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The Island of Capers and Calypso
A trip to the Sicilian island of Pantelleria, home to sweet Zebbibo wine, salty capers, Homeric myths, natural hot springs and saunas, and ancient Arab damusso houses for rent
I had only popped next door to borrow a corkscrew.
Two hours later, I finally managed to excuse myself from Maria’s rambling, scattershot discussion of local history and her overdose of local hospitality, which took the form of pasta, cakes, and glass after glass of various wines—my friendly neighbor insisted I try every type the island had to offer.
I staggered out of Maria’s kitchen—corkscrew clutched in one hand, plate of leftovers and bottle of homemade wine in the other—and stumbled up the steps of my rented damusso for a suddenly much-needed afternoon nap.
Daughter of the Winds
Forty-three miles east of Tunisia—and sixty-two miles south of Sicily, of which it is ostensibly a part—the tiny island of Pantelleria is the black pearl of the Mediterranean, a hush-hush celebrity hotspot (Armani and Depardieu both have houses here) renowned for its sweet Zebibbo wines and the world's finest capers.
This is the Mediterranean as it used to be, where ziggurat-like prehistoric burial tumuli rise above terraced vineyards, volcanic steam creates natural cave saunas, and locals and visitors alike celebrate the simple pleasures of sea, sun, and village life.
Pantelleria is hot, dry, and windswept. Its name derives from the Arabic Bent al-rion, “Daughter of the Winds,” and its gardens snuggle behind high lava-rock walls designed to keep the stiff sea breezes from salting the citrus trees and vegetable patches. But, as an active volcano (last eruption: 1891), Pantelleria also has rich soil and is lush with cultivated greenery. In fact, scholars peg it as Ogygia, the mythical island of plenty where Odysseus dallied for seven years with the nymph Calypso.
Crops spill their greenery down steep hillsides and ripple across the lower slopes in graceful terraces originally installed by the Phoenicians, whose cisterns and irrigation systems first turned this hardscrabble island into fertile farmland some 3,000 years ago.
On the hardscrabble trails that crisscross the terraces I stumbled across the occasional gun emplacement harking back to World War II, when the Fascists set up shop here to harass Allied ship convoys mercilessly. The Allies ended up bombarding it, invading it, and capturing 11,000 prisons while suffering only a single casualty: one soldier was bitten by a mule.
Though there are hotels on Pantelleria, to get the true island experience I rented a traditional damusso. This is an ancient form of Arab architecture: rectangular walls of lava blocks stacked up to six feet thick against the heat, the roof undulating over a series of whitewashed domes that sit above each room collecting rainwater. Inside, the domes create soaring ceilings of intersecting arches and cupolas.
My damusso was in the mountain village of Sibà, where the neighbors were ridiculously friendly, strings of tomatoes hung against sunny walls to dry, and dogs napped in the middle of the sole road, not even stirring when I steered my scooter around them.
Getting into Hot Water
Above Sibà, a trail twists for 45 minutes through the thick bramble of Mediterranean macchia and a profusion of prickly pears, past lowing cattle and terraced fields, to the Grotta Sibà Benikulà. Nicknamed the bagno asciutto (dry bath), this natural sauna is well hidden, a short hike off the trail and little more than a cleft in the rock issuing tendrils of steam.
I scrambled deep into the narrow cave to stew on a rock ledge, a sour mineral tang coating my tongue as I gasped in the dry heat. I nodded at the trio of Italians half-hidden in the gloom of swirling vapors, sweat dripping from the tips of their noses. They nodded back.
After a bit, one warned me “Only stay in for ten minutes,” then went back to sweating quietly. A spot on the ceiling dripped condensed steam onto my head. I reached up to touch the low roof and burnt my fingertips on the hot stone.
Purged of toxins, I aimed my scooter to the northeast side of the island and the Specchio di Venere—Venus’ Mirror—a stagnant lake puddled in a volcanic crater. Along one edge, where hot steam bubbles up through the waters, people had stacked stones in a series of little curls to create a daisy chain of natural hot tubs.
As I soaked in one, I asked a Speedo-clad neighbor what these hot springs would do for me—in the Mediterranean, any source of mineral waters is held to have a specific salubrious effect. He grinned and said “Potency.” Ah. That would explain the Speedo, then. His wife just rolled her eyes.
Of Wine and Capers
The only relatively flat bit of Pantelleria is the Piana di Ghirlandaia, a valley planted with regimented vines and low caper bushes. A sign by the driveway to the AgrIsola farm (tel. 011-39-338-975-1793, www.agrisola.it) advertised direct sales, so I stopped to buy capers for my mother, who loves to cook.
Inside the lava-stone building was a kitchen where three women sat at a table surrounded by mounds of Zebibbo grapes. They were splitting the grapes with their thumbs, flicking out the seeds, and filling large silver bowls. On a stove against the wall, oversized skillets bubbled gently. The vendemmia (grape harvest) had just finished, and they were making marmalade. Signora Gabriele, the owner, insisted I try some, spooning warm marmalade directly from a skillet onto freshly sliced bread.
I was on my third serving when her husband, Diego, walked in. He took one look at me and turned to his wife. “What, you didn’t give him any of our wine?” Diego fetched a cheap plastic bottle that had one held mineral water but was now filled with a liquid the shade of aged brandy, and poured me a glass. Like all Pantelleria wine, it was too sweet, too powerful, and too good to put down.
The farm’s manager Mauro, a tall man with grey stubble on his head and a sweaty blue shirt stretched over his belly, had arrived with Diego. Mauro pointed to my glass. “That’s my wine,” he said, thumbing himself in the chest proudly. “I made that wine!” He mustered all seven of his remaining teeth for a smile. Then he frowned. “Oh!” he said, turning to Diego. “Where’s my glass? Don’t I get any of my own wine?”
Diego hurried to pour his employee a glass. Mauro drained half of it in one draught. “Ah!” he sighed, smacking his lips noisily.
Mauro proceeded to expound upon something in a lispy Sicilian dialect. I only caught every third or fourth word, but it seemed to deal with the difference between wine made for personal consumption and that made for sale.
As Mauro talked, Diego rounded up some glasses for himself and his wife and began pouring another round. I sighed, settled in for another bout of Pantelleria hospitality, and reflected it was a good thing, now that the sun was setting, that I already knew well the way back to my damusso.
When You Go...
Arrive: Sicily is the gateway to Pantelleria, with fast ferries from Mazara del Vallo (1hr. 45 min., $93 roundtrip, www.usticalines.it), and even faster flights from Trapani (40 min., $80–$110 roundtrip, www.meridiana.it and www.flyairone.it).
Stay: Rent a damusso from Call Tour (tel. 011-39-0923-911-065, www.calltour.it). Depending on size and season, they cost $55 to $120 per night for two people. During high season (mid-June to early September), most damussi rent by the week, but in off-season you can stay just three or four nights. Book six months in advance for August, when celebrities such as Madonna, Sting, Julia Roberts, and Martin Scorsese snap up the best properties.
Dine: With your own kitchen, you can stock up in the shops of Pantelleria town for home-cooked meals, though there’s no shortage of excellent restaurants. My faves: La Nicchia in the hamlet of Scauri Basso (tel. 011-39-0923-916-342, www.lanicchia.it), and Diego Gabriele’s La Favarotta in Khamma Fuori (tel. 011-39-0923-915-347, www.agrisola.it).
The island is famous for its seafood and fish couscous, ravioli stuffed with mint and ricotta-like tumma, and fresh pasta tossed with a chunky pesto of tomatoes, garlic, basil and capers. There’s no better dessert than simple gelato alla crema (plain ice cream) drizzled with elisir di Zebibbo, a honey-thick grape syrup.
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This material was last updated November 2007. All information was accurate at the time.
Copyright © 1998-2008 by Reid Bramblett. All rights reserved.
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