Antonimina is yet another small town nestled into a steep hillside a short distance away from Locri. Mom suggested we drive there and on the way try to find the land where her house was and where her family’s olive grove once stood.
The return to Locri had been tough for mom. Sure, she was happy to see all her friends and family; overjoyed in fact. But the signs of neglect were all around us. People would keep their houses in immaculate condition, but the streets were littered with garbage. The municipal garbage bins were overflowing. Instead of looking for a bin with space, residents dump their garbage beside the bins. When the garbage truck comes around it only picks up what’s in the bins and not what’s on the ground. In the garbage collector’s mind his job is to pick up bins and nothing else. Why should he care?
Italians have a word for these people…”menefreghisti”, the “I don’t cares”. They exist all over the country as they do in every country, but in Italy the “I don’t cares” seem to be concentrated in the South. This upsets mom terribly. Her hometown seems to be overrun with the “I don’t cares”, the roadside trash and refuse on the beach providing ample evidence.
During lunch yesterday at Lidia’s house mom raised the subject and nobody denied the problem. Lidia’s son offered the brutal truth… even if someone wanted to start a movement to gradually clean up the streets by taking up the cause on their own everybody would laugh at them. It’s a sorry state of affairs.
Mom’s memories of this place are coloured by the sweetness of youth. For her, the road to Antonimina used to be paved with candy and ice cream. Disappointed by the new reality, or perhaps the recognition of what always was, one thing becomes painfully clear: you can’t go back.
 |
| Roadside fichi d'India |
Our drive to Antonimina continued and mom kept marvelling at how many “fichi d’India” (prickly pears) there were…all going to waste. We rounded a corner and came upon the corpse of a fox that had been hit by a car. Only this hadn’t happened recently; the corpse was practically mummified from baking on the tarmac in the scorching summer heat. Mom refused to let me stop and take a picture on account of the morbidity of the idea. The worst part was that the corpse was right in front of someone’s driveway. Clearly it was the home of a family of menefreghisti.
Mom could contain her disappointment no longer; she blurted it out, “God forgot this place”. And if it wasn’t for the fact that there isn’t a God she might have been right. It hasn’t rained a drop here in over six months, everything is dry and dusty, the heat keeps people indoors seeking shade and depriving the town of any semblance of life. And on top of that, Locri has become a mafia stronghold.
Maybe God did forget this place; from some angles it looks like the Devil’s playground.
No comments:
Post a Comment