From Banditry To Tourism

“There is nothing to see in Nuoro: which to tell the truth, is always a relief. Sights are an irritating bore” wrote D.H. Lawrence, after stopping there during his Sardinian excursion.* Perhaps he was suffering sightseers’ fatigue; it’s easily acquired, especially on an island with a 7,000 year history of traceable human habitation and a spectacular geological structure which has something to offer all types – mountain-lovers, beach-aficionados and gourmets alike. We’ve just spent a week there, in the company of two old friends, driving in convoy on a loosely-planned itinerary intended to accommodate the whims of four individuals. And while a week may have been the right length of time to ensure the maintenance of harmonious relations between us, it was certainly too short for anything other than a brief glimpse of what Sardinia has to offer.

The tourist season has not yet started so our progress was unencumbered by other people: hotels and restaurants were empty; trails, beaches, museums and archaeological sites were deserted. The only exception to this generality was a party of Germans we encountered early on at one of the more intact nuraghe  (a 3,000 year-old stone dwelling). Their guide told us we should wait our turn while he finished his lecture at the entrance and, although the premise for his authority was unclear, we indulged him - at least until his back was turned. Thereafter it was easy to avoid them anyway: theirs was the only coach on the island. The roads everywhere felt as though they had been laid down just for our convenience and pleasure - which may explain why any native motorist who happened to come from behind seemed palpably impatient and desperate to overtake us.

Or it may be that this is simply a local style of macho driving, born out of the tradition of banditismo which is embedded in the culture - especially of the remote inland regions. In the town of Orgosolo, for example violent vendettas and kidnappings continued into the 1960s, although nowadays tourists are encouraged to visit and gawp at the many buildings painted with murals based on themes of struggle for freedom, independence and justice for all. And at Aggius we visited the Museo del Banditismo which tells the story of the cruel and violent punishments handed out to poor peasants who would not or - more likely - could not pay taxes. The young man at the ticket desk took us for Germans. “No”, I said, “but they will probably be here soon. We’re from England.” I mentioned Manchester, expecting the usual football-related response.  “Ah,” he said “The Chemical Brothers!” But he did later admit to being a Leeds United supporter, for reasons which he failed to explain convincingly.

Some years ago I took evening classes in Italian, the legacy of which is a faltering command of a smattering of phrases, only some of which are useful: testa di cozzo (dickhead) is not one of them. One that would have been, when we ran perilously low on petrol in a remote region, is Dove si trova la statione di servizio più vicina? There, in a typically deserted hill-top village, we were lucky to encounter someone out on the street whom we could ask for help: sometimes you get even luckier and encounter an English-speaker - but not this time. Still, he was a charming, patient man who eventually understood my mime act, flagged down a passing van and persuaded the driver to lead us to salvation. The smiling van-man was only going so far in our direction so he, in turn, flagged down another driver to finish the job. We were able to fill up and carry on sight-seeing. And I’m glad to say that the phrase grazie mille was one I did recall and used abundantly that day.

Customers expected soon.

*Taken from The Rough Guide to Sardinia.