There is a town in Basilicata that shares a curious destiny with Voldemort, the Dark Lord of Harry Potter: better not to pronounce his name. Just as “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named” terrified magicians, so this Lucanian village makes the inhabitants of nearby villages tremble. But if Voldemort was JK Rowling’s creation, here fear has been rooted in everyday reality for almost a century.
It is not the only case of linguistic taboo: let’s think of the famous “Scottish Play” with which English actors avoid mentioning Macbeth in the theatre, or Candyman, the vengeful spirit who appears in the mirror after calling him five times. Literary and cinematographic myths that find real confirmation in Basilicata, where there really is a town that people prefer to call “chille paise”, that town, rather than risk bad luck by pronouncing its real name: Colobraro.
Perched on a rocky spur 600 meters above sea level, where the view sweeps over the Sinni Valley and Mount Calvario acts as a silent sentinel, this small village of just over a thousand souls carries the burden of being the unmentionable of Italian geography.
The Curse of the Chandelier
The history that has marked this village is as absurd as it is rooted in the collective imagination. It was a normal day in the 1940s when a meeting of local administrators was being held in Matera and Biagio Virgilio, mayor of Colobraro, was concluding a heated speech. With theatrical emphasis he pointed to the chandelier above him and uttered those fateful words: “If I am not telling the truth, may this chandelier fall.” As fate would have it, the chandelier actually fell. Some say immediately afterwards, others in the following days and there are even rumors of alleged victims, even if no official document confirms what happened.
Virgil tried in vain to deny it, but the die was now cast. The rumor spread as fast as the wind that blows through the Lucanian gullies, and Colobraro became the unmentionable town, the one that brings bad luck just to pronounce its name. A heavy sentence for a village of just over a thousand souls, where stone houses climb along narrow streets that seem designed by a capricious child.
The masciare and the ancient Lucanian magic
Colobraro’s sinister reputation has deeper roots. Before the cursed chandelier, there were the masciare, mysterious figures halfway between healers and witches. Maddalena La Rocca has gone down in history as the most famous, even though in reality she was a simple peasant who weaved on the loom. The masciare practiced charm, that strange form of evil eye that is transmitted with a look, even involuntary. The symptoms? A circle in your head that tightens like a vice, a tiredness that takes hold of your bones, and that continuous yawn that never abandons you. To get rid of them, the “carmo” was needed, the secret ritual that only they knew.
The anthropologist Ernesto De Martino came here in the 1950s, armed with a notebook and camera, to document these rituals. The black and white photos, exhibited today in the Museum of Rural Civilization, tell of a world suspended between the sacred and the profane, where the little dress – a small cloth bag with three salt stones, three rosemary needles and three grains of wheat – protected from the evil eye better than any prayer (we will return to it later, complete with photos).
From superstition to tourist resource
The paradox is that this very sinister reputation saved Colobraro from oblivion. Instead of sweeping its history under the carpet, the country has decided to make it a strength. Every first Sunday of the month, the Convent of the Minor Franciscans is transformed into the “Chest of Rituals and Knowledge”: visitors are welcomed by dancing masciare under the walnut tree, while witches in period dress prepare the water of San Giovanni. It is theatre, of course, but theater that has its roots in collective memory.
The emotional journey winds through rooms that smell of dried herbs. In the Apothecary Room, the “Dominae Herbarum” explain how lavender promotes love and rosemary drives away evil spirits. Further on, commoners in costume sew lucky dresses while telling age-old gossip. In the cloister, the monks – mischievous elves with red hats – play pranks on the most naive visitors. They are spirits of children who died before baptism, says the legend, the so-called “monks”, condemned to wander for eternity in search of someone who will steal their hat to free them.
Architectural treasures and splendid views
The New Church of San Nicola di Bari, built in the seventies in white stone from Trani, stands out against the sky like a declaration of modernity. From the churchyard the view embraces the whole valley up to Valsinni, where Isabella Morra wrote love verses before dying and being murdered. The ruins of the medieval castle, on the top of the town, bear witness to a glorious past when the counts of Chiaromonte ruled over these lands.
Walking through the historic centre, between the Chapel of San Rocco and the fountain in Piazza Garibaldi, you can breathe a suspended atmosphere. The old people sitting outside the doors will tell you that the whole thing is a hoax, but then they will touch each other discreetly when they say the name of the town. Because we know, it’s not true but I believe it, as Eduardo De Filippo said.
Among centuries-old olive trees and authentic flavours
The centuries-old olive groves surrounding Colobraro produce an emerald green oil that tastes of cut grass and bitter almonds. In the Oil Museum, a restored 19th-century oil mill displays stone millstones and screw presses that look like medieval torture instruments. Not far away, the lake of Monte Cotugno reflects the sky like a silver mirror, a perfect destination for those seeking silence and peace.
Redemption through irony
Colobraro understood that superstition can become a resource. Tourists arrive intrigued by the sinister fame and leave in love with the austere beauty of the village, the traditions that stand the test of time, the people who have learned to laugh at their own misfortune. After all, as the old people of the town say with a sly smile: “If we really brought bad luck, why are we still here after all these years?”
The truth is that Colobraro brings no more bad luck than any other town. But in a world where everything is ordinary and predictable, a pinch of mystery is good for the soul. And if a chandelier does fall on your head while you’re there, at least you’ll have a great story to tell.
We leave you with the words that describe the protective amulet that visitors receive during the nights of magic (the result of a summer visit I made):
“The amulet or little dress (in dialect cincjokk) is a small magic bag used in the past as an anti-jinx or anti-charm or anti-jinx, therefore considered a protective object/tool, or simply as a good luck charm, sometimes it was also given to propitiate a love bond.
Today visitors to Colobraro are invited to wear it to be able to walk safely and peacefully through the historic center infested with “monachicchi”, witches, masciare and jettators.
The dress, as tradition dictates, is a small cloth bag closed with a pin symbolizing the “binding” and a red cord to hang it around the neck, symbolizing strong passions. It contains three stones of coarse salt to ward off the evil eye, three rosemary needles against evil spirits, three grains of wheat symbolizing fertility and abundance and lavender flowers, symbolizing virtue and serenity, which with their inebriating smell promote love and beauty.
When pagan rites and popular beliefs became imbued with Christian symbolism, the dress became associated with the organic veil of baptism, the so-called shirt, some used to hang it around the neck of the newborn during the ceremony at the baptismal font to be blessed.
The dress then had to be jealously guarded throughout one’s life and worn at the most important moments, in particular during fairs or public events, so as to avoid being fascinated by the people one met.”
