“If I don’t leave Cyprus at least once a year, I go insane! Even paradise palls after a while.”
This is island fever.
Sometimes known as ‘rock fever’, the term was coined in Hawai’i and used to describe the feeling of restlessness, isolation and boredom experienced by those cut off from the mainland. But it can apply to any island in the world: anywhere that’s cut off from the mainland, and relatively small in both area and population.
The UK, Australia and Japan, for instance, don’t meet these criteria. But smaller islands such as Cyprus definitely qualify, especially when you factor in other recognised causes, such as higher cost of living (most islands have to import goods, leading to higher prices), the expense of leaving (usually by plane), and the generally slower pace of life.
So how do you determine if you have island fever? What makes someone susceptible to this unique sense of confinement and unease?
A feeling of being trapped is the most frequent symptom: those who experience island fever often find themselves persistently yearning for an escape to wider horizons, a confinement that can be exacerbated by repetitive routines.
Costa Constanti, for whom paradise palls rapidly, leaves the island roughly seven times each year – mostly for business.
“As a political and social analyst, I travel frequently for my job. And my family and I will take a holiday when we can, heading back to Australia once every 24 months or for regular short vacations in Europe. But I realise not everyone shares this privilege; I consider myself very fortunate.
“We are,” he adds “very isolated in Cyprus, surrounded by nations experiencing conflict and tensions. We ‘won’t’ visit Turkey, we can’t visit Syria, Lebanon is fragile, Israel and Palestine are a mess and Egypt doesn’t appeal to most unfortunately. And we’ve always had a Eurocentric perception of our region; we’ve always looked westwards – rarely east.
“Still, there’s a very wide world out there, and I would feel suffocated if I weren’t able to leave on the regular. No matter how beautiful Cyprus is, you do get tired of seeing the same people and doing the same things, day in, day out.”
This longing for diversity and change is a common symptom. An island’s limited range of activities and repetitive scenery can lead to a craving for new experiences and environments: a longing that can manifest as a strong desire to travel, explore new places, or even relocate temporarily or permanently to the mainland.
“I grew up in the US,” says 52-year-old Paphos resident Theodora Zannettou. “And spent much of my twenties travelling the world before moving to Cyprus. I do miss large events at times; the vibrancy of diverse cities and the myriad of options. But I think, once you reach a certain age, that need begins to fade.
“That said, if I weren’t able to leave Cyprus at least once a year for a shot of a different culture, I think I’d find it very hard. We tend to forget that this island isn’t the centre of the universe; that beyond these shores the world is ever-changing and rich with opportunity.”
Social stagnation is another hallmark of island fever. A smaller population means fewer social opportunities and interactions, plus a lack of anonymity and privacy. And the close-knit communities that often form on islands can be stifling at times.
“Cyprus has what I think of as a micro social environment,” says 36-year-old Limassolian Thanassis Kyprianou. “Your social network consists of the same circle: if you do meet someone new, all they have to do is ask around to find out everything about you. Everyone knows everyone; most of us are related in some way. Our identity is tied to our friends and family.
“On top of that, there’s no privacy,” he adds. “It’s not like London or Paris, where there’s a new face on every corner and you can reinvent yourself with each street. Here, mistakes you made as a child will still haunt you. I find that very oppressive. To be honest, I try to make my mistakes abroad now,” he grins. “And I get very twitchy if I don’t get off the island at least twice a year…”
Let’s be clear here: island fever isn’t simply a longing for a holiday or a break from routine. This feeling goes beyond the desire for a temporary escape to a deep-seated sense of restlessness. And it’s also, suggests 32-year-old British expat and Larnaca resident Oliver Renshaw, compounded by guilt.
“Thousands of people save all year long just to visit for a couple of weeks, while we get to live here. But when the relatives abroad are banging on about how lucky you are to live in a Mediterranean paradise, it feels embarrassing to explain how desperately you want to leave; how edgy you feel to be stuck on the same rock.
“During the pandemic, I nearly went crazy,” he continues. “I kept saying to my wife ‘Get me off this bloody island!’. I’m still not sure how I survived.
“In the UK, I grew up with a much faster pace of life, much more diverse experiences. If I wanted to pop down to Poole to surf, drop into an underground rave in Liverpool, or spend a weekend in Wales, it was easy.
“I’d always be off hiking the Pennines, getting last-minute tickets for a West End show. There were pop-up restaurants, new shops, random festivals and exhibitions all over. It felt spontaneous, and unlimited. And it was cheap to get places – if you had a couple of days off, you could get a flight or ferry to Holland for pennies.
“Here, it costs an arm and a leg just to get off the island. That’s very restrictive. And you’ve got basically two options: mountains or beach. Drive for an hour in any direction, and that’s it. You’ve reached the sea. There’s nowhere else to go.
“I don’t think that’s something your average British tourist could put up with for long!”
