Isolation and hallucinatory bread: Portrait of an Italian island with just 100 inhabitants

Each summer, the remote Italian island of Alicudi attracts a slow drip of tourists looking to escape the trappings of modernity. There are no cars or even roads on the two-square-mile volcanic outcrop, though footpaths are traversable by donkey. And while cellphone coverage is now available in most places, many houses lack electricity and water.

For the island’s residents, of whom there are around 100 (and whose number fall steeply in the winter), the remainder of the year is arguably far from idyllic.

With no hospital, residents must travel by ferry — or, in an emergency, helicopter — for medical treatment. The island’s school is reportedly closed due to the shortage of children, according to Italian photographer Camilla Marrese, who visited Alicudi during the Covid-19 pandemic to document everyday life there. And while there are two grocery stores and a bar to socialize in, the latter is only open three months of the year, she added.

“For the rest of the year, the big social gathering (entails) going down to the pier when the boats come in — they just go there to check who arrived and who’s leaving,” Marrese told CNN in a Zoom interview alongside her partner and collaborator Gabriele Chiapparini, who added: “Some houses are two hours’ walk away from the pier, so those people watch through binoculars.”

Hoping to capture a rare snapshot of the island and its inhabitants during winter, Marrese and Chiapparini spent a total of two months exploring Alicudi, photographing its nature and befriending its residents. The resulting book, “Thinking Like an Island,” brings together stark portraits and landscape shots that speak to a profound sense of isolation.

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Alicudi might have been populated as early as the 17th century BC, though migration in both directions — including the departure of islanders to the Italian mainland and further afield, Australia in particular — have seen its demographics change significantly in recent decades. Marrese described the current population as comprising “many islands within that same island” — a combination of long-term locals (some of whom she said humorously refer to themselves as “indigenous”) and outsiders who have moved from elsewhere in Europe seeking a quiet life.

“We spoke with a lot of people who chose the island because they are tired of how the world is going right now: climate change, pollution, the way we cultivate vegetables or our economic systems,” Chiapparini said.

Yet, the pair also discovered a unique sense of community, despite the lack of meeting places or shared social spaces.

“All the houses are scattered, so it’s very hard for a sense of community to develop,” Marrese said. “Of course, there is a big sense of belonging; everyone knows everyone else and is willing to help one another. I think the bonds they have are really tight. At the same time, it’s (a microcosm of) the best and the worst of society, because there is also lots of unnecessary conflict and small (acts of) revenge.”

Marrese compared the islanders’ coexistence to life in a condo: “You don’t like your neighbors, but when the storm comes, you go down (to the water) and take everybody else’s boats up and you help each other.”

The photographers found that the islanders’ mentality, perhaps due to the transient nature of its seasonal population, made it easy for them to quickly earn trust and convince people to pose for photos.

“They are very much used to building strong connections quickly — to creating social situations and strong relationships. And also they are very used to seeing people go away, to have this turnover of people and dealing with the fact that things are not permanent somehow.”

The portraits in “Thinking Like an Island” feature islanders out in nature or posing on the shore beneath ominous skies. Their names are often excluded, while some subjects’ faces have been obscured entirely to protect their privacy.

This only adds to the sense of mystery surrounding the island, which is rich in local folklore. In fact, Marrese and Chiapparini’s book does not even explicitly identify the location by name, although anyone familiar with the topography and mythology discussed will immediately recognize it as Alicudi. (An outlying island of the Aeolian archipelago, in the Tyrrhenian Sea north of Sicily, it recently made headlines after becoming overrun by goats, which outnumber people by around six to one.)

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And there is one curious piece of local history unique to the island: its accidental production of hallucinogen-laced bread.

Until as recently as the 1950s, locals ate loaves contaminated by a rye fungus called ergot, the base ingredient of LSD. Generations of villagers unknowingly ate the so-called “crazy rye” or “horned rye,” which may be the source of various local myths, like the flying women (or “maiara,” meaning “sorceress” in Aeolian dialect) that were said to occupy the skies above Alicudi.

“There are a lot of legends that have been passed through the generations,” Marrese said. “And they could actually have been a hallucinatory moment that was shared by all the inhabitants of the island who were eating this bread every day.”

Marrese and Chiapparini also explored other parts of the island’s culture, such as an annual procession featuring a statue of Saint Bartolo and traditional practices like weaving and caper harvesting. They were at pains to present Alicudi as neither utopia nor dystopia, despite harsh economic realities. But even the relatively small levels of tourism have transformed fortunes on the island.

The photographers say many of the residents moved from the upper reaches of the island down to the sea, and that most young men now work in construction, renovating or building houses to rent out in the summer.

“It was very, very poor,” Marrese said. “Until the second half of the last century, the economy was mainly agriculture and fishing… then electricity came (in the 1990s), tourism came and money came — and everything changed all of a sudden.”

As well as shooting conventional portraits, Chiapparini and Marrese — both of whom captured images for the book — turned their lenses on the island itself. Alicudi’s rugged topography, with its sculptural rock faces and steep crags, becomes one of their book’s key protagonists.

The pair were especially interested in the impact this geography had on the islanders, as it seemingly shaped their outlook and character. “I think living on the island makes you evolve, physically and psychologically,” Marrese said, noting the ease with which inhabitants navigate the island in the darkness of night.

“Living in this way really permeates them and shapes them… they’re very much more connected to the rhythm of the sun going up and the sun going down,” she added.

The experience left its mark on Chiapparini and Marrese, too, with both reporting a strong personal connection to the island. The pair remain in touch with several residents, and they say their experiences left them with a greater, lasting appreciation for the simple life.

“We went back this summer, and when I’m there, I think ‘Why don’t we live here?” Marrese said. “Then, actually, we (realize we) don’t really want to live there, but there is a very, very strong bond you take with you.

“Something that stays with you, ideologically, is that there isn’t just one way in which you have to live — there are many different ways,” she added. “They can have pros and cons, and can be very different from yours. But they (the islanders) are alright with that.”

“Thinking Like an Island,” published by Overlapse, is available now.

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