Ancient corner of italy finds the world on its doorstep
Matera, a small, coastal town, is perched just above the Tyrrhenian Sea — mountainous and lush, with dramatic black sand beaches
A MAYOR really isn’t supposed to say something like this: “We don’t want tourists.” I waited for the punch line. None came. “We don’t want to be occupied by tourists,” he continued.
Tourism, he said, will deplete a city of its soul – and this city has a prehistoric soul.
I was in Matera, an ancient town of about 60 000 people, perched on top of Italy’s high heel. Mayor Raffaello De Ruggieri and I sat under a pergola of young vines, a spotty veil of shade beneath the Mediterranean’s punishing sun. In 2019, Matera – the jewel of the southern Italian region of Basilicata – will be anointed the European Capital of Culture. It is a source of great honour and pride for the town. All year long, there will be festivals and exhibitions. Thousands upon thousands of, well, tourists will descend on the city.
“This city has been alive for 8 000 years,” he told me. “But it has always been poor.”
De Ruggieri began to review those last 8 000 years. And as he did, three dates in Basilicata’s recent history appeared over and over: The year 1932, when Basilicata was renamed Lucania by the Fascists. (It reverted back to Basilicata in 1948.) Then, 1945, when the dissident doctor and writer Carlo Levi published his memoir of exile here, Christ Stopped at Eboli, which became a definitive document of the realities of Southern Italy – extreme poverty, famine, disease, widespread malaria. Finally, 1993, and redemption, when the UN Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation, or Unesco, added Matera to one of the most exclusive lists in the world.
De Ruggieri’s eyes crinkled with pride at the last development. “We went from shame to being a World Heritage site,” he said.
We were on the patio at the Sextantio Le Grotte della Civita hotel having coffee and overlooking a ravine – a steep, rocky valley leading down to a gurgling riverbed and the dark, ancient caves of Parco Nazionale Alta Murgia. Around us, the city told its own history: crude stone walls, stairs worn by armies of time and, most extraordinarily, Paleolithic caves, once home to families and farm animals, carved into the matrix of the town. Some of them had recently, symbolically, been repurposed into luxury hotels and cafes. It was a striking dichotomy: A view that will transport you to the ancient past and a caffè macchiato that will bring you right back to the five-star present.
As recently as the 1950s, more than 15 000 people lived in the caves, but in 1952, authorities declared that the living conditions in the caves were unacceptable and living in a cave became illegal. It wasn’t until 1986 that the Italian government realised their value and invested money in the rehabilitation of the caves.
“There are two sisters who have lived in a cave since 1950,” the mayor told me, conspiratorially. “They never left.”
I had been in Basilicata for only a few days, but I had already come to understand that this region has quirks. This is not like the rest of Italy. This misshapen, green, rocky, mountainous piece of land stretches to two coasts and comprises the awkward instep of Italy’s boot. And there is no easy way in. There are no airports, no high-speed trains from Rome (or anywhere else). There are no major cities or world-famous destinations. The roads are narrow and curled like fusilli. In Basilicata, it takes a long time to go anywhere.
Plans, and Braking for Pastas
Two friends had come with me – Raffaele, a local, from southern Italy; and Lisa, a nonlocal, from southern California. Our plan was to make a beeline from the airport in Bari to the western flank of Basilicata, then work our way eastward.
But plans change. We got hungry. On our drive to Sapri, we hit Pignola. Tucked into a hilltop, Pignola is pure Italian charm: crumbing stone buildings and narrow, unnavigable streets. We could almost hear the sizzle of the olive oil and the crunch of the local dried peppers, peperoni cruschi. We parked our tiny toy rental car, which may or may not have been made of actual Legos, unfolded our limbs, and strolled toward the centro.
But this is Mezzogiorno, the south of Italy, and entire postal codes can close for no apparent reason. Including, apparently, every restaurant in town.