Living on a volcano's edge, Italians practice for disaster

Pozzuoli, Italy: A piercing alarm burst from millions of cellphones, a signal to hundreds of thousands of people to pack their bags and flee one of Europe's most dangerous volcanoes. But most of the Italians who heard it shrugged.

It was around 5 o'clock on a Friday afternoon, and the alert wasn't announcing a real crisis.

Instead, it was part of a four-day drill this month, coordinated by the Italian civil protection department, to prepare a densely populated area near Naples for the day its residents might face a host of volcanic perils: The ground buckling underfoot. Ribbons of toxic fumes. Exploding boils of molten rock.

The threat does not loom on the horizon, like nearby Mount Vesuvius to the east. Instead, an 8-mile-wide caldera -- riddled with volcanoes -- is recessed in the earth and sea west of Naples, forming what is called the Campi Flegrei, or "burning fields."

Most experts believe an eruption remains a remote possibility, but volcanic activity -- hundreds of mostly minor earthquakes, along with a measurable rise and subsidence of the earth -- has picked up considerably in recent years, panicking some residents and putting the authorities on high alert.

So on Oct. 12, locals from the seaside town of Pozzuoli, which sits on part of the Campi Flegrei, gathered in a parking lot to rehearse. Similar scenes took place in other red zone areas, where the possibility of eruption is highest.

"We live on top of this caldera and we're a bit anxious," said Lucia Scherillo, 74. The uncertainty didn't help.

"Some volcanologists say it's dangerous, others say it isn't," she said. "What do I know?" she added. "I am in the hands of God, but if I'm able to save myself, it wouldn't be so bad, I have a lot of grandchildren."

Her friend Amalia Colavecchia, 73, was more sanguine. "Pozzuoli has always danced -- it's been like this for centuries," she said. But lately, "it's been dancing up a storm."

Between the Campi Flegrei and Vesuvius, Italians in the area have long lived with the threat of disaster -- and with reminders of catastrophe in Pompeii's ruins, and the tourists they bring, not far to the southeast. Residents have built resort towns by the sea and neighborhoods on Vesuvius' slopes, and many remain ambivalent about the danger.

Recent activity in the Campi Flegrei drove many more people to take part in this year's drill compared with one in 2019 that was virtually unattended. But some remained doubtful that any plan could effectively save half a million people on the run.

"It's enough for there to be a soccer game or a big event for traffic to clog and descend into chaos," said Laura Iovinelli, who founded a citizens group after a magnitude-4.4 earthquake in May caused her to be evicted from her home. "Drills are useless and a waste of money."

Volcanic activity ramped up in the Campi Flegrei in 2005, and since 2012, Italy's national civil protection department has put it on a "yellow" alert. The frequency of earthquakes has recently intensified in recent months, including the strongest in 40 years, pushing some people temporarily out of their homes for fear of instability.

The fields were themselves created by an eruption some 39,000 years ago. Later eruptions, the most recent in 1538, pockmarked the region with craters, lakes and hills. Sulfurous gases spill from the earth in some places, vaporizing aboveground in fine tendrils or dense plumes and sometimes reeking like rotten egg.

The area fascinated ancient figures. In "The Aeneid," Virgil pinpointed the mouth of hell in a cave near Lake Avernus, a volcanic crater, describing ghosts and monsters in its depths (the most vicious denizens, lately, appeared to be a gaggle of geese). Julius Caesar, Nero and Hadrian were among the Roman leaders who summered in villas in ancient Baiae, today's red-zoned community of Bacoli.

For some modern residents, life doesn't feel so leisurely anymore.

Studies show that the recent activity is tied to the movement of an underground magma source, as well as to the gases it releases. "This dynamic could lead to a volcanic eruption in the future," which is why it is closely monitored, "and why emergency plans have been drawn up," said Mauro A. Di Vito, director of Vesuvian Observatory in Naples, part of the National Institute of Geophysics and Volcanology.

Volcanic data is transmitted to the civil protection department and to a governmental "great risk" commission via a telephone (yes, it is red) in case of major events. Although forecasting eruptions is "the principal objective of volcanology," it is still only a prediction, Di Vito said.

Italy's civil protection department faces many daunting challenges. It hopes, with a 72-hour eruption warning, to get 500,000 people to safety across a vast, heavily populated area, and to protect everything from artwork to zoo and farm animals.

That Saturday, the rehearsal involved registering Pozzuoli residents at one of several makeshift centers and piling them onto buses to the main train station in Naples.

A police escort ensured the buses could glide through the city's notoriously chaotic traffic, and people on sidewalks waved. "They think we're a soccer team," said Elvira Di Costanzo, 61, a radiographer.

"Road trip!" called another rider.

At the train station, police officers, army personnel and sundry officials took charge in a cordoned area, directing people in wheelchairs to a tent with doctors, mothers with babies to a tent with a changing station and dog owners to a canine registry, complete with water and treats.

"We've been on yellow alert since 2012. Should we pass to orange or red, we have to know what the risks are," Claudia Campobasso, an official with the regional civil protection department, told hundreds of people. "We live in a marvelous territory, our Campania, a beautiful territory, and we don't have to leave. But we have to learn to live with the risks of the territory."

Volunteers distributed kits containing a notebook, a raincoat, a T-shirt, a flashlight and a key ring, as well as a plastic bag with a panino, fruit juice and water. There was considerable grumbling when the kits ran out.

The evacuees then marched onto a train: In case of an eruption, they would be sent to Italian regions far from danger. Pozzuoli was paired with Lombardy, some 475 miles away. But that day, the train went only as far as Aversa, a half-hour ride away, before returning to Naples.

Afterward, Fabio Ciciliano, the head of Italy's civil protection department, called the operation a success, though he said evaluating any kinks would take time. About 1,500 people took part in the drill, out of a possible 500,000, and about 55,000 respondents filled out a questionnaire linked to the phone alert, suggesting "great awareness," he said.

But as anyone who has watched a disaster film can attest, real life tends to be less disciplined than a drill. "Panic isn't rational," noted Adriana Di Nisi, 57, from Pozzuoli, as she watched people calmly get off the bus. Still, the laid-back, come-as-it-may Neapolitan character "helps us," she said.

Iovinelli, in contrast, doubted the buses would even make it.

"They will never arrive and we will die like rats," she said. "That's the reality."

Elia De Luca, 65, a salesclerk waiting for instructions by the Aversa train station, was more optimistic.

"I hope the day will never come," she said. But if it happens, "I will feel a bit less panicked because I know there will be people who tell us what to do."

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.