Grotta Gino: In The Lair of The Stone People

Article by guestbloggers Alessia Cagnotto and Martina Huni

It is a fine October day, the sky is clear and the sun warms us as if we were still at the beginning of September. We are in Moncalieri, in front of a building that seems to have been meticulously saved from the ravagings of time. The facade is uniformly illuminated; the decors and windows cast very soft shadows, and the Irish-green signs stand out against the salmon pink brick walls, as do the white letters reading “Ristorante La Grotta Gino“.
The entrance shows nothing strange, but we do not let ourselves be deceived by this normality: we know what awaits us inside is far from ordinary.

Upon entering the small bar, we are greeted by a smiling girl who shows us the way to the fairy-tale restaurant.
On our left we see a few set tables, surrounded by ancient pots and pans hanging from the walls, old tools and photographs: our gaze follows these objects unto the opening of the lair that will take us inside another world.
Here we see standing two dark red caryatids, guarding the entrance of the path, and beyond them, the reassuring plaster gives way to a dark grey stone vault, as our eyes wander inside the tunnel lit only by a few spotlights stuck to the ceiling.

Once past the caryatids of the Real World, in order to proceed inside the cave — as in all good adventures — we see a moored boat awaiting to set sail; we soon find ourselves floating on a path of uncertain waters, aboard our personal ferry. Feeling at ease in Jim Hawkins‘ shoes, we decide to enjoy the trip and focus on the statues lined up on both sides of the canal.

Behind a slight bend along the way (more or less 50 meters on a stream of spring water), we meet the first group of stone characters, among which is standing the builder of the cave himself, Mr. Lorenzo Gino, together with the Gentleman King and a chubby cupid holding an inscription dedicated to King Victor Emmanuel.

The story of the Grotta is incredible: over a span of thirty years, from 1855 to 1885, Lorenzo Gino excavated this place all by himself, on the pretext of expanding his carpenter shop. The construction works encountered many difficulties, as he proceeded without following any blueprint or architectural plan, but were nonetheless completed with this amazing result.
In 1902 his son Giovanni dedicated a bust, the one we just passed by, to his father and his efforts; many journalists attended the inauguration of this statue, and a couple of books were published to advertise the astounding Grotta Gino.

Back in the days, the public already looked with wonder at these improvised tunnels where Gino placed depictions of real characters, well-known at the time.
The light coming from above further sculpts the lineaments of the statues, making their eyes look deeper, and from those shady orbits these personified stones fiercely return our curious gaze.
Proceeding along the miniature canal, we eventually dock at a small circular widening. A bit sorry that the ride is already over, we get off the boat and take a look inside the dark niche opening before us: two mustached men emerge from darkness, accompanied by a loyal hunting dog holding a hare in her mouth.

We realize with amazement that we’ve just begun a new adventurous path; we climb a few steps and stumble upon another group of statues standing in circle: they happily dance under a skylight drilled in the vaulted ceiling, which lets some natural sunlight enter this dark space. These rays are so unexpected they seem almost magical.

New burrows branch off from here. On our right there’s a straight tunnel, where calm waters run, reflecting wine bottles and strange little petrified creatures nestled in the walls. The half-busts, some gentlemen as high as their top hats, and an elegant melancholic dame all lean out over the stream, where a bratty little kid is playfully splashing around.

We smile perhaps, feeling in the belly of a whale. Our estrangement is intensified by the eerie lighting: very colorful neons turn the stone red, blue, purple, so we observe the surroundings like a child watches the world through a colored candy paper. The only thing that could bring us back to the reality of the 21st Century would be the sound coming from the radio, but its discrete volume is not enough to break the spell, to shake the feeling that those creatures are looking at us, amused by our astonishment.

We make our way through the tunnels as if searching for a magic treasure chest, hypnotized by the smallest detail; everywhere wine bottles lie covered in dust, while human figures carved in stone seem to point us towards the right way. We enter a semi-circular lair, filled with a number of bottles; we observe them, label after label, as they tower over us arranged on several levels: the bottles decorate a series of recesses inhabited by little, bizarre smiling creatures leaning over towards us. In the middle of this sort of miniature porch, stands a young man of white stone, even more joyful than his roommates, forever bound to celebrate the wine around him.

We keep moving in order to reach a new group of statues: this time there are more characters, once again arranged in a circle — gentlemen sporting a big moustache and high top hats stand beside a playful young fellow and a well-dressed lady with her bulky outfit; the shadows of the fabric match the mistress’ hairstyle. In the dim light, these statues suggest a slight melancholy: we can recognize mankind’s everlasting attempt to sculpt Time itself, to carve in stone a particular instant, a vision that we wouldn’t want to be lost and consumed; a mission that is unfortunately bound to fail because, as the saying goes, “the memory of happiness is not happiness”.
Four a couple of minutes, though, we actually manage to join this Feast of Stone, we walk around the partygoers, following the whirl suggested by their frozen movements.
We eventually leave, in silence, like unwanted guests, without having understood the reason for this celebration.

The burrows take us towards a slight rise, the moist path turns into a stairway. We climb the stairs, accustomed by now to the impressive half-busts keeping us company through the last part of our adventure.

A narrow wrought-iron spiral staircase, green as the signs we met on the outside, leads us back to our current era. Its very presence contrasts with one last, small statue hanging on the opposite wall: a white, fleshy but run-down cupid remains motionless under a little window, sunlight brushing against him. From his niche, he is destined to imagine the world without ever knowing it.

Our trip eventually reaches its end as we enter a big circular dining room, under a high dome. This is the place where receptions and events are usually held.

The way back, which we reluctantly follow, gifts us with one last magical sight before getting our feet back on the ground: seen from our boat, the light coming from outisde, past the red caryatids, appears excessively bright and reverberates on the water creating a weird, oblong reflection, reminding us of depictions in ancient books of legends and fables.

Upon exiting this enchanted lair, and coming back to the Real World, we find the October day still tastes like the beginning of Spetember.
With a smile we silently thank Mr. Lorenzo Gino for digging his little fairy tale inside reality, and for giving substance, by means of stone, to a desire we all harbor: the chance of playing and dreaming again, for a while, just like when we were kids.
When we could turn the world into something magic, by looking at it through a sticky and colorful candy paper.

“La Grotta Gino” is in Piazza Amedeo Ferdinando 2, Moncalieri (TO). Here is its official website and FB page.
On the blog of the speleological association Egeria Centro Ricerche Sotterranee there is an article (in Italian) mentioning the mystery of a second Grotta Gino near Milan.
Take a look at the beautiful photographs taken by the authors of this post: Alessia Cagnotto and Martina Huni.

Ischia’s creative graves

Jan2

Art, construction and redemption

Post and pictures by our guestblogger Mario Trani

The island of Ischia, pearl of the Neapolitan Gulf, holds a secret.
It’s a sort of exaltation, a deviant behavior caused by the very limited living space or maybe by an instinctive desire of marking the territory: it’s the plague of frauca — the unauthorized construction, in infringement of all local building regulations.

The Ischian resident, in order to be (or to think of himself as) respected, has to build, construct, erect.
It might be just a screed, a dry stone wall, a second floor or a small living quarter for his son who’s about to get married. All rigorously unauthorized, these supplements to the house are built in disregard of those strict and suffocating rules he feels are killing his creativity; and which often force him to demolish what he so patiently constructed.

No family is without an expert in this field, and often more than one member is mastro fraucatore or mezza cucchiara (nicknames for a master builder).
But the free zone, the real no man’s land where all the islanders’ construction dreams come true is the graveyard.

To walk through the avenues of the Ischia Municipal Cemetery means to discover surprising tombs the relatives of the deceased decorated with materials found around the island: lava stones from the volcanic Mount Epomeo, polished rocks from the many beaches, sea shells and scallops; stones from the Olmitello creek or pizzi bianchi of carsic origin.

Other tombs incorporate remainings and leftovers from unauthorized constructions, such as unused bricks or decorated floor tiles.

mattoni

No grave is similar to another, in this array of different materials and colors. But there is a specific niche of funeral art, reserved to those who worked as fishermen.
To honor the deceased who, during their lifetime, bravely defied the sea for the catch of the day, granting the survival and well-being of their family, a peculiar grave is built in the shape of a gozzo, the typical Ischian fishing boat.

gozzi1

Gozzi3

Gozzi2

Gozzi4

Gozzi5

This is a touching way of saying a last goodbye, and looking at these hand-crafted graves one cannot help but appreciate the genuine creativity of these artisans. But the tombs seem to be the ultimate, ironic redemption of the heirs of Typhon: a payback for that building urge, that longing for cement and concrete which was constantly repressed during their lifetime.

Pescatori di uomini

Jan22

Il corso d’acqua scivola veloce e silenzioso, con il suo carico di terriccio e detriti che gli hanno valso il nome, celebre ma poco invitante, di Fiume Giallo. Dopo aver attraversato la città di Lanzhou, nel nordest della Cina, serpeggia per una trentina di chilometri fino a che un’ansa non lo rallenta: poco più a valle incontra la centrale idroelettrica di Liujiaxia, con la sua diga che fa da sbarramento per la melmosa corrente.
È in seno a questa curva che le acque rallentano ed ogni giorno di buon’ora alcune barche a motore salpano dalla riva per aggirarsi fra i rifiuti galleggianti – una grande distesa che ricopre l’intero fiume. Gli uomini sulle barche esplorano, nella nebbia mattutina, la spazzatura intercettata e ammassata lì dalla diga: raccolgono le bottiglie di plastica per rivenderle al riciclo, ma il prezzo per un chilo di materiale si aggira intorno ai 3 o 4 yuan, vale a dire circa 50 centesimi di euro. Quello per cui aguzzano gli occhi nella luce plumbea è un altro, più allettante bottino. Cercano dei cadaveri portati fino a lì dalla corrente.

Il boom economico e demografico della Cina, senza precedenti, ha necessariamente un suo volto oscuro. Centinaia e centinaia di corpi umani raggiungono ogni anno la diga. Si tratta per la maggior parte di suicidi legati al mondo del lavoro: persone, molto spesso donne, che arrivano a Lanzhou dalle zone rurali affollando la città in cerca di un impiego, e trovano concorrenza spietata, condizioni inumane, precarietà e abusi da parte dei capi. La disperazione sparisce insieme a loro, con un tuffo nella torbida corrente del Fiume Giallo. Il 26% dei suicidi mondiali, secondo i dati raccolti dall’Organizzazione mondiale della sanità, ha luogo in Cina.
Qualcuno dei cadaveri è forse vittima di una piena o un’esondazione del fiume. Altri corpi però arrivano allo sbarramento della diga con braccia e piedi legati. Violenze e regolamenti di conti di cui probabilmente non si saprà più nulla.

Un tempo, quando un barcaiolo recuperava un cadavere dal fiume, lo portava a riva e avvisava le forze dell’ordine. Talvolta, se c’erano dei documenti d’identità sul corpo, provava a contattare direttamente la famiglia; era una questione di etica, e la ricompensa stava semplicemente nella gratitudine dei parenti della vittima. Ma le cose sono cambiate, la povertà si è fatta più estrema: di conseguenza, oggi ripescare i morti è diventata un’attività vera e propria. Qui un singolo pescatore può trovare dai 50 ai 100 corpi in un anno.
Sempre più giovani raccolgono l’eredità di questo spiacevole lavoro, e scandagliano quotidianamente l’ansa del fiume con occhio esperto; quando trovano un cadavere, lo trascinano verso la sponda, facendo attenzione a lasciarlo con la faccia immersa nell’acqua per preservare il più a lungo possibile i tratti somatici. Lo “parcheggiano” infine in un punto preciso, una grotta o un’insenatura, assicurandolo con delle corde vicino agli altri corpi in attesa d’essere identificati.

Per i parenti di una persona scomparsa a Lanzhou, sporgere denuncia alla polizia spesso non porta da nessuna parte, a causa dell’enorme densità della popolazione; così i famigliari chiamano invece i pescatori, per accertarsi se abbiano trovato qualche corpo che corrisponde alla descrizione del loro caro. Nei casi in cui l’identità sia certa, possono essere i pescatori stessi che avvisano le famiglie.
Il parente quindi si reca sul fiume, dove avviene il riconoscimento: ma da questo momento in poi, tutto ha un costo. Occorre pagare per salire sulla barca, e pagare per ogni cadavere che gli uomini rivoltano nell’acqua, esponendone il volto; ma il conto più salato arriva se effettivamente si riconosce la persona morta, e si vuole recuperarne i resti. Normalmente il prezzo varia a seconda della persona che paga per riavere le spoglie, o meglio dal suo reddito desunto: se i pescatori si trovano davanti un contadino, la richiesta si mantiene al di sotto dell’equivalente di 100 euro. Se a reclamare il corpo è un impiegato, il prezzo sale a 300 euro, e se è una ditta a pagare per il recupero si può arrivare anche sopra i 400 euro.

Nonostante la gente paghi malvolentieri e si lamenti dell’immoralità di questo traffico, i pescatori di cadaveri si difendono sostenendo che si tratta di un lavoro che nessun altro farebbe; il costo del carburante per le barche è una spesa che devono coprire quotidianamente, che trovino corpi o meno, e in definitiva il loro è un servizio utile, per il quale è doveroso un compenso.
Così anche la polizia tollera questa attività, per quanto formalmente illegale.

Ci sono infine le salme che non vengono mai reclamate. A quanto raccontano i pescatori, per la maggior parte sono donne emigrate a Lanzhou dalle campagne; le loro famiglie, ignare, pensano probabilmente che stiano ancora lavorando nella grande città. Molte di queste donne sono state evidentemente assassinate.
Nel caso in cui un cadavere non venga mai identificato, o resti troppo a lungo in acqua fino a risultare sfigurato, i pescatori lo riaffidano alla corrente. I filtri della centrale idroelettrica lo tritureranno insieme agli altri rifiuti per poi rituffarlo dall’altra parte della diga, mescolato e ormai tutt’uno con l’acqua.