Copyright Pepi Ronalds 2011
THIS ARTICLE MAY NOT BE REPRODUCED WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION OF PEPI RONALDS.
These things coalesce: a caterpillar, a porcupine, a goose, a forest, an eagle, a panther, a giraffe, a tower, an owl, a unicorn, a roaring crowd of 50,000 people and a piece of clay in my mouth.
It is a serendipitous turn of events that has brought me here today – a warm summer Saturday at the end of June. My choice of town – Siena – was defined somewhat by a tube of paint. My sister always seemed to run out of a particular shade of oils during her many studies of painted horses. That shade was Windsor and Newton’s Burnt Siena. The association lurked subconsciously until I arrived here earlier today.
Built atop a hill many centuries ago, Siena comprises a cluster of medieval buildings fragmented by a maze of skinny streets. They crackle around the hillside, charting depths of several stories. No doubt there are many parts of this old town that never see direct sunlight (the distance between building and street make this near impossible) – but it is not at all depressing nor dank. I see these streets as wondrous channels and rivulets. My partner and I bubble through them, riding on the energy of those around us, swirling through eddies here and there.
The Sienese are out today, milling in cafes and gathering in the streets. They are catching the brief shafts of sunlight which bravely break through gaps in the buildings. Like most Italian towns there are tourists everywhere and I hear the sound of conversations in a multitude of languages burbling around me. Inside a cafe a waiter calls an order over a screeching coffee machine. The place hums.
There is a sense that all streets in Siena lead to Il campo – its main square – though this is not the true case. In fact eleven arties pump life into the heart of this town – so I should not be surprised to find myself having aimlessly traversed one and to be washed out – as if from a happy storm water drain – in a blaze of sunshine, blinking and assessing what lies before me. Il campo is a square in spirit, but more like an open hand-fan (or horseshoe) in shape. It’s on a slope and undulates with the impression that the fan is caught mid-tilt, blowing fresh gusts of cool air around the city.
I have a vague impression that the outer ‘ring’ of the Campo is paved in orange clay – though as a first time visitor I see nothing unusual in this fact. Likewise I see that the mid-section is fenced in plywood painted to replicate stone columns – but again I think nothing of it. I smell horses and search for the source in vain. I figure Siena must offer horse and cart rides. I fail to understand all of these clues.
Feeling a little weary I partake in the presence of some bleachers nearby. This affords a shady position with a view of the entire Campo. Here I rest and watch the world go by.
At first the sounds of singing and chanting seem a distance away and I barely notice it. It starts, then stops, then starts again as if someone is playing with the volume on a radio making it louder with each turn. Finally a cacophony of young men and women dressed in light blue burst onto the Campo from Via Giovanni Duprè.
As if clowns in a circus they carouse and play before me. Many wear black and yellow panther ears and long panther tails. They carry inflatable panther companions and floating panther balloons. High on the moment they flirt and carry on, pulling each other’s panther tails, adjusting their panther ears and giving one another piggybacks. Panthers as their mounts they run in circles, line up and race one another (though not very far) up the straight before me, giggling and cackling throughout. I suspect this is an Italian version of a pub-crawl and I long to be a part of it. After twenty minutes or so they continue on, back down the Via from whence they came.
The sun finally outsmarts my shade so my partner and I move on. Doing one last lap of the orange track we pass cafes and gift stores. I take in the earthy smell of the recently watered clay. I study the surface of the cobblestones undulating in the Campo’s centre and hear the flow of the water through the Fonte Gaia (Happy Fountain). I even consider the blue sky above me. I have traversed at least half of the fan before I look immediately down. It is in the clay below me that I see the shape of horse hoofs. My pony-club training tells me these horses have passed at great speed. Something is definitely going on here. I am now officially curious.
We head off to content ourselves with touring the rest of this Burnt Siena town. We marvel at the history, beauty and craftsmanship of Siena’s Duomo, watch the other tourists pass through the Museo Dell’Opera Metropolitana, we wander over to the Porta Fontebranda and to see the Basilica di San Domenica. Everywhere we go coloured flags wave – on every building, in every street, all at the same height – giving the impression of our arrival being heralded in a medieval parade. I expect to see a trio of pages, blowing long trumpets and waving flags.
Like folds in the Campo’s fan, Siena’s old town is divided into districts (or contrade) for administrative purposes. Each contrada has a name that reflects its history and contributions to the town. The Selva (forest) contrada were known as the best archers. The Bruca (caterpillar) contrade comprise the original working class neighbourhood. The colours and mascots on the flags that line the streets change as we pass through each contrada. Our pensione is in the caterpillar contrade – emblazoned with gold and green. The carousers earlier where from the Pantera (panther) contrade – hence their blue tops and panther companions. One’s contrada is integral to one’s identity. Marriages between contrade (so the rumour goes) are not advised.
I am appraising replicas of these flags outside a tourist shop when my partner notices a poster in the window. It is a picture of the long straight of the Campo, horses frozen mid-gallop heading in our direction. A motionless, but frenzied and flag-waving crowd line the very bleachers on which I had sat. Hundreds more – a veritable sea – knot the inner fan. The poster has a legend. It reads S I E N A – IL PALIO – 2 LUGLIO – 16 AGOSTO. I had enough travellers’ Italian to see the race was soon, but not today… leave it to me to book a holiday on a tube of paint and miss something as unique as Il palio.
The title, Il palio, refers to the banner for which the race is run. Two races each year have been held on the same days. 2 July (since 1701) and 16 August (since 1656). But the Palio festival isn’t just a couple of horseraces for a silk banner – it’s a significant expression of the Comune di Siena and particularly the contrade that comprise it. Palio preparations occur year round.
There are 17 contrade in Siena and these are inextricably linked to the Palio. Only ten horses race each year, with seven contrade taking it in turns year by year and three being drawn at random. Pretty much anything goes during the race and agreements before hand. The race can even be won by a scosso – a horse without a rider, though that horse must have its spennacchiera (head ornament) in place in order to secure success.
Having learnt of this unique festival we return to our pensione for the siesta. Dozing off in the summer afternoon heat I can’t help but feel a pang of regret for not planning my visit more carefully. I dream of more rigidly organised holidays and resolved to no longer leave things to chance. One must be more serious about choosing travel destinations than through a subconscious association with a tube of paint.
An hour or so later I realise that the din travelling into our second story window has become quite loud. Standing at the window I get my first glimpse of the enthusiasm and commitment of my local contrada. At least a hundred people of all ages have gathered below – each with their caterpillar scarfs around their necks, waists and sash-like on their torsos. If this is not the Palio then what is it? We dress and leave the room in a hurry.
I hear from the stairwell the sound of horse hoofs on the cobblestones and get my head out of the window just in time to see a bay horse – brandishing the caterpillar flag and leading a congregation of the contrada – pass below and around the corner.
A young man with a caterpillar scarf around his neck explains that tonight there will be a prova (practice race) for the Palio and we are welcome to watch. We make a bee-line to the Campo.
We have chosen a spot that affords a view from one of the corners of the fan – Curva del Casato (though I learn later this is one of the two places at which 30 horses have died during the last 50 years of the Palio). Colour-clad contrade children have filled the bleachers in orderly lines, then commenced belting out songs and chants while waving flags, mascots and helium balloons. The fury and gusto of theirs and others’ chants are invigorating.
To my delight my panther friends have secured a spot in the bleachers on the opposite side of the track.
It’s close to race time and I see the windows opening in the buildings surrounding the Campo and groups filling in the balconies. Tourist milling in the centre with me have stood up, brushing mud from their pants (except those who sat on their maps and newspapers). There are 50,000 here in all. The track cleared of people is swept clean by men and women wearing overalls using straw brooms and wooden wheelbarrows.
This is not the Palio, so there is no pageant preceding the race – but some officials and dignitaries do a circuit before the horses and riders are welcomed by the cheering crowd. They are soon in place and I hear the starter gun pop. The horses are off.
I am behind the starting line, so they must run practically the full course before passing immediately before me. Over the next few seconds I catch them up on the near bend. Now they are opposite. Now they are in the far corner. They are running up the straight towards me. I have my camera at the ready. I can’t see the horses but can hear a cacophony of hoofs on the clay track. There they are! I laugh at the sheer exhilaration of the moment, snap my picture and bask in a shower of clay that the horses have created. The clay is everywhere – in my clothes, my eyes and even my mouth. I can taste that musty clay. I am smitten with Siena though I keep my mouth closed for the next two laps. Within 90 seconds the whole thing is over – and I have no idea who won. The crowd soon clears and the Campo returns to the way I found it.
Not one of the contrade’s horses – neither the caterpillar, the porcupine, the goose, the forest, the eagle, the panther, the giraffe, the tower, the owl or the unicorn – has made it into my photo. I was aced by the shutter delay on my camera and instead caught a photo of the crowd opposite and the empty track. Still, I made a print of it. The top half features my panther friends – heads turned in the direction of the next passing horses. The bottom features the empty track – that musty orange clay. The print sits on my desk, next to a small tube of the paint, among the pens, pencils and post-it notes that coalesce to make up my every day.