A haunting experience off Italy's tourist path

Author: By Gay Jacobson, Globe Correspondent

Date: SUNDAY, February 1, 1998

Page: M1

Section: Travel

What's more, Sardinia's notorious ``banditi'' are said to be lying in wait around every bend of the tortuous road that loops its way up and around hidden caves, bottomless gorges, and isolated villages perched on high plateaus.

Aware of these grim indications, reinforced by the narrowed eyes and taciturn reactions of the handful of natives to whom we confided our desire to venture into the interior mountains, my husband and I spent our first 10 days on the island debating the wisdom of making such a trek.

We'd begun our visit in Cagliari, the seaside capital of Sardinia, on the island's south coast. In leisurely fashion, we'd worked our way southward, then west, north, and eastward, relishing the ancient historical wonders, abundant flora and fauna, scenic splendor, and absence of gimcrack ``attractions'' along more than 1,100 miles of coastline.

Numerous excursions into the countryside had rewarded us with rich and astonishing experiences. We'd climbed in total darkness into the core of a basalt rock tower constructed in 1500 BC at Su Nuraxi by Sardinia's early inhabitants, the Nuraghic tribes. Thousands of ruins left by these little-understood people are scattered throughout the island.

We'd stopped to explore prehistoric tombs aptly named witches' houses and elephant rocks that loomed above us near the northern town of Sedini.

We'd visited a Phoeniciantophet, or burial ground, at Sulcis, where urns containing the ashes of human fetuses, infants, and small animals were long thought to indicate the grisly practice of human sacrifice. In reality, two of every three infants born here in the seventh and eighth centuries BC succumbed to disease before the age of one year. At funerals, small animals were sacrificed to appease the gods and protect against future devastation.

At the ruined villa of a patrician Roman family at Nora, we'd marveled at exquisitely executed and wonderfully preserved colored mosaic floors. On an isthmus above a crashing turquoise sea, we'd strolled through Tharros, an archeological site that was home successively to Nuraghic, Phoenician, Carthaginian, Roman, and Saracen settlers. Here, two classical marble columns, one with its capital partially intact, define the dramatic scene.

We'd spent an afternoon in the fortified Genoese citadel of Castelsardo, walking along original rock- paved medieval alleys and visiting a thought-provoking museum of basketry. Displayed there are woven reed items ingeniously used in everyday life since prehistoric times: There are contraptions for netting fish, cooking, bathing, religious observance, an eight-foot-tall straw silo for storing grain, even a seaworthy fishing boat woven entirely of dried grasses. We were intrigued to learn that markedly similar items were created by such far-flung peoples as the Incas and ancient Egyptians.

At Li Lolghi, an eerily evocative site, we'd explored the so-called giants' tombs in use from 1800 to 1200 BC. Upright, embossed stone slabs that surround these collective burial chambers provided a close-up thrill that England's Stonehenge had always failed to inspire! A nearby necropolis, Li Muri, dates back even further to 3500 BC. The dolmen- shaped funeral monument here is flanked by crude stone boxes, once used to hold offerings of food. When it was excavated in 1939, the site yielded beads, urns, knife blades, tools, and weapons, as well as invaluable information about Sardinians' early ancestry.

More modern history had come to life in a tour of Garibaldi's farmhouse on the peaceful little isle of Caprera. We garnered a strong sense of the greatness, both personal and political, of that national hero who led the fight for Italy's unification in the early 1860s. How stirring it had been to see his famous red shirt and voluminous military cape! In the room where he died, clock and calendar are stopped at the time and date of his passing. By his own request, his deathbed is positioned at a window facing Corsica, the one remaining territory he'd hoped in vain to conquer. Outside, we'd paused by his and his family's tombs, then spent an enchanting afternoon hiking the nature trails of Caprera's protected parkland.

With only a couple of exceptions, we'd been alone at these and numerous other places we stopped at in late September. Long, empty stretches of shoreline, hills, and plateaus, and the near absence of traffic on highways and lesser roads outside the cities, had allowed us to observe an unexpected assortment of the myriad wildlife that inhabits the island.

There were sweeping vistas of the jewel-colored sea, promontories crowned by medieval watchtowers, small bays where gaily painted fishing boats bobbed, wide expanses of white sand beaches, and excellent swimming in clear, bracing water.

And always, the haunting masses of inland mountains dominated the distant view.

While the larger cities had been variously interesting, we'd been disappointed in most of the towns. As a rule, they were dreary and shabby, with hideous postwar cement block houses, sad, littered streets, desultory piazzas, and polite but stand-offish inhabitants. At the opposite end of the scale, the posh resort towns of the fabled Costa Smeralda, developed in the '60s by the Aga Khan, had been a disappointment of an altogether different sort. Their too-perfect artificiality had made us nostalgic for the flapping lines of laundry and earthy bustle of genuine Italian locales.

The attraction of Sardinia's mysterious interior could no longer be denied.

Soon after dawn one sunny Saturday morning, we set off from Liscia di Vacca on the northeast coast for our southward drive into the Barbagia. Once past Nuoro, the sprawling provincial capital, we found ourselves virtually alone on narrow, ascending, sometimes serpentine roads.

Now we were in the foothills of the Gennargentu, Sardinia's highest mountain range. The air was incredibly sweet and fresh. A profound hush seemed to surround us, its silence broken only by the softly echoing clank of unseen animals' bells.

A majestic landscape unfolded, one of craggy boulder-strewn hills, sylvan valleys verdant with chestnut trees, oaks, and cypress, roadside hedges of rosemary, tamarisk, myrtle, and ginestra, and acres of cork trees, their bark half stripped to reveal bright russet trunks. Occasionally, we caught sight of the red tile roof of a farmhouse far below us.

At widely scattered intervals, we passed through tiny towns, lingering at each to absorb its particular flavor. These, even more than the scenic beauty of the Barbagia, impressed us as the embodiment of the true heart and soul of Sardinia.

Though today there are skiing, hiking, and mountain climbing facilities in some of the towns, they are still based on a sheep-rearing economy and populated for the most part by shepherds and farmers. Many ancient customs, superstitions, and idiosyncrasies are still extant in these isolated hamlets.

The age-old fight for survival in such a primitive setting produced longstanding rivalries among its inhabitants. Sheep rustling was a common occurrence. Hostages were taken and held for ransom. Once in a while, a finger or ear was cut off.

Bitter seclusion led to the prevalence of incest among the uneducated, inarticulate, often hopeless people of these remote regions. Wealthy Sardinians looked with disdain upon this uncivilized population and began to equate sheep herding with banditry.

If such practices still occur, we found no hint of them, either in our solitary hikes along little footpaths in the hills or in our observations and conversations with townspeople. In fact, the people here displayed an open, sunny cordiality that we hadn't encountered elsewhere.

A winding road bordered by vineyards and olive groves led us to Mamoiada, a secluded town where a Roman fountain and laundry trough have sat unassumingly for 2,000 years on a little back piazza. Today, the town is renowned throughout Sardinia as an important mask making center.

``Mamuthones,'' the characteristic masks of Mamoiada, are frighteningly grotesque to behold, yet their origin in pagan culture is readily understandable. Graziano, a mask maker we talked with, explained their significance to us.

Carved out of wood by local artisans, the masks reflect the reality of everyday existence in a harsh, unpredictable environment. Here, one's fortune is dependent upon animals and the vicissitudes of weather. ``Mamuthones,'' with their tragic, twisted expressions, are meant to convey man's sense of equality, or even inferiority to beasts, and helpless humility in the face of natural disasters.

Every January for the feast of St. Anthony, then again before Lent, local men don the gruesome masks and dress themselves in raw sheepskins. Around their necks and backs they hang heavy chains of dangling iron bells, sometimes weighing more than 30 pounds. As they parade through the town, with every step the bells emit a dolorous, rhythmic sound meant to penetrate earth's every cavity, and scare away evil demons lurking in rocks and gorges.

Tonara is perched on a high plateau drenched with light above a pair of lushly wooded valleys. We came here mostly for the candy. Honey-based ``torrone,'' a killer for the fillings but ambrosia for the soul, is produced by the women of the town. We bought multiple packets of almond, walnut, and hazelnut varieties, all filled with the freshest nutmeats we'd ever eaten.

The lively widow who owned the candy shop was bursting with questions about our impressions of her town.

When we left her to begin our search for the local crafts cooperative, she dashed upstairs, flung open her shutters, and shouted directions as we ambled down the street.

ISOLA, the government-supported association of Sardinian artisans and craftspeople, has a well-stocked branch in Tonara. Naturally, products made of wool predominate here. There are thick yarns colored with vegetable dyes. Wall hangings feature floral, animal, bird, and heraldic designs. Hand-knotted rugs have been woven in a style called ``pibiones,''with raised designs like berries or bunches of grapes. There are macrame items, hand-spun linens, bedspreads and pillows with geometric patterns based on ancient mosaics.

Outside the picturesque town of Tiana, we stopped to take a walk in a peaceful little cemetery hidden in a cypress grove. The herds were just coming home, and the hills resounded with the melancholy chorus of their bells.

Here in the Tino River Valley, the wine-growing region of Mandralisai begins. Its pride is the Cannonau grape, used for sweet and dry red wines. The Cannonau thrive in rocky, arid, otherwise inhospitable terrain. On a fall afternoon, the air was redolent with their heady, fruity bouquet.

In Tiana we were delighted to see a woman dressed in the traditional costume of the town. Her full-sleeved white linen blouse was tucked into a floor-length skirt, red from waist to knees, then joined with a gold embroidered band to a black flounce patterned with burnt sienna flowers. A matching black flowered shawl embraced her shoulders, its long golden fringe reaching down past her waist. Her head was covered with a bright russet scarf, the very same color as the trunks of the cork trees.

Perched on a hill overlooking the Lacoe River, Orgosolo has attracted summer painters since the early years of this century. Following World War II, some of the artists, newly returned and disaffected by their experiences in the war, began to settle here, lured by the town's extreme remoteness. Their eyes had been opened to the cruel realities of the greater world. They'd heard talk of socialism, labor movements, strikes, exploitation, apartheid, and other injustices.

Gradually and quietly, the ``murali'' began to appear. Today, nearly every wall in the center of Orgosolo and beyond is covered with huge painted murals reminiscent of the styles of Picasso, Leger, and Diego Rivera. Some are lighthearted and merely decorative, but most of the murals make powerful political statements.

A screaming woman engulfed in flames recalls the Triangle Shirtwaist disaster. ``8 March, 1908. In a New York factory, 129 women were locked inside by the owner, and died in a massive blaze.''

``Women united,'' proclaims a placard held in an exaggeratedly strong female hand, ``for emancipation, liberation, and true equality in the family and at work.''

A gigantic Native American laments, ``The white man brought us a piece of paper and told us to sign it. When we learned to understand English, we realized that with that document, we had lost the earth.''

Tolstoy is quoted on a mural depicting starving Indians. ``Plans to minimize the poverty of the masses by means of the rich man's charity are hypocritical and fraudulent.''

Other targets are agribusiness, the war in Vietnam, and ``all the White Houses of the world.''

The Orgosolo restaurant where we had a wonderful meal of spinach and sheep's milk ricotta ciclorzones accompanied by a flat loaf of glazed egg bread and glasses of Cannonau wine had the only nonsmoking section we'd found in all of Sardinia.

``Sardinia is nowhere,'' wrote D. H. Lawrence in 1921. ``It lies outside the circle of civilization.''

Seventy-six years later, that is not exactly true; but immerse yourself in Sardinia's milieu, and you'll understand his frame of reference.

Car rental: Most of the major companies have offices at airports in both Cagliari and Olbia, as well as in Sassari and Alghero in the west. It is more economical to arrange for auto rental from the United States. We used Hertz after checking the ever-changing rates with all the usual companies. Car rentals and gasoline are monstrously expensive. There is a not-too-reliable railroad system that connects the major cities, as well as a narrow-gauge line running at snail's pace through the central mountains.

When to go: Sardinia's summers are steamy and crowded, with the mistral carrying pockets of hot air that make the average temperature of 79 degrees feel much warmer. July and August are very popular with European tourists, and hotels should be booked ahead. By Oct. 1, seaside hotels begin to close down. In late September, we had no trouble finding wonderful accommodations without advance reservations. Winters are mild, averaging 50 to 55 along the coast but with snow in the mountains from November to March. Spring comes early, with temperatures in the mid to high 60s by mid-April.

For more information: Write to the Italian National Tourist Office at 630 Fifth Ave., Suite 1565, New York, NY 10111, or telephone 212-245-4822. Additional information is available by writing to Ente Sardo Industrie Turistiche, via Mameli 97, Cagliari, Sardinia, or Ente Provinciale per il Turismo at Piazza Deffenu 9, Cagliari. In Olbia, the tourist office at Via Catello Piro 1 provides information on the Costa Smeralda as well as on ferries to Caprera.

Sardinian cuisine: Along with many of the traditional Italian dishes to be had in Sardinian restaurants, there are gustatory glories that are not to be missed. Among the island's unique offerings are: ``bottarga,'' fish (usually tuna) roe caviar, often mixed into pasta dishes; ``sa cassola,'' Sardinian bouillabaise; Macomer pecorino, a mild sheep's milk cheese, and ``su casizzolu,'' a rather strong cow's milk variety. Typical pastas are ``malloriedas,'' ``ditalini,'' and ``ciclorzones,'' a sort of canneloni stuffed with sheep's milk ricotta and chard or spinach. ``Carta da musica,' the ubiquitous local bread, consists of impossibly thin crisp sheets of flat dough resembling music paper. Desserts include ``amaretti sardi,'' macaroon-type cookies, and ``seadas,'' fried bundles of ultra-thin pasta stuffed with sweet cheese and honey. Sardinia's trademark liqueur is Mirto, a deep red potation made from myrtle berries. We were never offered sardines.