we'd have the privilege to drive down here again," Susanna said to me, rolling her eyes. Basilio stood on the other side of me, imitating her. He rolled his eyes, then kissed me on the cheek. "Three days party," he said again. Bandao's concert that night was a huge success. People gathered around, twitching and swaying to the irresistible rhythms. In the middle of our playing, it started to rain, changing within minutes from drizzle to downpour. In an inspired moment, the Adonis gestured to us, and we danced off the stage, still shaking and banging our instruments. He led us through the streets, his baton held high like a demented pied piper, and our audience followed, an ever-growing parade of whirling dervish dancers, packing the tiny streets wall to wall, howling and singing and tossing their long spinning dreads. Streetlights glinted off raindrops as we emerged into the central square, arms high, heads thrown back, all of us growing hoarse and soaking as the rain coursed down. Later we packed into the overhung stone patio of an old bank, still playing our rhythms while a drunken man took off his shirt and then his pants in the middle of the rivered street, playing with himself as he dropped to his knees in the rushing water. Even this sight did little to dampen the beauty of the moment, the closeness of the bodies, Basilio's lazy laughter, the rhythm, the rain, the night. "Time to go home now," said Susanna in my ear. The baby, strapped to her back, was soaked and howling, and Saverio had taken the exhausted 4-year-olds with him to get the car. "Stay, stay," Basilio breathed in my other ear. "Three days party." "Where would I sleep?" I asked him. "Zero stress!" he said. "My friend, his house. Many bed." He smiled benevolently. Although the idea of spending two more days in Pelago sounded exhilarating, I was skeptical of this arrangement. "Sorry, Basilio," I said. "If Bandao wins, I'll come back to play in the closing concert." He shook his head, disappointed. "Three days party," he said sadly, looking at me with baleful eyes. The next day I lay on the sun-warmed stones of the piazza in Siena, looking up at the silhouette of the tower against a ridiculously blue sky. I'd left Susanna and Saverio's house and moved into the Siena youth hostel, but all I could think of was Pelago. I was furious with myself for having left a visceral, absorbing environment to do the normal boring tourist stuff. I missed Basilio, and felt sure I could have handled myself around the bed situation. I determined that I would go back. At the youth hostel I recruited a clean-cut, eager young Australian named Sam who agreed to bus to Pelago with me the next morning. We got there early and began to search for Basilio, whom I was sure would lead us to the very heart of the three-day party. All day long we looked for him, taking time out for a swim in the icy river with a decidedly druggy, snoozy, spun-out group of rastas and wannabes, who grilled me enthusiastically about what drugs might be available in San Francisco and gave Sam the once-over before ignoring him completely. I kept getting clues as to Basilio's whereabouts -- he'd been spotted buying food, or beer, or swimming, but they were all dead-ends. When he finally appeared beside me, as I was buying a slice of bread smeared with Nutella to eat for dinner, I was overjoyed. "Basilio!" I shouted, throwing my arms around him and kissing him on the cheek. "I've been looking for you all day." He frowned and stared at me suspiciously, not returning my hug. "Come," I said, ignoring his surly expression. "Let me introduce you to my friend." I dragged him over to where Sam waited on the grass to share my bread and Nutella. "This is Basilio, who I've been telling you about." I turned to Basilio. "I'm so glad we found you before dark -- there's no place to stay in this town." Again Basilio frowned, and looked at Sam suspiciously, scratching his ear. "Three days party?" I said a little uncertainly. Then Basilio leaned in towards my face, let out a loud beery belch, turned slowly and walked away into the crowd. That night Sam and I spent a freezing few hours crashed out on the ground in the camping area with neither tent nor sleeping bag, our arms clamped around each other for warmth. Since we'd left most of our stuff back at the hostel in Siena, I spent $30 on a pair of baggy Guatemalan pants from one of the craft stands, hoping they would keep me warm. Blankets were going for $90. At 5 in the morning we got up and started walking around to get warm. Some of the food stands had been open all night, and we went to one of them and warmed our hands at the grill where sausages lay, split open and steaming. The older gentleman running the stand took pity on us and gave us free beer and french fries. I foisted my beer onto Sam, but the fries were delicious, salty and steaming hot. As the sun rose pale and yellow in the chilled sky, Sam and I climbed a hillside and surveyed the wasted town that was Pelago -- every inch of its lovely cobbled streets was covered with trash, and sleeping bodies reposed in every doorway. The path down to the river was littered with bottles, cans and cigarettes. Scattered drumming accompanied the sunrise, and an occasional primal scream rose from the tents. Bandao won the competition. When Susanna and Saverio arrived to play in the concert, baby and twins in tow, they ran over to me. "What happened?" Susanna practically screamed. "Are you all right?" The baby took up the scream. "Sure," I smiled. "What's wrong?" Without a word, Susanna pulled a compact mirror from her purse and held it up to my face. I squinted and turned away from the sun so I could see my reflection. I saw a skinny, sunburned face, smeared with dirt and something that looked like blood but must have been the ketchup from my fries. My hair was matted against my head, beginning to turn into dreadlocks. I looked down at my outfit and saw that my T-shirt was ripped and covered with grass stains and mud, and I was still wearing the oversized Guatemalan pants over my shorts. Then I started to laugh. I must have sounded hysterical, because Susanna grabbed my hand and shouted again, "What happened to you?" "Pelago happened," I answered, still laughing. "Three days party!" And I took up my maraca and began to dance. SALON | Jan. 24, 1999 Tanya Shaffer is a writer and actress in San Francisco. She has previously written for Salon Wanderlust about encounters in Ghana, Ivory Coast and Burkina Faso.