When I was not a Montraxia (highland person in Sardinian)
“Montraxius” was the name given to all of us children who lived on the other side of the river. Montraxius. The embankment, which forces drivers to make a very sharp U-turn, was built long ago to contain the winter floods of the Cixerri River. My family says that my grandfather—or maybe my great-grandfather—helped to build it. I’m not sure. What I do know is that throughout my childhood, the Cixerri embankment represented the physical boundary that separated us Montraxius— mountain folk, country kids, children of shepherds, frag’è madau (that smelled like sheep, to put it bluntly) — from the clean, well-kept, and perfumed children of bidda, the town. It wasn’t great being a Montraxius.
First, the mountain kids were always the first to arrive at school because the bus picked up the ones who lived farther away. And then we were always the last to get home because the driver had to drop off the town kids first. So, after the last child from the bidda was dropped off, we Montraxius would cheer, “To the mountains! To the mountains, Mr. Pillai!”
I didn’t feel like a Montraxia, though, because my dad wasn’t a shepherd, so he didn’t smell like sheep or goats like the other mountain dads. I never met the fathers of the other Montraxius kids, but I knew they were shepherds, and shepherds, as everyone knows, smell like their animals — like sheep cheese. Or at least that’s what the “clean” town kids said. And I didn’t like cheese! No, my dad didn’t smell like pecorino or goat cheese; my dad smelled like flowers and sapa (grape must syrup made by honey water). My dad had an extraordinary job—practically a superhero. He could talk to nature and understand the language of those little hairy insects that scare some people but that I loved so much. My dad was a beekeeper. I would say it proudly, puffing out my chest: “My dad is a beekeeper!” To me, it was the most beautiful job in the world. My dad didn’t go to an office like the other dads in town or wear a uniform. Well, he did wear one, but it was different from the usual uniforms: a white suit, leather gloves, a mask, and big boots. The suit was permanently stained with a sticky black substance called propolis. He told me that in ancient times, propolis was used to disinfect wounds and treat toothaches. I wasn’t entirely convinced, but it had to be true if Dad said it. He was an expert in all things nature. His superpowers were talking to bees, helping them find their way home, knowing each of them by name, and saving them from evil animals. His job was necessary, and he couldn’t even take Sundays off except when the Cagliari football club was playing. Then Dad didn’t have to go to the bees.
I was happy that my dad was a beekeeper, even though beekeepers aren’t as lucky as shepherds.
Despite what the town kids thought, at 8 years old, I was convinced that shepherds were the richest and luckiest people in the world because if a war broke out, they would be the only ones with food: milk, cheese, lamb meat, and even wool to keep warm!
For all these reasons, I couldn’t be a Montraxia, nor was I one of bidda. In short, to be honest, I didn’t know what I was, but I was happy to be the daughter of a beekeeper and to live on the other side of the Cixerri. And I, too, would shout, “To the mountains!” when the last town kids got off the bus.
by Greca N. Meloni
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