Pantelleria: The Black Pearl of the Mediterranean

Author: Sivitri Delphia

Instagram: @sivitri_delphia

sivitrimultimedia.com 

Where Volcanic Rocks and Trans-Saharan Winds Forge a Different Kind of Love

I was visiting Alberto, an old family friend, in Bologna and musing over my next travel adventure when he piped up and exclaimed: “Pantelleria!” in his thick Italian accent. “There, you will find love!” So, of course, I went.

Pantelleria belongs to Italy. It’s a tiny island sitting in the Mediterranean Sea between Sicily and Tunisia, so small it doesn’t feature on many maps. Just half an hour gets you from top to bottom on a scooter or with an island jalopy, aka a Fiat Panda.

Lack of Planning

I had intended to travel there and follow my own set of rules, booking my ticket and finding a place to stay upon arrival. That lack of planning had always worked out for me, but little did I know that my usual strategy wouldn’t fly this time. Luckily, I had angels on my side.

Italy will Italy

My 13-hour train trip from Bologna was followed by a frustratingly delayed bus from Palermo to the Trapani port. It stopped at every conceivable stop along the way, causing me to miss my ferry. I was exhausted, the heat was dry, and my backpack, which I had named il mostro (the monster), was weighing me down. I’d have to wait for two hours for the next ferry.

I left the ticket kiosk on the dock and made my way down the little cobblestone streets on the outskirts of town, hoping for a place to rest, but all the cafés were closed for riposo. Trapani’s outskirts felt strange, partially decimated by the bombings of the Second World War. I felt uneasy. At some point, I stopped walking and, in an exasperated plea, asked my spirit guides for some direction. As I stopped, I exclaimed under my breath, “F**K!” And as I did, I glanced over at the wall across from me, and there, in big black graffiti letters, was the word “F**K!”

Sometimes, You Trust

As I was giggling at this synchronistic moment, a voice came from a doorway across the street; the owner of a small, rather dilapidated hotel invited me to sit in his lobby. After hearing that I was going to Pantelleria with no plan, he was horrified. He immediately called a friend. Before I could respond, he had hung up and told me the plan: “Luigi will pick you up at the ferry landing. He will take you to a dammuso that belongs to a friend of my wife’s cousin.” I didn’t know if I should be grateful or suspicious, but sometimes one just has to trust. I had asked my guides for assistance!

Adventures in the Unknown

My ferry ride from Trapani was incredible. We drifted off from the shore, pink salt pans glimmering in the late afternoon sun. In half an hour, we were in the middle of the Mediterranean, on our way to a little volcanic island. I had no idea what to expect. I was merely going on a recommendation from Alberto, who said I’d find love there. What a dreamer I am. I mean, really! This mentality has led me on a number of wild goose chases in various parts of the world.

The Ferry Ride

From my vantage point on the ferry, the view was otherworldly. The sun setting and the moon rising appeared directly opposite one another; two huge spheres suspended over the sea. By the time we arrived, the sun had completely set, and the full moon was hovering like a huge silver balloon above the simple postwar buildings of this small island town. It was gorgeous!

Where Is Luigi

The memory of this beautiful scene soon dissolved as I began looking for Luigi, who was nowhere to be found. Finally, a man pulled up beside the dock in a little red Fiat, which seemed to be leaning to one side. A character with a scraggly, gray beard and a jolly, tanned face rolled down his car window and shouted out, “Sivitri!?” “Yes!” I exclaimed, so relieved and amazed that I’d been found. God is good!

It’s About Balance

As we drove away from the sleepy town, I realized how dark and desolate the island was; I was thankful for the hotel owner’s help. Luigi continued to talk a mile a minute. Not understanding a word, I wondered where on earth he was taking me and if the car would even make it. I shuffled il mostro to the side of the car that wasn’t leaning, just in case it would balance things out.

Twenty minutes and a hair-raisingly speedy ride later, we arrived outside a little dammuso—a traditional Arabic-style house. Luigi showed me inside; it was simple but clean. A sense of peace washed over me.

Staying Open

I was up at sunrise, perched on my little verandah, gazing out over jagged rocks and the expanse of the deep blue Mediterranean Sea. I was eager to explore and decided to walk. I’d been strutting down the road for about half an hour when a woman with curly blonde hair in a white Renault stopped.

“Oh, no,” Manuela said. “You must not walk in this heat, and there are no buses. I will take you to town. Get in.”

Manuela and I chatted the whole way into town. When I mentioned I was born in South Africa, she said, “I have a friend, Luke, who works at the plant nursery. He has an Italian father and a South African mother, and he speaks English. I will leave you with him.” She dropped me off, and that was the last I saw of Manuela.

My Island Adventure

Luke could not have been more than 22 years old and was extremely handsome. At first, he seemed curt, but I soon realized he was just shy. He chuckled when I told him I wanted a bus timetable. “The buses are very unreliable,” he said. “I’ll drive you back to your dammuso.” And so began my little island adventure.

Luke was a total daredevil on the road. I could tell he had a wild streak; he was serious and amusing at the same time, constantly exclaiming how “beoootifulll!” his island was in his mixed Italian and South African accent.

Rugged + Vulnerable

And beautiful it was, in a rugged yet vulnerable way; battered by trans-Saharan winds, rocks like thorns, and volcanic springs. Dry yet lush. We drove to secluded coves where Luke would spearfish and I’d go snorkeling. We swam at Arco dell’Elefante, meandered through vineyards, and explored caves only the locals knew about. We often visited his family, where his mother always insisted we stay for lunch.

A Pantescan Lunch

Lunch was typically Pantescan: boiled potatoes, tomatoes, olives, capers, and oregano, drizzled with the most delicious local olive oil. It was spicy, fruity, and buttery all at the same time. I’d never tasted anything like it before, and I’ve never tasted anything like it since. Apparently, the harsh climate stresses the trees, producing olives higher in polyphenols and low in acidity, creating a uniquely flavorful oil. 

Slow Living

Life is slow on this tiny island, known as the “Black Pearl” because of its black rocks. Languid afternoon swims in the sea; morning dips in Specchio di Venere (Venus’s Mirror)—a heart-shaped thermal lake that was once a volcanic crater. I’d spend time writing in terraced vineyards or searching for Tumma, a soft cheese, from the local market. If panna cotta and mascarpone had a child, this would be it. Absolutely divine! I’d spoon it out and reverently devour it. There was no other way to eat this fresh, velvety goodness than in one sitting. And that was that!

Softening and Surrender

There’s no grand architecture or white sand beaches on this little island, but the town and the people are humble and kind. I had planned on staying a few days but lingered for a few weeks, allowing the wind to strengthen me, the water to soften me, and the rocks to transform me. There’s healing in slowness and regalness in rawness.

I flew out on a tiny airplane bound for Spain, fully intending to return to the little black pearl. I never did, but I revisit it often in my mind, and its memory is deeply etched in my heart.

Luke inherited his father’s vineyard and is now married with two chubby kids.

Finding Love

I suppose I found love—love of slow days and simplicity. Love in the form of a warm, heart-shaped lake that held me like a lover. Love of the rugged nature and unforgiving elements, of which all the creatures—human, animal, and plants alike—are adaptable in their brilliant resilience. Stark but harmonious contrasts of delicate wildflowers growing out of crevices in parched volcanic rock, and caper flowers sprawled and flourishing close to the arid earth.

Even if things got off to a shaky start, the synchronicities were undeniable. A quiet force was guiding me toward love in the form of kind souls with warm hearts. There was olive oil and cheese that tasted like heaven, and the Luigis and Manuelas of the world, who actually turned out to be guardian angels.

Perhaps that was the kind of love Alberto meant.