The very center of the island of Sardinia is the wildest part where the old people went after newcomers took all that was more fertile, agreeable, closer to the Mediterranean Sea, and over there also the bandits at Orgòsolo took refuge. This village, named well before its first appearance in 1341 writing, after ‘Orgòsoa’, meaning damp in pre-Roman tongue, is found midst a 600 m high collection of granite peaks now and then hiding in clouds between century old oaks looking upon green grazed meadows, grayish in winter mist.
Only sheep, goats and shepherds may be caught by chance, while cutting a life with a Leppa, but never the bandits seen carrying the machine guns that used to attract police armies and later a chopper or two hovering over a deadly wilderness. You read about kidnappings of rich man’s poor sons, murder announcements pinned to church doors with twice a month a burial, but when Marlies and I were there they had already painted frustration on their houses since half a century, initially against bad Italian politics in cry for help, finally doing a bit better and then also speaking out for the rest of the world. The only sign of violence, a ceramic bomb, an exploded toilet bowl that apparently fell off a carnival wagon the day before, as we were told by a proud black-eyed beauty with a broom. Yet, one and a halve week earlier they shot twice at a farmer driving by, shattering his rear window, an ambush, a warning or just an accident at the last day of the hunting season? Who knows, go and check for yourselves if you dare or else watch the movie.