Photographs by Francesco Lastrucci

The first time Salvatore Gungui transformed into a Mamuthone, he was 14 years old.

He pulled on the traditional leather-soled shepherd’s boots, velvet pants and jacket and wrapped himself in a heavy cloak. Across his chest, he strapped a cluster of bells that weighed more than 60 pounds. He felt a strange mix of emotions as he paraded through the streets, a somber mask covering his face. “There was my grandpa, and my mama and papa, and also my uncle, and they were so proud,” recalls Gungui, more than four decades later. And yet, he adds, “It was a horrible day. I was tired and scared because it was such a long parade. I remember my feeling was, ‘I can’t do it anymore. I can’t, I can’t.’ But I carried on.” 

The parade of Mamuthones is an annual winter tradition in the Italian village of Mamoiada. The village of around 2,300 is in the heart of Sardinia, an Italian island about 175 miles from the mainland. (By comparison, Sicily is only two miles from the mainland.) While Italian is the island’s official language, Sardinians also speak a separate Latinate language that most Italians struggle to understand. In villages like Mamoiada, just about all the income is related to either agriculture or tourism. The parade of Mamuthones is one of the largest tourism draws of the entire year, even though it isn’t especially cheerful. “It’s a serious and, in some ways, sad carnival,” Gungui told me. “This is not like a theater for making people happy.”

At his workshop in Mamoiada, Daniele Mameli tries on an unfinished Issohadore mask. He and his father, Ruggero Mameli, craft the traditional masks for the festival.
At his workshop in Mamoiada, Daniele Mameli tries on an unfinished Issohadore mask. He and his father, Ruggero Mameli, craft the traditional masks for the festival. Francesco Lastrucci
Unpainted Mamuthone masks hang at the workshop, along with a zoomorphic mask for another carnival in a nearby village. The most popular materials for these masks include alder, olive and cherry wood.
Unpainted Mamuthone masks hang at the Mamelis' workshop, along with a zoomorphic mask for another carnival in a nearby village. The most popular materials for these masks include alder, olive and cherry wood. Francesco Lastrucci
An old and worn Mamuthone mask atop a sheepskin Mamuthone cloak.
An old and worn Mamuthone mask atop a sheepskin Mamuthone cloak. Francesco Lastrucci

If the phrase “Italian carnival” brings to mind a cast of playful characters—Harlequin with his multicolored diamonds, Pierrot with his oversized buttons, the Plague Doctor with his bird-like beak—you’re probably thinking of Venice. The first recorded carnival took place there in 1094. The festival had a Christian tie-in, as a burst of hedonism before the austerity of Lent. (The word “carnevale” means “taking out the meat,” implying one last decadent feast.) The celebration may also have older pagan roots. During the Roman festival of Saturnalia, ancestors of today’s Italians drank and indulged and turned the social order upside down. Masters served their slaves, and an elected “king” gave orders to everyone. Throughout the Middle Ages, carnivals popped up all over Europe and, later, spread across the ocean in New Orleans and Rio de Janeiro. European Jews may well have been influenced by these pre-Lent festivals when they turned the late winter holiday of Purim into a night of costumes, theatrics and topsy-turvy hierarchies.

The festival of Mamuthones is not part of the same carnival tradition, though it has its own Christian association. It starts on the eve of January 17, the feast day of St. Anthony the Abbot, a legendary saint who had an austere life in the wilderness and lived to be 105. “But this is a pagan festival,” Gungui told me. “Everybody knows it has nothing to do with Christianity.” 

Gungui dressed and ready to put on his mask.
Gungui dressed and ready to put on his mask. Francesco Lastrucci
The bells for the Mamuthones are handmade by local artisans who specialize in creating distinctive sounds for each flock of goats and sheep.
The bells for the Mamuthones are handmade by local artisans who specialize in creating distinctive sounds for each flock of goats and sheep. Francesco Lastrucci
Unlike the mournful Mamuthones, the Issohadores are quick and agile as they dart around and lasso members of the crowd.
Unlike the mournful Mamuthones, the Issohadores are quick and agile as they dart around and lasso members of the crowd. Francesco Lastrucci

It’s unclear when the parade originated, or what the word “Mamuthone” even means. But the character itself has a distinct appearance. The most startling part of the costume is the mask, with its severe and labored expression. Another set of characters called Issohadores (literally, rope-bearers) march along with the Mamuthones, slinging lassos. The Issohadores wear a different mask—blankly white and unsmiling. 

In an email, Elena Giangiulio and Alice Medda, the scientific director and assistant director of Mamoiada’s Museum of Mediterranean Masks, explained that the parade belongs to a tradition of festivals that are “profoundly serious and solemn, unlike the modern carnival, which is lighthearted and fun.” There are other winter parades like this in villages throughout Europe. In the Portuguese Entrudo festival, the locals wear terrifying masks and chase people through the streets. In some German-speaking villages, people celebrate Krampusnacht, or the night of the Krampus, with a devil-like figure who roars at children and threatens to carry them away in his sack. Heavy, clanging cowbells are a theme at many of these events, all of which are less about merriment than “exorcising the forces of evil,” as the museum directors put it. The somber procession of the Mamuthones may have its roots in the Nuragic civilization, which began almost 4,000 years ago. 

In Venice, Rio and New Orleans, outlandish disguises give revelers a chance to flaunt their individuality. But in Mamoiada, there’s a striking uniformity as rows of Mamuthones and Issohadores parade together wearing the same two masks. Instead of upending the social order, the Sardinian carnival seems to reinforce it. “We feel like we’re in a trance,” Gungui told me. “We don’t look at the other people. It’s just about all of us together as a group.” 

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The Mamuthones form two lines and make way for the antics of the Issohadores.
The Mamuthones form two lines and make way for the antics of the Issohadores. Francesco Lastrucci
Issohadore Gianmario Muggittu holds an ornate belt with small bells, which he will sling across his body during the parade.
Issohadore Gianmario Muggittu holds an ornate belt with small bells, which he will sling across his body during the parade. Francesco Lastrucci
Mamuthone Matteo Gungui is dressed in the first layer of his costume: a velvet jacket, a checked shirt and a head kerchief. Behind him, an older Mamuthone is already wearing his sheepskin cloak and is about to strap on his heavy bells.
Mamuthone Matteo Gungui is dressed in the first layer of his costume: a velvet jacket, a checked shirt and a head kerchief. Behind him, an older Mamuthone is already wearing his sheepskin cloak and is about to strap on his heavy bells. Francesco Lastrucci

The Mamuthones and Issohadores come out three times each winter. Two of those times are scheduled to coincide with the traditional Italian carnival season—the Sunday and Tuesday before Lent. Those performances are tourist events geared toward the public, as villagers march during the daytime along the town’s main road. But the initial event is much more intimate. On the eve before January 17, the Mamuthones and Issohadores weave through the whole village at night, circling dozens of bonfires. Villagers spend weeks ahead of time collecting roots and stumps for these blazes. Then they gather around them to roast pigs and share one another’s company. 

The holiday gives the community a chance to “make sure all their relations are good,” Gungui explained. Their livelihood depends on it. All throughout the year, Sardinian villagers work together in cooperatives, tending their vineyards and olive orchards and raising pigs for ham and salami. When one farmer needs help, the others pitch in. Everybody knows how much is at stake.

Led by the Issohadores, the Mamuthones circle a bonfire blessed by the priest of Mamoiada’s Mother Church. Representatives of each neighborhood will use embers from this blaze to start dozens of local bonfires, which the characters will then visit and cir
Led by the Issohadores, the Mamuthones circle a bonfire blessed by the priest of Mamoiada’s Mother Church. Representatives of each neighborhood will use embers from this blaze to start dozens of local bonfires, which the characters will then visit and circle three times each. Francesco Lastrucci
In the stark landscape surrounding Mamoiada, limestone cliffs tower over centuries-old forests.
In the stark landscape surrounding Mamoiada, limestone cliffs tower over centuries-old forests. Francesco Lastrucci
A Mamuthone circles a fire at twilight.
A Mamuthone circles a fire at twilight. Francesco Lastrucci

I got a glimpse of this in mid-September, when Gungui sent me a message, apologizing that he had to postpone our planned phone conversation. The forecast was predicting a big storm, he explained, and he and his neighbors needed to quickly harvest their grapes or they’d lose a year’s work.

He elaborated when we spoke a few days later. “The weather rules everything,” he said. Lately, with the changing climate, summers have been hot and dry—“no rain at all for six months, everything was suffering.” When the rain does come now, he went on, “it’s no normal rain, it’s like a tropical rain.” When January arrives, people are more anxious than ever about the upcoming growing season. “Can you imagine how we feel about the weather?” he asked. “It’s not like in a city where you put up an umbrella and everything is all right.”

The Mamuthones leap from side to side with a rhythmic step that makes all their bells clang in unison.
The Mamuthones leap from side to side with a rhythmic step that makes all their bells clang in unison. Francesco Lastrucci
A detail of an unfinished Mamuthone mask at the Mamelis’ workshop.
A detail of an unfinished Mamuthone mask at the Mamelis’ workshop. Francesco Lastrucci
Danilo Gungui and Stefano Sini take a moment to relax before the grueling all-night procession, which can go on as long as seven hours.
Danilo Gungui and Stefano Sini take a moment to relax before the grueling all-night procession, which can go on as long as seven hours. The Mamuthones and Issohadores of Mamoiada belong to an association and often travel to folk festivals in other European villages and cities throughout the year to perform their traditional parade. Francesco Lastrucci

Gungui has some experience with cities and umbrellas. As a younger man, he spent a few years in Wales and London, working as a carpenter. It was an easier life in some ways. But especially when the seasons changed, he felt the pull of his native landscape. Sardinia is known as a “blue zone”—one of five spots on the globe where people live an unusually long time. That could be partly because Sardinians naturally live according to guidelines for longevity that doctors recommend—they eat locally and cherish their communal gatherings. “I missed it a lot,” Gungui said. “I took all my holidays in January just to make sure I could have a role in the festival.” 

Gungui has dressed up as a Mamuthone just about every year since he was 14—apart from the festival’s one-year hiatus during Covid-19 lockdowns, he only missed a couple of years, and the last of those was a quarter-century ago. There are men as old as 80 who still strap on the furs and the heavy bells, hiding their faces behind those gloomy masks. Whether or not they’re banishing evil spirits and appeasing the forces of nature, their survival feels tied to this ritual—its power, its clamor, its sense of connection. “I intend to carry on,” Gungui told me, “until I can’t anymore.” 

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Francesco Lastrucci is a photographer based in Italy whose work has appeared in the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal and Vanity Fair, among others.

Jennie Rothenberg Gritz is a senior editor at Smithsonian magazine. She was previously a senior editor at the Atlantic.