Travel Biography - Week 33.

Concluding the Etna Ascent.

It was deserted at Spiaggia di Fontane Bianche, or White Fountain Beach, despite its turquoise sea lapping gently on the sun-drenched sandy shoreline. Whilst staying at Hotel Aretha in Siracusa, I decided to spend a day at this beach, which was a 30-minute, 22 km, or approx 14-mile bus ride south of the city bus terminal. 

Spiaggia di Fontane Bianca may be classified as a holiday resort, but very quiet and sedate compared to, say, Tossa De Mar on the Spanish Costa Brava, (visited in 1972) or the lively Lido di Jesolo near Venice, or the loud, boozy nightlife of Ibiza. Rather, White Fountain Beach is more of a local community, and in 1982, what I saw of it, apparently devoid of tourism. Yet, it was one of the best beaches on offer, a sandy strip curved to form a wide bay, and sloping gently into the clear water of the Mediterranean. It was served both by buses (which I took) and also has a railway station on the south branch line to Siracusa (which, at the time, I wasn't aware of.)

After a relaxing swim, I sauntered past a beach cafe and made my way to a footpath along a cliff south of the beach, from where I had views of some limestone stacks further out to sea. I then finished the day at the beach cafe for refreshments before boarding the bus back to Siracusa.

White Fountain Beach, taken 1982.

While I was in the cafe, I encountered a bit of unexpected drama. At the counter, I became acquainted with a couple who were seated next to me and also enjoying a coffee. He told me that he was a geologist, a subject which spurred my interest. His partner then left her seat to visit the latrine while I remain talking to him.

I told him of my visit to the Central Crater on the summit of Mt Etna a day or two previously. He then began to rebuke me, even raising his voice slightly, saying how stupid and thoughtless I was to undertake such an endeavour. I knew that he was right, although I felt no regret. On the contrary, to stand on the lip of such an active crater, with the ground I was standing on literally shaking like an endless earthquake, the explosions within, as the giant plume of steam rose, accompanied by a strong whiff of sulphur. All that gave me and one other person an unforgettable experience.

By checking the photos in a guidebook I bought at Refuge Sapienza, and more recently, the reviews and photos written, taken and posted on the website Tripadvisor, there seems to be evidence that, since the major 1971 eruption that destroyed the old cable car and the observatory, we were two of the very few who managed to venture to the main summit vent. All the other tourists, whether individually or in a group, were kept well away from the summit craters. A couple of reviewers, both independently, wrote that all guided ascents end about a mile from the summit, hence proving the geologist's point.

I didn't answer back or tried to justify myself. Instead, I acknowledged my stupidity to keep the peace. However, I always believed that a bit of risk-taking does lead to a sense of achievement, along with a sense of excitement and purpose. For example, in 1995, just before my life's second hike into the Grand Canyon, a church friend of a singles group I was in warned me of dangerous wildlife I was likely to encounter during the remote desert hike. And he tried to discourage me. My answer to him was if that was the case, I might have well stayed at home! Dear me! Little wonder that some of these churchgoing graduates look as if their dull, sedentary lives were devoid of any form of excitement and lacking a sense of adventure. Did the geologist's rebuke at Spiaggia di Fontane Bianca arise from an unexciting yet envious heart? Just a thought.

Blown away on the way down.

And so, after such a scary experience on the edge of Central Crater, my new friend Miguel insisted that it was time to return to the group, after an extra loud explosion within the crater. Fearing an imminent eruption, we found the start of the trail that would take us to the right place without getting lost. A strong wind was blowing, and as I was packing away my camera, the wind caught the inside of the leather lens cover, and like a parachute, the wind snatched it out of my hand and was driven along the upper cone of the mountain, and I left the trail to chase it.

The strong wind proved an advantage to us, as we stood at the crater's edge, since the wind was behind us, it also drove the steam plume away from where we were standing, thus avoiding engulfment into the cloud. Now, it was a race with the same air current to retrieve my camera lens cover. Treading on virgin basalt sand, I managed to retrieve the item after it landed to rest about a hundred metres from where Miguel was still standing, looking rather shocked as he waited for my return.

Near the basaltic wall, just before the hike.

A group of tourists was about to leave the basalt rock wall to board the jeeps to take them back to the refuge. As they were boarding, we joined them, and no one was aware of us or where we came from. The jeep took us safely back to the base where we handed our weather jackets before having refreshments in the refuge cafe.

A lesson from the Catacombs of St John.

I'm one of the fortunate to be born almost exactly in the middle of the twentieth Century. That explorative travel was idealistic during my twenties and thirties was proven during a visit to the remains of the Church of St John with its neighbouring Catacombs. 1982 saw my thirtieth birthday, and as one who was still unmarried, an ideal age for travel and exploration. This particular attraction in the heart of Siracusa was, in 1982, a template of how travel should be, and I have a degree of pity for anyone in his prime of life who had in mind to visit the same site during the present-day.

However, that's according to personal opinion. Some tourists feel more comfortable following an escort in a tour group. However, in researching Tripadvisor in preparation to write this blog, many reviewers who visited the catacombs within the last year or so were impressed with the history of the caves, but many also expressed dissatisfaction with the tour itself. Examples of this include the forbiddance of all photography, an apathetic escort who only wanted to rush through the tour as quick as possible or who was overcome by repetitive boredom, poor communication skills, especially with a foreign language, the tour being too short for the expense, shortcuts, or the sense in being treated like children. Not to mention the waiting room, non-existent during the eighties, where every visitor must now wait there before the escort decides when to lead the group through.

How different this was in 1982 when I came across the church and catacombs by chance whilst walking through the streets of Siracusa! Back then, a toll booth gave me full access to the site. Both in the ruined church and the catacombs I was free to wander around at my own pace, alone, and taking as long as I like. And that was what I did back then, wandering through the catacombs with the camera in hand complete with a flashgun, as this was a necessity in the gloomy dark catacombs.

The catacombs consisted of a main corridor with passages branching off it, a dendritic layout, hence, not that easy to get lost, as one might think. Once an ancient Greek aqueduct, all the walls and even the floor had nitches cut out of the rock. In these, the bodies of dead Christians were laid to rest between the fourth and the sixth centuries AD. However, when I arrived in 1982, all the human remains had gone. They were removed and reburied elsewhere, as the catacombs served as a bomb shelter during the Second World War.

In 2006, my wife Alex and I returned to Siracusa to celebrate our 7th wedding anniversary, and we visited the Catacombs of St John. It was then that we had no other choice but to go on one of these ranger-led tours. To be honest, although my spouse enjoyed it, I hated it! Especially when we had to sit in the waiting room for around twenty minutes until our escort was ready to lead a group of up to twenty people. As I cast my mind back over 24 years, the whole site had lost that explorative spirit. It wasn't the same any more and it will never be the same again.

Below, I post a few photos I had taken both of the church and within the catacombs in 1982. Having just bought a slide viewer, it was possible to "take a picture of a picture" and reproduce it here. They show the nitches cut in the limestone tunnel walls which served as resting places for the departed.

The Church of St John, 1982.

Main Corridor, Catacomb of St John. 1982.

Catacomb of St John, 1982. A detail.

Catacomb of St John, 1982. A closer detail.

The Tears of Our Lady, 1982 and now.

Another phenomenon that marks a big difference between 1982 and the present is the Madonna delle Lacrima church which is also in the centre of Siracusa. Literally built around a small, privately-owned ceramic statuette of the Virgin Mary, who on August 29, 1953, began to shed tears, and kept on shedding tears for three days afterwards. This was declared a miracle by the Bishop of Siracusa, and endorsed by the Vatican.

When I arrived at the church for the first time in 1982, only the crypt was built with a wide, circular platform just above ground level serving as the roof. Its construction began in 1966, and by 1982, the edifice remained unfinished, as there was some disagreement on the height and shape of the intended shrine, hence, it wasn't completed until 1994. Thus, the a big difference between 1982 and 2006. The finished structure, seen from the air, looks very much like a serrated ice cream cone that was accidentally dropped, with the cream scattered around the upturned cone. Actually, the structure is meant to represent a teardrop hitting the ground.

The Madonna delle Lacrima, unfinished, 1982.

Inside the crypt, then used for services, 1982.

The finished Madonna delle Lacrima, stock photo.

In 1982, what was meant to be the crypt served as the main church. Above the altar, the small figurine was placed, having been donated to the Church by its original owners soon after the miracle and its ecclesial verification. In 2006, both Alex and I visited the main structure with images of the Madonna displayed around the sanctuary. we then went downstairs. Indeed, this part was the crypt, as originally intended, but this time it looked tired, lacking the freshness so characteristic of 1982.

By describing the Neapolis Archaeological Park, the Catacombs of St John, and the Madonna delle Lacrima, I have covered much of the mainland city of Siracusa. To me, it was an ideal place to stay, especially with easy access to the station.

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Next Week: the Island of Ortigia, then onward to Palermo.

1980s Travel - Class and Racism Crushed!

Warning: Macabre photos.

Last week I was having my weekly read of the Daily Mail newspaper, when I came across these words found in the two-page Saturday Essay:

London in June 1857 - (John) Robarts was among 62 men presented with a medal by Queen Victoria, in a ceremony attended by hundreds of thousands who stood for hours in blazing sunshine at a time when they wore jackets and ties for such occasions, not T-shirts and shorts.
(Guy Walters, Daily Mail, November 10th, 2012. Emphasis mine.)

When I came across this insertion in an article about neglected gravestones of war heroes, I thought: PLEASE, GIVE IT A REST! Guy Walters wrote this article to be published on the eve of Armistice Sunday, therefore making the main theme of the article appropriate. But Walters, who was educated at Eton before attending University of London, is one of a number of middle class, well educated journalists who believe that the English had, over the years, lost their stoicism, the stiff upper lip, their national pride and imperialism, their belief that they were God's chosen people and the notion that they are of the master race.

He joins other journalists such as Amanda Platell, Simon Heffer and Melanie Phillips, who had all languished over the loss of the great British past. Both Platell and Phillips believe that we now live in a emotional, sentimental, mawkish, touchy-feely society, particularly since the death of Princess Diana in August, 1997. Heffer, a self confessed atheist and a devoted follower of the late Enoch Powell, once wrote a filler criticising British men for abandoning the wearing of the neck-tie, even on a warm Saturday afternoon while out shopping. To him, only those who wear a tie during all waking hours are considered to be gentlemen.

The Daily Mail newspaper itself picked up on the issue a few years ago. It launched an appeal to all its readers to send a tie to its office in London, from where they shall be distributed to the journalists and reporters of the BBC News bulletins. Many of the younger reporters spoke on camera with open-neck shirts with the intention of impressing their wives and girlfriends, so the newspaper believed. Rather, I tend to feel that their casual dress was an attempt to shed their "stuck up" image in exchange for a greater public appeal.

Enoch Powell was the M.P. for Wolverhampton, who gave the Rivers of Blood speech in Birmingham on the 20th April, 1968, protesting against the immigration of black people from countries that were colonised by the British. So as I can see, it was okay for the British to have invaded a foreign country and colonise it, with the belief that the indigenous were inferior to them, particularly the tribesmen who wore feathers around their waists in contrast the the smart uniforms worn by the colonisers. But for them to come over here...this was so deeply resented. Notices ordering them to go back home to their own country began to appear in city streets, landlords refused them accommodation, employers turned them away and any work found were the most menial jobs no white person wanted. Indeed, the British certainly saw themselves as the master race, God's chosen and even evolutionary advanced.

The murder of 19 year old Steven Lawrence in London took place on the 22nd April 1993 - just two days after the 25th anniversary of Powell's River of Blood speech. The gang of white youths who committed the crime escaped justice for some eighteen years due to the reluctance of the Metropolitan Police to press charges due to their bias against the black teenager. The BBC investigative programme Panorama exposed the guilty officers who were promptly sacked.

So, after all this I sit down and think back - were there some things I saw and experienced in life which is a direct rebuke to the English culture of national superiority, imperialism, racism, dress code, social class, stoicism and pride?

One of my loves in life is Travel, particularly as a solo backpacker. I have written blogs on this site already on this topic, the last was Travel - How I Loved It, published on the 4th November. In this area I have been very fortunate.  During my time outside the UK, I watched the Jews ushering their weekly Sabbath at the Western Wall in Jerusalem. I also found myself in the midst of an Israeli protest demonstration among TV cameras, against the plans of the Palestinians. I attended an Arab wedding reception where a sheep was skinned alive in front of us all.  I waded chest deep in water, through this 2,700 year old tunnel dug by King Hezekiah's men deep under the original city of Jerusalem. By contrast, I stood in awe across the majestic Grand Canyon, and at the bottom, watched Bright Angel Creek flow into the Colorado River. I felt the ground shake at the Niagara resort as the mighty waters of the Canadian Horseshoe Falls crash below. I was able to compare the bustling metropolis of downtown Manhatten with the semi-tropical Californian city of San Diego, both under the same flag and using the same currency. I strolled through the tropical gardens at Singapore, dominated by the changing night illuminations of the Merlion. I snorkeled over the Corals at the Red Sea and at the Great Barrier Reef. I also hiked the rainforest and eucalyptus trees of Blue Mountains National Park. On the cultural side, I sat and watched a concert at the Sydney Opera House.

But the Italian island of Sicily really hit me in a way no other location had. It was here that I found myself standing on the rim of the active Central Crater on the summit of Mt. Etna, with just one other person. There is a story behind this, which I will share on another blog. Suffice to say, the ground I stood on was literally shaking as the gas explosions from within the crater created a continuous series of crashing thunders, and the huge plume of steam, mixed with a heavy smell of sulphur, rising and fortunately, turning away from us as it was blown north by a southerly wind.

And there were the catacombs. Oh yes, the catacombs.

I stood at the rim of the summit crater of Mt Etna, 1982.

My first visit to Sicily took place in 1982. It was part of backpacking the whole of Italy using the Ferrovia de Italia pass ticket. Like the Greyhound Bus Ameripass, this document allowed me unlimited train travel over a course of three weeks. That year, I entered Italy through Milano instead of Torino, as a church friend Derek, who had a contract with an Italian company based in Milano, as well as a spare bed in his apartment where I stayed for a couple of nights before heading for Napoli.

By boarding and alighting trains at different stations, I covered both coastlines of this European peninsula. After spending a day at the excavations of Pompeii, I took a night train to Brindisi, which was the terminus of the Roman Appian Way, an ancient road leading to Rome, a route not unfamiliar with the apostle Paul. It was in this handsome harbour town where I spent the day before re-boarding the overnight train south to Sicily.

One of the most spectacular experiences in train travel was the ferry crossing over the Messina Strait. At the port of Reggio di Calabria on the Italian mainland, the train was split up, with the first set of coaches left on the ship while the second set was shunted back onto land, to be pushed onto the next siding beside the first set, and the third set likewise, until the whole train was on board. On the other side, all the coaches of the train was re-joined to make its way either towards Siracusa or Palermo, the island's capital city.

After spending a considerable time in Siracusa which included the visit to the summit of Mt. Etna, I took a remarkably slow train to Palermo via the inland route from Catania (as opposed to the coastal route from Messina) which stopped at a town bang in the middle of the island - Caltanissetta. By evening. I arrived at the capital and found a convenient hotel nearby.

While staying at a small hotel in Siracusa, one of the attractions I visited were the nearby Catacombs of St John, a series of tunnels running deep underground which once contained thousands of Christian burials. Stone nitches were hewn out of the rock to accommodate the corpses. So many were hewn that the entire system resembled a giant filing cabinet. Back in 1982 anyone can walk unaccompanied into the tunnels as I did, alone and free to explore the labyrinth at my own leisure. Now access is by means of an escorted group tour, which in my opinion, too rushed to absorb the atmosphere of the site.

Catacombs of St John, Siracusa

But it was in Palermo where the Cappuccin Catacombs really hit me hard, and changed, or rather confirmed, my perception of our class-ridden culture, especially in the UK. These catacombs, owned by the Cappuchin monks (who invented the coffee drink which bears the name) is situated in a crypt of a church just outside the main city centre. Unlike the Catacombs of St John in Syracuse, this is an underground cellar filled with many corpses displayed in full view of the public.

Detail of the Cappuchin Catacombs, Palermo

I entered the Catacombs on a weekday, off season. Therefore I was alone in this huge cellar under the church, as back in 1982 the site was not regarded as a hotspot for tourists.  As I stood in wonder at the corpses, the silence of the crypt was disturbed by a loose shutter which was swinging on its hinges as a result of an airflow. "Blap, squeak, squeak, blap, squeak, blap, squeak, blap, squeak," went the shutter, the endless sound creating the perfect environment for shooting a horror movie.

The dead of all ages and class were there, from newborns to the very old, from the worker to the aristocrat (whose cellar was for to begin with). There was a section for academics, another for the clergy, another for women, another for children and so on. The sight of these bodies brought to mind the culture back in England. More class conscious back then than now, I had that urging wish: Oh for a law that every company executive, aristocrat, banker, and office staff must have a photo of the catacombs hung above their desks with the words printed underneath:

This is how I will look one day.
Therefore there is no point in acting snobbish!

Three of the pics I took of the catacombs in 1982, hence the fading of the colour. I had taken to the guy in the middle photo.

Stories abound with these bodies. One was that a fire was started mysteriously, destroying many of the corpses. Another was one standing upright on the upper shelf coming loose and falling in front of an onlooker. Weird. The only notice on display was one that read Vietato Fumare. Fortunately, I had never found cigarettes a problem.

Ever since that day there was one more catacomb I visited, and that was under the streets of Paris in 1985. Here was quite a different environment to the two in Sicily. From street level, I found myself descending deep underground in a spiral staircase before I came to the entrance of a long tunnel. As I kept walking, I was astonished on the length of the windowless corridor. It was 1.5 kilometres, or just under a mile. The corridor ended at a gate, with a sign above it which read in French, You are about to enter the City of the Dead.

The walls of the chamber were lined with thousands upon thousands of femurs, with skulls embedded here and there, many of these skulls forming patterns of crucifixes and even one of a heart. Other corridors led off from this chamber, but fortunately the gates at the entrances to these corridors were locked. This system is actually a tiny section of a vast, complicated labyrinth which has a history of taking the lives of those who got lost within the complex of tunnels.

Bones by the thousands line the Catacombs of Paris.

When I climbed the stairs to the exit, I found myself at another part of the city.

These experiences were part and parcel of backpacking and lone, independent travel. There are more tales I can tell, the one about Etna 1982 is for another blog.  But what drew me to these catacombs? Personally, my delusion with the British class system, the sheer reverence for the Monarchy by the average English (although I'm not into Republicanism), the greater respect gotten in wearing a tie, inequality in education and academic achievements, stoicism with the belief that showing emotion is not masculine (quoted by Daily Mail Melanie Phillips) and the respect and worth of a person based on his occupation and dress code rather than character.

King Solomon knew the vanity of life. He knew that really, there is no difference between a king and a worm, for the same fate await them both. He then advises us that the best course to take is to honour God with the lives we have, short and temporary as they are. And the only way to honour God is to believe in the One he had sent, the Lord Jesus Christ.

Jesus too died, on a cross to atone for our sins. But he also rose again from the dead, proving that he is truly God and Messiah, and that his payment for sin was successful and accomplished. Nobody else in human history has ever risen from the dead. Jesus Christ was the only person who had done so, and to believe this brings eternal life.

Eternal life! Therefore I can search every catacomb in the world, and I would never come across the body of Jesus Christ. HE HAS RISEN!