“Passengers deserve to get their money back when an airline owes them—without headaches or haggling,” he tweeted. “Today, our automatic refund rule goes into full effect. Airlines are required to provide prompt cash refunds without passengers having to ask.”

The new rule, Buttigieg noted, applies to flights that are “canceled or significantly changed.” The refund must go into effect if a traveler does not accept “the significantly changed flight, rebooking on an alternative flight, or alternative compensation.”

On top of that, Buttigieg tweeted, “passengers who have filed a mishandled baggage report are entitled to a refund of their checked bag fee if the bag is not delivered within the applicable timeframe after arrival.” That timeframe is within 12 hours a domestic flight arriving at the gate, or between 15 and 30 hours for international flights.

Even more, travelers “are entitled to a refund” for WiFi, seat selection, inflight entertainment, or other extras if the airline does not provide the service.

What to Know About the New Rules

The new rules were announced back in April, but took several months to go into effect. At the time, the Department of Transportation noted that, under the new rule, airlines must issue automatic refunds within seven days for credit cards and 20 days for other payment methods.

Those refunds, which must include taxes and fees must be made in cash or to the original formal of payment. That means that airlines may not substitute vouchers, travel credits, or other forms of compensation unless the passenger OKs accepts as much.

Surprise fees were also on the chopping block with the new rules. Now, airlines are required to disclose additional fees upfront and explain fees before booking. They’re also instructed to share that information with third party booking sites.

Additionally, consumers can now be assured that seats on flights are guaranteed with a ticket; travels don’t have to shell out extra cash to pick a specific seat. Discount bait-and-switch tactics, which advertise a low fare without disclosing fees, are now prohibited as well.

The post You Can Finally Get Your Money Back When Airlines Cancel Your Flight appeared first on VICE.

So, to make the city feel vibrant again, residents have crafted crude life-sized dolls and stationed them around town to liven up the joint.

Townspeople, like 88-year-old Hisayo Yamazaki, took it upon themselves to create mannequins that they wrapped in old clothing and positioned them at various points around town to make it seem like the “residents” were collecting firewood, swinging from a swing set, or riding bikes.

29.3 percent of Japan’s total population is over 65 years old—that’s the highest percentage of people over 65 in one country in the world. Japan’s overall population declined for the 15^th year in a row as of 2023, too. A new record low of only 730,000 babies were born, with an all-time high of 1.58 million deaths. People are dying at a faster rate than they can be replaced with new babies. 

In Ichinono, the village leader, Ichiro Sawayama, warns that if something isn’t done, entire villages are at risk of extinction. Prime Minister Shigeru Ishiba has pledged to revitalize small aging villages, but so far there hasn’t been much that’s proven to work. In 2023, the Japanese government started offering residents ¥1 million per child (around $7,700 US) to couples in major cities who have children who are 18 years and younger so they can move into the less populated countryside. At the time, Vice reported that there weren’t many takers.

All that is to say that the country can use a little bit of youth. And when real flesh and blood people aren’t having enough babies, life-size dolls are the next best thing.

But there is a shining ray of hope in the village—a 2-year-old named Kuranosuke, the first baby the village had seen in two decades. His parents moved into town from Osaka during the pandemic to get away from the bustling and congested city life. They’ve been there ever since. Kuranosuke doesn’t have many kids to play with, not real ones anyway. But let’s hope one day, a younger couple with the kid moves to town so he can socialize with someone his own age. 

The post An Aging Japanese Village Put Life-Sized Dolls Everywhere to Feel More Alive appeared first on VICE.

But on one day every year, two gangs of drunken rival villagers eschew peace for wanton, full-blown anarchy, letting fly tens of thousands of burning homemade rockets at each other’s churches in a slightly confusing and totally illegal ancient tradition they call ‘Rouketopolemos.’

The conflict means different things to different people. For some of the villagers, it is a ritual of near-sacred proportions, something bound up in their local birthright that they are willing to risk maiming themselves over. For the local authorities, it’s a lucrative pain in the ass, attracting tourists and the money that helps keep the locality afloat. For other villagers, it is simply a pain in the ass, or even worse, a costly pain in the ass, as they are forced to fund repairs themselves whenever rocket barrages set fire to their homes and property.

This year, VICE filmmaker Laurent Laughlin went along to Vrontados to see the villagers unleash their righteous, flaming fury firsthand. The result is our new film, Rocket War, which is streaming now at YouTube. It’s an exhilarating, poignant, and hilarious documentary, and you should watch it as soon as you’ve finished reading this interview with Laurent.

VICE: Hey Laurent, the film turned out great. How did you first find out about Rouketopolemos? 
Laurent Laughlin: I was on a shoot for VICE some years ago, following around Greece’s best free-diving champions ahead of an international competition. During shooting we passed through Vrontados and they told me about this rather odd tradition they called ‘Rouketopolemos.’ I always thought it would be a fun visual story and it stayed in the back of my mind for years until I was able to shoot it recently. 

Were you able to work out how it started? Going on the various explanations in the film, no one seems totally sure…
To be honest, not really. The history is fuzzy, as it is with a lot of stuff that happened under the Ottoman Empire. While the event is anchored in tradition—and that’s important to the Rocketeers—I think the most important thing for them these days isn’t really the rocket war’s origins but rather the sense of camaraderie that culminates in a big bang every Easter.

Don’t some of the other villagers get grumpy that tens of thousands of rockets get blasted at their homes every year?
Absolutely. Some people are furious; their houses get damaged and there’s no money to reimburse them for repairs, not to mention there’s a real risk of a major blaze igniting that could theoretically burn down houses. But for the village, it’s one of the biggest cash cows of the season: hotels and other businesses rake it in, so the local municipality is in a conundrum—they can’t condone citizens shooting thousands of rockets at each other’s parishes but don’t want to say ‘no’ to the cash.

The ones making the real sacrifice here, though, are Theodosis and his mates, the ones who make all the rockets. They’re all blue-collar guys and pay for everything out of their own pocket. They’d like to have more support but have no legitimacy, so they have to hide in the shadows to make the rockets and are basically broke every Easter. The worst part is they sometimes get arrested despite loads of other people benefiting from the rocket wars. They’re looking for donations if anyone wants to help out.

Do those locals hate the tourists that come to watch? I feel like I might.
No, I don’t think so. Again it’s a money thing, more tourists equals more cash… Although people meandering around with selfie sticks taking thousands of pictures of themselves is always irritating, and the airbnb thing is another issue: some people really hate this mass influx of digital nomads and tourists that become these out-of-place, semi-permanent residents.

How did the main guy, Theodosis, lose his thumb?
Actually he lost all five fingers. He basically tested whether or not a particular type of gun powder really could ignite by simply pushing down on the powder rather than lighting it. He tested it out and bang, no more fingers.

Finally, did you learn anything profound about the human condition while filming Rouketopolemos?
I’d say a couple of things. The first is how incredibly important it is to have a group of friends you can sit around and have a laugh with, in this crummy digital age we live in I feel like that’s something harder and harder to come by. Theodosis and his friends are lucky in that sense, it feels like they live in a bygone era and I’m envious. The other thing is a bit silly but it definitely crossed my mind… with all these wars killing thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of people, I wish people could engage in this kind of fun to blow off steam rather than murder each other. It’s a bit hippy-dippy but yeah… Also, I think we need less bureaucracy in general, bending the rules like they do in Vrontados allows for interesting things to happen.

Not murdering each other relentlessly doesn’t sound so ‘hippy-dippy’ to me. Thanks, Laurent.

Watch ROCKET WAR now at our YouTube channel.

The post Why Are These Greek Villagers Firing Thousands of Rockets at Each Other? appeared first on VICE.

Here, he talks us through the feral party lifestyle he carved out for himself during the island’s glory years—and his dark spiral into addiction.

It’s 8AM, and someone is pouring BBQ lighter gel all over the furniture and floor of our Ibiza villa.

As he sets it ablaze, another pal goes outside, and unleashes a spray of tear gas at us through the window. Then another mate throws an air bomb firework into the room. People are coughing and spluttering; there’s smoke and fire everywhere. This is my cue to direct everyone to the nine lines of gear on the table: It’s go time.

In case you’re wondering, the point of this is ‘fun’. This scenario was just a regular afters at the Clockwork villas. Every single night in our gaff was madness: it was all about how far we could push the craziness. We were addicts, getting fucked up every single day of every single season for the best part of a decade. If you didn’t die, you had a story to tell the next day.

How did it get to this? Well, you could say it started when I first got drunk—age eight. On the day of the 1980 FA Cup Final my mum left me home alone, as usual, to go to work, telling me expressly not to touch the three green cans in the fridge. Obviously, I settled down to watch West Ham and drank them all. I was allowed to go wild throughout my childhood. I didn’t have a dad and my mum was an alcoholic who’d send me out to steal things like milk or food if we didn’t have any—we lived in a council estate in Essex with debt collectors always knocking at the door.

The more I look at it, I was clearly ADHD or on the spectrum: I didn’t concentrate at school and spent the whole time messing around. I had child psychologists during school, and child psychologists after school. I was one of those kids who always had three times as much energy as anyone else, so when I started properly drinking and huffing aerosols at 12, that’s when it all took off. By the age of 14, I was going out with the older boys and into school the next day with a hangover.

After school, I was ducking and diving, doing various jobs. I was working on a building site on the estate where I lived when I was 20, but I fucked that off after I came back from Ibiza. I remember I was living with my mum and this guy knocked on the door. My mum said, “This man’s the pension man; I’ve arranged for you to start paying into one for when you’re older.” I told him to fuck off, I was only interested in earning money to pay for the summer to come on the island.

My first time in Ibiza I was 17, but it wasn’t until I was 22, in 1993, that I launched Clockwork Orange club nights with my friend Andy. Imagine a young alcoholic being given a book of 50 drink tokens at the beginning of the night—obviously, I drank most of them myself. It was like a wonderland. If I wasn’t the most fucked out of the 3600 people in there, I felt like I’d failed. At this point, me and my friends didn’t have enough money for cocaine—it was mainly booze and acid—but as we earned more money, our life of excess spiralled.

By the mid-90s, we were getting two ounces of gear each week for the villa, plus endless pills and weed. If we didn’t have a party to put on, we’d put on our own kind of party, routinely doing two or three-day benders without sleep. The longest bender was probably Wednesday to Sunday, then four hours kip and straight to Space to carry on until Monday. We got on it every single night and day, the entire time we were in Ibiza—well, except the one week each season when I’d be so sick I couldn’t get out of bed because my kidneys hurt so much.

This was all happening on a normal residential street, too—the police would come round at 3AM midweek and we’d all be dressed in women’s clothes, having a pool party, and I’d go and speak Spanish and pretend it was my birthday. They’d say keep it down, while my drug dealers sprinted off over the walls of the villa and away, into the darkness of the hills.

The dark side was there in other ways, too, as our addictions steadily grew. At 26, I started seeing things in psychosis, fighting with imaginary characters, and getting so paranoid I’d search the house every night with a knife. Me and my friends would hide in the pitch-black rooms, peeking out of the curtains thinking there was someone there, or I’d spend hours frozen to a chair: our home became like a crack house. A year later, friends of mine began to overdose and flirt with death at parties, and we’d all just carry on when they woke up—it was hardcore.

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I finally left Clockwork and Ibiza in 2001 when the scene changed and everything just imploded. I still continued to get on it in England, though: whatever money I had went on drink or drugs. The moment I realised I couldn’t do it any more was when I went back to Ibiza in 2003, aged 31, to party. After a big night, I just broke down and rang my mum in tears, using someone else’s phone because I had no credit—the former ‘King of Ibiza’ without even a penny to his name. I got on a flight the next day.

The day I got home, I went to V Festival and announced to all my friends that I wasn’t getting on it any more, but they didn’t believe me, so I ended up pressing the ‘fuck it button’ instead. I went mental, caused a load of trouble—necking this, smoking that, taking this – and it all just culminated in a pain in my head so bad it felt like it was literally going to explode. Then, somehow, I woke up the next morning, opened one eye, and just knew that was it: my addiction had gone. I’ve been sober for 21 years now, and haven’t once touched drink or drugs again.

The easy part was waking up and realising the addiction was over, the hard part was going to AA for eight years, every week, three or four times a week. From the seminars to the retreats, it was eight years of hard work. When I was nine years sober, I was finally ready to start throwing parties again with my Clockwork business partner, and ever since, we’ve been doing festivals and nights that are far more successful than when we were under the influence.

I finally made peace with Ibiza when we relaunched there in 2014. For a long time, I’d blamed the island for my addiction but, of course, it was all me. Now the island is a spiritual place for me. When I landed before, I was only thinking about what we were getting on and where we were going to party. But now, I drive through the countryside, I see the local people, I listen to Spanish music, I buy the Spanish food, I stand in my Spanish house that overlooks the sea and I’m in heaven. I don’t regret anything about how I got here: Everything that destroyed me, brought me back stronger.

As told to @becky_burgum

Danny’s story will also be told as part of Ibiza Narcos, available to watch on Sky Documentaries and NOW.

The post The Unhinged Hedonism of ‘The King of Ibiza’ appeared first on VICE.

But for many in the gooning community, travel can be the best part. Even those who’ve set up elaborate “goon caves” devoted to their pornosexual lifestyles find ways to bring their cherished hobby along with them.

Chad, a 33-year-old Hawaiian, goons for about 3-4 hours a day. He’s a virgin, not by choice, but because of constant rejection and mental health issues. “Gooning is my only form of sex,” he says, and he’s devoted to it, with a lifetime membership to PornHub and over a thousand dollars invested in sex toys. Watching porn and masturbating is a social activity for Chad. “You’ll meet a goon bud and watch porn together and chat gooning […] it’s like a meme culture; you have all these little gifs, except it’s hardcore porn,” Chad says. “Gooning is a meditative act that allows me to connect to the world through sexual energy. It’s made me feel so much more comfortable with myself.” He hides his gooning from nearly everyone IRL, however, and fears he’d be fired from his job if he was ever found out.

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Chad flies frequently for his corporate job. When he does, he brings his gear along with him. This includes everything from a clear Fleshlight (for easy cleaning) to a stash of vintage porn, to a battery-powered projector small enough to fit into his backpack. The projector allows him to display 100 X 100-size porn clips he’s downloaded to the SD card. He tries to avoid streaming porn on his business jaunts for two reasons: hotel wifi sucks and he doesn’t want evidence on a public wifi network.

He prefers Hilton hotels because they’re all over Hawaii, have a decent room lay out with pretty good TVs, and they remind him of Paris Hilton.

“It’s almost a ritual [when I get to a hotel],” Chad says. He places his laptop on the bed, the projector on the foot of the bed, and his tablet on the side table. “In an ideal situation, there’s a good size TV, nice blank wall, and I just took a shower,” he says. “My Fleshlight is hooked up to the heating rod, my dinner is ready, porn on the hotel TV, and I have magazines—one next to me and one in the bathroom.”

He recently bought a 60 lb-torso doll that has an accompanying flight case. He hasn’t tried to bring it on board—yet. While airport security has been nonchalant when they’ve searched his bag and found his lubes and sex toys, the doll might cause more of a stir.

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While Chad goons at home and away, some guys only goon on the road. Allgry_cave—the Reddit handle of a 29-year-old Nevada resident—rents hotel rooms once or a twice a month. “The idea of getting a hotel room just to [goon] was particularly exciting. I use hotel gooning as a little vacation from the stress of everyday life… to just relax and turn off my brain for a bit,” he says. He brings weed and drinks along with his supplies. He spends time eyeing the hotel room layouts beforehand because, he says, “while gooning, I tend to move from the bed, to the couch, to the restroom then back to the bed. Then repeat.”

After he arrives, he prepares the living area and bathroom for gooning. He spends 30-40 minutes plastering the bathroom wall with porn mags like Busty Beauties. The bathroom becomes a celebration of the female form, with areolas and labias covering every inch. If the bathroom has a shower curtain, he projects videos on to it. If not, he covers the glass door with more spread-eagled stars. In the main room, he has porn movies projected on to the wall and ceiling, videos on the TV, and mags covering the bed.

While gooning has been stereotyped as a male activity, there’s a subset of female “goonettes” who are just as committed as their male counterparts.

One of them, Catherine Duffy, 35, loves to goon on her European travels. Duffy began gooning as a teenager in Belfast after finding a box of discarded porn magazines. But it wasn’t until she graduated from university and travelled for work that it became more intense. “In hotels around the UK and Europe, I was able to explore porn far deeper and began growing completely obsessed with it,” she says.

She became infatuated with hardcore porn genres, like extreme gangbangs. “I particularly fell in love with the kind of wild porn stars who, despite being in some of the most degrading situations imaginable, were a sexual force to be reckoned with. Gianna Michaels, Sandra Romain, Kelly Stafford… they instilled a lot of confidence in me,” she says. “I’d never encountered such sexually audacious women while growing up in Belfast.”

When she travels, which she does frequently for her job as a start-up consultant, she brings portable fucking machines, thrusting dildos, and interactive G-spot massagers for private adventures. Sometimes she goons in public, at the porno theaters that still exist. She dons heels and a slutty outfit, and totes an anal plug, ball gag, and vibrator.

Tangling with airport security has been challenging for Catherine. “Trying to explain to Kazakhstan airport security that my metal butt plug with a red diamond ending isn’t some kind of weapon, or lost relic from a forgotten civilization, was pretty awkward,” she says. “Being threatened with arrest for being a ‘potential prostitute’ by a Russian border guard who said I can make the problem go away with a blowjob was pretty scary.” Now she only travels to EU countries.

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Gooning has become not only a hobby, but a business. She runs her own website whoreuro, where she offers a community space of “uninhibited perversion.” She also posts about her gooner parties that she rents out airbnbs for. “They tend to start with everyone watching porn and mutually masturbating before descending into a free for all,” she says.

For Catherine, travelling is the best part of her job: “I have tonnes of free time to indulge in my other passions like history and, of course, gooning!”

Follow Hallie @hallielieberman

The post This Is How Gooners Go On Holiday appeared first on VICE.

We interviewed three people whose holiday habits seem precision-engineered to wind up people on Twitter and TikTok. The adult Disney fanatic who’s been on more than 70 Disney-themed holidays. A private landlord who flies first class while leaving his kids (and their nanny) to slum it in economy. And what about a 47-year-old who still stays in hostels?

Do these people deserve their pariah status? Or might we have something to learn from listening to their perspectives?

Here, we give them a chance to defend themselves.

The Property Magnate Who Ditches His Kids in Economy

Samuel Leeds, a 32-year-old property investor from Buckinghamshire, travels in first class and leaves his six-year-old, five-year-old, and two-year-old in economy with their nanny.

VICE: How did you and your wife come to this decision? 
Samuel Leeds: When we hired our nanny, I had a conversation with my wife saying we needed to explain to the nanny that part of their responsibility would be to sit with the kids on planes. Obviously we couldn’t take the kids first class because that would be inappropriate. To everybody else it seems shocking but to us it was just obvious.

Why would it be inappropriate?
One reason is other passengers. A lot of people have saved up a long time to buy a first-class ticket – or they have a business meeting the next day and need to be fresh when they land. Also, as far as the kids are concerned, it doesn’t make any difference. To them, economy seats are huge. It also teaches them what the real world is about as opposed to having them in a bubble.

You posted a TikTok about this and people were outraged – did you find the criticism valid?
A lot of people thought it was dangerous – on a plane they want to be sat with their kids protecting them – but that’s just ridiculous. People said holidays are about family and they’d rather be with their kids but I’m sure they wouldn’t, actually. If they were given the option to fly first class, they would. Some people said our kids wouldn’t look after us when we were old. Just nonsense, really. I didn’t lose any sleep.

Do you think more people should do this?
Yeah. When you go on holiday with your kids and you arrive at a destination having slept well, you’re going to be able to give them a better holiday. A lot of people, when they travel, they’re moody and arguing.

What about when the kids age?
Definitely as they get older, they’ll be able to fly first class – as long as they can afford to pay the bill. I grew up in a relatively poor working-class family. I think when you grow up rich and you have everything given to you on a plate, it ruins you. It robs you of any ambition to work hard and make your own money. I’d like to think that in 20-30 years, my kids will look back and thank me.

– – –

The Adult Disney Tourist

Julie Mendez is a 39-year-old interior design student from North Carolina. She’s also a veteran of more than 70 Disney vacations – including cruises, theme parks, and resorts. Holidays elsewhere often disappoint her.

VICE: You first went to Disney World aged nine – why keep going back? Julie Mendez: I think the main thing is that there is enough familiar to keep us feeling nostalgic but there’s enough new that it doesn’t feel like the same trip over and over again.

You’ve been on a few non-Disney vacations, including a cruise to Mexico and a trip to Carolina Beach – but you wished you were at Disney instead?Absolutely. I would say that with our kids, we’re able to find fun wherever we go – but we find ourselves comparing meals we have to meals at Disney. The Mexico cruise wasn’t the same as the Disney cruise to Castaway Cay where there was an entire private beach. We felt safer in the ports – with Disney being such a big company and so concerned with their PR, we knew they were going to take extra steps to make sure they’re not going to any places that things could go bad.

Some people argue you should visit as many countries as possible – what do you think?
One of mine and my husband’s goals is to go to all of the Disney parks all over the world. So we are planning a trip to Tokyo Disney and Euro Disney at some point. When we work as hard as we do and we have some time off, I want to go to somewhere where I’m guaranteed to have a good time.

**Why go to Disneyland Paris when you could have a more “authentic” trip to Paris itself?
**It’s hard to say that Paris itself would necessarily be a more authentic French experience when they might cater toward tourists anyways. Disney at least is upfront about it!

Does EPCOT give you a sample of the world?
Any places that we’d want to travel, I feel like we can get the best of the best at EPCOT. I do have aspirations to go to Germany someday but I think in large part that’s because I have such a good time in the Germany Pavilion at EPCOT. Something tells me that if I do go to actual Germany and experience Oktoberfest there, it wouldn’t be the same. There are no rides!

What do you think about the “Disney adult” label? 
I am absolutely a Disney adult – right now, I’m drinking out of an Ursula mug. Life’s too short. If we can find happiness, we should embrace it.

– – –

The 47-Year-Old Hostel Fanatic

Carter Liotta is an optometrist from Philadelphia – he’s also a 47-year-old hostel fanatic.

VICE: How did you fall in love with hostels?
Carter Liotta: I was a little late on the hosteling scene, I started when I was 26 and had just graduated. I went to London and stayed in a hostel in Shepherd’s Bush. Hostels are a great base of operations for everything and incredibly cheap as well. As my career progressed and I made more money, I decided to stick with hostels for the community. You meet people from around the world.

Did you notice your hosteling experience changing as you aged?
In my late thirties I went to Hong Kong and I realised a generation gap was widening. This horrible thing happens when you approach midlife where you find that younger people are much smarter than you and they’re also in tune with the latest thing on TikTok; they all follow the same influencer you’ve never heard of.

Did people start treating you differently?
I’ve never had any experiences where I was shunned but people would say “hello” then just gravitate to people closer to their age. You start to feel like a ghost in the room. But I love hostels because you never feel lonely – you always find one or two people you click with. Increasingly, I’m finding a lot of people my age or older.

Do you think it’s important that hostels are intergenerational?
I do. I’ve become a little bit wary of the rise of Airbnb, I worry young people will gravitate away from the community experience. I have learned something every time I go to a hostel.

How do you avoid seeming like a creepy older traveler?
I no longer book in the dorms, I do a private room. I don’t want to be ‘that guy’ in people’s memories – “Hey, do you remember when we stayed in that hostel in Berlin and there was that old guy who snored the whole night?” In Thailand I inserted myself into a group going to dinner and there was definitely a maturity gap – I felt unwanted, so I left fairly early. There is a point when life changes and you have to change tack. In Mumbai I met a woman from France who was 60 and wrinkled, smoking ultra-slim cigarettes. She had wonderful stories about her failed marriages and affairs and the year she spent on a boat with her lover. In my twenties, I wouldn’t have listened. Now I’m in my midlife, I love stories of life experience.

These interviews have been edited for length and clarity.

Follow Amelia Tait on Twitter.

The post Three Maligned Modern Tourists Defend Themselves appeared first on VICE.

Fireworks are a hugely important part of daily life in Naples. When the Italian economy emerged from two decades of never-ending crisis in the 1980s, fireworks became a newly affordable symbol of revelry to everyday citizens. The Mafia stepped in to supply booming demand, taking over from the more expensive Chinese imports industry, and all hell broke loose.

Today, kids deployed as scouts in working-class areas of Naples shoot them into the night sky to relay information to gangland bosses. Perhaps to celebrate the arrival of a new shipment of drugs into the local neighborhood. Or to warn of incoming police. Or to signify the return of a hated rival hoodlum from prison.

But it’s around Christmas – and especially on New Year’s Eve – when the whole town rolls up its sleeves to join in. Gangs from rival areas spend thousands of euros competing to create the biggest bang. Yet the next day, the streets are invariably littered with unexploded shells. When kids pick them up to relight the fuses, they often blow up in their hands, leading to catastrophic wounds and even death. In 2008, things got so bad that Neapolitan women instituted what became known in the media as a ‘sex ban’ to stop boyfriends and husbands relentlessly exploding things.

Recently, a longtime friend of VICE – the photographer Claudio Menna – risked death by fireball, cop and/or gangland henchman to speak to two so-called fuochisti (‘stokers’, in English) who spend their time sitting in the dark, manufacturing these fatal explosives for the Neapolitan mafia.

They kindly opened up on the work they carry out in the abandoned basement of their apartment block – using Chinese gunpowder to create infernal monstrosities named after Kim Jong-un and local messiah, Diego Maradona, in spite of the police squads who come sniffing round most days of the week.

The illegal fireworks market in Naples is totally in the hands of the local underworld, so 65-year-old ‘Antonio’ and his 16-year-old nephew ‘Fabio’ weren’t keen on having their real names or faces splashed across the internet.

VICE: Where does the DIY firework industry come from? Antonio, 65-year-old illegal firework maker: All Neapolitans take part in this tradition but mainly those from working-class areas. Each year, neighborhoods compete to create the biggest explosion. There is very little interest in aesthetics. What people care about are the ones that are basically as powerful as real bombs.
Fabio, 16-year-old illegal firework maker: I grew up in a family of fuochisti: my uncles and my grandfather have always made fireworks. As a child, I was afraid that the police would arrest my relatives. When the party used to start at midnight on New Year’s Eve, I hid under the bed, terrified.

How do you make the fireworks? Where do you get the materials? Antonio: The market and the production of illegal fireworks is totally in the hands of the local underworld. The materials and gunpowder come from Chinese people who live here in Naples. For every 10, 20, 30, 40 firebombs made, I earn a set amount. They’re then sold on the blackmarket – if you want them, you have to go to the old buildings, to the basements of the most popular neighborhoods. Some stores also sell them under the counter. 
Fabio: The powder is given to us in shoe boxes sealed with duct tape.

Do you work for yourselves, or as part of a larger organisation? Fabio: I know very well that we are working for the “system” [this is the name used to indicate the “criminal system”, which in Neapolitan is called ‘O SISTEMA. They are Camorra organizations, old families that still dominate the business of drugs, illegal fireworks, extortion and much more].
Antonio: My nephew and I aren’t part of any criminal organization; we just work for them. Our earnings are much lower than the street price they’re sold for: it’s not a job that makes us rich.

Have you had any trouble from the law? Antonio: We always work in hidden places: in secret backrooms of factories that produce other things – textiles, for example. When the risk of a search is higher, we work in our apartments. But my wife doesn’t want these materials in our home – she is really scared we could blow up and die!
Fabio: If you get caught, there’s definitely an arrest. Many of my relatives are still in prison. This year I did it just for economic reasons; I have to buy a ring for my girlfriend.
Antonio: From 1987, I spent 10 years in prison as I was caught driving a truck full of contraband cigarettes. There was also a large amount of drugs on the truck. Not that I knew that at the time.

How do you come up with the infamous names for the bombs? Antonio: There is the ‘Maradona bomb’: it’s the size and shape of a football and filled with an incredible amount of gunpowder. Today, it costs several hundred euros and when it explodes, the windows of the cars and buildings shake in their frames.
Fabio: Its explosion can destroy a car. When it detonates, it leaves a crater in the ground.
Antonio: Another famous one is named ‘Kim’, after Kim Jong-un.

Have you ever been injured by the explosives?
Antonio: These are real devices, like those used in war. So there’s always the risk, especially because we work in very dark places. I know many people who’ve lost entire hands and arms due to defects in the barrels: my cousin lost three fingers when he was a kid. Often, the fuse is shoddily made so the bomb just explodes in your hands. Traditionally, a huge number of accidents happen like this on New Year’s Day, when kids pick up unexploded shells from the street.
Fabio: When I was ten years old, my friends and I bought some powerful fireworks called “tracchi”. A friend of mine, Patrizio, dawdled after lighting the fuse: he couldn’t escape in time and his hand exploded. I remember a lot of blood and his hand literally hanging open. He was lucky, in the hospital they managed to sew up his two fingers that I saw hanging off, almost completely detached.

Do you hope this is a tradition that survives? Antonio:  The new generation have not learned the trade so well. They create dangerous products. Luckily, I’ve been teaching my nephew how to make bombs for several years.
Fabio: My mom always worries when New Year’s Eve comes around because she knows it’s risky at work and with friends who enjoy detonating these absurd bombs. I’m a bit afraid that the house will explode with all the gunpowder residue.
Antonio: I hope Fabio completes his studies and finds a real, safe job, away from the dangers of the street and the underworld. But he’s very passionate and likes earning money.
Fabio: I’m not fascinated by these competitions that take place every year. It’s a shitty habit that doesn’t make sense to me.

Find Claudio Menna’s work on Instagram.

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I grew up on the northernmost tip of Manhattan, in a neighborhood called Inwood. Every morning, I took the subway 40 minutes, 18 stops, to my high school on the Upper West Side. My best friend lived another 50 minutes into Brooklyn, making our high school the exact middle point between us. On Fridays, I would pack a bag and decamp to her house after school, which was more centrally located on the map of our weekend social life, and therefore a better homebase for commuting to whatever party happened to be transpiring in Queens (requiring 3 train transfers, regardless).

No one I knew had a driver’s license. That’s not to say, of course, that we didn’t have the option to undergo the thrilling tedium of Driver’s Ed like all teens, but why bother? There was already, seemingly, no limit to our freedom.  My most prominent vehicular reference points consisted of television shows about Friday night football games in distant Texan lands and one fuzzy, time-altered Kodachrome photo of my dad, age 25, leaning on his beloved forest green 1980 FJ40 Toyota Land Cruiser.

Much like our suburban counterparts, however, we craved the experience of departing from our hometown. Apparently, the existential urge to escape the specificities of your youth is area-code agnostic. At 17, my friends began waxing poetic about gothic stone buildings on liberal arts campuses in Ohio and collegiate snow-shoed hikers in Vermont. For me, it was the genetically un-New York allure of winter-less school spirit — set against the backdrop of a city — that brought me to Miami. I thought I could cleverly swap one major American metropolis for another without too much thought.  

 Having only had the most cursory knowledge of Miami before accepting my admission, it hadn’t occurred to me that the “city” as I knew it wouldn’t translate. Upon arrival, I quickly learned about spray tans and the social graces of clubbing. We had a campus alligator! There was no workable public transportation, and people questioned your emotional stability if you suggested walking (and anywhere you might need to go was five to 45 minutes away…by car). For the first time in my life, I felt trapped. I was euphoric and lonely and sweatier than I knew possible — delighted by the novelty of existing in a new context, and simultaneously feeling that I was maybe better suited for anywhere else.

I wanted to run, to retreat back across the Verrazano to safety. I scolded myself for my hubris, my inability to see what I’d had back in New York. As the months went on, I perused transfer applications for NYU and the New School. To give myself something to do — and perhaps as a tangible way to convince myself I was committing in one direction or the other — I also signed up for driving lessons. 

My instructor was named Chris, and he drove a silver Toyota Prius. He had the face and disposition of a seasoned Disney World dad: cheerful but resolved, with wire-frame glasses and a seemingly endless rotation of khaki shorts. I’ll be honest — I was petrified. But I appreciated Chris’s practical sensibility and it put me at ease; if he thought this was an okay plan, I could believe it. We started our lessons at 7am because Chris, I discovered, held a full-time job that involved patrolling the waterways to protect manatees from rogue propellers. I was a proud, lifelong “adopter” of several manatees, and so he started mapping our driving paths to the best manatee lookout spots. We’d approach an overlook, and I’d remember to turn on my blinker. He’d explain the manatee swim patterns and why they floated the way they did. To pull back out: a three-point turn.

After the requisite number of hours on my signed and dated timesheet, Chris thought I was ready, so I set off to take my driving test. To my surprise,  it turned out that in Florida, the entirety of this monumental occasion takes place in the parking lot of the DMV — other cars not included. The steps, in the exact order I performed them: pull out of a vertical parking space, turn left, turn right, back up in a straight line for 50 feet, do a three-point turn, accelerate to 30 miles per hour and slam on the brakes, pull back into a vertical parking space. I was in the car for less than 10 minutes — and I passed with flying colors.

All in all, I ended up staying in Miami for several years. Some things didn’t change: I was in love with my friends but homesick beyond belief. I was somewhat directionless, academically. But I now had an old sedan on loan from my grandparents, and to tell you the truth, it’s likely the reason I stayed. Whenever being out of place became momentarily unbearable, I got in my car.  

Down in Coral Gables, right before you hit the university, I-95 turns into the two flat lanes of US-1. If you keep driving down, you’ll hit the southernmost tip of the United States in less than two hours. At night, after a long stint at the library or a particular bout of restlessness, I would get behind the wheel, usually solo but occasionally with a close friend, and drive straight, all windows down and sunroof open (the crushing heat of the days made for absolutely perfect, perpetual summer nights). Sometimes, I’d play music so loud I couldn’t hear myself sing, and sometimes just the grumble of someone accelerating to 30 miles an hour and then slamming on the brakes was soundtrack enough.  

For the first 20 minutes, you’d be surrounded by the ecosystem of a reluctant college town. The bagel shop, a Trader Joe’s, Party City, all sandwiched into interchangeable outdoor malls. Then there was the strip club, and after the strip club there was a pawn shop, and after the pawn shop there was one railroad station, and after the railroad station there was nothing I ever got to — which was just fine, because that was all the release I needed. I still counted miles in city blocks (one for every 20, if you didn’t know), but with each passing one, I relaxed a little bit more. Although I’ve never successfully meditated, I imagine it feels something like this: briefly lapsing out of yourself and grounding in something larger. Driving on US-1 took me from what was real — my ennui, my stress, the inconveniences of 90% humidity on my waist-length hair — to a dark, suspended infinity, a world made up of asphalt and lined with sugarcane fields.

I’ve yet to find a road that gives me that same exact feeling, but I’ve come close. In so many ways, driving is the diametric opposite to subway riding. Completely solitary (or exclusively curated). Insulated from the space you’re moving through. Noise-controlled and safely strapped-in. But they share something in common, too: Both override the ease and apathy of staying put; antidotes to the often stifling stasis of being in any brain, in any body, in any city in the world. Sometimes people say the best way to maintain an earnest love for New York City is to leave it frequently. But maybe you just need to be in the driver’s seat going north on the West Side Highway while the sun gets low and the bridge looms large.

The post I Grew Up Riding The Subway — But Driving Changed The Way I Thought About Independence appeared first on VICE.

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Next Time You’re in Hong Kong, Visit These Art Spaces

Hong Kong Island

Tai Hang

Locals have loved Tai Hang’s narrow streets, three-story walk-ups, and neighborhood charm for a long time. But recent years have transformed Hong Kong’s social scene, turning Tai Hang into a hub for artists. Here you’ll find more intimate events, like the block parties hosted by Japanese Bar TOMO, which feature silent discos and market stall pop-ups from local artisans and designers. 

On Sun Chun Street is The Plant Of Devil 魔界植物, a greenhouse for hellishly-shaped succulents, bonsai, and other plants to take home. They carry goods from Madagascar and Africa alongside the owner’s personal collection of exotic reptiles and insects like tarantulas, beetles, frogs, and a pet snake. There’s also their Bull Terrier Pak Kiu, who sits in the store with walls lined by ceramics of devil heads and dark terrariums. Their prickly cacti and bulbous bonsais come in odd shapes and sizes that are like artworks of intentional design. It matches the artistic style of Tai Hang that has drawn in crowds of young creatives, artists, and musicians who now live in the area.

Wan Chai

A short walk into the hillside enclave of Wan Chai is the historic Blue House on Stone Nullah Lane, an early 1920s colonial block painted with blue shutters and white balconies in front. Out back, the apartment house looks over a tree-shaded courtyard. The heritage building runs cultural and educational programs pushing forward the city’s rich history. On the ground floor are two social enterprises—GroundWorks 土作坊 and Hong Kong House of Stories—which aim to provide work opportunities to women and the elderly, and community programs like exhibitions, workshops, and guided tours that take you through the stories and communities that have lived behind their fabled yard for generations. Their latest revitalization of the space is Viva Blue House Good Neighbour, a co-living venture where renters of the Blue House contribute to the building’s programs and neighborhood initiatives, whether a home renter or shop owner. 

Across the block are Sun and Moon Streets and St. Francis Yard, where you can find local retailers LANE EIGHT, Kapok, and WOAW Gallery. 

Lamma Island

After a visit to the city center, do like a local and go to Hong Kong’s outlying islands via ferry from the Central Piers. A new addition to Lamma Island is The Beer Shack, the first taproom by local brewers The Yardley Brothers. The craft beer shop started as a takeaway stall on the beach before building a permanent bar off Lamma’s main street. 

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They’re known for their funky beer names and bottle illustrations of Hong Kong’s famous landmarks. The place also has live music, movie nights, board games, and barbecue on any given day. You can find their beers all around Hong Kong but their shop stocks limited edition releases on tap among an ever-growing list of other drinks from the local scene like Dragon Water hard seltzer, Taboocha kombucha, and Carbon Brews. 

Further afield, at the littlest island, Peng Chau, look for Chill Chill Country, a handmade goods store for crystals, incense, and espresso with its own craft brew in collaboration with Gradient Brewery.

Kowloon

Kowloon Walled City

A more quiet trek is Kowloon Walled City Park, where memories of the 15th Century are given homage through Qing Dynasty era architecture and serene gardens, perfect for tai chi. It used to be the site of densely populated apartment blocks that were demolished in 1993. When you enter the park, you’ll see a scaled-down sculpture of the apartments, depicting the area’s history. The park is also replete with maps, pebble walking paths, and preserved archaeological remains. A 10-minute walk away is San Po Kong, a mostly industrial district not often visited by tourists but worth a look for a short strip of very local restaurants on Yan Oi Street. 

Sham Shui Po

When Hong Kong abruptly shut its borders, residents took to the country parks to find respite in hikes, camping, and beaches. Moving the lifestyle indoors is Sheung Shan 尚山岩舘, an indoor bouldering and climbing gym, in Sham Shui Po. Here, a friendly community of urban hikers, climbers, and adventure seekers go ‘til late. While there, ask around for night hikes, coasteering tours, or outdoor adventure WhatsApp groups like HKOutsider, which organize excursions weekly.

Mong Kok

As Mong Kok comes alive at night, on Peace Avenue is a new edition in C.R.E.A.M.Family. Founded by a group of street artists, the store features local streetwear brands and sells specialty spray paint cans, custom jewelry, and artworks that never made it to gallery shows. This includes labels like Studio BSB, Yeti Out, Eggshell Stickers, and Wrong Kong, which you’ll spot around town on shirts, posted on public walls, and at raves. 

End your night at 女人街食飯公司 Ladies Street Sik Faan Co., a dai pai dong-style restaurant off Tung Choi Street Ladies’ Market. The casual diner serves authentic Cantonese cuisine with a few fusion twists like prawn toast topped with black truffle, as well as classics like claypot rice, curry squid, and seasonal shellfish. Buzzing with noise once you exit the elevator, neon signage lights up the off-white tiles, vinyl wood tables, and red leather chairs. Adding to the nostalgia are the traditional street menus and Blue Girl Beer servers pouring the regional brew in blue-trimmed China bowls.

Follow Sarah Wei on Instagram.

This article is supported by the Hong Kong Tourism Board. VICE retains complete editorial autonomy.

The post The Guide to Rediscovering Hong Kong in 2023 appeared first on VICE.