Through the haze in the distance Mt Vesuvius rises peacefully belying its angry past. While it sleeps we get off the bus - this being our final stop in Naples - to explore the victim that is Pompeii. If we needed a reminder of its fury, we need only look at the geography. This was once a seaside city. The ocean is now off in the distance. Along the tourist boulevard we walked, through the turnstiles, up the hill. Slowly the city revealed itself. Walls jutted out of the ground, shadows of once was, not a roof to be seen anywhere. A theatre of distinctly Roman design hinted at the city’s former vibrant past. “Where are the victims?” This was the chilling highlight of Pompeii we were all here to see. Our tour guide marches on through the sprawling city remains and we wade through his thick Italian accent trying to grasp the depth of just what the city once was. He takes us into one of the city’s many houses to explain how water was captured through an opening in the roof. It’s a little lost on us and we’re just confused how the marble plinth fails to rate a mention. The painted frescos, mere shadows of what once was, prove of more interest. On we walk along the “curb and gutter” streets, made entirely out of stone, existing much as they did prior to the 79 AD eruption.
The streets are littered with dogs, longing around, it is apparently their city - the dog is its patron saint. Tourists are encouraged to sponsor one. Provide funds for its food and rent perhaps. If dogs are the best people then we were soon feeling a little snappy too: we found more people jumping queues while we waited to inspect one of Pompeii’s former whore houses. Inside we surveyed the stone beds and pillows. On the walls were painted scenes of fornication. “It only cost a couple of glasses of wine,” we’re told. Nice to know. “Grr bar bar bar bar…grrr AAAHHHHHHH,” breaks muted conversation. Past me girls run. In the corner one of the dogs asserts its authority over another. Outside a handful of these girls recount their terror. The aggressor stands in the doorway while the invader sulks off. “Oh look, he’s bleeding, poor thing,” one remarks. When chitchat turns back to the brothel the hypotheses grow wilder without basis: one girl has to be corrected by the guide for telling others the beds on the upper floors were more comfortable and the tarrif more expensive. What can you do but laugh.
Finding the brothel wasn’t too hard either, back in the day, apparently. To prove the point Mr Guide points out a penis carved into the footpath. Seemingly one could take his chariot there drunk, too, though this might be a stretch akin to the comfy beds. In the gutters the guide points out grooves, 50mm wide and just as deep, where chariot wheels would tram line along the streets. The afternoon sun would reflect off the white stone pieces laid into the road, too, we’re told. The only quirk in the way of these people, by modern standards, might be the god they worshipped and his extra large wedding tackle. The city is strewn with such images and phallic objects designed to bring virility and good luck.
With our tour group tiring we bear down on the victims themselves of the ash and poisonous gas while Mt Vesuvius seemingly winks from high in the sky. Protected in Perspex boxes are plaster moulds of the bodies archaeologists found. Lying on their backs contorted in pain or on their bellies shielding their mouths in vain. It’s a little chilling. There is even a dog frozen in pain against the sky. On the other hand it’s a joke. The experience feels a little cheap: we’re herded through the city in mobs that behave so poorly. And if you look to your right there are shelves of old pottery - we could almost be in the landscaping section of the local hardware supplier, jostling for the specials. Maybe in the near future people will be able to buy concrete casts of the Pompeii victims. It’s our right after all?
The hours pass quickly back on the coach as more of the tilled clay Italian countryside passes by, reminding me of work, interspersed by olive trees and swathes of wheat stubble. Eventually we reach Bari late in the afternoon. All that stands between us, some sun and water, is security and an overnight ferry. I was so eager I forgot to unclip the bag from my chest - the security guys almost put me through the xray machine on the conveyor belt as one item (with a nudge and a wink).
Into the bowels of the boat we marched and to check-in. Five minutes later we had deposited our night bags in the not unpleasant sleeping quarters and worked our way to the “truckers lounge” for dinner. Mamma Contiki had ensured her flock had first pick at the cafeteria. The serving staff were generous too. “Want some spaghetti?” Well here’s a heaped plate full. There was no use asking for small servings because they all came in trucker size. The beer was pretty cheap too, even if the 20 euro note almost created a riot with the cashier, yet it failed to spoil the dining experience.
The reasonably priced beers were welcomed by some of the other Contiki guys so as soon as dinner was dispensed with, it was time to knock a few back. What else was there to do? We found some plastic dining settings on the back of the boat and started drinking. Ryan, from Kansas City, bought the first round. The group was a little timid at first but the 15 beers certainly didn’t sit around long enough to get warm. Noting a few half empty bottles sitting around I bought a round of 10, thinking they’d take a while to sink, yet they went quickly. Meanwhile a deck of playing cards we bought at Pompeii, depicting ancient Greek-era sex, did the rounds. There were quite a few laughs and perhaps more raised eyebrows. Former frat-boy Clinton, from California, bought the next round with London-based Paki Sohaib, followed quickly by another round from Aussie Alwyn. The latter probably welcomed the trip to the bar given the love triangle forming around him. The conversation flowed, along with the beer, long after the iPod died. The soundtrack through midnight was instead our laughter and shouting. The video clip was the near-full moon reflecting off the ship’s wake. Rather drunk we stumbled into bed - breakfast was in three hours. There would be no hangovers because we’d all still be drunk.
Sam (August 22)
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