March 28, 2014
This Festival Friday we’ll take you to Mamoiada, a village
in inland Sardinia. Mamoiada is the home of mamuthones and issohadores,
mysterious masked characters whose origin is all but unknown. We visited in
occasion of St Anthony’s festival on January 17th, when mamuthones and
issohadores parade around burning bonfires.
“I can’t let you in.
I can’t just let anyone in. Sorry.” says Basilio, one of the eight issohadores
of Mamoiada. “It is more than getting dressed. It is a metamorphosis” he adds,
as he slams the door of the Mamuthones and Issohadores Association in my face.
I am not allowed to enter the courtyard, where the preparation of the masked
characters is taking place. I sneak towards a door left ajar, and glimpse
moments of a century-old ritual, pervaded with superstition. The men, dressed
but not yet masked, circle around a bonfire, lie on the floor, help each other
strapping bells on their backs.
The day of Sant’Antonio, January 17th, is one of the most
popular festivals in Sardinia; the saint is the protector of animals and fire,
and each year bonfires are lit to symbolise purification and renewal, to ward
off the cold winter and welcome spring.
In the village of Mamoiada, the bonfires of Sant’Antonio
offer a supernatural background to another event, a lot more important to local
people; the first yearly procession of mamuthones and issohadores, masked
characters unique to the town. Smoke billows in twirls from the fires, a sleety
rain falls, interspersed with bright spells; then a double-arched rainbow
appears, crossing the mountainous expanse east of town.
Many Sardinians will tell you Sardinia is not Italy. Here,
people speak another language, completely unintelligible to Italian speakers;
some refer to Italy as ‘the continent’, with a mixture of indifference and
contempt. Barbagia is another place altogether. Far from the beaches of coastal
Sardinia, Barbagia is a tough place of mountains and shepherds. The name of the
region itself derives from Barbaria, barbarians, the name given by the Romans
to the people of the land, proud and elusive, who never subjected to their
rule.
I am no longer in Italy; I am in Barbagia. Mamoiada lies in
the heart of the region, tucked among a mountain massif riddled with streams
and caves, where nomadic shepherding is still practiced.
The village is surrounded by squat, windswept mountains,
covered by gnarled olive trees and myrtle bushes. The wind blows, thick with
sleet. This is an isolated land. A place where the harsh territory allowed
people to preserve their culture, language and tradition.
Mamoiada’s masked characters are an example. Mamuthones wear
grotesque wooden masks, painted black. They are all handmade by local artisans,
all different to one another. Some have giant hooked noses, others have
protruding foreheads, pointed chins and grimacing expressions, lending
mamuthones a spooky, devilish appearance. They wear vests of dark sheep fur and
huge copper bells, arranged like tortoise shells on their backs. Issohadores
are their lighter counterpart, vivacious and cheerful; dressed in a red tunic
with a black bandolier, an embroidered, fringed shawl tied around the hips, a
black hat held together with a colourful bow.
The village is surrounded by squat, windswept mountains,
covered by gnarled olive trees and myrtle bushes. The wind blows, thick with
sleet. This is an isolated land. A place where the harsh territory allowed
people to preserve their culture, language and tradition.
When the characters reach the main bonfire, in front of
Mamoiada’s largest church, the procession starts. Twelve mamuthones in two
rows, surrounded by eight issohadores. Their movement has been defined by
anthropologists as a ‘danced procession’, because of the grave yet musical,
rhythmical pace it follows. Mamuthones move slowly, with heavy steps, as if
they were chained. Their backs are curved under the weight of the bells, under
the coarse vests, under the grimacing masks. Rhythmically, they shake their
right shoulder, the left foot advances, bells clang in unison. Issohadores move
with agile, deft steps, surrounding the darker figures as if they were hoarding
them, guiding them, then confronting them.
Their function is complementary; mamuthones do not interact
with the crowd, while issohadores skip across the road, catching young women
with the soha, the slim reed rope after which they are named. One issohadore,
at the head of the group, has the function of setting the pace of the
procession; every now and then he lifts one arm, then waves, the mamuthones
answer shaking their bells three times, in rapid succession.
The public looks on speechless, silent and composed, as if
they were assisting to a religious procession; looking scared, then between awe
and bewilderment, hypnotised by the slow, yet imposing gait. There is no joy;
the atmosphere wavers between austere and otherworldly. No one dares speak. The
parade continues, from early afternoon to late night, repeating the dance at
each of the thirty-eight bonfires in Mamoiada.
The origin of mamuthones is unknown. They have been in
Mamoiada as long as anyone remembers; it is likely that the town itself has
taken its name from them. Now, they are a symbol of Mamoiada’s identity. “We
were born to be mamuthones” said Augusto, standing with his nine year-old son
in a small mamuthone costume. “The first time, he was eighteen months old”.
The pace of mamuthones is seen by some scholars as an
interpretation of the pre-Christian limping dance in honour of Dionysus, the
god of vegetation, that each year died in winter, and was born again in spring
as the grass in the fields, bringing rain and fertility. According to this
theory, this is why the first mamuthones procession of the year is held on the
day of Sant’Antonio, celebration of spring. Other scholars see the Mamuthones
as an animal metaphor; the bells on their back are the bond between shepherd
and animal, their shared destiny of working in the fields, of roaming the
mountains.
Mamuthones have also been defined as a representation of the
collective soul of Sardinia. The bells symbolise the yoke of subsequent
dominations, from the Romans to the Vandals, from the Piedmontese to the
Italians. The cavorting issohadores in their exotic costume are the invaders;
the shuffling mamuthones, bent under their load, are the Sardinians, prisoners,
forever shaking the bells of their pain and suffering.
At the end of the parade, in the dead of night and bitter
cold, the characters return to their association, to undress, become men again.
Then the party begins, wine flowing until morning. This time, everybody is
welcome to join in.
