Corleone & Palermo

Tim: Mafia.

There, I said it. The town we had driven across Sicily to stay in was Corleone, made famous by Mario Puzo in the 'Godfather'. It was also the real-life birth place of a Mafia supremo, Riina. We arrived a little before sundown, and couldn't believe just how beautiful it was. We had come here for the Mafia museum, which also houses an extensive information and research collection - but for an English guide we would need to wait until tomorrow, so we set about looking at the town. It was really very picturesque, as were so many of the towns we had seen; but this town stood out for the number of old men standing around the town square, seemingly waiting for something to happen, or discussing what had happened just before we arrived. Everyone looked safe, normal and, well, harmless. On the other hand, the main square was overlooked by the largest carabinieri - military police - station I had hitherto seen.

As we walked further we found a wool shop, which Polly was all over. I tried on some hats; the type that I associate with Sicilians but have never actually seen on a Sicilian (i.e. Italy's Akubra) and was assured it looked ok. The cunning shopkeeper had it in a bag and on the counter before I knew what was happening, and when I protested that I was still thinking about it, all he did was put it a more ornate bag. Well, the price was good ...

The next day saw us exploring the old centre of Corleone. I was looking hard
to find something that would distinguish these narrow streets and lanes, walled in by crumbling buildings, from others that had seen. Not yet seeing it, we went and had a look at the Mafia museum. Unfortunately, the English guide was unavailable so we were helped out by a young woman in a yellow jacket who spoke no English at all.

Polly: The Mafia Museum was quite confronting - huge, close-up photographs of real dead bodies - judges, politicians and criminals all featured on the walls, but the pictures of the criminals were of people who weren't lying in blood-soaked puddles outside their homes. The picture that moved me the most wasn't even on the wall - it was leaning between the couch and the wall in the corridor. It was of a small, stereotypical Italian mother, dressed in widow's black. She was crying in anguish and being held back by policemen and other men. She looked to be on a suburban street, probably Palermo. I was struck by her pain, and wondered if she was watching her son be killed or arrested. Then it occurred to me that it made no difference - either way this picture encapsulated a mother's grief. The mafia has caused this woman loss, no matter what her connection.

Tim: The very presence of this centre in the seeming heartland of the Mafia seemed quite brave and gave me lots of hope, and this feeling was increased as we were leaving. Almost the last thing we saw was a plaque commemorating the opening of this centre, and the attendance by both the Prime Minister and President of Italy, and Kofi Annan. At last I realised what was different about Corleone; the people here were the friendliest we'd met yet.


We left and Polly drove us to Palermo, the capital of Sicily. We only had crappy little map with few streets named and we didn't know what street we were on. But eventually we saw some street signs, worked out where we were and arrived a little shaken at the train station. This city driving was a step up from anything we had experienced before and had taken a lot of concentration from both of us. I left our bags here, bought our tickets for the sleeper and bought a decent map as Polly watched the car (parked in a bus zone). All we had to do now was find the car rental place and return the car. To our deep dismay, the car rental place was on the furthest edge of the map, with the tangle of the CBD in between. We agreed an approach, plotted a course, and set out with an hour left before having to pay for another day.

Barely a km in, we came unstuck. Our road became one-way and it wasn't ours, but I had already cleared the intersection. We had no choice but drive in the bus lane, the only one in our direction, following a police car. For a few more blocks we had no option to turn, eventually getting onto a side street. Polly made up another route, but was again (and again) thwarted by one-way streets and rare street signs. Traffic was heavy and slow, and right-of-way was never offered, only seized. A couple of times I cut across 'lanes' of traffic that I thought would never let me in, yet the did without grudge. It came to me that in a place where there are no rules there is an awful lot of accommodation; drivers were almost never pig-headed or obstinate like I see, I am, back home.

We made it, only 5 minutes late and so relieved to be shot of the tiny car with the $100 tank...

A Metro train back to the centre, lunch, then a couple of buses north, then a long walk back to the train station just taking it all in with no time pressures. With sundown here at about 5pm, we've seen the interior of some churches at night and the effect is quite different. The ceilings are lost in gloom with just hints of the frescoes or carvings visible, the columns could almost be holding up the night sky, and the altars are lit with soft yellow light to pull the eye.


I am cajoled into getting a haircut, which is undertaken with extravagant flourishes, and completed with much oil - but I like, even though I am afraid my hat with slide off.

Outside on the street the municipal police are controlling traffic as a siren approaches. We are expecting an ambulance or Carabineri. A 'Guardia di Finanzia' car screams by, and the police drive off. "Did someone bounce a cheque?" says Polly. A mystery.

Night train to Rome, new chapter.