We arrive in Stromboli in the wake of a rainstorm. My wife Rosa is videotaping through the window of the hydrofoil, known here as an aliscafo, as raindrops patter onto the sea. She records our first glimpse of the volcano spouting smoke in the backdrop, appearing to spark the clouds into existence. Her silken black hair is pulled back into a thick braid and she is posed against the rail, oblivious to her alluring effect on all the men on the boat. Lightening flashes on the Mediterranean horizon, viewable from the other side of the craft. I jump into action, microphone ready to capture these sounds, but the Captain's voice cuts through from two tinny speakers on deck, so that’s what I record instead. He has a funny, high pitched voice which the speakers enhance.
"Damn," I mutter.
Rosa laughs, "Maybe we can use the captain's voice later in a dance mix."
That is what we always say when we record something other than intended.
“STROMBOLI” the captain’s falsetto voice announces, his tone rising in pitch on the syllables ‘oli’
This is my first time in Italy, but I already feel comfortable and welcome, because Rosa speaks flawless Italian. Even Venice, known for its gloom, gave us warm sunshine. The Venetians, famous for their patronizing attitude, responded to Rosa’s charm and bent over backwards to make our honeymoon memorable. What a romantic city that was!
Now we are travelling again, in search of the perfect sound. A curious fisherman is impressed by our state of the art equipment and asks us about it.
Although I don't speak Italian, I find myself understanding it more and more. I can follow Rosa's animated reply that we collect images and sounds for a living. I know she is telling him we intend to make music with the sounds we capture, because his crinkly face lights up with incredulous disbelief as he repeats the word "musica." I can also decipher the words "televisione and cinema". Rosa has become very assertive since we came to Italy. I am intrigued with how naturally she steps into character. I admire her facility in dealing with strangers. She speaks a mellifluous yet saucy Italian.
Rosa and I have been traveling and recording sounds together for many years. We like to think of ourselves as sound design gypsies. I convinced her to marry me after eight years as business partners. She was reluctant at first because she was afraid that the magic would fizzle between us, but so far it's been quite the contrary! Since our marriage in May, sex has taken on new intensity and meaning. My life with Rosa is an adventure in pursuit of the perfect sound. We view life as an intricate aural tapestry.
The aliscafo drops us off at the Stromboli wharf where we are greeted by a three-wheeled api with “Locanda Barba Blu” painted on the sideboards. It was sent by our pensione. We cram into the seat next to a virile, bearded driver, who throws our luggage into the open back without saying a word, exposing it all to the rain which is now pouring in torrents. A bumpy ride up a windy cobblestone road leads to our locanda. We are greeted by a toothless but loquacious gray hared signora named Reni. She speaks a very staccato Italian, quite unlike the lilting Florentine dialect of my wife and her family. When Reni finds out Rosa is Italian, she prattles endlessly, like a sewing machine. My wife laughs and occasionally banters back. Reni informs us the only other resident at our locanda is a blind saxophone player from Norway. Not many tourists are on the island this time of year.
Our room is upstairs and has a view on one side of the active volcano, on the other a view of Strombolicchio, a tiny wizardly island with a lighthouse on it just off the shore of Stromboli. There is a terrace which circles the locanda, giving a 360 degree view if you walk around it. It has finally quit raining. I breath in the aroma of the lemon trees and the magnolias in bloom. I listen to the crickets crying “cri cri cri” and notice an api revving up. I run inside to get the digital audio recorder, or DAT machine, and begin recording.
On cue, the blind saxophone player begins playing when I begin to record. Although I want to capture the island's crickets and exotic birds I record the saxophone instead.
"Another sound to be used someday in a dance mix," I mutter to myself.
Suddenly I notice the unsettling rumble for the first time. I presume it must be thunder and continue recording the Norwegian sax player, with crickets, frogs and birds in the background. I hear the rumble again. It sounds like a huge gas pilot being lit. Rosa is busy videotaping.
“Did you hear that?” she said.
We hear an odd reverberation, unmistakably the sound of the Strombolian volcano letting off steam. I had imagined a volcano would sound more like a cannon blast or a gun shot. But the voice of Stromboli is distinctly more of a deep bass rumble. This sound becomes part of our consciousness, along with the whistling mistral wind and the gentle loop of waves lapping to shore.
Suddenly the weather changes dramatically for the better. Three rainbows created by the setting sun appear over the horizon. A double rainbow connects Stromboli to Strombolicchio. Another rainbow connects Strombolicchio to the other side of the island. The sun's rays illuminate thousands of multi-hued clouds like a tableau from a magnificent religious painting. Rosa cannot put the video camera down. Stromboli has cast a magic spell on us.
"I love you Michael. I love our life together," Rosa says while recording my reaction to this statement. I hate it when she does that.
Prior to coming here we had been told Stromboli was a Spartan black and white volcanic wasteland, as depicted in Rossellini’s famous movie with Ingrid Bergman. In it Bergman is seen climbing over jagged, unfriendly, bald ridges, fleeing the backwards local fishermen and their hysterical wives. We were expecting a stark, hot and barren island. We surely weren’t expecting such bold color bursts, passionate purples and leaping yellows, under a dramatic and ever-changing sky. Every imaginable fruit tree is in bloom.
Later, I awaken to the hissing sound of the wind whooshing and causing things to flap on our terrace. I get up to simply listen. I am mesmerized by this island. Instead of returning to bed I am activated by the restless night air. A different kind of cricket can be heard at this hour. They emit a long, slow trill in deliberate and slow unison, each “criii” lasting several seconds, unlike the cacophonous and constant chirps of the crickets I tried to record at sunset. They could almost be mistaken for electronic pulses, so precise and regular the intervals. One lonely puppy yelps. An api whizzes by - I can hear it coming from kilometers away. Stromboli belches every thirty to forty minutes, ominous and powerful, giving this small island a feeling of restless unquiet.
I stay awake recording sounds until sunrise, when the songbirds, each with their own curious series of pitches and rhythm come to life. “Pip pip pip.” On cue a nearby cock crows, apparently triggering a barrage of all the cocks on the island who caw as if they are competing for a cock-a-doodle-doo contest. Only the sound Italian roosters make is more like “kee-kee-ree-kee, kee-kee-ree-kee-kee-kee." I could almost be inside a naif Henri Rousseau painting, filled with lovely, primitive creatures grazing on this wild and tropical island. Not even a car sound. No airplanes or helicopters. The islanders sleep while the volcano and I keep vigil. Not even a motorino can be heard.
Soon a singular deep, resonant church bell rings five times followed by a clanging bell in double time that rings ten times. The last ring echoes and it slowly merges with the waking street sounds. I hear window shutters opening as the neighborhood comes to life. An old lady with a cart full of fresh bread wheels by. Her gravelly voice calls out, “Pane! Pane fresco!”, pronounced pah-nay. About ten minutes later a guy with an api full of weird fish screams in an operatic voice, “Pesce. Pesce fresco!”, pronounced pay-shay. The fish in his cart look primordial. "Why isn't Rosa up yet," I wonder, slightly annoyed. "I've never seen such primeval looking fish in my life! We should get that memory on video."
I observe Reni, who runs out, gets in an argument with the fresh fish vendor over prices, and finally comes to an agreement. She stomps back in to the locanda with a satisfied smirk, toting the day's main meal.
Rosa finally gets up a few hours later. Our day together starts with too many cappuccino’s which make me a little irritable, after having stayed up almost all night recording the island sounds. Too much caffeine, too little sleep.
Rosa and I head down to the black sands of Stromboli beach. It is around nine in the morning. We duck into the local church on our way there, and light candles at two of the altars. I much prefer the small churches on these southern Sicilian islands. The interiors are bright white with bright blue trim. They make you feel happy to just enter them, as opposed to the foreboding and overwrought duomos in Venice and Florence. The bells begin to ring while we are inside though, too loud and intense for my poor overly sensitive state, so we scurry back out onto the cobblestone street. A motorino whizzes by with a young man carrying a kid riding behind him and two more kids on the handlebars. It amazes me those little motor scooters have enough oomph to carry all that weight!
We continue down the steep road towards the beach, with my caffeine-driven irritability rising each time Rosa stops at a local shop. Sometimes I feel she deliberately slags her pace just to bug me.
However, I love the way her hips sway as she canters to catch up with my faster pace. My desire for her grows like the fiery magma smoldering in the volcano's crater.
My grumpiness quickly dissipates once we reach the dark sands of the shore. The vision of jet black sand against the periwinkle blue of the ocean is awesome. In certain lights the ocean turns an almost violet/purple. Indeed the light is always in a state of constant change on this volatile island. I hear the volcano, erupting in the background like a belching Pere Ubu monster.
We stroll along the beach until we can’t walk any further, picking up treasures and trinkets along the way. The glistening black sand feels alive beneath my now bare feet. I build Rosa an onyx fortress in the sand , made of lava rocks, to shelter us from the wind. Rosa beams as she poses for the camera. "Click, click, click." In the end I kiss her and we accidentally tumble on the fortress, waves lapping, splashing and sizzling on the rocks like a cymbal crash. The timbre of sizzle resonates and merges with the deep tones of the undertide. They become one with the ubiquitous volcanic booms which accentuate the growing feeling we have of being aliens in a strange but wonderful land.
The volcano has been exploding about every thirty to forty minutes all morning, sending out plumes of smoke that occasionally block out the sun. Seizing the moment, Rosa and I make love on the black sands. I love Rosa passionately! We are the center of the universe! We experience a sensation of increased magmatic activity. We are liquid lava. We are one big poetic effusion. I have the enlightened realization that this volcano must actually be the true source for all clouds in the universe and it is controlling the weather patterns around the globe. I climax with this revelation in a series of shocking eruptions. “RO....SA“ I grunt, my orgasm in synch with a series of violent volcano blasts.
We decide we must record the sound of the volcano bursting from up close. This is our destiny. This is why we have come.
At around eleven a.m. we decide to walk to the “Ristorante Osservatorio”, recommended by Reni, to get a bite to eat. It has a good view of the famed Sciarra del Fuoco which reminds us of the fourth of July. Even in daylight, the explosions are dramatic.
The houses and their gardens along the way to the restaurant are amazing. Neither of us can get over the fact that just about every plant imaginable seems to be thriving on this island and most of them are in full bloom these last weeks of October. Wild berries, yuccas, apple trees, grapes, pine trees, fig trees, persimmons and banana trees, all in full bloom or fruiting. Today as we walk out of the town and around to the face of the volcano the houses gradually disappear and a Romanesque road made out of black stones from the volcano leads us to the Pizzeria Osservatorio and our lunch. We both order pasta. When our plates arrive Rosa’s pasta looks normal; spaghetti with pomodoro and basil. I am disappointed when mine arrives because it looks like a boring bowl of just spaghetti, no sauce. But when I take my first bite I know this is the best plate of spaghetti I have ever eaten! So simple yet bursting with flavor! It is seasoned with rosemary and pine nuts, garlic and butter. It is a good, peasant meal. Rosa’s more traditional pasta is just as good. We immediately start trading bites and soaking every last bit with our panini. I drink two large steins of German beer. Rosa has two glasses of malvasia, the local honey flavored wine, nicknamed nectar of the ogres. The restaurant boasts of an amazing view of the fireworks, and we get our first good look from there. Suddenly a narrow, bright magenta column of burning gas grabs our attention, followed by a series of small fire bombs which burst near the summit.
We became unconsciously mesmerized by the volcano during the hike to Pizzeria Osservatorio. The constant eruptions are hard to ignore. Without thinking we both start to climb the goat path. We decide there’s no time like the present to hike as close to the summit as possible to record the explosion from up close. Why not? We collect sounds for a living and a sample of Stromboli erupting will be an impressive addition to our sound library.
The trail to the volcano mouth begins as the same Romanesque road we used to get to the Pizzeria Osservatorio. We have been told it could be dangerous to climb the volcano without a guide, but have dismissed this as information designed for the average tourist. I have the DAT recorder, Rosa has a couple of disposable cameras. It is time to capture that otherworldly rumble on DAT and to live out our manifest sound design destiny.
"We are young. We can do this."
It’s hard to describe the sound of a volcano because there is a sensation that jolts through your body the closer you get to it. It is an other-worldly feeling that both attracts but also fills us with an atavistic dread. A fascination undermined by fear of the unknown. Sometimes it sounds like a teapot blowing it’s lid. More often it’s like a big pilot light being ignited, followed by the light splatter of what sounds like falling rocks but is really lava falling and causing rocks to slide. We watch the mountain literally blow it’s top every thirty minutes or so. Generally, after an aural blast there is a time lapse before we see the incandescent splatter of lava. It is much easier to capture volcanic eruptions on film than it is to record the sound, because the sound blast alerts a quick person in time to point their camera.
Explosions occur at irregular intervals of about four to eight times per hour. I realize it will not be easy to get a good, clean recording. I must find a spot shielded from the wind. It’s important to record the attack, which means the recording must begin with absolute silence in order to record the complete sound.
It’s two o’clock as we begin our hike up the mountain. The first hour or two of the climb are easy enough, but the terrain increasingly unusual. We can see three of the other Aeolian Islands glistening over the horizon from the path. Every so often a group of German or Swiss hikers energetically pass us by. We should have known by their backpacks, hard hats with lights at the front and ski poles that there was more to the ascent than the average well fed and beer sated idiot in shorts and sandals was prepared for.
I am wearing my ‘uniform’, which is what Rosa calls my t-shirt, Hard Tail shorts, baseball cap and old reliable Teva sandals. Although I brought a variety of clothes, I invariably wear this outfit every day while traveling. Only the t-shirt changes. Rosa is also wearing shorts, but she is better equipped, wearing tennis shoes and a little backpack with water, a camera, a long sleeve shirt and an emergency rain poncho stuffed inside. Her straw hat serves her well for the first couple of hours of climb in the torrid afternoon sun. Mesmerizing beauty abounds, with the backdrop every so often of Stromboli erupting, like the God of Thunder. The only thing I am equipped with is a DAT machine. I have no long sleeve shirt or windbreaker of any sort, but in the full afternoon sun this doesn’t seem to matter, although I secretly acknowledge I should have heeded Rosa’s advice this morning and brought water and layers, “because you never know where the day will lead”. Why is she always right?
We are startled by an explosive ejection of lava from a nearby crater. It blends with a pulsating lava fountain. The intensity of the spray is almost too close for comfort, yet we feel compelled to continue our mission. The trail itself, for the first hour or two, is winding but not too steep. The lush vegetation along the surrounding terrain grows sparser and sparser the higher we climb. The trail becomes less windy and increasingly steep. Soon there is no plant life whatsoever. The trail becomes extremely rocky and in parts we have to use our hands in order to proceed. This must be where they filmed that bleak Bergman film directed by Rosselini. I see it now.
A well-equipped family of Germans pass us by. The family must encompass four generations. They all wear fancy hiking boots. The father and kids pass us first. They take a short cut up the face of a rock, puffing as they pass us but not faltering for even a moment. I mutter to Rosa,
“They must be CRAZY to scale a rock like that.”
The young man cups his hands and yells, "Momma! Hier, bitte," which I interpret to mean "This way Mom!" Momma looks to be at least sixty five years old. "Ven!" he calls down to her.
Although I don't speak German, it is clear that he is coaxing his mother to follow them up the short cut. To our amazement she obeys. What great shape these Helvetics are in! Quite impressive.
"Oma!" the man calls out once his mother successfully catches up to the wife and kids. The whole family pleads, "Omi! Hier Bitte. Ven!"
Rosa and I gasp in disbelief when we see a tiny, spry old lady, wearing fancy pink hiking boots and a matching sweater, hoisting her way up the slope.
"That must be great-grandma," Rosa quips. "Amazing! She must be at least eighty five years old!"
"Omi" balks at the idea of scaling the almost sheer rock like the rest of her offspring. "Omi! Omi!" the kids clamor. "Ven macht schnell, bitte."
I look at Rosa. We gasp for breath every three or four steps. Our eyes lock and we burst out laughing.
“Those Germans put us to shame.”
The higher we climb, the louder the roar grows.
The volcano lures us, like moths to the flame. There's no turning back now.
It grows a bit windy at this juncture. Rosa puts on her rain poncho as a wind breaker. She snaps photos of the setting sun, marvelling at the clouds
of steam that seem to metamorphose into brilliant clouds as they float away.
We are about 3/4 of the way to our destination. Our goal is to get a close-up view of the spitting lava and, more importantly, a good recording of the explosion. As the sun sets the reality sinks in of how ill prepared we are. Until this moment we never even considered going back down. We have not even a flashlight between us. But it can’t be that much farther. We only have a few more days on this island, and we are here now...
Suddenly there is a big violent blast, followed by the sound of splattering lava.. Several vents erupt simultaneously while a third vent ejects a fountain of fire that falls onto a rootless boiling river of burning gas, followed by a brief and intermittent effusion of lava. As it hits the ground a small avalanche of hot, sliding red molten lava is created.
“WOW! I should have had the recorder on for that one”...
I am aroused by the passion of the moment, living life to it's fullest with my soul mate. However I also realize it will be no easy feat to record the sound of Stromboli erupting. In fact the only way will be to find a spot protected from the wind. I must leave the DAT in record mode for as long as it will take to get a full volcano blast.
Rosa is a slow climber. Slow but steady.
Although I'm not that keen to continue the climb on my own, I know it must be done, and I'm the one to do it.
"You're in much better shape than I am, and I have a good view from this spot. This little cave here will help shield me from the wind.”
This seems like a prudent plan. Rosa always comes up with a sensible solution. That's one of the reasons why I love her so much.
This appears to be a popular resting spot. We are near the top of the volcano, and there are quite a few Germans here chortling in the background.
"Chuse!" a red cheeked German man toasts.
I sure wish they'd offer us a glass of that dark lager to toast with, but I can't say I blame them for wanting to hold on to their stash, a proven antedote to warm their insides as the night grows increasingly chilly and windy.
I feel tremors through my sandals indicating the volcano is about to erupt. It’s been an exhausting climb and I don’t blame Rosa for choosing to wait here with the Germans. Before we even got together Rosa would travel the world collecting sounds. She says she has always known that this was to be her destiny. She had always secretly hoped but never expected to find a partner to pursue sound bites with. She was convinced that she should never marry, because she wanted to remain faithful to her calling. And I am a lucky man indeed. Together we have blossomed as a formidable sound design team. But in spite of her destiny, she knows the limits of her physical ability and wisely chooses to stay behind.
Our conversation is interrupted when the mountain top to the right of us literally blows off. Steam pours out of the volcano and the lava sounds like thick, plopping mud. Even the Germans are silenced.
"I'm so glad we're a team, Michael. I know I can trust you to get what we're after."
I kiss Rosa and proceed to move upwards alone. The world is now barren, jagged and unfriendly.
Activating the record mode I set out to climb to a closer spot. Rosa’s silhouette grows tinier the higher I climb. She soon blends in with the rocks below. I distance myself from the Germans too. Hopefully this mountain will blow up again and there won’t be any people to ruin my sample. We really don't need any more voices for a dance mix.
With the headphones in my ear, I become overly conscious of my own heavy breathing and the sound of the rocks sliding beneath my every step. The wind grows stronger and mixes with the hiss of steam coming from the volcano.
I scale a steep cliff. Luck is with me. There is little vapor and the bright glow from numerous vents make details of the crater terrace plainly visible. I find a cave which is protected from the wind.
The volcano cone blows off again, like a short cannon blast with an echo. I decide this is the best spot to record from, so I sit silently and try to breathe inaudibly until I get a good, clean recording. I position the mike. Everything is eerily quiet. I can’t feel or hear the wind. Patiently I sit a long time trying not to rustle or move. How wonderful - No human voices. Quietude. I feel like I am in a bell jar. I have found Shangri-La. It feels like eternity, the wait. Hopefully Stromboli will explode soon because I’m ready.
Suddenly a short, sforzato staccato blast is followed by a heavy and eerie smattering of lava. Oh my God! That was insane!. I just saw lava flying through the air, only meters away and too close for comfort. I could distinctly feel the heat from that eruption. So THAT’s why the Germans are all wearing hard hats. I tremble as I play back the recording. I got it! The recording sounds professional. Clear and sudden, from complete silence, I recorded the whole blast, destined to become a vintage addition to our expanding sound library. Rosa will be proud of her sound design gypsy husband!
I begin my descent, all the while protecting the DAT machine from being damaged on the rocks. Gotta be careful. Easy to slip. There are no shadows in the afterglow and it is hard to see. I slip slide down the loose rocks, often on all fours, towards Rosa. It becomes increasingly difficult to see the trail except for when the volcano erupts. I encounter other crazy Helvetic climbers on my way down and wonder if they camp out up here. I keep the DAT in record mode, just in case. A big one erupts but the recording will be marred by the sounds of wind, my huffing and puffing and the rocks that slip slap beneath my feet.
It feels like hours later when I finally reach Rosa, shivering in the little cave where I left her.
“Thank God you’re back!” she exclaims. There are bats out and I was getting scared. Cold too. Did you get the sound?”
The climb back down the goat trail was tortuous at best, and I occasionally questioned that we might not make it. I could imagine the headlines;
Tall night shadows portend a bright moon. The slip slap slide of our footsteps are punctuated by the warbly cricket chirrs that lasts several seconds each, and the occasional ominous volcano blast. It is a long descent, but we have no choice other than to inch our way down in the dark. We are the blind leading the blind, occasionally bickering in the pitch black about what we should have brought with us on this climb. All we can hear is the wind and the chirring crickets..
STROMBOLI
“That’s the volcano.”
“Wow!”
“Eerie!”
Rosa nods her head in agreement.
“grunt.”
It takes alot of coaxing, but to our surprise the old lady follows them up the face of the mountain.
“I have a growing respect for them.”
“Maybe they’re the superior race after all!”
“Maybe there’s actually a dragon in this mountain and we’re gonna become toast,” Rosa ventures.
"That was a long one!"
"Kiss me!" Rosa says, pulling me to her. We cling together and tremble as one, taking it all in. "This is SO romantic, Michael. Can you believe it?"
“You’ve gotta pace yourself like a goat would,” she says.
“That German family put us to shame,”
“I know. Here we are, huffing and puffing, at the peak of our youth.
“Do you think you can make it, Rosa?”
She is gasping when she suggests:
“We’re not that far from the top now, Michael, and you DO have the DAT machine, whereas I forgot to bring my video camera with me today. I have an idea - you go on up and record the sound, and I’ll stay behind and wait for you here."
"Cin Cin" Rosa replies, hoisting her water bottle up.
"Cheers!"
“Jesus,” I say out loud. “How do you get up there?”
“I think so, listen,” I said, rewinding the tape and giving her the headphones so she can hear the recording.
“WoW! You ARE my MAN!” she cries, almost dropping the DAT machine in her excitement as she kisses me passionately. "These are the moments in life that I LIVE for."
“Two tourists found along back trail trying to make their way down from the volcano. This is why people are advised to go up with a tour guide."...
