Cappuchini Catacombs
Trip Start
Jul 11, 2010
1
28
43
Trip End
Aug 15, 2010
Palermo, Sicily, Italy
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
By five-thirty we are beginning to worry - the place closes soon and we still aren't there! We have been walking for an hour, we are on Via Cappucini, which seems like the right place to be, but in true Italian tradition, the site is only partially signposted. I have come to the conclusion that the way it works here is that there is a sign at each turn, and nothing in between. The idea, I guess, is that if you don't see a sign, assume you should continue straight. This would work, if (a) the turns were all actually signposted, which they rarely are, and (b) that the streets are straight, which they are not. They curve like buggery, and split all over the place, so it is mostly guesswork, and a lot of "Dove catacomb?" (where catacombs)!
We make a couple of turns, and pass a monk hurrying towards us - we must have the look of travellers about us, as he asks us if we are going to the catacombs. We say we are and he tells us to hurry. Of course, 6pm closing time means they start shutting the doors at 5:15, so we are lucky to scrape in. We pay our €3 each to a sleazy-looking priestly character, and descend into the catacombs.
On the plus side, it is lovely and cool down here - a welcome relief from the heat. On the negative, it is full of bones and corpses barely and arm's reach away. And I'm not joking. Skeletons dressed clothes, their bodies re-assembled with straw covering their bones, line the walls. Priests, men, women, even children. Some are as you would expect - skulls with missing teeth, the bones of a hand clenched into a claw, grasping at life. Then there are the more...complete ones. Fragments of skin and hair cling to some, while others still bear a grisly mask of their dying hour. Others have whole faces, shrunken into a visage of the unholy. They wear clothing from their station or profession - period dress on some, religious vestments on many. Many a gruesome face leers at us from only a meter away - one bolder than I could reach out and touch the cold cheek of one long departed.
Most disturbingly is the baby crypt - children of all ages, the youngest seeming to be only a few months old, lie peacefully in dusty cots, their withered bones a chilling reminder of an art no longer practised. Apparently the methods of preserving these bodies varies a little, according to the time and circumstance of their demise. From being dried in a 'strainer' (horrible term) for 8 months, before being bathed in vinegar, to those who died in pandemics, who were dipped in arsenic and lime. Most unsettling is the body of Rosalia Lombardo (see picture), who's corpse lies as if sleeping. She is the most unique of all, as she was preserved by a series of injections. The man who pioneered this technique died, taking his secrets with him. However, what he left behind is truly uncanny - if you didn't know she was dead, you might not even guess it.
After one lap of the place I have had my fill of leering corpses watching me, and am ready to re-emerge in the world of sunshine and the living. Lucky, as we appear to be the last ones out as they lock the doors - at 5:40pm (a little premature methinks). Leanne pops to the toilet, and discovers one of Palermo's many toilets-senza-paper. We really must start carrying a toilet roll around with us. And so, we begin the long trek back home.
Back at the hostel, I do some quick maths on the map, and estimate our walk to have been 6km...each way. Toss in the walk up to the English Garden that morning, and I think we have each clocked up about 20km of walking today. No wonder our calves are enormous. Which leaves us with only one question: how far do we walk for dinner?
