The
future of the trip for the menfolk to Lago Santo looked
grave.
Storms
were brewing and the rain had fallen on the little town
of Barga for nearly three days. I'd been doubting my abilities
to walk for three hours over mountain countryside and to
deal with upwards of 25 people, most of whom I'd never met.
No one seemed to know exactly what was going on, or even
if the trip was going ahead not 48 hours before we were
due to leave.
Such
is the Italian organisational skill. The night before, as
if by magic, T-shirts were distributed, money collected
and brave quotes issued. "If it rains, we shall go in the
cars," said Alessandro the Plumber. "If it shines, we shall
walk." Either way, we were going. Damnit, the man had had
30-odd shirts printed.
My
T-shirt is an XL, whereas I am not. Still, I mused, I could
always coat the bastard in candle wax and use it as a bivouac
if the worst came to the worst. The fears of 'the worst'
were in stark evidence as a section of the total squad in
which I travelled climbed up past Renaio in cars to the
north of Barga towards where we'd set off on foot. The skies
above us were heavy and dark. We climbed through the cloudbase,
through whirling whiteness until we parked up long past
the end of tarmac and civilisation. So it began.
Of
course, before we set off everyone has a quick cigarette.
The first part of the 'walk' was a steep climb up a 1 in
4 slope from our 1,500m starting point to around 2,000m.
I thought my lungs would pop, and vaguely regretted offering
to take Babbo's and my stuff in my rucsac. "No, really,
it'll be fine." Puff puff. Finally we reached the highest
point we'd crest, shrouded in cloud. "From here you can
usually see Corsica," translated Dominic. All that was visible
was grey, and beyond that the clanging of bells round goats'
necks.
But
the long descent to camp Lago Santo was a Nietzschean revelation,
of sorts. So open, so vast, craggy with the mountains trying
to force rocks through the green underfoot all over as if
a giant hand were pushing from beneath the ground. In effect,
this is quite true. Along the path are bushes on which grow
tiny strawberries, raspberries and blueberries (or bilberries,
I've no idea which). Mario picks and hands me some, and
I continue to eat blueberries until my tongue shares their
colour.
Far
up a 1 in 2 hillside above us stands a man who seems to
be trying to batter the blueberry bushes to death with a
teatray. I later realise he is harvesting them, using a
tray with one open side on which is mounted a kind of rake
- you pull the rake side through the bushes and it strips
the tiny berries off and collects them in the tray. Genius.
The
mountain is sticking up through the ground itself, like
it can't be contained, like it's growing underneath our
feet unstoppable, relentless. The clouds are tumbling over
the hills like a giant blowing dry ice, like a monstrous
factory pouring smoke from an unseen hole, and I begin to
feel that Mario was more right than he thought when he told
me, after mushroom hunting, that Dante told more of the
history of Italy than many other tomes.
As
I'm reaching my hand into a berry bush for some more red
fruit, for a second I think I'm about to plunge my hand
into a huge cobweb. I pull back as if stung, and then realise
that this cobweb is in fact hundreds of small ultra-thin
plants with white tips to tiny branches. The white tips
are so small that when they're grouped together in amoungst
the berry plants, they look like a matting of silk. Though
I know it's not a cobweb now, for some reason I don't pick
from that bush. Nature asserting itself, bootstrapping a
primeval instinct. Don't touch - danger here.
Over
slick rocks and through meandering paths we trudge until,
through the trees, we spy the lake, and hear the calls of
the others who have made it, walking further than we. Looking
at them all, I feel like I've suddenly joined the army,
with our dark khaki T-shirts and army-style printing on
their backs.
After
we've dumped our stuff at the refuge, owned by the Comune
di Barga (everyone), and asserted that, yes, there are far
more people than there are beds, we mill around drinking
wine and waiting to go for dinner in one of the restaurants
by the lake. Late arrivals turn up, Roy, Fabio and others,
and we are complete.
Nine
o'clock sees the Lake Angels descend like locusts on the
restaurant. The staff must know what they're in for, they've
seen it for four years runing. This knoweldge doesn't stop
them later in the evening staring in wonder at the singing
and general merriment that then takes place. The Italian
national anthem is sung (twice), a strange foreign version
of Tom Jones' Delilah (we don't work out what it is until
the chorus) as well as numerous rowdy songs that firmly
entrench the barrack-room feel. Add to this copious quantities
of wine and a little snifter of sambuca at the end (I only
just restrain myself from demonstrating my inability to
do the set-fire-to-the-drink-in-your-mouth trick) and you've
got a recipe for either disaster or complete success, which
will probably occur simultaneously. Outside, it has started
to rain.
We
are some 30 people, and most of us manage to crowd into
the refuge's kitchen. Wine is broken open, and I've managed
to steal the remains of the sambuca from the restaurant.
I feel only marginally bad about this. Guitars are fully
unpacked, and the fun properly begins.
Spending
an evening (and well into the night) in a small kitchen
with 15-20 blokes high in a mountain may sound like the
sort of thing you'd only do if you made to by Her Majesty's
Armed Forces, but in these few hours I get an inkling of
two things.
One
is the Italians' notion of 'ospitalità'. No one made me
feel like a foreigner (ok I was a bit drunk but I'm pretty
sure), everyone was friendly and they didn't mind that my
Italian simply wasn't up to most conversations. They were
there to let off steam, and so was I. I just took a little
time to realise it.
This
hospitality is something I'd gained a demonstration of the
previous night, when I was complaining to Fabio that my
planned motorino (scooter) trip had been seemingly scuppered
by the loss of the vehicle is was going to do it on.
"You
can take my Vespa," says Fabio. "Really?" I say. "Sure,"
says Fabio. Babbo and I are somewhat gobsmacked by the simplicity
of the offer. 'Here's my Vespa. I know I've just told you
that driving to Pistoia which is 80km away through the hills
on a motorino is insane. Sure, I've just had it back from
being serviced after it's stood unused for a year. Sure
it's an older one that might well fetch a fair price. No
problem.' I have since found out, of course, that this is
a bike that only a deranged mechanic with obsessive compulsive
disorder would steal.
"It's
not this way in London," I say, gawping.
"E'
l'ospitalità," says Fabio, doing that thing that Italians
do, raising his right hand out at chest level, elbow slightly
bent, palm upwards, fingers half curled with the thumb touching
the index and forefinger. "E' l'ospitalità." It certainly
is.
The
other thing that I began to understand is that all human
life is here. A vet, a gynocologist, a plumber, an IT manager,
a journalist, an IT systems engineer for the ESA, probably
several shopkeepers, some people who work on the land...
and many others. More musicians than I cold count, they
changed places so often. And the songs - these guys know
countless songs in their own tongue, most of which have
beautiful tunes. We in Britain and beyond have little to
no knowledge of Italian popular music beyond europop, but
there is a lot more to it than that. One musician in particular
is so well known it seems everyone knows and loves his songs.
His first name is Battista, I think, and eventually I felt
that we'd been playing English songs for just too long.
"Play something in Italian," I said. "I want to hear something
in Italian." Roy leans over and says: "Che un merde chi
sei," or 'what a shit you are'. I look askance, thinking
'well I was just trying to balance things out, after all
it's their country and they said we could come on this jaunt'
and he had to tell me that it's not necessarily rude. It's
like me and a mate calling each other 'c*nt' with a laugh.
I relax, and determine to remember the phrase.
S omeone
makes coffee. I stare at it and say to someone that it looks
like a great idea. "You want one?" Well, yes I say, but
there isn't enough and I wasn't on the roster in the first
place. Odd looks. "We'll just make more," says Claudio.
L'ospitalità.
By
two in the morning everyone's fairly well lubricated and
it feels like we've been playing songs for hours, which
of course we have. Babbo has this enormous set list in his
head, an almost endless number of songs that he can play.
Most of the time he can even remember most of the words.
This amazes me, as I have no idea when he has had the time
to sit and learn these songs. It seems he's spent off moments
over 40 years learning songs, and somehow they've stayed,
stuck, been stored somewhere in the brainpan, from where
they can be excavated when a musical emergency arises.
Suddenly
a chorus of voices strikes out with three syllables: "Spa-ghet-ti!
Spa-ghet-ti! Spa-ghet-ti!"
Oh
we've eaten enough already, more than enough, enough to
kill a horse. But they want more, and so do I. Several members
of the group step up to the challenge and proceed to knock
out huge tubs of spaghetti in sauce for anyone who wants
some and some who don't. They don't care, they're on a roll
now and they can't be denied. I get a big plate of it banged
in front of me and devour it. Lah-vely.
For
only the second time since I came here, I decide that I
will after all play some tunes on the guitar, which go down
bizarrely well. I put this down mainly to the wine. In between
all these things I'm bouncing around like a child taking
pictures, a constant strobe going off in the party. They
probably don't much care for this kind of behaviour so late
in the evening, but tolerate it with a sense of bonhomie.
In the other room men are playing card games which look
so complicated I do not even bother to ask them what they
are, and I am probably too drunk to understand the explanations
anyway. No doubt there will be several explanations, as
there always are for things Italian, most of which will
conflict over small points of detail and perhaps even spark
a debate. This I do not want. I satisfy myself with playing
some songs badly and attempting to drink everything around
me. Several glasses of wine that have been sitting in front
of me half finished for some time become willing victims.
I reason that their previous owners obviously have better
things to do.
In
playing music there is a growing connection being made with
Babbo. I always thought that it was the fact that I didn't
really play guitar when myself, my brother and Babbo got
together, especially if other people were there, that confused
Babbo. Rupert plays guitar and sings in a band, he must
have reasoned, and he writes the songs, so why doesn't he
want to kick out jams whenever possible? It makes no sense!
Well, I suppose it doesn't, but I never learned anyone else's
music, and I didn't think anyone else wanted to hear my
own stuff, so I didn't want to play. Bit like a spoiled
child really. But now, he and I are getting a bit closer.
It's something he understands, wanting to play the guitar
in public.
Much
later, he and I nip outside for some fresh air and talk
about the family, his mum, important things. I feel like
I've learned some important information, and I'm happy but
disappointed when we eventually go to bed. Babbo has to
be guided to his sleeping bag and almost placed in it, which
is most amusing, and proceeds to to lie in the darkness
snorting and giggling like a schoolboy. This sets Mario
and Andrea off who were asleep in our room. Soon they're
snorting and chuckling over the various farting and snoring
around us. After a few minutes, as if switched off by an
unseen hand, Babbo is suddenly snoring with the rest of
them. It takes me a little while longer to get to sleep.
In
the morning I awake at 15 minutes to nine, not five hours
after I went to sleep, and it feels like it. Then something
happens that gives me one of those 'oh christ, we are alike'
feelings about Babbo.
I go
out of our room with my washbag looking for a toilet. I
need to brush my teeth and I need to crap, and not in that
order. The bathroom upstairs is occupied. Bollocks. I trundle
downstairs in a daze looking for the other toilet. There
it is, next to the kitchen. Most people are up by now and
milling around looking restless. I nip into the toilet,
lock the door and go over to the toilet, sit and do the
necessary. Only then do I realise that there is no toilet
paper. What once would have filled a teenager with fear
and shame is now just a frustration. I realise then that
I picked up some tissues from the bar when we left for the
trip, thinking 'ooh these'll be useful' and then left them
in my shorts. Which are still upstairs. Bollocks. So I look
around for something, anything to use in place of the paper.
Nothing. I look to my right at the washbasin. No, I'm not
doing that, things will have to be more desperate before
I wipe my arse with my hand. So I stand, hitch up my trousers
and waddle with an attempt at hiding my predicament over
to the door, leaving my washing stuff behind. Upstairs I
go, pick up the tissues, and go back down, all the while
trying to keep my trousers away from my arse. I get back
to the toilet only to find the door locked. Bollocks. So
I wait thinking 'come on! you don't know what's going on
here!' and after a while the door opens, and out pops Babbo.
He looks at me and says " I've got some tissues upstairs
if you need them" and I think 'If your tissues are upstairs,
and you've mentioned them, you've had a crap too. And you
didn't have any paper either!' I pull out my tissues and
wave them. "Oh, you're going in there are you?" says Babbo
with a funny look on his face. So in I go and wipe myself
off, and then brush my teeth and wash my hands in the basin.
Later,
on the walk back through pelting rain, I laugh to myself.
How alike we are. He made the same error not minutes after
I did, and then had to wait to wipe his arse while I did
mine. I chuckle into my waterproof while the rain sprays
horizontally across a high ridge.
Later
that day, back in Barga, I ring Babbo up.
"Dad,
I've got to know. You had a crap and didn't have any toilet
paper either, didn't you?"
Babbo
chuckles. "Yes."
"But
you had to go upstairs and get some tissues as well didn't
you? I did the same!"
"No,"
says Babbo.
"But
what did you do then?" I ask, convinced Babbo is telling
lies.
"Well,"
he says, "the washbasin made a very good bidet."
Thanks
Dad, I brushed my teeth in that
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